T'ang poetry

Recently I was reading a book about Li Po and Tu Fu (now more commonly referred to in the West as Li Bai and Du Fu).  It is a collection of several poems translated by Arthur Cooper, with lots of historical and biographical background included, as well as notes about the individual poems.  I love a book like this--there are many layers to it and it is a joy to read.

Here is an excerpt from a poem by Tu Fu called Night Thoughts Afloat:

Drifting, drifting,
what am I more than
A single gull
between sky and earth?

Fairy Tales

A couple of nights ago, I read The Nightingale by Hans Christian Andersen to my daughter.  I had never read it before, and was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed it.

I found an old copy of Andersen’s fairy tales some months ago and picked it up with the idea of reading some of them to Aida.  It’s a neat old book with interesting illustrations by Arthur Szyk and twenty-nine tales translated into English by E.V. Lucas and H.B. Paull.  The Nightingale was the first one we’ve read.

I’m familiar with a few of the stories, having been exposed to them in various forms in my childhood; The Ugly Duckling, The Emperor’s New Clothes, and The Princess and the Pea have been told and retold in our popular culture.  I’ve never read the original stories, though, and I’m completely unacquainted with the majority of the tales in this collection.  It’ll be interesting to see how some of the rest compare to The Nightingale.

The cover of the book has an illustration from The Nightingale.  “I will sing to cheer you and make you thoughtful too.”

a model citizen

I'm still recovering from a physical problem and have reached a stage where I am able to be sitting more frequently.  For some time, I wasn't sitting at all--just lying down or standing.  Now, many days, I am sitting up to about twenty minutes at a time, several times a day.

It seems to me that I think better when sitting.  Well, maybe not better in general, but differently.  Different tasks seem to work better for me while sitting.  And now I can read in fifteen or twenty minute increments, which has been very nice.  I read a wonderful book called The House at Otowi Bridge: The Story of Edith Warner and Los Alamos by Peggy Pond Church.  I recommend it with gusto.

In addition to reading, I've been thinking about other pursuits I can do standing or while sitting for short periods.  Yesterday, I bought an old model kit of an airplane.  When I was a kid, my folks gave me a few models to build.  I especially enjoyed a robot one that I assembled and which subsequently broke because I played with it instead of leaving it on a shelf.  I'm glad I choose to play with the big, multi-jointed blue and grey robot.  Even after it broke into several pieces, I had great fun weaving it into the childhood mythologies I cooked up in my brain.  It seems a couple other robots were always on a quest to find the legendary robot that had been lost to the ages and lay hidden in pieces scattered across a world.

So, as I've been thinking of hobbies to try as I'm getting better, models came to mind.  I came across this kit and, although I'd like to try another robot, I think it will be fun to work on in short spurts.  Last night while reading through the instructions, I realized that some parts should be painted before assembling.  If I feel up to it, I'd like to get out and get some paint.  I'm going to look for some of that inexpensive craft paint and try to match colors with those suggested in the instructions.

The kit is a scale model of a 1973 jet manufactured for the French, West German, and Belgian air forces.  You have the option of building it as the French or the German version, which I think is pretty neat.  The photograph on the box is the French version.  The body of the plane differs only slightly; the colors are the big differences.

Anyway, I think it will be fun to give it a try.  Has anyone reading this ever put together a model before?  What was it, and did you enjoy the process?

lots of thomasness

I recently read a collection of letters compiled as a small book.  84 Charing Cross Road is a series of correspondences between Helene Hanff, the author of the book and a denizen of New York City, and some folks associated with a used bookstore in London.  Hanff writes to the bookstore in search of particular titles and a friendship develops, particularly between her and Frank Doel, one of the employees at the bookstore.

In one letter, a song by Johann Sebastian Bach is mentioned—the St. Matthew Passion.  I’d never knowingly heard it and decided to give it a listen.  I’m glad I did.  I’ve been listening to it a lot lately.  It’s beautiful.

While reading about this song, I was lead on an impromptu journey in history.  Here follows a bit of what I encountered on said trip.  Maybe you’ll find it of interest.

