Honey bunny

Metropolis Wild Animal Report, #2

Upon pulling into the parking lot of my favorite southwest Minneapolis Italian eatery last night, what did I see but a van (not a wild animal, and not unusual in this family-packed neighborhood) with bunny appreciation bumper stickers (utterly unexpected), exhorting fellow motorists to hug a bunny. And I'm delighted to relay that during this morning's shuffle, one largely bereft of wildlife sightings (save that of a stuffed animal -- a striped kitty -- carelessly tossed on a slightly overgrown lawn), I saw my very own urban honey-colored bunny nibbling grass growing between the cracks in the ally behind my garage. You've got to admire a crack-grass nibbling metropolitan honey bunny. Cute.

Today's Dickinsonian oracle, with honey bunnies in mind:

Over the fence -
Strawberries - grow -
Over the fence -
I could climb - if I tried, I know -
Berries are nice!
(E. Dickinson, from 270)

Muggy

Summer vocabulary installation #1

(from the OED)
Muggy: mug (from Old Icelandic mugga, meaning mist, drizzle; Sweedish mugg, Danish mug, meaning damp; Norwegian mugg, mugge, meaning drizzle and also mould) + y

derived from the Norwegian muggen, meaning damp; early use was moky (meaning cloudy, foggy, hazy) and then mochy (of weather, meaning damp and misty)

definition: of weather, extremely humid; unpleasantly close and warm. Of a place, having a stiffling and oppressive atmosphere; also of a smell.

Quotation: 1902 Daily Chron. 25 Oct. 7/6 Was it [sc. the meat] not slimy, and did it not smell? The Defendant: Oh, it's what we call ‘muggy’ in the trade. That only has to be wiped off, and then it's all right.

What is the proper use of the term "muggy"?
a) It's alright, Martha; after all, the pin is muggy.
b) Julie and her twin, Amanda, were off to a muggy start.
c) No, I don't want a piece of that muggy meat.


The Dickinsonian oracle's rumination on "muggy":

Drab habitation of Whom?
Tabernacle or Tomb -
Or Dome of Worm -
Or Porch of Gnome -
Or some Elf's Catacombe?
(E. Dickinson, 916)

The sea and the sand

A week on Florida's Emerald Coast with my partner's family has taught me the following:

• sand can get in one's bathing suit without one's knowing it
• sunscreen is GOD
• poptarts, chocolate donuts, and ice cream are the recommended Florida vacation snacks
• there really are sharks lurking in the clear blue waters
• the best way to ride the waves is with an eight-year-old named Jacqueline

What comforting words does the Dickinsonian oracle have for those of us with post-vacation blues who are home in Minnesota where it is more humid and stormy than it is in Destin, Florida, in late June?


I think that the Root of the Wind is Water -
It would not sound so deep
Were it a Firmamental Product -
Airs no Oceans keep -
Mediterranean intonations -
To a Current's Ear -
There is a maritime conviction
In the Atmosphere -
(E. Dickinson, 1295)

Hey, plant a tree!

'Tis the season for the felling of the elms here in the summery metropolis. Bands of tree doctors roam the avenues and boulevards, looking for sickly elms whose crowns are withering--the work of the busily nasty Dutch Elm disease spreading beetle. The most dire cases get marked for death with a florescent orange band, and the bands of banders send roves of tree fellers to do the sad and dirty work of the felling. Look throughout the city for the equally florescent orange street cones, a sure sign that the tree fellers are about. First comes the felling, then the wood chipping, then the stump crunching, after which shade is merely a memory.

In honor of shade and the grand elms that have been felled, as well as those that remain, the Dickinsonian oracle proclaims:

Gathered into the Earth,
And out of story -
Gathered to that strange Fame -
That lonesome Glory
That hath no omen here - but Awe -
(E. Dickinson, 1398)

So hey, plant a tree.

If I could, I would...

Choose one of the following options, assuming they are incompatible:
(a) drive a big rig across the country.
(b) become an opera singer.
(d) bake a cake for the Queen of England.
(e) herd cattle.

Answer: forthcoming in a future edition of Brightly.

Which answer does tne Dickinsonian oracle predict?

