Sunday, October 18, 2009


An unlovely day. I gave it a chance, returned to Spy Pond, looking for something. Got out of my car, walked back to the shore trees to get out of the rain. But the pond was busy with the weather and the takeaway image was a fishing line snagged in a tree, ruining my view, dangling a silhouetted float and a hook with a long, stiff, L-shaped worm. Sometimes the day points you back inside.

Anyway, I had work to do. Yard sale next Saturday. The attic needed to be emptied and its contents relegated for keeping, selling, or dumping. Acoustically, this attic is the best rain room in the house. Steady drumming just on the other side of the low-pitched roof, but softened by the pink wadding of insulation in the walls. A good place to sit down on a sleeping bag with a hot tea and read an old National Geographic under the big Southern Pacific Lines map showing the Overland Route and the Cotton Belt Route and the Sunset Route snaking across 1952 America. But not today. There were birdsnest fallings and mouse droppings to sweep up and decisions to be made. The old pink-maned hobby horse? Yard sale. Rebecca, the stuffed llama made of real llama wool? Keeper. The globe with the loose part rattling around inside? Goodbye. And what about the boxes full of Harpers and New York Times Magazines and New Yorkers and Smithsonians? Case by case. Got to have something to read in there. And Matthew's artwork, going back to preschool? (He's in high school now.) I steeled myself for ruthless culling. Unfolded a lifesize penguin made of black thin white-painted foam, with paper glasses tied on with yarn and a headdress of yellow and orange feathers. One last look. It goggled back at me. I frowned, folded it back in the portfolio. Fine. Stay, you lot, but keep out of sight. As for the air mattress with the mysterious leak and the twenty generations of tote bags and the three garbage bags of packing peanuts—arrest the usual suspects.

Meanwhile, more fat just-kidding/no-joke snowflakes falling through the rain like a cooking error or an inept Hollywood effect. But not quitting. Making a statement: I'm the weather. Really.  So respect me. Get the scraper out of the back of the garage, that's it. Thank you very mush.

1 comment:

  1. Hal,

    It is 1:12am here at the Analytic Ranch in Pecos, NM. I am going to try to remember the ideas I had in reaction to the essays on your blog. I tried to send them yesterday. The overall reaction is: this is great stuff and I can tell you are feeling good to write so well.

    I think you already know that I have used your 'Seasons within the Seasons' operation (e.g., 'The Spring of Summer', The Fall of Spring' and so on). Of course, it is now The Summer of Fall. In Santa Fe we have a very complete 16 season year. The combination of Altitude and Latitude makes the temperatures very like New York City. Tho' the Sun is out much more than NY or Boston.

    In a synchronistic event, I was listening to 'Border Song' on my itunes collection just before tuning into your blog. Its on that first Elton John album with Bernie Taupin that was part of the sound track for the 'College Ave House Movie' along with Van Morrison's Album with 'Domino' and 'Blue Money'.

    In what may also have some 'acausal coincident' aspect, I just now prepared the letter I'm including with parts of my book to potential publishers The book: Beyond 'Beyond The Pleasure Principle',now 75% complete, had to have had its genesis in part by meeting you in 1970. And your influence continued through the walks on the moors in Lexington during the 1990s. What the hell...