Another Year, Another Post.

I'm still alive. Even though no one reads this, I'm thinking of coming back to here from FB so that I can write longer thoughts and memories, if only to archive things. Older writings seem to disappear on FB and longer posts seem to be passed over, even by close friends, because of the overwhelming volume of daily notifications. Oh, well. We'll see.
Riding the Ox Home

Shakespeare Sonnet #73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

(I memorized this Sonnet last year, first memorization in, well, fifty(?) years)
Moon Cycle

The To-Be-Forgotten

This haunting poem has always been one of my favorites. This past week, it came to mind (ironically, I had almost forgotten that it ever been written). Now, I can't get it out of my mind.

The To-Be-Forgotten
By Thomas Hardy


         I heard a small sad sound,

And stood awhile amid the tombs around:

"Wherefore, old friends," said I, "are ye distrest,

         Now, screened from life's unrest?"


         --"O not at being here;

But that our future second death is drear;

When, with the living, memory of us numbs,

         And blank oblivion comes!


         "Those who our grandsires be

Lie here embraced by deeper death than we;

Nor shape nor thought of theirs canst thou descry

         With keenest backward eye.


         "They bide as quite forgot;

They are as men who have existed not;

Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath;

         It is the second death.


         "We here, as yet, each day

Are blest with dear recall; as yet, alway

In some soul hold a loved continuance

         Of shape and voice and glance.


         "But what has been will be -

First memory, then oblivion's turbid sea;

Like men foregone, shall we merge into those

         Whose story no one knows.


         "For which of us could hope

To show in life that world-awakening scope

Granted the few whose memory none lets die,

         But all men magnify?


         "We were but Fortune's sport;

Things true, things lovely, things of good report

We neither shunned nor sought . . . We see our bourne,

         And seeing it we mourn."
Whole Earth


My LJ account, not my Life (whew!). I received said notice, because I've been so inactive of late. Good to get the reminder, though, because even though FaceBook has the networking population that LJ never had for me, I've missed being able to type as many characters as needed to get the random thoughts out of my brain and down on "paper." Being able to use html in entries for embedding pictures and links is so much more fun than FB's clutzy clumsy "attach" picture or link to message thang.

Anyhow, with this post, I hope to: (a) put off my termination for a bit longer; and (b) maybe get back in the habit of doing a few brain dumps here again. I see I also have to do a bit of spam weeding and link reconnecting in this unruly mental garden.
Whole Earth

Six Seasons

One of my favorite Vonnegut insights:

"One sort of optional thing you might do is to realize that there are six seasons instead of four. The poetry of four seasons is all wrong for this part of the planet, and this may explain why we are so depressed so much of the time.

I mean, spring doesn't feel like spring a lot of the time, and November is all wrong for autumn, and so on.

Here is the truth about the seasons: Spring is May and June. What could be springier than May and June?

Summer is July and August. Really hot, right?

Autumn is September and October. See the pumpkins? Smell those burning leaves?

Next comes the season called Locking. November and December aren't winter. They're Locking.

Next comes winter, January and February. Boy! Are they ever cold!

What comes next? Not spring. 'Unlocking' comes next. What else could cruel March and only slightly less cruel April be? March and April are not spring. They're Unlocking."
Riding the Ox Home

And yet another year remembering Beethoven!

Golly! I love this guy's music. Very busy day, but I ended it with listening to his 30th piano sonata (particularly the second slow movement) while sipping a tumbler of Bailey's Irish Cream. Someone, please, remember to play this (live) at my memorial service. I've thought that it is the most beautiful music ever since I first heard it in the Rose Polyechnic Institute library in 1962. Take some time (whenever you happen to read this) and listen to anything by Beethoven ... then go outside, breathe some crisp fresh air (assumption: northern hemisphere) and say "Yes!" to Life.