blizzard

Sep 26 2017, 07:21 PM

Trotsky, I doubt I will ever get another cat - too hard emotionally to say goodbye.

blizzard

Oct 11 2017, 07:40 PM

Vietnam Motorbike Tour: Day 3
Fairy Stream – no reason for the name other than a direct translation. It is a sandy stream great for walking in simply because. I also found it was like a foot exfoliation from the fine sand. The depth rarely went past my ankles and had few strong currents. The brown is due to the constant movement of the sand. Stand in one spot too long and you will slowly sink. A pleasant beginning to a full morning of sights.

https://unattendedgrandma.wordpress.com/2017/10/07/vietnam-motorbike-trip-day-three/

Quote:

 

Against Surrealism

There are some tiny obvious details in human life that sur-
vive the divine purpose of boring fools to death. In France,
all the way down south in Avallon people like to eat cake.
The local bakers there spin up a little flour and chocolate into
the shape of a penguin. We came back agin and again to a
certain window to admire a flock of them, But we never
bought one.

We found ourselves wandering through Italy homesick for
penguins.

Then a terrible and savage fire of the dog-days roared all
over the fourteenth Arondissement: which is to say it was
August: and three chocolate penguins appeared behind a win-
dow near Place Denfert-Rochereau. We were afraid the Pa
risians would recognize them, so we bought them all and
snuck them home under cover.

We set them out on a small table above half the rooftops
of Paris. I reached out to brush a tiny obvious particle of dust
from the tip of a beak. Suddenly the dust dropped an inch
and hovered there. Then it rose to the beak again.

It was a blue spider.

If I were a blue spider, I would certainly ride a on train all
the way from Avallon to Paris, and I would set up my house
on the nose of a chocolate penguin. It’s just a matter of com-
mon sense.

Quote:

 

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.