Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Message from Tamara (itsallinasong)

Well, I've been posting on Blogster for awhile now, and I have to say ... I miss Multiply.

I miss all you guys, I miss this format, the fluid way it all works here.

It's a very good thing ... that's being torn down.

Kind of like those old stone buildings that hold ages of history and beauty nothing else could ever come close to replicating.

And the "new kids on the block" ... you know ... the ones with the money ... they come along and tear it all down because their boring and predictable and cold steel methods are more profitable than any amount of old stone work could ever be.

They create empty space where there used to be palpable, tangible life.

... and call it "progress".

I have seen a few things that our "modern ~ high tech" world has brought us that benefit life.

Much more so, a general demise of the very fabric of society and the values that used to hold it cohesively together.

Ironic, that.

We have nearly instant ... ... ...
... ... ... nearly 'instant anything' ...

and yet we have so much more "nothing" ... we are becoming lost in it's debris.

Fall, this year, is making such a grand effort at presenting itself true to form.

It could just be me.

But I've watched me long enough across the decades now that ... I know a few things about me.

And this season ... is making an attempt to show up in full form.

It's beautiful.

But you know ... it's one of those kinds of "beautiful" that makes me cautiously wonder ...

... you know ... like when things suddenly go into slow motion during some kind of ... "event".

I'm just going to go with ... " it's beautiful " ... and let it stand at that.

I miss all you guys.

I hope you're making life the adventure you're worthy of.

Where ever you go, follow your heart.

And have almost too much fun.


Here's one I wrote about 4 years ago.
Seems fitting ...

Away away
Upon hushed harmony
Quietly my voiced breath
Perhaps one day
Beyond hurried dissonance
Resolution will come
To things
Dance between the dawns
Through the night set your dreams aloft
Cast your weary sorrow
Upon restless seas
And with the returning tide
What treasures may you find
Moments forever now
In the re-membering


Happy Holidays

with love,

Sunday, November 25, 2012

23 November - Scurrival windy evening walk.

As we left, the autumn sunlight lit just the tops of the trees, our woodland cottage being in a shallow valley.

A strong chilling wind accompanied us as we walked over pebbles to the rocky shore for the sunset;

bright yellow sunbeams behind a black cloud on the horizon and approaching from the SW the dark smoky pillar of a rain shower.

Light shone through the spray crested waves and lit the foam that piled in among the pebbles. In the shelter between the black rocks the wild sea was green with an exquisitely changing gold gilt, polished and warm.

We returned beneath vast high tops of burning clouds that turned to ashen grey.


Monday, November 12, 2012

November 11th, Sunday

November 11th, Sunday. A relaxed morning. Read in bed to Constance from Dorothy Wordsworth’s journal. After a breakfast of fried bacon, marrow and mushrooms C went to church and I worked in the wood. A beautiful day, calm, good light from a broken sky. Autumn colours the finest I have seen. Even the sycamores have shades of yellow and red, the maples big golden blooms and cotoneaster like crimson fireworks. Underfoot the coloured leaves exceeding beautiful. I felled several trees and sawed a large pile of seasoned wood for the stoves. In the evening we dined on a thick broth of peas and ham. I wrote to TM about an Osmunda fern he’d shown me long ago. I moved one last year from the wild. It took well and was now a good yellow. Curious to read that its flower used in amorous Slavonic rites. In the evening I struggled with Wallace Steven’s essay, ‘Imagination as Value’ and turning instead to his poems found, ‘The Poem That Took the Place of a Mountain'. I think it exceeding good and seemed to speak of Dorothy and William’s poetic struggles.

There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,

How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,

For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:

The exact rock where his inexactness
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,

Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.