tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47120206926872765962024-03-13T22:07:31.823-07:00Miriam LevineMimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.comBlogger298125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-73464964246428750652013-03-24T11:25:00.000-07:002013-03-24T11:27:50.328-07:00South Beach Victory GardenThis Sunday morning at the garden allotment, the tomatoes were in flower--there's fruit, too--the cosmos open, and kamatsu and red mustard big for braising. <br />
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Compost does it's job, deepening green.<br />
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Are cosmos flowers edible? Must I ask the great god Google?<br />
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Katmatsu struts its stuff. (The stems are struts, all right.)<br />
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On the walk home I bought garlic and ginger for miso. If I get the go-ahead about cosmos flowers, I'l float a few in the soup. Miso is cooking light.<br />
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Are you cooking today? <br />
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<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-79990422792234332482013-03-20T17:40:00.000-07:002013-03-20T17:42:19.609-07:00Trip Up North: Witch Hazel, Crack, etc.In March, J. shows up on a country road in New Hampshire, D.P. sits in the sun with her paintings in Harvard Square, M.S. picks out a scarf to wear to dinner in Chelsea; witch hazel opens, and three people smoke crack near the Charles River, and blissfully I forget about myself. Tell me: where are you and what do you see? <br />
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Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-89198044348562105952013-01-29T07:19:00.000-08:002013-01-29T07:22:49.755-08:00Walking the Streets, Alley's, Too<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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An independent man may be hard to find.<br />
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Wherever they can find coconuts, the men use a long hook to glean them. Coconuts for sale with their liquid. They drive a spike into the coconut and insert a straw. The tourists sip. It's possible to earn some jingle this way. An African American drummer, who performs on the street, told me, "There wasn't much jingle." He didn't have a license to perform on the street, the police said, so he had to keep moving on. Are the coconut sellers licensed? I don't think they are.<br />
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Business is done from the adapted, repurposed grocery cart. Identifying marks have been removed--the cart's a long way from Walgreen's or Publix or CVS or Whole Foods, etc., etc.<br />
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What is the story behind this arrangement? What do you think? The pack of cigarettes angled to the shoe? Does the pack contain any cigarettes? I didn't investigate.<br />
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The trees I like so much have survived the pruning. <br />
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Moss likes the sidewalk. I like to wander.Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-73651365335979972712013-01-13T02:15:00.000-08:002013-01-13T02:18:07.341-08:00Dusk: Flamingo Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Twilight, dusk, blue hour--many names in many languages for this time between day and night. Last night's twilight in Flamingo Park was blue and green. The night-lights did not interfere, only added to the dusky feel. For once they did not seem unnatural, rather an adaptation. I sat and watched, heard the pah-pah of the basketball. How would you describe that sound of the ball hitting the surface? How do <i>you</i> say "twilight"? Please tell me, in <i>your</i> language.</div>
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J. came by on his bike. Easy twilight, easy ride: the land is flat here. Is that why the sky seems so close? We sat and talked. He rode off, and I went home to drink Badia "Chamomile & Anise Tea, Te de Manzanilla y Anis." I'm drinking it again this morning, the empty packet next to my computer as the tea brews.</div>
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Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-66565891101271148622013-01-05T13:30:00.001-08:002013-01-05T13:51:18.433-08:00South Beach Again!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj673-RT69VE0ru0vV7Lq4kfq0sR2cVKtYwv72Fx9oJtlM8xjbFlrFNINwowsWjLwVI9r5pErBTvzocnB26hzzySU2cBvopgL4BCnftFERIMhBu2qczJ2dO_7qXK8Yu52f7VPSlni1hJz_W/s1600/DSCN3748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj673-RT69VE0ru0vV7Lq4kfq0sR2cVKtYwv72Fx9oJtlM8xjbFlrFNINwowsWjLwVI9r5pErBTvzocnB26hzzySU2cBvopgL4BCnftFERIMhBu2qczJ2dO_7qXK8Yu52f7VPSlni1hJz_W/s400/DSCN3748.JPG" width="306" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Wishing you all a fine year ahead. 2013! Deadlines, and the usual, have kept me away from the blogosphere. It's warming to be back in South Beach, where I'm looking down at the darkest green and ahead to blue.</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Tell me: where are you and what do you see?</i></span><br />
