Tsundoku cure time?*

If the weather were like today’s year ‘round, I might be willing to give up four seasons. That’s how nice today is after yesterday’s downpours (2+ inches in our area). Overnight we dropped into the mid50’s and reached the mid70s today with sunshine and a gentle breeze. I’m going to hope all stays dry and maybe mow tomorrow.

Meanwhile, remember the old tv program Hawaii Five-0? And the tag line “Book ‘em, Danno?” I’m applying that as I start to bring some semblance of organization to my stacks and shelves and boxes of books. Undoubtedly it would help if I had the sense to use a simple sort such as arranged alphabetically by author’s last name, but that’s not really how I think. I try to organize by genre and / or theme like rivers or poetry of place. Then I lose it when I have to decide where to shelve a book of poems about the St. Croix River and does the Kinnickinnic get a separate section to itself with mixed nonfiction and poems? Nor does it help that I confound my collection of unread and partially read books by rereading some at the same time. I wonder of there’s a local group therapy available for those like me, or am I alone in these conundrums?

bookshelves a decade ago now overflow

Photo by J. Harrington

I do realize how lucky I am that this is the kind of issue that gets my attention. There are many things about which I’m troubled but can’t really do a lot. There’s one book I’ve been looking for for about 10 days now and I can’t find it. That’s something I believe I should be able to do something about but I keep tripping over “but how to organize?” No doubt it would simplify things if I sold some of the excess but that would necessitate getting books organized well enough to decide what I might want to sell. Catch 22 strikes again. If I live long enough, I’ll probably make some progress, especially if I narrow down my eclectic list of interests. But that seems like throwing out baby, bathwater and bath tub, too radical a solution to a problem of limited shelf space.

* Tsundoku

Don’t Go Into the Library

Alberto Ríos
1952 – 

The library is dangerous—
Don’t go in. If you do

You know what will happen.
It’s like a pet store or a bakery—

Every single time you’ll come out of there
Holding something in your arms.

Those novels with their big eyes.
And those no-nonsense, all muscle

Greyhounds and Dobermans,
All non-fiction and business,

Cuddly when they’re young,
But then the first page is turned.

The doughnut scent of it all, knowledge,
The aroma of coffee being made

In all those books, something for everyone,
The deli offerings of civilization itself.

The library is the book of books,
Its concrete and wood and glass covers

Keeping within them the very big,
Very long story of everything.

The library is dangerous, full
Of answers. If you go inside,

You may not come out
The same person who went in.

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A book for Christmas

I’m not sure if I ever learned where and how the Better Half discovered Charlie Mackesy’s wonderful book, The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse, I’m just delighted that she did. I’ve already read it to the Granddaughter a couple of times. I mention it here, today, because the entire message of the book fits so well with the spirit of the season and because some may be pondering what Santa’s book elves could leave under the tree or in a stocking. In fact, as an early present to myself, I’m going to reread the book over the weekend. My spirits of the season have been slow to bloom this year and I suspect the book may be just what those spirits need. In fact, I’m pretty sure the holiday seasons would be much improved if everyone spent time reading the book instead of whatever “productive” activities seem most profitable.

In a different way, I just summarized one of the problems I’m having with my letter to Santa this year. I could easily, and joyfully, spend time this winter rereading a number of the books I already have on the shelves, plus there’s that tsundoku condition I suffer from. It’s similar to the collection of flies (dry and nymphs) I have that haven’t yet been touched by water. I have come across a “new and improved” kind of flour at King Arthur that can go in my letter to the big guy. I think I’ve already mentioned that I’m asking for world peace and, on further consideration, I’m adding an enhanced dose of sanity for everyone.

a wonderful and true ornament

Photo by J. Harrington

As I’ve been typing this, it has occurred to me that the collection of Christmas music and books are still tucked away at the back of one of the closets. That probably helps explain why my holiday spirits aren’t yet flourishing. We’ll tend to their uncovering this weekend. After a year’s absence, it’ll be almost like unwrapping new presents.

Be Kind

Michael Blumenthal
1949 – 

Not merely because Henry James said
there were but four rules of life—
be kind be kind be kind be kind—but
because it's good for the soul, and, 
what's more, for others, it may be
that kindness is our best audition
for a worthier world, and, despite
the vagueness  and uncertainty of
its recompense, a bird may yet  wander
into a bush before our very houses, 
gratitude may not manifest itself in deeds
entirely equal to our own, still there's
weather arriving from every direction,
the feasts of famine and feasts of plenty
may yet prove to be one,  so why not
allow the little sacrificial squinches and 
squigulas to prevail? Why not inundate
the particular world with minute particulars?
Dust's certainly all our fate, so why not 
make it the happiest possible dust, 
a detritus of blessedness? Surely
the hedgehog, furling and unfurling
into its spiked little ball, knows something
that, with gentle touch and unthreatening
tone, can inure to our benefit, surely the wicked 
witches of our childhood have died and, 
from where they are buried, a great kindness 
has eclipsed their misdeeds. Yes, of course, 
in the end so much comes down to privilege 
and its various penumbras, but too much 
of our unruly animus has already been 
wasted on reprisals, too much of the
unblessed air is filled with smoke from 
undignified fires. Oh friends, take
whatever kindness you can find
and be profligate in its expenditure: 
It will not drain your limited resources, 
I assure you, it will not leave you vulnerable 
and unfurled, with only your sweet little claws 
to defend yourselves, and your wet little noses, 
and your eyes to the ground, and your little feet.