I guess Bach wrote several pieces of passion music designed for Good Friday church services.  He wrote these while living in Leipzig, Saxony—which was then one of several small states located in present day Germany and part of the then declining Holy Roman Empire—and working as the Thomaskantor at the Thomasschule.  Thomaskantor is the title given to the director of the boys’ choir (the Thomanerchor) at the school.  The Thomanerchor dates back to the beginning of the school, which was founded in 1212 by Augustinians as a free school with an emphasis on education for the poor.  It grew out of the values of The Canons Regular, which are Augustinian priests who live communally and are dedicated to learning, care of the sick, and the needs of those in poverty.  The school arose in the time of Henry VI (famous for imprisoning King Richard the Lionheart in Trifels Castle and ransoming him for a huge sum of money; Henry VI was excommunicated by Pope Celestine III for  this)  and his son Frederick II, known as the Hohenstaufen period.  As an Augustinian project, the school had Catholic roots but, after the Reformation, became a Lutheran institution. 

Bach was the Thomaskantor from 1723 to 1750.  In this position, he was responsible for choir performances in the Lutheran churches throughout the city; he also taught classes at the Thomasschule.  The St. Matthew Passion, written in 1727, sets to music part of the Gospel of Matthew and was first played on Good Friday at the St. Thomas church in Leipzig, probably in either 1727 or 1729.   An obituary written for Bach mentions that he composed five such pieces; two survive today—the St. Matthew Passion and the St. John Passion.

The St. Matthew Passion is a long piece—almost three hours!  I don’t know the proper vocabulary for describing such music…it has a lot of vocals—solo and choir—and orchestral music.  Any description I could attempt would fail miserably at conveying a sense of it.  So, if you are so inclined, give it a listen.

missed connection

A few minutes ago, I was lying in bed listening to a radio adaptation of James Blish’s Surface Tension*, when I noticed a small, rather quick spider moving across the ceiling.  I was reminded of a time a few months ago when Aida and Jen were visiting…we were lying in bed, watching a spider on the ceiling.  It suddenly began rapidly descending on a web, right for my head.  I barely avoided a head/spider collision.

As I was just now lying in bed, remembering my previous spider on the ceiling episode and watching this particular spider crawling from one spot to another, I realized it was coming closer and closer to a location directly above my head.  Two or three times it dropped down an inch or so on a strand of web, returning, after a short time dangling, to the ceiling.  After each descent, it repositioned itself closer to my head.  Then, when it was directly above my head, it began a quick fall, supported by its web.  I rolled out of bed, and it returned again, perhaps reluctantly, to the ceiling.  Now, as I write this, it is crawling away from the spot above the bed to some other part of the ceiling.

I think it wanted to make friends by dropping onto the surface of my eyeball, or exploring the depths of my cavernous maw.

I just looked for it again, and can’t find it on the ceiling.  Maybe it lowered itself down somewhere, offended that I didn’t remain lying on the bed, my forehead a beckoning landing-platform.

*I read Surface Tension a few years ago as part of a collection called The Seedling Stars, while visiting my family in Minnesota.  I liked it a lot, and thinking of it makes me think of my parents’ cabin and being there with family.  It’s a very good thing to feel.

Yuck!

this post is a couple of weeks old...
 
I spent some wonderful time with my family.  It was just fabulous and I had lots and lots of fun.  We played all sorts of games, including Old Yucky, who likes to eat things like moldy bread dipped in sour milk and mixed with rotten eggs and broken glass.  We played Flo’s Diner with Jake the Trucker and Jake the Daughter.  Flo makes the best soap coffee this side of the Mississippi.  Later, Amelia Earhart began making appearances at the diner.

I recently had some more scar tissue break up in my pelvis (there has been lots of that during this recovery).  It seems to have made a significant difference, as if it may have been some of the last problematic scar tissue in the pelvis…I am having less muscle spasms and they are not being triggered as easily.  I’ve been able to move around a little more easily.  I’m very excited!