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<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-31533376778316576932012-11-01T08:16:00.001-07:002012-11-01T08:19:14.356-07:00Poems at The Blue Lyra<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-OgslQytK__ZpvNs-yPcIP7Fjl1o2CuCjHf2_PhNOKt2X6ysUGe2ZPQl60Hki-KJncxT8iQoNBVxQFv4_156S_pP0fe0KElYV37mENwRP75UabgCr38PLabJW-V6OqKXL1kBeC7sZQSII/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-OgslQytK__ZpvNs-yPcIP7Fjl1o2CuCjHf2_PhNOKt2X6ysUGe2ZPQl60Hki-KJncxT8iQoNBVxQFv4_156S_pP0fe0KElYV37mENwRP75UabgCr38PLabJW-V6OqKXL1kBeC7sZQSII/s400/images-1.jpeg" style="cursor: move;" width="260" /></a><br />
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Many thanks to Matthew Silverman, editor at <i>The Blue Lyra</i> for publishing two of my <a href="http://bluelyrareview.com/tag/miriam-levine-poem/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">poems</span></a>. The fall issue includes work by B.Z. Niditch, Yvette Moreno, and Yehoshua November. (I don't know the artist who painted Orpheus playing his lyre near the blue-green ocean. He's all one here before the maenads tore him to pieces.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-8BKpkm15yfbWr8xsHcYzbg1_gDUVhK0azwaHdZVuyojqyunKi1JodRITP_0BK3Ja5u0xRFWTBNGIVDZbXWh2bvoyIPsMH8fqiS1YhMHWu8Q2en7Gj0CbjqhKN5GlMzTB37d0ZQHK4tF/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br /></span><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-8BKpkm15yfbWr8xsHcYzbg1_gDUVhK0azwaHdZVuyojqyunKi1JodRITP_0BK3Ja5u0xRFWTBNGIVDZbXWh2bvoyIPsMH8fqiS1YhMHWu8Q2en7Gj0CbjqhKN5GlMzTB37d0ZQHK4tF/s400/images-1.jpeg" width="400" /></a><br />
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Vega, one of the brightest stars in the sky, is in the constellation Lyra.<br />
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<a href="http://www.culturalsociety.org/texts/prose/orpheus-beheaded/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">Orpheus</span></a> beheaded, by Redon. </div>
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And as they floated down the gentle current<br />
The lyre made mournful sounds, and the tongue murmured<br />
In mournful harmony, and the banks echoed<br />
The strains of mourning.</div>
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— from <em>Metamorphoses</em>, Book 11 (tr. Rolfe Humphries)</div>
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<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-43397973122893448222012-10-09T10:14:00.000-07:002012-10-09T10:14:56.275-07:00Found<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP42R_W758zY9bBAriPJWrhmVk5wUgInnpbtKzYBmDq7ZwqetYkKJesM7EA1MkLGOEbQoNNiTkbeRBm9AEvjISussnb6CG6o9MmiEqzTSKKJvUFM5DvE0-pCjnRZhX-KWPMT8HpbQZq1uz/s1600/DSCN3674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP42R_W758zY9bBAriPJWrhmVk5wUgInnpbtKzYBmDq7ZwqetYkKJesM7EA1MkLGOEbQoNNiTkbeRBm9AEvjISussnb6CG6o9MmiEqzTSKKJvUFM5DvE0-pCjnRZhX-KWPMT8HpbQZq1uz/s400/DSCN3674.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="300" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">Our street is under construction. Rain washes brick dust into the street. I doubt I could make anything as rich as these colors and shapes.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0b5394;">We're lucky to have new fire hydrants. I wonder what they cost.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0b5394;">These marks signify something underground, something to take care not to disturb.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Is there any point to making art when there are such satisfying finds?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0b5394;">Yes. I'm glad to find this artful sentence from Chekhov: "When one thinks of food, one's heart grows lighter."</span></div>
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<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-11067410483505465232012-09-28T08:59:00.000-07:002012-09-28T08:59:10.779-07:00Callie Crossley Interviews Photographer Melissa Shook<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8z6uEwjscn8Z1mrKm74hxBlPF-8fC-P5xGOBJKdpyxLL_o09EILIcktiY0NR-yFh4EnrEfN21vPR7CUMVEiROu2WWBBXJFWVU-3XFCQ5bSZ9LNU-JD9NsUDFYA0prFPOEV8setDbgn5Jx/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8z6uEwjscn8Z1mrKm74hxBlPF-8fC-P5xGOBJKdpyxLL_o09EILIcktiY0NR-yFh4EnrEfN21vPR7CUMVEiROu2WWBBXJFWVU-3XFCQ5bSZ9LNU-JD9NsUDFYA0prFPOEV8setDbgn5Jx/s400/Unknown-1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.melissashook.com/index.php/home"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Melissa Shook</span></a> spoke about her book "My Suffolk Downs" in a <a href="http://wgbhnews.org/post/photos-east-bostons-migrant-workers"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">radio interview</span></a> with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Callie_Crossley"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Callie Crossley</span></a>. It was clear that Crossley had carefully read the book, and clear that Melissa Shook had made the invisible workers at the track visible. Please tune in.<br />
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The talented Melissa without her camera.<br />
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Callie Crossley</div>
<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-20117433644370224412012-09-21T15:19:00.001-07:002012-09-21T15:19:31.799-07:00Autumn White<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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'Season of mellow fruitfulness,' wrote Keats. Mellow--we think of orange and red. Yet there's plenty of white this time of year. These whites seems to transcend any season: flowers, antique auto, striped crossing, Emily Dickinson's dress. When winter comes I'll be looking for red. </div>