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Food for the mind and body

Sunday is the start of October. The first week of October is Banned Books Week. As I reviewed some of the American Library Association’s materials, I noticed that, perhaps because of my increasing dotage, I seem to be slipping. I haven’t read a banned book for at least several years. That won’t do. The theme for this year’s Banned Books Week is “Let Freedom Read.” (I suppose we can hope for a number of visits to book stores and libraries from Freedom Readers?) I’m planning on making at least one trip to a couple of my local, independent book stores to see which banned books they have for sale. If it’s clean, i.e., washed, I’ll wear my ACLU “Banned Books Club” sweatshirt.

Although it’s now an American classic, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass was initially “Banned in Boston.” We have a copy around the house and I should again try reading it. Maybe this time I’ll get beyond the first few pages. Since I grew up in Boston, I’m familiar with the strategy of getting a book banned there as a way to get on the national best seller lists.

In addition to feeding our minds, we need to feed our bodies to give our souls somewhere to live. Here’s what was in this week’s Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] share we just picked up:

• ACORN SQUASH
• TENDERSWEET CABBAGE
• APPLES
• PEPPERS
• INDIGO APPLE TOMATOES
• CHARD, and
• GREEN ONIONS

As the days shorten, and, eventually, temperatures cool down, I’m looking forward to a delicious healthy, locally grown meal, followed by curling up with a well written, enjoyable, banned book. A combination like that should help us get through until next spring.

Poetry

Marianne Moore     1887 – 1972

I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
   Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in
   it after all, a place for the genuine.
      Hands that can grasp, eyes
      that can dilate, hair that can rise
         if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
   useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the
   same thing may be said for all of us—that we
      do not admire what
      we cannot understand. The bat,
         holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
   a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base—
   ball fan, the statistician—case after case
      could be cited did
      one wish it; nor is it valid
         to discriminate against “business documents and

school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction
   however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry,
   nor till the autocrats among us can be
     “literalists of
      the imagination”—above
         insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have
   it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion—
   the raw material of poetry in
      all its rawness, and
      that which is on the other hand,
         genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

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It’s “Brave New World” time

The world that is being created around us is less and less one that I want to support or participate in. I won’t be presumptuous enough to claim I understand how the indigenous folks felt when the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, but I can definitely relate to how humans felt after they encountered the Borgs. “Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.” Seems to reflect the perspective of our new AI wannabe overlords. 

What used to be Twitter [now “X”] is reported to be removing the ability to block accounts. That, plus an insistence that I provide a phone number to authenticate my account were the last two straws. If you’re interested, I can now be found at https://mstdn.party/@JohnHthePoet. 

I had been planning on acquiring a new Apple laptop. The odds keep increasing that I may bite the bullet and try a Linux version instead. The family gave me a new iPhone for my birthday, to work with my new hearing aids. I’m finding the “new and improved” iOS software to be more intrusive than I prefer. I’ve always believed that technology makes a good servant but a poor master. The AI Borgmeisters don’t see it that way, as long as they think they’re the masters.

books, and books, of poetry

Photo by J. Harrington

Fortunately, as Paul Simon once wrote in I Am a Rock:

I have my books

And my poetry to protect me

Much of the poetry that protects me these days was written by Joy Harjo. Many of the books were written by Ursula K. Le Guin. I recently started reading, for the first time, Always Coming Home. I’m looking forward to comparing her style in that novel with that of Debra Magpie Earling in her The Lost Journals of Sacajewea.

I lived a rich, full, less stressful life before there was an internet and hundreds (thousands?) of companies trying to turn me into a product as they competed for my attention in this new economy. I think it’s past time to return to a world that has neither the time, interest, or need for a metaverse. Just the verse part will suit me fine.

X Minus X

By Kenneth Fearing

Even when your friend, the radio, is still; even when her dream, the magazine, is finished; even when his life, the ticker, is silent; even when their destiny, the boulevard, is bare;

And after that paradise, the dance-hall, is closed; after that theater, the clinic, is dark,

Still there will be your desire, and hers, and his hopes and theirs,

Your laughter, their laughter,

Your curse and his curse, her reward and their reward, their dismay and his dismay and her dismay and yours—

Even when your enemy, the collector, is dead; even when your counsellor, the salesman, is sleeping; even when your sweetheart, the movie queen, has spoken; even when your friend, the magnate, is gone.

