cybermule | Reading

$radiantfracture: Small painting of Penguin book (Books post)$

The woods is shining this morning.
Red, gold and green, the leaves
lie on the ground, or fall,
or hang full of light in the air still.
Perfect in its rise and in its fall, it takes
the place it has been coming to forever.
It has not hastened here, or lagged.
See how surely it has sought itself,
its roots passing lordly through the earth.
See how without confusion it is
all that it is, and how flawless
its grace is. Running or walking, the way
is the same. Be still. Be still.
“He moves your bones, and the way is clear.”

* * * * * *

Can't not think of Frost, and then at the end of Shakespeare.

Here is an autumnal poem by the brand-new ancestor Wendell Berry. I found one I like even better, but it is called "September 2", so I will do my damndest to post it then.

§rf§

$radiantfracture: a green house (House)$

radiantfracture

Autumn Day
Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Stephen Mitchell

Lord, it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows
and on the meadows let the wind go free.

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine:
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one
whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening
and wander on the boulevards up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

* * * * * *

I feel it, Rilke. It was a strange huge summer.

(I ran into a former student and their mother at the farmer's market and we spoke of summer; and then I spoke of summer to my hairstylist, and both said they didn't know anyone who'd had a good season.

Of course, someone has, and I am glad. But also glad of the company.)

This year I notice the "write long letters through the evening," which, while done in solitude, speaks after all of a rich communicative life, if at a distance. Alone but not alone. (Also, imagine getting a vast sheaf-like letter from Rainer Maria Rilke.)

§rf§

michaelboy

Looking at the back those hands, it stuck... These aren't teenage hands any longer--- not at all.

Why, it is even hard to remember how they were, once. Roughened by detergents, household cleaners, portland and lime, and now quite damaged by age and abrasions they seem unpresentable and rather unfeeling – so much so, that a child’s hand might melt unfelt in their grasp.

Yet, remembering, decades ago, a girl with hands that were as soft as the finest imported gloves and that smelled like Jergen’s Lotion, the door closed gently and nearly a whole lifetime of rain fell with purpose.

michaelboy

This is a photograph of my parents
... way before me.

We lived a good life growing up and they were always pretty good to and happy with each other. That is, until severe health issues beset them both. Mom had severe spinal problems with back pain and after several surgeries ended up losing a leg to amputation. A few years later, Dad had a series of debilitating strokes.

She wasn't able to care for him properly and he wasn't able to show much appreciation towards her because of his significantly altered thinking and diminished rationale. Eventually, they both began to resent each other. It was so difficult for me to see them this way.

They've been gone for quite a while now but I often try to just remember them in a place of the days before those last few years. I know I can never erase any of it, but I need to believe the good times will always have outweighed the bad.

* * *

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds
- "Love is a Place ", e.e. cummings

michaelboy

The dream of healing came on as
wild white and purple flowers
(few seem to know their name as they litter the shoulders along the road)
while you may count what you see
certainly never grow old to sum them
as they portend the unfolding
of all your heart and days to be

michaelboy

Breathe me, your hands to my face as this becomes you. I know you feel fear (we both do) but if you never cried, I might never understand and that would be sad.
Breathe me, as emptiness were a hole in the ground but then realize, it is as genuine and as much a part of you or me as any earthly experience will ever understand.
Breathe me, for what is here, what is gone, and what will happen will always be precious soil as any life may contain, deserve or ever have

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
1	2	3	4	5	6	7
8	9	10	11	12	13	14
15	16	17	18	19	20	21
22	23	24	25	26	27	28
29	30	31

the heretic genetic algorithm

Reading

Grace - Wendell Berry

A tradition

It smells like Jergen’s Lotion, not Teen Spirit

Love is a Place

The Stumbling Topologist

Precious Soil

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October 2023

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