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White autos are rare in New England.<br />
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Stripe on stripe.<br />
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A dress that is supposed to have belonged to Emily Dickinson. You can see it in the family manse in Amherst. The dress is smaller than it appears in this photo. <br />
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Here are some strong lines from Dickinson:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Mind lives on the Heart</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Like any parasite--</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">If that is full of Meat</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Mind is fat--</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
Her work always surprises me. <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Crumbling is not an instant's Act</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A fundamental pause</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Dilapidation's processes </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Are organized Decays--</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">'Tis first a Cobweb on the Soul</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A cuticle of Dust</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A Borer in the Axis</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">An elemental Rust--</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Ruin is formal--Devil's work</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Consecutive and slow--</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Fail in an instant, no man did</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Slipping--is Crashe's law--</span><br />
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Time to sweep out the cobwebs!<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-68421906675317825832012-09-09T13:39:00.000-07:002012-09-09T13:39:17.056-07:00Drawing with Melissa Shook <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbvNEkqZL247KsyZMJg_HgnYr95MNFxt78_jRwpobb_LRZ2yNBYbC3PsPqG6q6lrb4in5ySGCXyoMwX47qwRPlYLsUae_i5etwm80plp16QZrb522jqRc8O-S3eNgPEfTsotj3FEspWBFi/s1600/DSCN3538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbvNEkqZL247KsyZMJg_HgnYr95MNFxt78_jRwpobb_LRZ2yNBYbC3PsPqG6q6lrb4in5ySGCXyoMwX47qwRPlYLsUae_i5etwm80plp16QZrb522jqRc8O-S3eNgPEfTsotj3FEspWBFi/s400/DSCN3538.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://melissashook.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">Melissa Shook</span></a> and I have been drawing together at the dining room table. "Parallel play," someone called it. Play for the sake of play, without ambition, trying to do justice to the tomatoes, onions, and pear. We never got to the potatoes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg7GLQKD2hb5vdXIJeGHUl0bDq43kvSe2HhGfxqKfkGxzN6lbLFhs5qLqcm6EU9DOz5_pq3IISJf0a9kQCaAswnpUgdqBIbbrb6gaIFxPezd-nQUOjY5M6x2UUjYra-np1YH9637a2ANf0/s1600/DSCN3530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg7GLQKD2hb5vdXIJeGHUl0bDq43kvSe2HhGfxqKfkGxzN6lbLFhs5qLqcm6EU9DOz5_pq3IISJf0a9kQCaAswnpUgdqBIbbrb6gaIFxPezd-nQUOjY5M6x2UUjYra-np1YH9637a2ANf0/s400/DSCN3530.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a><br />
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Melissa likes to work with pen and ink. The lines build up and gather mass. The color is from oil pastels. Melissa brought a dandy set. <br />
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She's fearless with brown.<br />
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We left the porch door open. The breeze came in.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPN1bDvVqdBW_ZfYXqaa4Wx7tOdrgW1LoiMoslmhhLv1oB0x7vLBt-tDfprG8TmXMJXrN9CrrIRtwY1B39-4RHBZbxi90-KuKvvIlDo5V62syH-mWT7xSevmvJd2UN8sE1ThWZiFpjalI/s1600/DSCN3542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPN1bDvVqdBW_ZfYXqaa4Wx7tOdrgW1LoiMoslmhhLv1oB0x7vLBt-tDfprG8TmXMJXrN9CrrIRtwY1B39-4RHBZbxi90-KuKvvIlDo5V62syH-mWT7xSevmvJd2UN8sE1ThWZiFpjalI/s320/DSCN3542.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a><br />
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The ball chair is good for the back. Melissa's dog Bogie kept us company. <br />
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I was happy with onions.</div>
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Onions and a single pear.</div>
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I want to you see these marvelous tomatoes! We ate it with dinner--the large red one. Another friend joined us. First big big green olives and Vovray, then corn chowder made from <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><a href="http://radishking.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Rebecca Loudon's</span></a> </span>recipe, followed by the tomato with olive oil, garlic and basil, ice cream sandwiches for dessert.</div>
