Missing the Memo

Last night, I had dinner (on the porch in spite of the record-breaking heat here in the mystical MidAtlantic! Of course, we did have shade, the ceiling fan, and a bottle of icy grand cru from Arnould & Fils, recommended by my brilliant friend Stoat) with a beloved magical Sister. I asked her, "You'd tell me, right? Mercury didn't unexpectedly go retrograde and I just (in retrograde Mercury fashion) missed the memo?" Because it would explain a lot. (Blogger, you fickle, evil BitchGoddess, I am looking, inter alia, at you.)

And speaking of missing the memo, I'm not sure why I am just now finding out about the amazing sculpture of Fidelma Massey. If I'd known about her sooner, I'd have planned my garden around one of her sculptures. As it is, I'm going to have to sit down w/ Landscape Guy and see where we can work one in. There's a spot he's been pointing to along the Southern boundary for a few months and saying, "Something needs to go there. You need to figure out what."

And, in true if-Mercury-isn't-retrograde-who-is? fashion, I'm not sure where I first found Ms. Massey's work. I thought it was at Sally J. Smith's site, but now I can't find it there. (And I'd love, someday, to get Sally to build one of her fairy houses in my garden for G/Son, too. He's so fascinated w/ the fairy door on the big maple in my woodland). Whoever brought Ms. Massey to my attention, many thanks!

Which of her works do you like best?

Pictures: Google "Fidelma Massey" and click on "Images".

For My Wonderful DiL

The Idea of Order at Key West

Wallace Stevens

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.

It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

Picture found here.

Things That Give Me Hope

There's an old Joan Baez song that begs:

Bring me a rose in the wintertime, when it's hard to find,
bring me a rose in the wintertime, I've got
roses on my mind.
A rose is sweet, most anytime and, yet,
bring me a rose in the wintertime and how easy we forget.

Bring me a smile when I'm far from home, when it's hard to find,
bring me a smile when I'm far from home, I've got
smiling on my mind.
A smile is sweet, most anytime and, yet,
bring me a smile when I'm far from home and how easy we forget.

Bring me some peace when there's talk of war, when it's hard to find,
bring me some peace when there's talk of war, I've got
peace on my mind.
Oh, peace is sweet, most anytime and yet,
bring me some peace when there's talk of war and how easy we forget.


Today was a terrible day to be following the news. Our economy doing the one thing we all knew it would do, but hoped that it wouldn't, after decades of deregulation and greed. The McCain campaign going completely negative on Obama in the hopes that what worked for Bush and Rove will work again. The environment in a tailspin and every fifty-year-old I know walking around with the dazed look of one who really groks that she will NEVER be able to retire.

And so, here's a rose for you in the wintertime, a short list of things that give me hope:

Dinner w a dear old friend whose pursuit of her own v, v, v advanced degree a continent away from where she lived convinced me that I could, too, go to evening law school. We drank and ate and traded gossip and talked politics and discussed our children and grandchildren and just being at a table next to her gave me strength and made me feel better. May you have friends like her.

Freeway Blogger doing what only he does and what all of us ought to do.

Barefoot College.

Nudibranches. Honest; this site keeps me going when everything else seems grim. How can you possibly have incorporated on the same planet as a nudibranch and give in to despair?

Obama is 12 points ahead in Virginia. Hello, Sarah, did you enjoy your little rally in Falls Church the other week? Bring it, bitch.

And, of course, Jeff Skilling is still in jail.

Photo found here.

Hmmm. This City Appears Oddly Unchanged.

Richard II, Scene III
I count myself in nothing else so fortunate,
As in a soul remembering my good friends

For absolutely no reason at all, I have been blessed with wonderful friends and a wonderful, loving family.

I spent this weekend off in the fall-touched mountains of West Virginia, up in the highlands that I love, with my rock-steady Son, my brilliant and beautiful DiL (who is just an am-a-zing cook!), and my wonderful G/Son.

We had a lovely time, from the late Friday night dinner at the Wild Woman Cafe with the v. nice waitresses, to the early Saturday morning small-town parade at the Apple Butter Festival, to the late morning sampling of West Virginia (yes, West Virginia!) vineyards, to the late Saturday afternoon massages at Astasia, to the Ina Garten pumpkin soup that DiL made and the steaks and corn on the cob that Son grilled, to the late morning drive through Virginia horse country.

Meanwhile, my brilliant friend E, author of the best football blog you'll ever read, was taking care of my home, Miss Thing, and my blog. The brilliant women in my circle were having brunch in amazing hats. My wonderful paralegals were making it appear as if I'd never left town.

And, sad as I was to leave, it was good to come home.