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On Alban Hefin

Locally, we passed the Summer Solstice several hours ago at 9:57 am CDT. Spring is officially over both astronomically and meteorologically. Today Druids celebrate Alban Hefin. It’s one of eight festivals celebrated each year, known collectively as the Wheel of the Year. Personally, I enjoy the sense of an annual rhythm I get from a festival every six weeks or so instead of just the two solstices and two equinoxes.

I’ve mentioned elsewhere in these postings that I’m more a fisher, hunter, gatherer than a gardener, so I don’t get much involved in soil preparation, planting, tending, etc. Minnesota has fishing of one sort or another just about year round, so “fishing season” isn’t really. Hunting seasons are in the autumn, but much of early hunting season still feels like summer. Our membership in a community supported agriculture farm [CSA] helps with spring, summer and autumn recognition. Studying Druidry helps bring me more into alignment with an annual cycle of rebirth in spring, growth through the summer, putting food by in autumn, and deep sleep in winter.

this bookcase (2014) is now overflowing plus

Photo by J. Harrington

Much of today  has been spent picking up and assembling one of the two DIY bookcases our son gave me for Father’s Day. The case went together with  few issues. The second one will get assembled after the first has been placed against a wall and filled with books. I am once again attempting to bring stacks of read and unread books into some semblance of order. I’m trying  to restore the house from the equivalent of the old Norwegian uncle's kitchen with  passageways between  the stacks and walls of old newspapers. I think I’ll begin by seeing what happens if I dedicate one case to the unread and partially read stacks scattered about. Wish us luck, I’m pretty sure we’ll need it.

The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm

Wallace Stevens     1879 – 1955

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

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Will Mother Nature trick us after treating us?

Today is a classic autumn day in the North Country, although perhaps a little warmer than normal. The Better Half is displaying another of her creative facets by carving pumpkins into jack-o’-lanterns. I was assigned responsibility for securing the candles required and have precipitously completed said assignment. Tea candles galore are now available, hauled from the stash in the storage closet.

our house, come Halloween

Photo by J. Harrington

We ended up in Minneapolis earlier today and dropped by Birchbark Books. It appeared that about half the city was out and about the lakes, enjoying a glorious ending to October. I’m continuing to honor my myth that I can’t die as long as my tsundoku stacks are large enough. I bought three books as Halloween treats for myself. The Better Half wanted to pick up a copy of the latest volume of a mystery trilogy and succeeded. On the drive home I was struck by the realization that a store we used to visit several times a year pre-COVID, we had visited for the second time in the past two years. We’ve essentially foregone eating out or grabbing coffee at the local coffee shop. Our quality of life has indeed been diminished by the pandemic, but at least so far we’ve survived it. That’s a combination Trick and Treat, sort of, right?

I’ve neglected mentioning another recent treat for a couple of days now. Late this past week I noticed a freshly bloomed dandelion growing in the roadside ditch. Is that a message of hope? Of persistence? Of foolish foolhardiness? Of evolutionary experiment? All of them? How can we tell some treats and tricks apart? Does today’s poem help?

A January Dandelion

By George Marion McClellan

All Nashville is a chill. And everywhere

Like desert sand, when the winds blow,

There is each moment sifted through the air,

A powdered blast of January snow.

O! thoughtless Dandelion, to be misled

By a few warm days to leave thy natural bed,

Was folly growth and blooming over soon.

And yet, thou blasted yellow-coated gem,

Full many a heart has but a common boon

With thee, now freezing on thy slender stem.

When the heart has bloomed by the touch of love’s warm breath

Then left and chilling snow is sifted in,

It still may beat but there is blast and death

To all that blooming life that might have been.

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Approaching tsundoku recovery

There’s an old saying, I don’t remember where or when I first encountered it, “If you have to and you don’t want to, what do you do? Give one away!” At the moment, that fits my life about as well as the phrase about the river that was miles wide and inches deep. I lack the time and energy to attend well to all that I’m interested in. I need to “give one [or more] away.” But then I remember John Muir’s wonderful quotation: “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.” - My First Summer in the Sierra  , 1911, page 110. 

Another way to look at some of this is to consider that I’ve come down with a severe case of tsundoku, although  the phrase “never reading them” seems unduly harsh in my case because, if I live long enough and stop buying more books, I might get to the ones I have. Part of my difficulty here is I’m developing a habit of rereading some of the better books on my shelves and in my stacks. Obviously, that doesn’t help move volumes from the unread to the read collection.

these shelves are now overflowing

Photo by J. Harrington

Then there’s my recently acquired tendency to produce sourdough dough that’s much looser (less gluten?) and stickier than normal despite using essentially the same recipe and starter I’ve used for years. Have I resurrected the starter once too often? Have the cooler autumn temperatures inhibited the little beasties from growing as they formerly did? [We use the upstairs bath with the door closed as a warming room in the winter.] To try to resolve the question(s), I ordered a book, of course, titled Sourdough by Science, which will temporarily increase my tsundoku score.

