Worries like bats

Here in the sun-spewy southwest metropolis, squirrels are chattering and happy dogs lead their owners around on brightly colored leashes. And yet, worries flap around the blocks like bats in wintering northwoods cabins (though I have never been in the northwoods, really, let alone in one of its cabins, I have it on eye-witness authority that some cabins, in the winter, have bats as inhabitants). Where, for example, is Speedy? Has anyone found him? Second, is it Friday already? Third, are NYC police actually searching people's handbags and backpacks in the echoing underground halls of the subway? Isn't it illegal to search without good reason for suspecting the bag owner was involved in criminal activity? Finally, are the courageous shuttle astronauts facing trouble when they attempt to return to earth in their nicked rocket ship? The precedent for this last one is not a hopeful one.

Get these bats to stop their flapping, Miss Dickinson, and offer some peace on this otherwise bright day:

The Chemical conviction
That Naught be lost
Enable in disaster
My fractured Trust -

The Faces of the Atoms
If I shall see
How more the Finished Creatures
Departed Me!
(E. Dickinson, 1070)

It's all about perspective

To a turtle, the drop from curb to street must be huge, like a child's experience of the space between June and September, like the gap between an introvert's wish for company and her inviting the neighbors over for iced tea, like the distance between what you want right now and what you'll be lucky to get if you just sit still and behave yourself.

It's all just a matter of perspective, what separates you from the drop, the summer, the company, the wants. The trick is to know how telescopes work, to figure out what appears nearer or farther, larger or smaller in the rear-view mirror, to understand that its all done with the help of optics.

What perspective does today's Dickinsonian oracle offer for those of use who are perplexed by the view?

Except the smaller size
No lives are round -
There - hurry to a sphere
And show and end -
The larger - slower grow
And later hang -
The Summers of Hesperides*
Are long.
(E. Dickinson, 606)

*Who are the Hesperides?

Where's speedy?

Metropolis Wild Animal Alert, #1

According to posters scattered throughout the sun-squeezy southwest metropolis, Speedy the tortoise has escaped! According to his humans, Speedy is a relatively small tortoise (6-8 inches in diameter) who is thought to have been heading west -- that means toward Lyndale Avenue, and then on to lovely Lake Harriet.

Speedy likes shade, and my be napping under the bush nearest you. So take a look and find Speedy. His humans are offering a reward for his safe return. They must be worried.

Let's see what the Dickinsonian oracle predicts about Speedy's escape and fate:

God made no act without a cause -
Nor heart without an aim -
Our inference is premature,
Our premises to blame.
(E. Dickinson, 1192)

Oh dear. Does this bode well for Speedy? Perhaps so; let's not jump to conclusions. It seems he may be on a mission.

P.S. The above photo does not depict an actual likeness of Speedy. I've never seen Speedy, but am on the lookout.

More on water; its wonders

Fountains love it, of course, as do cats, rose bushes, and (likely) the pedal-fantastic, simply amazing Lance Armstrong. He must have been thirsty over there in France.

Grass has an astonishing affinity for water. With it, it flourishes in emerald abundance. Without it, it simply shuts down, fades to grocery-bag brown, and awaits the next deluge.

Water is wonderful, though large quantities of it, when riled up, can cause trouble. But on serene days and cradled between shores, it is truly a wonder.

Today's Dickinsonian oracle provides prophetic words on water's wonder:

Contained in this short Life
Are magical extents
The soul returning soft at night
To steal securer thence
As Children strictest kept
Turn soonest to the sea
Whose nameless Fathoms slink away
Beside infinity
(E. Dickinson, 1175)

A poem in a spacesuit

Today's Dickinsonian oracle is flapping the pages, just dying to get out from between the covers and into the cool, effervescence atmosphere of cyberspace. So here it is:

They have a little Odor - that to me
Is metre - nay - 'tis Poesy -
And spiciest at fading - celebrate -
A Habit - of a Laureate
(E. Dickinson, 505)

So there it is. YOU try to keep spicy poesy in a book when it wants to get out.

P.S. Spell check would like to replace "spiciest" with "spacesuit." That certainly changes things.

Fountains are nice

Why fountains are nice:

• if you sing to them nicely, they sing back. This is based, in part, on the "research" of Masaru Emoto suggesting that if you say kind and loving words to water, it will form lovely crystals when frozen. Nice if it were true. Maybe it is. What the bleep do I know?

• they invite finger splashing and, if of the right configuration and position, toe splashing as well. Refreshing.

• unlike neighbors, they don't throw parties to which you might not get invited.

• things float in them. Like little boats. Like leaves. Like wishes.

• rain doesn't bother them.