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Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-23064045116524221332012-09-06T17:36:00.003-07:002012-09-06T17:36:49.616-07:00Bumming Around & Taking Pictures <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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There are few things better than bumming around. The other day J. and I went to Mt. Auburn Cemetery. ''It's so beautiful here," I said to J., "death doesn't seem so bad." "I keep death and nature separate," J. answered, meaning, I believe, that sky, trees, birds were in one category and death in another. The sky was dramatic.<br />
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Here is a tall ship sailing in stone.<br />
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Yesterday A. and I walked through Robbins Park and admired the fans hanging from the trees.<br />
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They caught the wind.<br />
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And here are a few lines about taking pictures:</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">Keep still! I say to children</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">but let cattails shake, asters shiver,</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">oak creak, hawks dive,</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">branches crack, leaves silver,</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">storms rip, so the world reveals</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000;">secrets and my picture blurs.</span></span></div>
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<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-21074633730235091862012-08-25T09:45:00.003-07:002012-08-25T09:49:21.436-07:00Reflections: Honor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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The reflections of cattails, trees, sky are ephemeral, discarnate, bodiless, weightless, yet accurate and delightful. When I gaze at them, for a moment I too feel weightless--well, almost weightless.<br />
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The arbor vitae seems frosted. Or is this juniper? If I had crushed one of these berries to get the scent I would have known. Juniper is unmistakable. Sniff gin and you smell juniper.<br />
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I hope the zinnias will go on until the first hard frost. The colors are so intense they seem hot enough to melt frost. Red admiral butterflies are feasting on the zinnias. (I'll try to get a picture of them.)</div>
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It's lucky to have these sights so close to home. Classic forms in New England. Those loops of handles are generous!<br />
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The sculpture at the base of the Town Hall flag pole have a wonderful shine. The child's hand resting on the mother's is a familiar gesture.<br />
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There are four words carved at the base: honour, liberty, patriotism, obedience. We hear a lot about patriotism and liberty ("freedom" is the word favored now) but hardly anything about honor or obedience. According to Wiki, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Johnson" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; text-decoration: none;" title="Samuel Johnson">Sa</a><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Johnson" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; text-decoration: none;" title="Samuel Johnson">muel Johnson</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">, in his </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Dictionary_of_the_English_Language" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; text-decoration: none;" title="A Dictionary of the English Language">A Dictionary of the English Language</a></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> (1755), defined honor as having several senses, the first of which was </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i>"<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nobility" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; text-decoration: none;" title="Nobility">nobility</a> of soul, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magnanimity" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; text-decoration: none;" title="Magnanimity">magnanimity</a>, and a scorn of meanness. </i>An elegantly written definition. I wish our public figures possessed such honor. Mitt Romney was dishonorable when he played up to the Birthers, who insist that Obama was not born in America, by saying in a recent speech in Michigan, that no one asked to see <i>his </i>birth certificate. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">As for me, I hope to be obedient to a code of honor, and thank Samuel Johnson for his clarity. "Scorn of meanness." Meanness here meaning lack of generosity.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-9685118643842972722012-08-18T17:18:00.001-07:002012-08-18T17:21:42.927-07:00Neighborhood PleasuresIt's been far too long away--away at my desk, putting together a new book, away taking art classes with M.S., away to the pond. A few days ago J. and I went to the Cambridge Public Library and took the elevator up to the children's floor. There's a delightful corner with a view and a carpeted area in which to sprawl and loll with books and toys.<br />
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The carpet is sculpted. I could feel the soft humps through my crocs.<br />