Yesterday’s posting about whether and how much leaves should be mulched or piled in windrows is another example of life getting more, rather than less, complicated while I’m trying to mind my own business and  read (part of) a book. I have no doubt I’lll soon be doing more research into permaculture and leaf management.

I recently deleted a handful of CDs from my smart phone. The Better Half and I kept hitting the skip button in the Jeep each time several of the songs came up to play. That would be considered a simplification win were it not for the fact that I’m already looking through existing stacks of CDs, and contemplating new acquisitions, to take up the space I freed. I may well consider the “solution” to my book addiction to be buying more book cases.

None of the preceding gets me out of the house and out of my easy chair and into the outdoors for some forest bathing or equivalent. Richard Louv has written several books about that kind of thing, you know.

All of the above, I know only too well, is a first world, privileged, constellation of “problems.” Even though, years ago, I successfully  made a New Year’s resolution to forego New Year’s resolutions, this may be the year I need to break it and resolve to reduce my interests and lengthen my attention span and reduce the book stacks by those I’ve neither read nor reached for for 20 years or more. Maybe there’s a book on how to simplify my life?

There is no Frigate like a Book (1286)

By Emily Dickinson

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry –

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll –

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul –

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To honor Women's History Month, do we need a "Human Future Month?"

The Sunrise River pools at Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area are more water than ice these days. A variety of waterfowl seem to believe Spring has come early, since they've returned to the North Country. Some until Autumn migration, others just to rest before continuing North. Today we saw trumpeter swans, Canada geese, plus several varieties of ducks, from large (mallards) to small (teal?). Nesting will begin soon for those remaining here.

mixed waterfowl on Sunrise River pools

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday we had some business at our credit union, which brought us within a mile or so of one of our favorite bookstores, so, of course, we were obliged to stop in. There was a fascinating display of books by women authors, presumably in honor of Women's History Month (we didn't look for an explanatory sign). Included were three books we've been thinking about for awhile, so we used up the last of a Christmas gift certificate and brought home:

• Everything Comes Next, Collected and New Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye


• World of Wonders, In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks, and Other Astonishments by Aimee Nezhukumatathil, and


• The Seed Keeper by Diane Wilson

The first is a book of poetry by one of our favorite poets; the second a book of essays by a poet whose poetry we've not yet begun to read; and the third a new novel about which we've read very good things. We're about a quarter of the way through World of Wonders, intermittent insomnia increases reading time. It's a joy to read and a delightful alternative to studying about regenerative agriculture and valuing ecosystem services, which we've been doing for several weeks now. All in all, we feel very much as though we were blessed by the luck of the Irish on this St. Patrick's Day, especially since it looks as though much of next week will be rainy, which may keep us indoors instead of outside searching for pussy willows and red-winged blackbirds.

We've noticed that much of the contemporary work we find most compelling these days has been done by women, which, we know, is not to be taken as "women's work." We've been (re)reading for several years Robin Wall Kimmerer's writings on integrating traditional ecological knowledge with western science and the linkage between language and perspective toward the world. Kate Raworth's Doughnut Economics provides an essential framework for rethinking alternatives to perpetual growth on a finite planet. Naomi Klein has, for many years, been informing us about the dark sides of capitalism and how it changes everything. It wouldn't be difficult to argue that women are likely to be more critical to our having a future than a history. In fact, we think there should be a Human Future Month starting next year.

Still I Rise

Maya Angelou - 1928-2014

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

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A period of readjustment?

As this is being written, we're debating with ourselves whether to set some personal goals for the year or play each day, month and season opportunistically. We already know we want to learn to cook beans this year, but which beans and what recipes and when to do so, not so much. We're in serious doubt if we can work up much enthusiasm for a three hour drive, one way, to do some Winter trout fishing, but you never know. Our artisan sourdough bread baking has plateaued, and we're not sure which way we want to head next.

artisan sourdough bread with kernza flour

Photo by J. Harrington

All in all, we're coming up short on enthusiasm and ambition. It could be the Winter Blues or the January blahs plus the typical post-holiday let-down. We're sure we will get the taxes materials organized this month, with a few places set as holders for the papers that won't arrive until late January or early February. We know we need to either sell some books or acquire more bookcases (or both). The place is beginning to resemble the old Norwegian bachelor's kitchen with stacks of books instead of stacks of newspapers with paths to other rooms between the stacks.