Surprise is like a thrilling - pungent -
Opon a tasteless meat.
Alone - too acrid - but combined
An edible Delight -
(E. Dickinson, 1324)

Looks like Miss Emily is going for option (d), bake a cake for the Queen of England. Nice of her to specify the kind of cake (clearly, a surprise birthday cake).

Darling Rattie...

Despite the general public's, not to mention the scientific community's, admiration of its amazing maze-solving aptitude, the rat has gotten a bum rap. Sure, the black rat (Rattus rattus), aka the ship rat or roof rat, can be a furry incubator for the bubonic plague, and admittedly the larger, more ferocious Norway rat (Rattus norvegicus) -- and no offense here to Minneapolitans of the Norwegian persuasion -- aka the brown rat, regularly raids corn cribs and chicken houses (sucking on eggs and killing chickens) and oftentimes engages in similar good-for-nothing behavior. However, these sociable creatures can learn tricks, look cute in tiny little outfits, and inspire poetry. As my friend K. Alma notes, Brenda Hillman has a wonderful rat poem, "The Rat," (in Bright Existence. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1993) in which she calls her pet rat "darling."

So let's think lovingly about rats. Does humidity cause their whiskers to curl? I'd like to think so.

Does today's Dickinsonian oracle recommend rat love? You decide.

Unable are the Loved to die
For love is Immortality,
Nay, it is Deity -

Unable they that love - to die
for Love reforms Vitality
Into Divinity.
(E. Dickinson, 951).

All atwitter

Metropolis Wild Animal Report, #1

This morning's shuffle through the lovely neighborhoods of southwest Minneapolis yielded the exciting citings of:

20 squirrels (some may have been counted twice (or thrice))
1 chipmunk (dead, alas, on the sidewalk, but quite serene in its repose)
hosts of sparrow- and finch-like twittering birds (quite likely, they were actual sparrows and finches)
1 cardinal
1 woodpecker (unpilleated; it's not THAT wild in the metropolis)
1 discarded hubcap (lying on the tree lawn)

In memory of the ill-fated chipmunk, today's Dickinsonian oracle says:

Death sets a Thing significant
The Eye has hurried by
Except a perished Creature
Entreat us Tendery
(E. Dickinson, from 640)*

*I've been remiss in failing to cite the source of the Dickinsonian oracle (mea culpa). These prophetic snippets come from R. W. Franklin's beautiful edition of the poems of Emily Dickinson (Franklin, R. E., ed. The Poems of Emily Dickison. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press, 1999.)

Rah, rah, rah

Today's Dickinsonian oracle comes first off the block:

She dwelleth in the Ground -
Where Daffodils - abide -
Her Maker - Her Metropolis -
The Universe - Her Maid

To fetch Her Grace - and Hue -
And Fairness - and Renown -
The Firmament's - To pluck Her
And fetch Her Thee - be mine -
(E. Dickinson, 745)

Is this Dickinson's version of the Persephone myth?

Speaking of thunder (well, speaking of Persephone, which is speaking of Zeus, which is speaking of thunder), this metropolis was rocked by an awesome thunder (and rain and wind) storm last night, which blew out the power around 4am. Let's give three cheers for the person who invented the wind-up alarm clock. The magical people at the electric company restored power around 7:30am, by which time, due to the help of the wind-up alarm clock, my partner and I were well awake. Three cheers for the magical electric company people, too.

Slay the dragon

General vocabulary installation #1

Rankle:

from Middle English, ranclen
from the Old French, rancler, alteration of draoncler
from draoncle, meaning festering sore
from Latin, dracunculus, diminutive of draco-, dracon-, i.e., serpent, see dragon

To be figuratively "gnawed at" or irritated seriously, as if by a festering wound, which might appear to be either in the shape of a serpent or tiny dragon or which might, to naive observers, appear to be the very bite of a much-smaller-than-ordinary dragon.

