(Pre-note: Oh my! this is such a 2-year-old note. Well, here it comes anyway.)
I, today, hereby declare myself in union with the ancients: The ancients who desperately waited for, and then celebrated, the coming of winter solstice.
Normally, where I live now, the sun disappears and becomes unknown to the inhabitants. This happens some time in October, and usually lasts until about March. Sometimes we'll get a glimmer of some bright thing in the sky in mid-February, along with extra warmth, reminding us that there is sometimes another way to live.
To be fair, clouds become unknown to us around mid-June or early July, and don't show up again until October. There is sometimes one storm in late August or early September -- but that one cannot be taken seriously as it involves a temperature drop and a lot of wind, and that's usually about it.
Back to solstice: This year we have had sun, almost non-stop, since Thanksgiving. You would think that would be an improvement. After all, the morning light comes earlier than it does with clouds. The evening light lasts longer than it does with clouds. And yet... the sun hovers so low in the sky! (And i'm not even halfway to the north pole!!! I have lived further north and it didn't bother me so! listen to me whine!) It seems to be, from sunup to sundown, 5 o'clock on an August afternoon. A slight fog which could be either moisture or dust, the longish shadows, all reminiscent of the dog days of summer... but without the heat.
Those blasted inversions and fogs have acclimated me to a constant level of depressing dim light. Yes, constant -- the moisture is lit from the bottom up by city lights, all night long, especially when people have their Christmas color out. The variation on those days would be how far you could see!
It's all about expectations, i suppose. Having the sun, every day, leads me to believe that we are already headed out of a (not very serious, so far) winter. And yet we are still diving in, and we are nearly to the bottom of the dark.
This, then, is why I celebrate the coming Solstice: I expect more light when the sun is shining and we are not getting it! Oh, and Mom is coming to visit too. :-)
Thursday, September 12, 2013
On September 10, 2013
It has been over 10 years since the planes hit the towers, and other planes were hijacked. I confess to knowing that we were going to be perfectly safe where we live since there are likely zero zealots from half-destroyed countries that have even heard of this state. Even if they live in the U.S. And in the grand scheme of things this state does not rank highly enough in *anything* to be called "grand" or be included in any schemes. While there are still plenty of extremists here, they are too few in number and too poor in resource (now) to be the center of much national activity.
Why, then, did the governor deem it important to set up blockades around the statehouse in a city that even US citizens barely know, and many of them cannot name (let alone having the said zealots from another country know)? Again, there is no strategic value here -- so both the paranoia was not justified. Perhaps historians might be able to figure this out, if there is any reason to bother.
Nationally (or even within this state), why do we have to have yet another flag-waving ceremony for something that set the US on an abysmal international disaster course? Have we not yet waved enough flags to prove that we are vacuous? with incredibly short memories? unable to make up our own minds? and willing to follow along any lie that fits in with our belief systems? Rather than talk about that whole nonsense:
Perhaps we could *sincerely* honor those who died on that day by taking care of those who were injured, and taking care of those whose family member(s) died on that day.
If it was up to me, I would declare September 11 to be National Data Day -- in which we look at the difference between facts and not-facts, in which we look at how our beliefs beg us to reject anything we don't like. It would be a day of tolerance for differences, reflection over our *real* international record, a day of non-aggression and non-intervention. A day in which no one could ever have any reason to attack the US's national symbols of power and wealth.
Why, then, did the governor deem it important to set up blockades around the statehouse in a city that even US citizens barely know, and many of them cannot name (let alone having the said zealots from another country know)? Again, there is no strategic value here -- so both the paranoia was not justified. Perhaps historians might be able to figure this out, if there is any reason to bother.
Nationally (or even within this state), why do we have to have yet another flag-waving ceremony for something that set the US on an abysmal international disaster course? Have we not yet waved enough flags to prove that we are vacuous? with incredibly short memories? unable to make up our own minds? and willing to follow along any lie that fits in with our belief systems? Rather than talk about that whole nonsense:
Perhaps we could *sincerely* honor those who died on that day by taking care of those who were injured, and taking care of those whose family member(s) died on that day.
If it was up to me, I would declare September 11 to be National Data Day -- in which we look at the difference between facts and not-facts, in which we look at how our beliefs beg us to reject anything we don't like. It would be a day of tolerance for differences, reflection over our *real* international record, a day of non-aggression and non-intervention. A day in which no one could ever have any reason to attack the US's national symbols of power and wealth.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Another foray into the lyrical
Seashells After the Storm
I, Anne, stand on the shore
collecting seashells after the storm.
If the luster and sheen
in the lines and shapes
scattered in the sand
and crafted in the shells
Have a story to tell or
a message for me
It is gone, now, splayed
through the waves,
the sea,
the sky...
That half-shell sky where last he flew.
And me, here, on the other half,
like the shells on the shore.
I collect my life, after the storm.
December 30, 2011
I, Anne, stand on the shore
collecting seashells after the storm.
If the luster and sheen
in the lines and shapes
scattered in the sand
and crafted in the shells
Have a story to tell or
a message for me
It is gone, now, splayed
through the waves,
the sea,
the sky...
That half-shell sky where last he flew.
And me, here, on the other half,
like the shells on the shore.
I collect my life, after the storm.
December 30, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Maybe it's just about expectations.
I, today, hereby declare myself in union with the ancients: The ancients who desperately waited for, and then celebrated, the arrival of Winter Solstice.
Normally, in my current location, the sun disappears behind a great giant semi-soggy glove of inversion, and then becomes unknown to the inhabitants. This happens some time in October, and usually lasts until about March. Sometimes we'll get a glimmer of some bright thing in the sky in mid-February, along with extra warmth, reminding us that there is another way to live. Then the foggy soggy hand descends again.