But first we need to see what this month actually brings as we proceed through the change from a criminal regime (pardon our pun) to a new administration with experience at governance. We suspect it will take some adjustment to reacquaint ourselves with government by "due process" instead of by Tweet and telephone threats. Perhaps we just settled the debate. The first quarter of the year our goal will be to get organized enough so that we can enjoy the other three quarters more than we have for several years, since about 2016.

Winter Love

By Linda Gregg

I would like to decorate this silence,   

but my house grows only cleaner

and more plain. The glass chimes I hung   

over the register ring a little

when the heat goes on.

I waited too long to drink my tea.   

It was not hot. It was only warm.

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Where have all our communities gone?

Last year, or the one before, I read Elizabeth Rush's Rising, Dispatches from the New American Shore. Today's warnings and evacuation notices for Hurricane Laura (now Category 4 and 18 - 20 foot storm surge) reminded me of a "blurb" by Elizabeth Kolbert for Rising "Sea level rise is not some distant problem in a distant place...." Although we have no seas to rise, Minnesota is struggling with major questions and projects that will reduce, or increase, green house gases and further, or help abate, climate breakdown's effects.

 

Prior to reading Rising, I had read Strangers in Their Own Land - Anger and Mourning on the American Right by Arlie Russell Hochschild, much of which is focused on the Lake Charles area in Louisiana, near the current bullseye for Hurricane Laura. More recently, I've (belatedly) read the first section of James McPhee's The Control of Nature, which relates the efforts of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, and others, to keep the mouth of the Mississippi River from moving itself several hundred miles West of its current location. Earlier today I skimmed through a piece about "the pivotal life and work of Rachel Carson, the author of the 1962 book Silent Spring." I found it telling and disheartening to read, again, how

The chemical industry and its powerful allies in government set out to destroy Carson, often insinuating that she was a Communist. Her book, published as Soviet ships sailed toward Cuba with ballistic cargo, sought to weaken American productivity, they said. The nightmare might be Americans waiting in bread lines like the Soviets.

Here we are, 60 some odd years later, and what's happening in response to climate breakdown, a response to COVID-19, election tampering and a variety of other significant, critical, perhaps existential issues, hearkens back to the response of "chemical industry and its powerful allies in government." Do you wear a mask when in public and indoors these days?

This November, and following, we must, unequivocally and for the foreseeable future, repudiate misinformation, disinformation, self-serving and hateful ideologies in all their forms. We need to consider, reconsider, and create answers to this question:

HOW DO WE CREATE COMMUNITIES TO WHICH ALL OF US CAN BELONG?

The United States is one country comprised of many people and cultures that are part of one world, the only home we have. We are living on our only available Planet B and, as Benjamin Franklin, one of the founders of the United States, pointed out: "We must, indeed, all hang together or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately." These challenges are not new. They are interrelated. A wonderful folk singer captured them years ago in the lyrics below. We are long overdue for providing answers.

Where have all the flowers gone

Lyrics:  Pete Seeger

Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?

Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?

Where have all the flowers gone?

Young girls have picked them everyone

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the young girls gone, long time passing?

Where have all the young girls gone, long time ago?

Where have all the young girls gone?

Gone for husbands everyone

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the husbands gone, long time passing?

Where have all the husbands gone, long time ago?

Where have all the husbands gone?

Gone for soldiers everyone

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing?

Where have all the soldiers gone, long time ago?

Where have all the soldiers gone?

Gone to graveyards, everyone

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing?

Where have all the graveyards gone, long time ago?

Where have all the graveyards gone?

Gone to flowers, everyone

Oh, when will they ever learn?

Oh, when will they ever learn?

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Through the Looking Glass, Down the Rabbit Hole, both?

After Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures In Wonderland was published, he wrote a "sequel," Through the Looking Glass. Although Alice remained the protagonist, other main characters varied from the first fantasy. If you need to refresh your memory about the story and what the characters are like, follow this link. These are the main characters (other than Alice) listed from Looking Glass:

this is a three dimensional chess board

Photo by J. Harrington

• The Red Queen


• The White Queen


• The Red King


• The White King


• The White Knight


• Humpty Dumpty


• Tweedledee and Tweedledum(?)


• Others?

this is a dormouse

Photo by J. Harrington

Even though Looking Glass is based on sort of backwards logic, the metaphor of a chess game seems too logical to fit today's political context anywhere near as well as the lack of logic in Wonderland. At least that's my impression, although there may be enough overlap between the two books that a combination might work well. I do find it more challenging to try to match politicians or pundits involved in the impeachment effort to Looking Glass characters, but that may be a flaw in my perspective. Are there any thoughts any of you are willing to share in the comments?

If additional inspiration might help, try this. The more we let our politics and governance be fed by fantasy and illogic, the more we let politicians and bureaucrats mess up real lives, including our own.

Through the Looking Glass

By Veronica Forrest-Thomson

Mirror, mirror on the wall

show me in succession all

my faces, that I may view

and choose which I would like as true.