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The giant zinnias are coming into their own. Tomorrow the magenta ones should open. Magenta!<br />
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Turtles come up to sun themselves, always the same rocks, always their heads facing the same way.<br />
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Another neighborhood sight--a rare one in this liberal area. I smile whenever I see it. Why does this display give me so much pleasure? The fixed, frozen quality, I believe, the display of foolishness. Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-71092900203767657162012-07-12T17:47:00.000-07:002012-07-12T17:47:48.092-07:00Embrace on the Beach<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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"Coney Island"<br />
Photo by Morris Engel<br />
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<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-82677913717365997542012-06-28T10:52:00.000-07:002012-06-28T11:00:13.784-07:00Too Young to Die<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Writer, film director, journalist Nora Ephron died at seventy-one. Too young! I thought. But is there any </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">good age to die? Do we say, 'Eighty-nine is a good age to die?' Or forty-nine, or fifty-two? As long as one is not screaming in agony, as long as one is getting some pleasure out of life, there is no good time to die. June, 2012--the cherries have been delicious this year, and with them I like to drink dry white wine. A Graves is good. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am not calmed by eastern religion or friends who quote serene-sounding classical Chinese poets, who seem to accept death, not that I'm all for <i>raging</i> against the dying of the light in the manner of Dylan Thomas. Rage and you burn yourself out. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of these Chinese poets writes that losing a tooth is a marker of mortality, a sign that you will soon die. It will take more than a loss of a tooth to convince me I'm about to die.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And please, no one tell me after the death of an old person, 'She had a good life' or 'He lived a long life.' Save those dull so-called reassurances for someone who can bear banality. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-4851786981363138422012-06-13T08:32:00.001-07:002012-06-13T09:21:39.038-07:00Spring Beauties<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm a sucker for red. These roses blaze as summer gets closer. There's no such thing as too much when it comes to flowers. These have no perfume. We'll have to imagine a scent--a sweet scorch. These are Meidiland roses developed in France.<br />
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This dainty plant finds a foothold in a tightly mortised stone wall. It doesn't need much. Somehow it's found soil in the cracks and enough nutrients to bloom--bloom small.<br />
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Bold and dainty surprised me on my neighborhood walk. Fresh beauty is close at hand. Why not look?<br />
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<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-64223848826698611522012-06-04T08:07:00.000-07:002012-06-04T08:10:32.496-07:00Plumed Hats & Scarlet Cloaks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Seventeenth century artist Stefano della Bella drew this man in a plumed hat. It would be marvelous to see men in such hats now, a change from the common baseball hat we see everywhere. (Isn't "della Bella" the perfect name!) </div>
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Here in Boston, in the 18th century, well-to-do men wore scarlet cloaks woven from fine wool dyed from cochineal made from the shells of an insect that feeds on cactus. On Sunday we saw two scarlet cloaks on display at the Concord Museum. Now in Boston men wear drab colors: gray, dark green, brown. (I first came across the word "cochineal" in a poem by Emily Dickinson, in which she describes the arrival of a hummingbird: 'a revolving wheel of cochineal.')</div>
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Gathering insects for making cochineal.</div>
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Men wearing flamboyant clothes would probably not improve society but would make for a lively scene, a scene on the street and subway. First we have to get people out of their cars. Men, put on your scarlet cloaks and plumed hats and strut!</div>
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<br /></div>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-18924891458853491142012-05-24T07:25:00.001-07:002012-05-24T07:25:04.429-07:00Jews & African Americans on Beacon Hill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Leaving the posh south side of Beacon Hill I saw, by chance, the Vilna Shul built in 1906, when immigrant Jews lived on the north side of Beacon Hill, and Jews from Vilna chose this large bold stained glass window set into the facade. </div>
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The shul on Phillips Streets is slowly being restored. Earlier, in the 19th century, African Americans lived on this same steep north slope. The house at 66 Phillips was the home of Lewis Hayden, once a fugitive slave. </div>
