A virtuous circle

So, a day for clearing out and a day for throwing away a nasty little piece of paper dated 29/12/2010- a tag for cleaning that was never done - attached to a coat that was only divested of its plastic wrapping on the sixth of January. What would be gained by telling the shop owner of the hurt I felt on the day of my mother's funeral when his subterfuge was detected? Nothing. Best throw the tag away.

So why, then, when I spilt a packet of seeds, was it worth my time to pick up every one, rolling hither and thither over the table, under the table; every seed returned to the pack (easy-grow fragrant mix, quality guaranteed, sow by 2002). Simple, because they might still grow into hardy little annuals; something good, sweet smelling. But sharing my grief with the dry cleaner won't grow into anything.

So on to a female poet of 15th century Rome for the romantic season:

Vivo su questo scoglio orrido e solo,
quasi dolente augel che'l verde ramo

e l'acqua pura aboree, e a quelli ch'amo
nel mondo ed a me stessa ancor m'involo,
perche expedito Sol che adoro e colo
vada il pensiero.

E sebben quanto bramo l/ali non spiega;
eppur quand'io 'l richiamo
volge dall'altre strade a questa il volo.

Ed in quel punto che sorge lieto e ardent
la ove l'invio; si breve gioria avanza
qui di gran lunga ogni mondan diletto.

Ma se potesse l'alta sua sembianza
formar quand'ella vuol, l'accesa mente;
parte avrei forse qui del ben perfetto.

***

I live on this rock, horrible and lonely
like a suffering bird that avoid the green branch
and the pure water, and from whom I love
in the world, and from myself, I fly away
to let my mind go as fast as possible to my
Sun that I adore and love.

And even if my love doesn't open his
wings, when I call him back from other
directions, he flies towards me.

And it's there that he rise happily and
ardently, there where I send him, and a
small joy outshines all the greater joys
of the material world.

I would like to form his beautiful image
in my burning mind whenever I want,
so that I should have a small portion of
perfect love.

For you Joe...

My Boy

A day with my boy yesterday. Because he was 26 on the 26th we spent the day together and it was good. Almost a man; he told me some things about his life and I told him some about mine. We laughed and ate and then we parted. As I watched him walk away my heart was squeezed with the same feeling I had the first time I watched him take his first walk into independence, away from me. He's going to be just fine.


So, although they've never met, he has something in common with his grandfather in this photograph. It was sent to a young Italian woman in 1945 and on the back was written: ti ricordo questa uomo? Not a bad way to tell a girl you've survived a war. And I guess it squeezed that woman's heart because the rest is history. Ah, the ability to squeeze a heart. Well the faeries have my boy now but he gives me a day now and then.

There's something I want to say about arms but not sure how it's going to come out. It is generally accepted that this Aphrodite is beautiful but I wonder if, for some people, her beauty comes from her lack of adornment and, more importantly, her lack of arms.

Defenceless, certainly she and that might make her appealing to some appetites. But it is thought she had orginally been looking at an apple that she held up in her left hand just below her eye level, whilst her right hand was resting on her raised left knee holding up her slipping drapery. Add to this that it was thought the statue was intended to be viewed from the right side profile then, to quote my source, the wonderful Wiki, ...'the sensuous juxtaposition of flesh with the texture of drapery, which seems about to slip off the figure, adds an insistent note of erotic tension that is thoroughly Hellenistic in concept and intent'.

So here is our entry to speak of arms and of love and beauty and whether beauty does, or should, matter. I think there's a beauty that comes from confidence, style and negligence. What S would call effortless style. That which does not appear so but which is actually highly contrived. Cue poem, Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick:

A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantoness :
[...]
I see a wild civility :
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

So back to arms, of which Patti Smith is possessed a most beautiful pair, with hands to match. Fascinated by her style and, having watched Steven Sebring's 2008 documentary Dream of Life, I think I detect that negligent contrivance; in her shiney clean shoes and fabulously sensuous arms and hands, and all that happens in between, Ms Smith has created her style.

Rooted in Ginsburg and Blake to mention but two, and still delivering beat poetry, she manages still to beguile her audience. And for the record, I think Ann Demeulemeester has a lot to do with it. Last Saturday evening may have been considered dated and lazy delight, but when she sang this, the audience was transported once again. Look out for those arms on the album covers - I am not alone.

New year resolutions 1976

I will be strong.
I will be resilient.
I will be independent.
The thought of going to pump my tyres,
Will no longer send me to a mirror,
To practice helpless looks.
I will walk into a pub alone,
And buy a drink alone.
Large dogs that run up to me in the park,
Barking fiercely,
Will be sent away - by me.
I will no longer wonder ,
Was it me that almost caused that accident,
I will tell myself - it was him.
When winning at cards,
I will feel no pity for my opponents,
And when losing - I will expect none.
I will do everything to promote my own happiness.
I will not apologise after every argument.
I will not allow people to borrow my books.
When wine is spilt all over me,
I will not be nice about it,
I will not be cowed,
By large shop assistants.
I will be tough.

Well the dog thing still needs some work. But, you know, toughness is hard work, and there's a special feeling that comes from finding that someone has already bought you a drink and that it's there, waiting for you, on the table, by the fire.

The summer of '69

And

Elvis

Presley

was

singing...

Not yet

There will be a time when something safe can be said but not yet...

... in the meantime, Damon Galgut can say something for me.

I remember every accusing word, including my own, like a knife in the guts, like something that has shamed us both. Yet she herself is untouched. Later that same day, for example, Sjef and Paula and Caroline all arrive together to help me. In an attempt to bring down her temperature we buy ice from the canteen downstairs and press it all over her body. She wails and protests but also smiles, look at me, she says, I have a whole team working on me, and in that moment she is angelic again, my coy and flirtatious friend, and the awful exchange of the mornng has disappeared. She remembers none of it, nothing of what is said and done, even by herself. She floats above all the pain and grief and guilt that she's created, looking down on our scurrying and striving. There is a very real element of contempt in the way she treats us now, a quality of mocking laughter at our concern. She is far beyond us all, because she's not afraid of death any longer, which is both her weakness and her greatest strength.
...

It's only now that the full force of what's happened begins to hit him. Until this point he has been constantly in action, at the receiving end of calamity, with no chance for reflection. It's like a hurricane has blown through his life, flattening every structure, and in the aftermath the silence and vacancy are immense.

There is nothing to do, but his body struggles to accept it. He is constantly on edge, constantly prepared for crisis. He sleeps badly and lightly, and wakes long before dawn. The days are empty and he doesn't know how to fill them.
...

His body slows and eventually accepts the aimlessness, but inside, deep down, it's like an engine with a missing part, forever turning over, screaming in the same high gear.

In a Strange Room

Equilibrium

Dip, dip, dip,

my little ship,

sails on the water,

like a cup and saucer ...