Teach me skill to disguise

what’s not pleasing to the eyes,

with faith, that life obeys the rules,

in man or God or football pools.

Always keep me well content

to decorate attitude and event

so that somehow behind the scene

I may believe my actions mean;

that one can exercise control

in playing out a chosen role;

rub clouded glass and then,

at will, write self on it again.

But if, in some unlucky glance,

I should glimpse naked circumstance

in all its nowhere-going-to,

may you crack before I do.

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Down the rabbit hole for Christmas?

While we were headed to Minneapolis this morning, a thought occurred to me that I intend to play with a little bit here over the next day or two. To begin, it appears that what we thought was an ancient Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times." is neither ancient nor Chinese. Since the times we are living in are far more interesting than many of us would wish, it occurred to me an appropriate allusion might be found in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, in which Alice goes "down the rabbit hole." I've seen many a mention of that type of trip in social media over a number of recent months. It has usually referred to some political occurrence or other. So, I began to ponder which contemporary politicians would be the equivalent of which characters in Alice. For example, would Alice herself be Hilary Clinton, or Elizabeth Warren?

is a rabbit in white the same as a White Rabbit?

Photo by J. Harrington

There is no doubt in my mind that The Queen of Hearts must be played by D. Trump. Would the Cheshire Cat be played by Mike Pence, or is the VP the King of Hearts? Is Rudy Giuliani the Mad Hatter? Who would be the White Rabbit? Just below is a list of other main characters. Think about who seems to fit as you watch or read about the impeachment hearings and the defense of POTUS.

• The Duchess


• The Caterpillar


• The Mad Hatter


• The March Hare


• The Dormouse


• The Dodo


• The Frog-Footman

There are other characters you can feel free to include. At the moment, I'm more interested in which political figures seem to be a "best fit" for the Wonderland characters. Have at it in the comments. Consider this an early Christmas present in the form or a puzzle. I'll take a look at Through the Looking Glass and see if anyone there needs to be added to the list tomorrow. Now, directly from a current POTUS press conference, here's

Jabberwocky

By Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

      And the mome raths outgrabe. 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 

      The frumious Bandersnatch!” 

He took his vorpal sword in hand; 

      Long time the manxome foe he sought— 

So rested he by the Tumtum tree 

      And stood awhile in thought. 

And, as in uffish thought he stood, 

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 

      And burbled as it came! 

One, two! One, two! And through and through 

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 

He left it dead, and with its head 

      He went galumphing back. 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy! 

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” 

      He chortled in his joy. 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

On naming a gnome

I know, I promised to post this yesterday but was still getting comfortable with the name. Plus, today is the first day of meteorological Winter, the gnome to be named is on skis, and naming is a serious business, you know.

"... naming involves much more than simply assigning a label to something that has already been identified. The act of naming is one of the central mysteries of human cognition — it is the visible tip of an iceberg whose depth below the surface of conscious thought we have only just begun to plumb. ..."

In ages past, during the latter part of the last millennium, I found myself in college studying English literature. That's where and when I encountered Everyman (1. (Theatre) a  medieval  English  morality  play in  which  the  central  figure  represents  mankind,  whose  earthly  destiny is dramatized  from  the  Christian  viewpoint). But the skiing gnome in question is not Everyman, nor even everyman. Who is he? What's his name? Certainly not Rumpelstiltskin! Remember Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet?

“What's in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.” 

Was Shakespeare denying the significance of a name or emphasizing the beauty of Juliet?

Sigurd, the canoeing gnome

Photo by J. Harrington

When the canoeing gnome arrived several years ago, a name was almost immediately obvious. He is named Sigurd, in honor of the Quetico-Superior wilderness advocate. A skiing gnome raised a more elusive naming challenge, almost of linguistic proportions. A short list of options was considered but none seemed to fit comfortably. Then began playing with not only words but with sounds. That brought a realization that there is a name, of ancient origin and known to me for most of my life, that sounds, and feels, as if it is a proper fit for our skiing gnome. The name is Noam, in honor of Noam Chomsky. So, today I'm pleased to introduce you to Noam the gnome, a skiing linguistic dissident, who fits in very comfortably around here in the North Country, especially this snow-covered season. There's no doubt in my mind that he and Sigurd will enjoy each other's company.

Noam, the skiing gnome

Photo by J. Harrington

They Call the Mountain Carlos

By Ray Gonzalez

They call the mountain Carlos because

it is brown, though its purple slopes

at dusk suggest other names.

Those who name it have to brand

the earth with something they know—

a name, a face, even the heat that says

"I know Carlos and he is the mountain.

I am going to cover his eyes in light."

They call its peak Carlos because

it is the sharpest feature on the face

that stares south, watching people

cross the border, pausing to catch

their breath and meet the cliffs of

Carlos because he is there.