It took a few days for my brain to adjust to being by myself again.  For a couple of days, I felt anxious and depressed and didn’t do as many physical therapy exercises or read or listen to much.  I am feeling better now, thankfully.

Speaking of reading, I really like talking with Jen about reading and books.  And, wow, did we read a lot of books with Aida!  She enjoys it immensely.  It seems like there are really a lot of good children’s books.  I think I like a lot of them more than many adult books.

the Century's corpse

Below is a poem by Thomas Hardy, famous for his novels set in fictional Wessex.  The first book I read by Hardy was  Jude the Obscure.  I read it sometime after high school, on a recommendation (thanks for that, by the way!).  The character of “Father Time”, and one particular scene involving him, remains lodged in my memory, as it does for many who read it, I imagine.  So do some other elements of the plot and feel of the book…Jude studying so hard at his little desk and his Spartan-like commitment, images of stone-masonry, his night in the pub, frustration, and sadness.  I remember a wagon pulling away from a stone building in the countryside.  That’s a bit vague but, then, I read the book years ago.  Sometimes just images and feelings remain when looking back on something one has read.

I took a trip to the dark and dripping British Isles not too long after reading that novel, and I brought with a little book that contained poetry by Thomas Hardy.  It was one of those Penguin editions called Penguin ‘60s, I think.  They are very small, and fit easily in a pocket, so they make excellent traveling companions.  I read and reread those poems.  I particularly remember one about three companions traveling across the moor.  By the time I got back home, the book was a mangled, crinkled mess.

I’ve read some other stuff written by him since, and enjoyed it.  During a recent conversation, Jen mentioned the following poem.  I have a collection of poetry with me while I am away from home, and I flipped through it looking for the Thomas Hardy section.  It does have several poems by Hardy but, surprisingly, doesn’t include The Darkling Thrush.  Anyway, here it is.  Enjoy.

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate

      When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

      The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

      Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be

      The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

      The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

      Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

      Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

      Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

      His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

      And I was unaware.

damn

Here is a passage from A Woman's Life by Guy de Maupassant (translated by H.N.P. Sloman):

It seemed to Jeanne as if her heart was broadening, enabling her to grasp things unseen, and these little scattered lights in the fields suddenly gave her a keen sense of the isolation of all human beings, with everything to keep them apart and divide them, leading them far away from all the things that they might love; and with resignation in her tone she said: "Life really isn't much fun."

grave

I read that Guy de Maupassant wrote his own epitaph: "I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing."

Wow.

a few words

"A compact crowd, clamorous but orderly, looked on, standing in rows upon the sidewalks, and held in place by policemen on horseback who passed along, pushing back the curious brutally with their feet, in order that the villains might not mingle with the rich."

de Maupassant

conturbat

[The scene is a small living-room with the sunlight of late afternoon falling through the paned glass of windows. It is late winter, and the winds of a cold front blow against the house. A figure is seen sitting in an armchair.]

I need another beer if I'm gonna write anything here today.

[The figure rises from the chair, walks to a table and retrieves a beer.]

I'm kinda sad right now. You know, it's that kind of sadness that I think there's some German word for, or something like that. I don't know. Probably not the best time to drink beer. I rarely drink these days, which is good I suppose. For a short while I tried drinking to ease the pain I have in my leg and foot. It mildly helped, but I really, really dislike being hungover. It feels like a waste of existence. And I get semi-hungover very easily these days. So, I don't drink much.

Nice little caveat there. Speaking of Latin, I just recently encountered the Latin phrase that means "I am disturbed by the fear of death." I read a translation and collation of the Epic of Gilgamesh recently. It's really, really good. In the introduction to this particular version, the Latin phrase is mentioned as a sort of theme to the epic. And it is. A theme of the epic, I mean. The fear of death disturbs me. I mentioned that to someone and they asked "whose--their own or someone else's?" I guess that's a pretty good question.

[The sound of vehicles on the street outside can be heard. A light has been switched on inside the house. The sun is not yet down.]