Wednesday, February 20, 2008

walking stick

last Friday the bus driver wouldn't drop me off in front of Borders, so i had to walk back to it from the mall.

when scaling down the hill at the edge of the parking lot, i passed a tree who had apparently been assaulted by a snow plow, since a broken-off branch lay on the ground nearby.

i continued on to Borders; but on the way back i picked up the branch and took him home, vowing to adopt him into my family of walking sticks.

now he leans against the wall by the door, awaiting my attention.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Shall we play a game?

LOGON: joshua


sometimes i wake up and realize that we made it through the '70s, and we made it through the '80s, and we made it through the '90s . . . and we didn't all blow each other up. we didn't.

the things we feared most didn't happen. whatever tragedies we've experienced have been minor, compared with even a limited nuclear exchange; minor.

maybe there's hope after all.


Monday, February 11, 2008

sun after snow (before rain and then more snow ;-)

yestermorn, after an early snowfall, the sun came out for an hour or so; and i grabbed my camera for a few pictures on my way down the hill to the café (before the sun & breeze blew the fresh snow off the branches).

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

more Annie Dillard

[the next paragraph from AN AMERICAN CHILDHOOD, p11.]

I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again. I woke at intervals until, by that September when Father went down the river, the intervals of waking tipped the scales, and i was more often awake than not. I noticed this process of waking, and predicted with terrifying logic that one of these years not far away I would be awake continuously and never slip back, and never be free of myself again.


i'm afraid that some people don't ever wake to their lives very much -- it's easier not to; sometimes it's frightening to be self-aware and responsible for your own actions.

Monday, February 4, 2008

the best, from Annie Dillard

[from AN AMERICAN CHILDHOOD, p11. i so love this.]

Children ten years old wake up and find themselves here, discover themselves to have been here all along; is this sad? They wake like sleepwalkers, in full stride; they wake like people brought back from cardiac arrest or from drowning: "in media res," surrounded by familiar people and objects, equipped with a hundred skills. They know the neighborhood, they can read and write English, they are old hands at the commonplace mysteries, and yet they feel themselves to have just stepped off the boat, just converged with their bodies, just flown down from a trance, to lodge in an eerily familiar life already well under way.