Of the infinite value of fountains, the Dickinsonian oracle proclaims:

I had a Jewel in my fingers -
And went to sleep -
The day was warm, and winds were prosy -
I said, "'Twill keep" -

I woke - and chid my honest fingers,
The Gem was gone -
And now, an Amethyst remembrance
Is all I own -
(E. Dickinson, 261)

Two blue shoes

Once upon a time, in the summery, breezy, sun-spangled metropolis, two blue shoes sat perched on the low stone wall of a large stone house. These were not just any blue shoes; they were little blue flip-flops, adorned with sparkly blue stones that glinted in the morning light.

Some mornings, they looked like this (image two blue flip flops pointing in one direction).

Other mornings, they looked like this (image two blue flip flops pointing in opposite directions).

What do these two blue shoes do during the night?

Maybe the Dickinsonian oracle can provide some insight:

The Devil - had he fidelity
Would be the best friend -
Because he has the ability -
But Devils cannot mend -
Perfidy is the virtue
That would be he resign
The Devil - without question
Were thoroughly divine.
(E. Dickinson, 1510)

Stayed tuned for further installations of what is now called "The Two Perfidious Flip Flops."

Dashed

One story rejected yesterday, another story pitch ditched today. Ah, disappointment is a sorry consolation prize. Luckily, I've had my blueberry-banana, spirulina-spiked, power protein shake (or "smoothie" as the dreadlock bedecked juice baristas would call it), and so I'm ready to rise again after being dashed and smashed upon the writing loft's floor.

Oh Miss Dickinson, what's in my writing future? More disappointment?

The Products of my Farm are these
Sufficient for my Own
And here and there a Benefit
Unto a Neighbor's Bin.

With Us, 'tis Harvest all the Year
For when the Frosts begin
We just reverse the Zodiac
And fetch the Acres in -
(E. Dickinson, 1036)

Pooped

After a morning shuffle through the sun-speckled neighborhoods of the southwest metropolis, a top-secret, urgent mission delivery across the river to the wilds of Oakdale, and an overdue mowing of the lawn, your Brightly author is pooped. Being pooped first thing on a Monday morning feels ominous and slightly sinister, as if the week has gotten a head start and is sticking its tongue at me over its shoulder as it sprints into the future. Oh dear.

For inspiration and an antidote to all that is ominous, let's turn to today's Dickinsonian oracle:

Light is sufficient to itself -
If Others want to see
It can be had on Window Panes
Some Hours in the Day.

But not for compensation -
It holds as large a Glow
To Squirrel in the Himmaleh
Precisely, as to you.
(E. Dickinson, 506)

Little green devil

Envy; that little devil. Slips into your skin when you least expect it. Settles in behind your eyes and casts a golden glow on everything in the world, setting you gaping after people with things that you, in your sane moments, want no part of; a permanent job, stiletto-heeled shoes, a poem with the word "barbeque" in it. More destructive than jealously, envy not only wants what others have, and wants those who have the wanted things not to have them. Hoooo hoarder.

Today's Dickinsonian oracle, what do you have to say about envy?

This is a Blossom of the Brain -
A small - italic Seed
Lodged by Design or Happening
The Spirit fructified -
(E. Dickinson, from 1112)

Whether/weather to wither

I've never thought of myself as an athlete. I was in marching band, for God's sake. We musicians left jumping to the snobs (oops, I mean cheerleaders) and moving with any significant pace to the jocks. So, a number of decades later, I'm surprised to find myself eager to move. But it's just too darn hot. It is weather to wither in, and so I'm not moving forward in any literal sense. And only very slowly in a metaphorical sense. Though it is a joy to spend summer in the city when most metropolitans are "Up North" (ah, that mythic place of both un- and over- specific locality), the sun these days is crisping the lawns and withering the city-dwellers.

In the face of the great withering, today's Dickinsonian oracle proclaims:

Beauty - be not caused - It Is -
Chase it, and it ceases -
Chase it not, and it abides -

Overtake the Creases

In the meadow - where the Wind
Runs his fingers thro' it -
Deity will see to it
That You never do it -
(E. Dickinson, 654)

So such hot days are beauty-catching days. No need to run.

What its made of

I'm interested in memory; how it works, how it fails, how it pieces the past together against the rememberer's will, despite the rememberer's will-lessness, when the rememberer wills.

What does it mean not to remember? Is forgetting a discrete act? Is forgetting a particular action of the mind, or the passive result of some lack of action? Is a memory revived? Resurrected? Resuscitated? Or is is reconstructed? Re-imagined? Is remembering a form of imagining? What's the difference between an idea of the mind based on past experience and that which is based on imagination, which ultimately is also based on experience? Do we imagine our pasts as we imagine our futures?

Memory: what is it made of?

Today's Dickinsonian oracle proclaims:

No Passenger was known to flee -
That lodged a Night in memory -
That wily - subterranean Inn
Contrives that none go out again -
(E. Dickinson, 1451)

(Yes, in fact, this poem was chosen at random. Sometimes the oracle is right on target.)