When they ascend the canyons inside

the face, Carlos shifts and the climbers

discover what he has done.

The moving earth changes everything

and they are forced to stop playing

the game of naming a mountain

that keeps touching the sun.

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Winter weary?

[UPDATE on Tuesday, 2/12: See, it's not just us --

Verified account

So far today the 3.6" since midnight sets a new daily record for February 12th at MSP. This is the 3rd daily snowfall record this month! #mnwx

After we finished baking a boule of artisan sourdough bread this morning, filling the house with warmth and wonderful aromas, we got most of the last snow storm cleared from the driveway, using the backblade on the tractor.  About halfway through, we got the tractor stuck (again) in a ditch full of snow next to the road. This time extraction entailed getting the jeep and tow strap and some creative driving since the roadway is covered with enough ice that 4WD low range couldn't always get traction. Fortunately, there was only one vehicle that came past as we were finishing up and had the road pretty much cleared. As far as we can tell, no major damage was done to vehicles or personnel. The old trucker's advice about keeping one's britches between the ditches also applies to tractors it seems, at least during snow season.

pining for warmer days?

Photo by J. Harrington

The next snow storm is forecast to start late tonight and end ...? Or, it may slide off the the East and South. We'll have to wait and see. Then there's another one forecast for Thursday. We hope you'll understand if we note how tired we are of Winter and snow and ice and cold and.... Fortunately, one of the books we got for Christmas, we think from the Better Half or the Book Elves, is Richard Wagamese's Embers, One Ojibway's Meditations. We're going to add it to the stack of books we're currently reading because we feel a need to return to a practice of daily meditation and to let go of the frustration and aggravation Winter is tempting us with. All told, today's activities could have turned out much worse. We're grateful they didn't. This Winter's weather could have been worse. We're grateful it hasn't been but still hope it improves.

Some of the poems we're reading these days are from Robert Bly's Silence in the Snowy Fields section of his Collected Poems. The one shared below seems to capture a fair part of our late Winter ennui, although we can't explain how or why.

Snowfall In The Afternoon

by Robert Bly

I
The grass is half-covered with snow.
It was the sort of snowfall that starts in late afternoon,
And now the little houses of the grass are growing
    dark.

II
If I could reach down, near the earth,
I could take handfuls of darkness!
A darkness that was always there, which we never
    noticed.

III
As the snow grows heavier, the cornstalks fade farther
    away,
And the barn moves nearer to the house.
The barn moves all alone in the growing storm.

IV
The barn is full of corn, and moving toward us now,
Like a hulk blown toward us in a storm at sea;
All the sailors on deck have been blind for many
    years.

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A belated present from Santa?

It's been more than a week since Christmas, but when the weather forecast includes a stretch like the one below, we'll take it and be thankful Santa is keeping Arctic blasts in his yard, at least for now.

Hints of El Niño: Extended 8-9 day January thaw coming

[As an aside, if Artificial Intelligence turns out to be as misguided and ineffective as current spell check autocompletion, we're in serious trouble.] To give some credit where due, the township's maintenance crew today did a plow pass on the road, increasing the likelihood we'll get to bare pavement if the weather model is anywhere near correct.

Yesterday we made dough. Overnight we left it to rise. This morning it hadn't risen very much, we think because the kitchen has been cooler than usual with our current below normal temperatures outside. Getting into the spirit of letting the dough tell us what to do, it occurred to us to move the dough-filled bowl to one of the warmest rooms in the house. We put it on the vanity in the upstairs bath. Next time we'll try to remember to put it in that room for the overnight proof. We're beginning to get a sense of just how sensitive Artisan sourdough bread can be to any number of variables.

our latest creation. if it tastes as good as it looks...

Photo by J. Harrington

The loaf came out of the oven looking good, if a little lop-sided, and making the house smell great. Expecting the bread to also taste good would be like gilding a lily, wouldn't it? Maybe not. We'll see how it tastes this evening when we slice some to go with a wonderful soup the Better Half made. Fresh Artisan bread and fresh homemade soup, plus a warm house, an extended January thaw(?) and sleeping dogs lying on the floor couch, and stacks of unread books, it doesn't get much better than this. (Can you tell we're working on learning to truly appreciate what we have?)

How to Be Perfect

By Ron Padgett

                                                  Everything is perfect, dear friend.
                                                  —KEROUAC

Get some sleep.

Don't give advice.

Take care of your teeth and gums.

Don't be afraid of anything beyond your control. Don't be afraid, for

instance, that the building will collapse as you sleep, or that someone

you love will suddenly drop dead.

Eat an orange every morning.

Be friendly. It will help make you happy.

Raise your pulse rate to 120 beats per minute for 20 straight minutes

four or five times a week doing anything you enjoy.

Hope for everything. Expect nothing.

Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room

before you save the world. Then save the world.