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A map of the African American Heritage Trail is available at the Museum of African American History on Joy Street. The museum is housed in the former African American Meeting House. I was moved to see the pulpit where Frederick Douglas spoke. </div>
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A creature of soft pleasures, I drank a glass of wine and ate biscotti to strengthen myself for the subway and bus ride home.</div>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-65559710196687517342012-05-01T13:31:00.000-07:002012-05-01T13:31:50.952-07:00Save Us from Shallow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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The artist Alex Katz likes painting women in black hats. On Sunday, friends and I went to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts to see his work. We were not enthusiastic. "Shallow," one of us said. Particularly shallow when there are multiple women in black hats. Do we look as predictable when we all wear the same hat or dress or shoes? </div>
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Black hats a la Alex Katz are for sale in the Museum gift shop. We clowned around, trying on hats. I tried for a hard look but ended up looking silly and enthralled. The shop also featured blouses, scarfs, beach bags, etc. copied from the Katz paintings. I don't understand what one gets out of wearing such things. <br />
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We liked the "Paper Zoo" exhibit with this marvelous Picasso "Toad," here in black and white. I wish I could find a copy in color.<br />
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We also liked the exhibit of early photographs, especially this sea scene by Gustave Le Gray.<br />
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Fat toad, gray sky, darker gray sea: they gave us so much pleasure. <br />
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<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-63471696920038978352012-04-27T14:27:00.000-07:002012-04-27T14:28:41.943-07:00Loose Ends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What do you do when you don't know what to do with yourself? Me? I go out and see what comes my way--see as I walk. The sun was brilliant but the wind was too fierce to sit and gaze. Every cloud is perfect. (Storm clouds are perfect, too. No one complains about the shape of a cloud.)</div>
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And lilacs deliver on all their promises.</div>
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The shell of a tree sprouts suckers.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfURcauzx4bz7pY8rYMqZOczA52Bl8tDqi3WcbWcC_IxPLwAzJw84-A94qERRJhpBt34G7SsBo1_FXPAwW4zmAYID0ZBLlI22yT-cAgKxt67BxSUNrciUKbEROXLRkSkwyhU1bgc8r1BIv/s1600/DSCN4043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfURcauzx4bz7pY8rYMqZOczA52Bl8tDqi3WcbWcC_IxPLwAzJw84-A94qERRJhpBt34G7SsBo1_FXPAwW4zmAYID0ZBLlI22yT-cAgKxt67BxSUNrciUKbEROXLRkSkwyhU1bgc8r1BIv/s400/DSCN4043.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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There is a memorial for the girl who drowned herself last week. You can't see how drops of moisture have condensed behind the glass that covers her picture. There is a little book in which one can write messages. People have. Brief letters addressed to her. </div>
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Redwing black birds are back at the pond.</div>
<br />Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-6662320898437158332012-04-14T15:44:00.007-07:002012-04-16T13:34:23.920-07:00Leaving for the Neurotic North<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjorlMnF0p1O8LDykDwRB-PXiGnF7TzBzyiGCVDGfUrd1Qpnw-ZTfCnGt7-hniqjug4gp2EyyPBqlJgKfZ-7-rOobdDlCo1xLB-fIgOk_RI9PsVZwgznqXAvS47_CXxTLfXIiwkFVHNFKC/s1600/DSCN3982.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjorlMnF0p1O8LDykDwRB-PXiGnF7TzBzyiGCVDGfUrd1Qpnw-ZTfCnGt7-hniqjug4gp2EyyPBqlJgKfZ-7-rOobdDlCo1xLB-fIgOk_RI9PsVZwgznqXAvS47_CXxTLfXIiwkFVHNFKC/s320/DSCN3982.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731392090352453234" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It would be easy to take for granted these common tropical sights: bougainvillea burgeoning above Burning Love; a yellow Geiger tree in full bloom; silver palms. But I don't. They become more precious because I'm getting ready to leave. Leave for the north, where children on bikes and scooters wear helmets. It's rare to see anyone with a helmet in South Beach, which may not be the best thing, but here kids fly, unencumbered.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I strolled around South Beach today, I thought that the culture of the northeast is neurotic: we worry more. It's not easy to relax when spring is cool, when it might snow in March, when we shiver in April, and when a cold wind smelling of winter sails in in August.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet I like it up there in Neurotic Land--the edginess, the energy, those fraught moments and sleepless nights. No! Not the sleepless nights.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32DWdh1GzvpxctZLZ0CsviPzJO5sw1CUWOwJTRhyy6PZN2V7hygP_tQQiarEZYDyppmIIOw4QEVq45dQRbl7xgLQe2NllK3O_QOGa4fbFgoLhA4HYxO-WT9fSD3DDpDicwM4Wm5XNFd2R/s1600/DSCN3947.