Purple goldfish, orange goose

Sometimes, it is just too hot to write.

When it is especially steamy in the metropolis and your cats are drooping and your sweaty little fingers are slipping on the keyboard, Brightly recommends that you go to your basement (don't worry; this is not a tornado warning, though if it is very steamy in the metropolis and a tornado is pointed in your direction, collect your cats and head for the basement, taking shelter in the space under the stairs. Experts recommend that you'll need 2 sq. ft. per cat and 5-6 sq. ft. for yourself (if you are over, say, ten).) and MAKE SOME ART!

Recommended steamy colors: purple and orange
Recommended steamy images: goldfish, the hands of magicians, nasturtium leaves, a goose
Recommended steamy media: paint, ink, squashed vegetables

Today's Dickinsonian oracle ruminates on art in the summer:

Answer July -
Where is the Bee -
Where is the Blush -
Where is the Hay?

Ah, said July -
Where is the Seed -
Where is the Bud -
Where is the May -
Answer Thee - me -

Nay - said the May -
Show me the Snow-
Show me the Bells -
Show me the Jay -

Quibbled the Jay -
Where be the Maise -
Where be the Haze -
Where be the Bur?
Here - said the Year -
(E. Dickinson, 667)

Shameless self-promotion

Poems on three candles

Enough said.

And today's Dickinsonian oracle, the answer to all of your problems, poetic and otherwise:

Those who have been in the Grave the longest -
Those who begin Today -
Equally perish from our Practice -
Death is the other way -

Foot of the Bold did least attempt it -
It is the White Exploit -
Once to achieve, annuls the power
Once to communicate -
(E. Dickinson, 938)

Gluttony

Perhaps it is my dislike of crowds. Perhaps it is my aversion to crowds of people, all of whom are jostling one another to get to food. Perhaps it is my general intolerance of great groups of people, people pushing and shoving to stuff themselves full of greasy, fried foodstuffs, some of which passes as meat. No, this is not a tirade against Minnesota's Great Get Together (which I actually enjoy in a twisted way -- the seed art, giant vegetables, and the poultry barn, especially) but against the Twin Cities pigout, the Taste of Minnesota or, as I fondly call it, Gluttony Fest.

Hence, the General Vocabulary Installation #2.
(from the OED)
Gluttony

derived from the Old French, glutunie, glutonie, also glouternie; abstract noun related to glutton, which is from the Old French, glutun, gluton, which is from the Latin, glutonem, the noun related to glutire, to gulp down, to swallow.

definition: the vice of excessive eating. (One of the Seven Deadly Sins).

Quotation: 1752 HUME Pol. Disc. ii. 28 The Tartars are oftener guilty of beastly gluttony, when they feast on their dead horses, than European courtiers with all their refinements of cookery.

What is the proper use of the term "gluttony"?
a) Don't worry, Martha; after all, he didn't rupture his gluttony.
b) Gluttony aside, there wasn't a cloud in the sky.
c) Those who gorge on horse are guilty of gluttony.

The Dickinsonian oracle's rumination on gluttony:

The Road to Paradise is plain -
And holds scarce one -
Not that it is not firm
But we presume
A Dimpled Road
Is more preferred -
The Belles of Paradise are few -
Not me - not you -
But unsuspected things -
Mines have no Wings -
(E. Dickinson, 1525).

Obsessions

In a recent column in Minneapolis' very own fab mag, The Rake, Goddess of the Airwaves and Commentator Diva Mary Lucia lists her most current obsessions.

Not to be a copykitty (okay, so I am a copykitty, but kitties are one of Mary Lucia's obsessions and hey, as my partner always says, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery), here's a few from little ol' me.

• The little brownish-blackish spots on the leaves of my rose bushes. Is it black spot? Is it rust? Is it spreading?
• Vegan shoes. Plus belts. Ones that don't look dorky.
• Prickly heat.
• Poetry by gals. Brock-Broido, Dickinson, Equi. Lovely.
• Wimbledon women's tennis. Venus or Lindsay -- ah, for whom to cheer? (This obsession expires tomorrow).
• The word "Wimbledon." Have I been wrong all my life, thinking it was "Wimbeldon"? By golly, I think so.

See future postings for obsessive additions. In the meantime, Miss Emily must have had a few obsessions herself. Today's Dickisonian Oracle suggests the following:

When Diamonds are a Legend,
And Diadems - a Tale -
I Brooch and Earring for Myself,
Do sow, and Raise for sale -

And tho' I'm scarce accounted,
My Art, a Summer Day - had Patrons -
Once - it was a Queen -
And once - a Butterfly -
(E. Dickinson, 553)