To be fair, clouds become unknown to us around mid-June or early July, and don't show up again until October. There is sometimes one storm in late August or early September -- but that one cannot be taken seriously as it involves a temperature drop and a lot of wind, and that's usually about it. Sun, sun, sun, beating down on us without mercy for days on end. It's bright in the deepest of forests... but i digress.
Back to Winter Solstice: This year we have had sun, almost non-stop, since Thanksgiving. You would think that would be an improvement. After all, the morning light comes earlier than it would under a soggy foggy glove. The evening light lasts longer than it normally would as well. And yet... the sun hovers so low in the sky! (And i'm not even halfway to the north pole!!! I have lived further north and it didn't bother me so! listen to me whine!) It seems to be, from sunup to sundown, 5 o'clock on an August afternoon. There is a slight fog which could be either moisture or dust, the longish shadows, seeing everything south of you as a silhouette instead of three-dimensional corporal being, all reminiscent of the dog days of summer at 5 o'clock PM... but without the heat.
Those blasted inversions and fogs have acclimated me to a constant level of depressing dim light. Yes, constant -- the moisture is lit from the bottom up by city lights, all night long, especially when people have their Christmas color out. The variation on those days would be how far you could see!
Inversions, like fogs, make you feel cozy with anyone you can see. It's always a treat to be isolated, visually and aurally, from everyone else as you travel along -- and then to see or hear another person emerge out of the mist is like magic! Fellow travelers! Fellow travelers into the bowels of winter and then back out again. Have i begun to relish in my current, very weird, local climate?
It's all about expectations, i suppose. Having the sun, every day, leads me to believe that we are already headed out of a (not very serious, so far) winter. And yet we are still diving in, and we are nearly to the bottom of what is supposed to be dark.
This, then, is why I celebrate the coming Solstice: I expect more light when the sun is shining and we are not getting it! Oh, and Mom is coming to visit too. :-)
Normally, in my current location, the sun disappears behind a great giant semi-soggy glove of inversion, and then becomes unknown to the inhabitants. This happens some time in October, and usually lasts until about March. Sometimes we'll get a glimmer of some bright thing in the sky in mid-February, along with extra warmth, reminding us that there is another way to live. Then the foggy soggy hand descends again.
To be fair, clouds become unknown to us around mid-June or early July, and don't show up again until October. There is sometimes one storm in late August or early September -- but that one cannot be taken seriously as it involves a temperature drop and a lot of wind, and that's usually about it. Sun, sun, sun, beating down on us without mercy for days on end. It's bright in the deepest of forests... but i digress.
Back to Winter Solstice: This year we have had sun, almost non-stop, since Thanksgiving. You would think that would be an improvement. After all, the morning light comes earlier than it would under a soggy foggy glove. The evening light lasts longer than it normally would as well. And yet... the sun hovers so low in the sky! (And i'm not even halfway to the north pole!!! I have lived further north and it didn't bother me so! listen to me whine!) It seems to be, from sunup to sundown, 5 o'clock on an August afternoon. There is a slight fog which could be either moisture or dust, the longish shadows, seeing everything south of you as a silhouette instead of three-dimensional corporal being, all reminiscent of the dog days of summer at 5 o'clock PM... but without the heat.
Those blasted inversions and fogs have acclimated me to a constant level of depressing dim light. Yes, constant -- the moisture is lit from the bottom up by city lights, all night long, especially when people have their Christmas color out. The variation on those days would be how far you could see!
Inversions, like fogs, make you feel cozy with anyone you can see. It's always a treat to be isolated, visually and aurally, from everyone else as you travel along -- and then to see or hear another person emerge out of the mist is like magic! Fellow travelers! Fellow travelers into the bowels of winter and then back out again. Have i begun to relish in my current, very weird, local climate?
It's all about expectations, i suppose. Having the sun, every day, leads me to believe that we are already headed out of a (not very serious, so far) winter. And yet we are still diving in, and we are nearly to the bottom of what is supposed to be dark.
This, then, is why I celebrate the coming Solstice: I expect more light when the sun is shining and we are not getting it! Oh, and Mom is coming to visit too. :-)
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Future
Many years ago we talked about The Future. We were The Future, as we were told, because we had been prepared for it. We had been fully nurtured -- physically, intellectually, spiritually.
We say so now. But we lie. Let us either change the language or change the reality.
We say so now. But we lie. Let us either change the language or change the reality.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Borge
In honor and remembrance of a really great guy:
Borge
The misty early morning echoes with silence
And pauses to listen to the creaking of rotten wood
Then follows a muffled footstep, an anchor being stowed away
There is a soft splash of a paddle, and ripples burble along the shore.
Into the lake the fisherman guides his boat
Into the softening waters and damp dewy air.
The trees on the shore hear only a scrape
As he baits his hook, and casts, and waits.
A thousand years might come and go
As fishermen leave the sleeping land
And guide their vessels onto the waters
And bait their hooks, and cast, and wait.
The loons, alone, will accompany them
Silently gliding through the mists of time.
- Diane Mathews, 1989
Borge
The misty early morning echoes with silence
And pauses to listen to the creaking of rotten wood
Then follows a muffled footstep, an anchor being stowed away
There is a soft splash of a paddle, and ripples burble along the shore.
Into the lake the fisherman guides his boat
Into the softening waters and damp dewy air.
The trees on the shore hear only a scrape
As he baits his hook, and casts, and waits.
A thousand years might come and go
As fishermen leave the sleeping land
And guide their vessels onto the waters
And bait their hooks, and cast, and wait.
The loons, alone, will accompany them
Silently gliding through the mists of time.
- Diane Mathews, 1989
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