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32DWdh1GzvpxctZLZ0CsviPzJO5sw1CUWOwJTRhyy6PZN2V7hygP_tQQiarEZYDyppmIIOw4QEVq45dQRbl7xgLQe2NllK3O_QOGa4fbFgoLhA4HYxO-WT9fSD3DDpDicwM4Wm5XNFd2R/s320/DSCN3947.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731391751217428066" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gq_X5NwXZ6aYJAtrT9GiOHNYOpfcSM5wBWKmW7cjvxinosbD1zV-P4A3kvsvSYmHB2yYm4nttW9xRBXvbB0do1d99hJEHJJ24K1jANAaRzYtea3dz7JmlxlvgwfA0MjBfP1iidszQ4lZ/s1600/DSCN3971.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gq_X5NwXZ6aYJAtrT9GiOHNYOpfcSM5wBWKmW7cjvxinosbD1zV-P4A3kvsvSYmHB2yYm4nttW9xRBXvbB0do1d99hJEHJJ24K1jANAaRzYtea3dz7JmlxlvgwfA0MjBfP1iidszQ4lZ/s320/DSCN3971.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731391434290298610" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-83419046677034542072012-04-09T08:50:00.009-07:002012-04-09T09:25:36.349-07:00Whitman and Miriam's Cup on Passover<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPNP_F0huoHD2i0hBSq5lAacyYg3-Aad4Qhbb6bolf9R2bHeKk6LcrL8adgBHcMgZRDqgv0p7Sy_CzAS7IZTPk6qRbFb71hG2JAO-98aiEeOP99Yuz_EU7-pxRlxj6N5tiO6hc859cSiz/s1600/DSCN3978.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPNP_F0huoHD2i0hBSq5lAacyYg3-Aad4Qhbb6bolf9R2bHeKk6LcrL8adgBHcMgZRDqgv0p7Sy_CzAS7IZTPk6qRbFb71hG2JAO-98aiEeOP99Yuz_EU7-pxRlxj6N5tiO6hc859cSiz/s320/DSCN3978.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729429393741142626" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>At our Passover dinner we read Walt Whitman and portions of a Haggadah that emphasized women and the role of the prophet Miriam who is said to have found water in the desert the Israelites crossed in their escape from Egypt. Each of us sipped water from the cup of Miriam.</div><div><br /></div><div>Never having been at a Seder while growing up, I wasn't interested in it as an adult, yet this year I wanted to celebrate the Holiday. Some might say that it was sacrilegious to celebrate women and read Walt Whitman, but I believe we had a fresh and moving Seder. Whitman's verse fit the occasion. I read:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand of my own,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">And that a kelson of the creation is love,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">And brown ants in the little wells beneath them . . .</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;"><br /></span></div><div>J. read: </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">This is the meal pleasantly set--this is the meat an drink for natural hunger,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">It is for the wicket just the same as the righteous--I make appointments with all,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">I will not have a single person slighted or left away,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">The kept-woman and sponger and thief are hereby invited, the heavy-lipped slave is invited</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;">--</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); ">the veneralee is invited,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); ">There shall be no difference between them and the rest.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;"><br /></span></div><div>B. asked us to name a woman we admired. I named my mother. "Why?" B. asked. "Her generosity," I said. Playing for laughs, J. said, "Lady Gaga."</div><div><br /></div><div>It was time to eat. The matzo balls were divine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's to liberation from the slavery of anger and resentment! </div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>(PS: I found the silver cup and tray in a thrift shop.)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-83053646693059130582012-04-03T09:13:00.005-07:002012-04-03T09:24:04.040-07:00Lateral<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYzZeKQUKz0gIBBbTf1QYZ1eEgeCjQWGbVzV5COwn-L8BIsOyzN4TMl6Bc6LldGSWPPqZ6rxk_R6ZNISyfOhBPFyPVtw4ORK67crM_Gx7y_za0guWbRswFCpW-8z3TtOf77vb6_clQxHX/s1600/DSCN3949.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYzZeKQUKz0gIBBbTf1QYZ1eEgeCjQWGbVzV5COwn-L8BIsOyzN4TMl6Bc6LldGSWPPqZ6rxk_R6ZNISyfOhBPFyPVtw4ORK67crM_Gx7y_za0guWbRswFCpW-8z3TtOf77vb6_clQxHX/s320/DSCN3949.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727208947936574274" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Onward and upward," I've heard said. Upward like this palm tree. Vertical aspiration. But there's a lot to be said for lateral growth. The Royal Poinciana tree grows laterally and blooms like mad. It's also called "Flame Tree."</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Jo6v7A2PAZKLtOB3pO2XXuL5bS9OfsnuqUWiU04pIENnxRfMz5Cr9DFoKesJMovcOVb191gqd0l9Iji8-YSZRCsZyxUsTmNefb82gUiiCMySAtclLhnJu40v8moht3d1VZBivnFTvepR/s320/DSCN0305.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727209633322446562" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This morning I got stuck working on a poem, walked away from the computer and lay down. I went lateral. Forgot about the poem, drifted into reverie, then the first couple of lines that had given me so much trouble sorted themselves out. I'm all for going prone.</div><div><br /></div><div>What do you do when you're stuck? Tell me.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-48811591709214825412012-03-26T09:56:00.012-07:002012-03-26T10:27:50.854-07:00Tar, Young and Bitten: Nostalgia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNK5Bh_u8DBM1cbk_zWD5djIYGV8Y42_wNOqQGbu1OQdyb-sNDWW5XugXBaQWCaRoYZ2qGln_0Kd8Foyw2oLO5YkGpzdarxFDSLyLuuclnglgw-WW1YzPSr1X5W9ne-LTHz4S8rY-XcB7V/s1600/DSCN3929.