What rankles Miss Dickinson? Today's Dickinsonian oracle:

Myself can read the Telegrams
A Letter chief to me
The Stock's advance and retrograde
And what the Markets say

The Weather - how the Rains
in Countries have begun.
'Tis News as null as nothing,
But sweeter so, than none.
(E. Dickinson, 1049)

Run, run as fast as you can

No surprise to its author, yesterday's poem included a rankle cake, as well as the "dumb-ass on TV cake." Surprising, however, to poet and readers alike was the fact that this referred not, as the author once suspected, to the various incarnations of the bachelor on the hetero-sublime and downright creepily noxious television show of the same name, but rather to the Shrub himself, George W.

As I was slogging through today's run, I decided I would pass along running (aka jogging or shuffling, depending on one's speed and level of self-deception) tips to fellow reluctant runners. These are things I wish I had known when I first hit the pavement.
(1) Running never feels good. Though I haven't done a scientific pole, a quick survey of acquaintances who are seasoned runners shows that running feels great only when one is done running. No kidding.
(2) Concentrate on exhaling. All the way. You'll automatically inhale, but if you haven't totally exhaled, you'll start to feel like you can't get enough breath. This feels awful.
(3) Consciously pull your shoulders down. Though doing so may seem like too much when one is concentrating on breathing and avoiding traffic, it pays off. You can't breath properly when your shoulders are up around your ears. Well, I can't.
(4) It's natural to fantasize about stopping, though indulging in this fantasy makes running more tortuous than it already is. My quick tip to nip the fantasy in the bud is to imagine yourself already at the end of the block, jumping up and down in victorious exhaltation, and letting out a triumphant "Yawp!" When you actually get to the end of the block, join the celebration.
(5) An iPod is essential. Listening to music helps ease the "I need to stop and roll around on the grass" fantasy mentioned above. My current favorites include songs by the Magnetic Fields, e.g. "Chicken With Its Head Cut Off," which is especially appropriate, given that is is about running around (like a chicken with its head cut off).

Here's a training tip from today's Dickinsonian oracle:

Fame is a bee.
It has a song--
It has a sting--
Ah, too, it has a wing.
(E. Dickinson, 1787)

Cake

I need to write a poem for my poetry group's meeting tonight, and I'm just stumped. On my run (okay, okay, it was a jog, but who says "jog" these days? We are all swifter than that) this morning, all that I could come up with was a poem about cake. "Lament on the Dearth of Cakes," a poem about occasions for which there is a need for cake, but for which cake is rarely, if ever, forthcoming. Like "do-not-tell-a-soul cake" or "dumb-ass-on-TV cake." On a day when I've gotten two story rejections and a story maybe, it's the best I can do. Hand me a piece of that "good-idea-but-not-for-us cake."

Does anyone know of any admirable poems about cake?

What's up with the cake, Miss Dickinson?

Today's Dickinsonian oracle:

A full fed Rose on meals of Tint
A Dinner for a Bee
In process of the Noon became -
Each bright mortality
The Forfeit is of Creature fair
Itself, adored before
Submitting for our unknown sake
To be esteemed no more
(E. Dickinson, 1141)

Ah, "to-be-esteemed-no-more cake..."

Kahlo out of the closet (or box)

This month's ARTnews tells of the restoration of a dozen dresses once worn by Frida Kaholo that, along with some of her crutches, photographs, bed linens, and jewels, had until last March been kept locked in a box since Diego Rivera's death. Does the idea of a women having to go underground/under lock and key upon the death of "her man" rankle anyone else? Woman as ornament, as accessory, as excess, as access.

I'm no fashionista, but I appreciate a good accessory as much as the next reasonably Vogue-alert gal or guy. So I can't wait to see Frieda's jewelry (and, I must admit, her crutches). And as Andre Breton said, Frida's work is a ribbon around a bomb. Here's to accessories (i.e., jewels, ribbons and the like).

If I were a jewel in Kahlo's jewerly box, which jewel would I be? Let's consult Miss Dickinson for the answer.

Today's Dickinsonian oracle says:

The smouldering embers blush
Oh Heart within the Coal
Has thou survived so many years?
The smouldering embers smile -

Soft stirs the news of Light
The stolid seconds glow
One requisite has Fire that lasts
Prmetheus never knew -
(E. Dickinson, 1143)

A "heart within the coal..." I'll take it.