Know that the desire to be perfect is probably the veiled expression

of another desire—to be loved, perhaps, or not to die.

Make eye contact with a tree.

Be skeptical about all opinions, but try to see some value in each of

them.

Dress in a way that pleases both you and those around you.

Do not speak quickly.

Learn something every day. (Dzien dobre!)

Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.

Don't stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don't

forget what made you angry. Hold your anger out at arm's length

and look at it, as if it were a glass ball. Then add it to your glass ball

collection.

Be loyal.

Wear comfortable shoes.

Design your activities so that they show a pleasing balance

and variety.

Be kind to old people, even when they are obnoxious. When you

become old, be kind to young people. Do not throw your cane at

them when they call you Grandpa. They are your grandchildren!

Live with an animal.

Do not spend too much time with large groups of people.

If you need help, ask for it.

Cultivate good posture until it becomes natural.

If someone murders your child, get a shotgun and blow his head off.

Plan your day so you never have to rush.

Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if you

have paid them, even if they do favors you don't want.

Do not waste money you could be giving to those who need it.

Expect society to be defective. Then weep when you find that it is far

more defective than you imagined.

When you borrow something, return it in an even better condition.

As much as possible, use wooden objects instead of plastic or metal

ones.

Look at that bird over there.

After dinner, wash the dishes.

Calm down.

Visit foreign countries, except those whose inhabitants have

expressed a desire to kill you.

Don't expect your children to love you, so they can, if they want to.

Meditate on the spiritual. Then go a little further, if you feel like it.

What is out (in) there?

Sing, every once in a while.

Be on time, but if you are late do not give a detailed and lengthy

excuse.

Don't be too self-critical or too self-congratulatory.

Don't think that progress exists. It doesn't.

Walk upstairs.

Do not practice cannibalism.

Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don't do

anything to make it impossible.

Take your phone off the hook at least twice a week.

Keep your windows clean.

Extirpate all traces of personal ambitiousness.

Don't use the word extirpatetoo often.

Forgive your country every once in a while. If that is not possible, go

to another one.

If you feel tired, rest.

Grow something.

Do not wander through train stations muttering, "We're all going to

die!"

Count among your true friends people of various stations of life.

Appreciate simple pleasures, such as the pleasure of chewing, the

pleasure of warm water running down your back, the pleasure of a

cool breeze, the pleasure of falling asleep.

Do not exclaim, "Isn't technology wonderful!"

Learn how to stretch your muscles. Stretch them every day.

Don't be depressed about growing older. It will make you feel even

older. Which is depressing.

Do one thing at a time.

If you burn your finger, put it in cold water immediately. If you bang

your finger with a hammer, hold your hand in the air for twenty

minutes. You will be surprised by the curative powers of coldness and

gravity.

Learn how to whistle at earsplitting volume.

Be calm in a crisis. The more critical the situation, the calmer you

should be.

Enjoy sex, but don't become obsessed with it. Except for brief periods

in your adolescence, youth, middle age, and old age.

Contemplate everything's opposite.

If you're struck with the fear that you've swum out too far in the

ocean, turn around and go back to the lifeboat.

Keep your childish self alive.

Answer letters promptly. Use attractive stamps, like the one with a

tornado on it.

Cry every once in a while, but only when alone. Then appreciate

how much better you feel. Don't be embarrassed about feeling better.

Do not inhale smoke.

Take a deep breath.

Do not smart off to a policeman.

Do not step off the curb until you can walk all the way across the

street. From the curb you can study the pedestrians who are trapped

in the middle of the crazed and roaring traffic.

Be good.

Walk down different streets.

Backwards.

Remember beauty, which exists, and truth, which does not. Notice

that the idea of truth is just as powerful as the idea of beauty.

Stay out of jail.

In later life, become a mystic.

Use Colgate toothpaste in the new Tartar Control formula.

Visit friends and acquaintances in the hospital. When you feel it is

time to leave, do so.

Be honest with yourself, diplomatic with others.

Do not go crazy a lot. It's a waste of time.

Read and reread great books.

Dig a hole with a shovel.

In winter, before you go to bed, humidify your bedroom.

Know that the only perfect things are a 300 game in bowling and a

27-batter, 27-out game in baseball.

Drink plenty of water. When asked what you would like to drink,

say, "Water, please."

Ask "Where is the loo?" but not "Where can I urinate?"

Be kind to physical objects.

Beginning at age forty, get a complete "physical" every few years

from a doctor you trust and feel comfortable with.

Don't read the newspaper more than once a year.

Learn how to say "hello," "thank you," and "chopsticks"

in Mandarin.

Belch and fart, but quietly.

Be especially cordial to foreigners.

See shadow puppet plays and imagine that you are one of the

characters. Or all of them.

Take out the trash.

Love life.

Use exact change.

When there's shooting in the street, don't go near the window.

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.