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNK5Bh_u8DBM1cbk_zWD5djIYGV8Y42_wNOqQGbu1OQdyb-sNDWW5XugXBaQWCaRoYZ2qGln_0Kd8Foyw2oLO5YkGpzdarxFDSLyLuuclnglgw-WW1YzPSr1X5W9ne-LTHz4S8rY-XcB7V/s320/DSCN3929.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724251725661166194" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>With the temperature at 77--low humidity, and a soft breeze coming off the ocean--how could I have even thought of not going out this morning! If I had stayed in, I would have missed the sweetly acrid smell of tar. The roofers were working on a building on Meridian Avenue. I smelled tar before I saw the tar truck. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrjxkBsxF9F-GQJbVIJ7oLmG_JTvG5FJs1gC59ZL-58jAt6LH9CZlucU4tEEbVe6eRge5AYqzOxiYAfoXp8H5FoG-Pp_2mn47s-al6Iy6qzVPBhgVj0HggEopiU7gqUl9F7ls2fdh027w/s320/DSCN3931.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724251463029933890" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>These trucks were common when I was growing up. We children, who played on the streets, would watch the glossy black tar heat and stream from the trucks. Nothing more glossy except, maybe, patent leather. We liked the filthy trucks. I like them still. It's possible to become nostalgic for almost anything, even mosquitoes, not that I want to actually go back to the past. Last week I wrote this nostalgic poem: </div><div><br /></div><div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>77</o:Words> <o:characters>444</o:Characters> <o:lines>3</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>545</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">Young and Bitten</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">We had so much to give—pennies, kisses,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">blood mosquitoes love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We would let them land</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">on the back of a hand kept still and watch</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">the frail, tiny body fill and darken.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">It was always twilight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The wings blue,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">the legs weightless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Always we were quiet.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">We’d let them fly off with nothing we would </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">grandly call “life.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Curiosity </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">made us generous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We’d go home tired,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">in the air ripe with wings, bitten and young, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">in the shadows of leaves, in the smell of phlox,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;">in the soft dark, in the world where we fit. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#ff0000;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Tell me about your bouts of nostalgia? </i></p> <!--EndFragment--></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4712020692687276596.post-16242742045026491902012-03-22T14:24:00.005-07:002012-03-22T14:41:24.704-07:00"My Suffolk Downs" by Melissa Shook<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxVajbwquiWaRiCxmYdmu1E8OLgvjXW2-XCIZYCpZMdeB6p_zIpsUzBcbkNXZeWJgE20kjMfDgc4kXM3VfIAecfcNw9rHuGil9IWjTAbi_6y7NugOf45khRIEv0ZVVbJbGdpR6JOyN2tn/s1600/7.30.09.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxVajbwquiWaRiCxmYdmu1E8OLgvjXW2-XCIZYCpZMdeB6p_zIpsUzBcbkNXZeWJgE20kjMfDgc4kXM3VfIAecfcNw9rHuGil9IWjTAbi_6y7NugOf45khRIEv0ZVVbJbGdpR6JOyN2tn/s320/7.30.09.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722836203363879010" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>What a surprise to find, by chance, a radio <a href="http://radioboston.wbur.org/2012/03/21/suffolk-downs-backside"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ff0000;">interview</span> </a>with my friend, photographer and writer, Melissa Shook about her new book, <i>My Suffolk Downs, </i>in which we hear the voices of workers on the backside of the track. This morning I wasn't able to bring up WCRB on the net--I listen to music as I doggedly do my exercises--so switched to Boston's WBUR, and there was the interview, recorded at Suffolk Downs, and a slide show of photos in Melissa's book. Melissa's voice here in the South Beach condo! A friend on the radio! So far, so close. Soon I'll be back in Boston and she and I will be chatting about this and that over tea and coffee--tea for me, coffee for her.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope you listen to the interview, look at the photos, and learn more about The Eighth Pole, a facility at the track that provides health care and social services for the backside workers. All proceeds from the sale of Melissa's book will go to The Eighth Pole. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div> </div></div></div>Mimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13039776441665375475noreply@blogger.com7