See that? 1-4 inches. Which is the insult, and which is the injury?
I love snow. In November.
(Insert rant about stupid, stupid people and worlds and everything.) So, just before I shut down for the night, I thought I’d hit up a random poem or two. SCORE!
Wallace Stevens “The Snow Man”
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitterOf the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare placeFor the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
I needed to hear this tonight. Those forecasts have started; Snow, and the chance of snow. Time to walk out into the morning and feel the air around you like a spring-fed lake, cold and deep with currents and sudden thermocline of sunlight. I forgot what all this means. Time to find the red parka, and the red boots, and the red-and-black mittens. Trees cracking in the night, cold-exploded. And the Moon, full on the diamond snow.
I lay in bed this morning, watching the pines blow, when a white dust blew across.
Snow.
And frozen water.
For some reason, “Friday night” was part of some mythical weekend that wouldn’t arrive till tonight in my head. I’m stunned that the forecast was right.
ETA: It occurs to me that I’m really happy, and there is no man in my life (or more correctly, my life). Is this a coincidence? Hmm.
I was going to write about it today, my divorce lawyer has some foolish novel published, work was push and shove and drag, stop and start. A day like one of those puzzles you find on your table in a folksy sort of restaurant, a near guarantee your food will taste of cheap grease, and while you’re waiting for your heart-attack-on-a-plate you annoy yourself with that annoying thing until you smack it down on the table saying, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” One of those days that makes you realize that the “irk” in irksome is the nerve-rubbing sound of a psychic hinge that needs oil.
And then today had skies so blue, with bits and drifts of clouds. I walked out for lunch with two co-workers, who I suspect take delight in finding out what extreme reaction I’ll have to this or that. I think they said something about the cold, or maybe I brought it up gesturing at the wild sky. They mentioned the predicted snow, and I went off on how wonderful it was, and how much I love winter, and how wonderful January is. First they accused me of lying, and when I denied it, they threatened to sabotage my happy light.
Tonight the bay was copper with strands of sky run through, and I found this poem by John Ashbury, ending;
Fine vapors escape from whatever is doing the living.
The night is cold and delicate and full of angels
Pounding down the living. The factories are all lit up,
The chime goes unheard.
We are together at last, though far apart.
I’m going to re-arrange my bedroom so I can have a little garden of succulents on a dresser in the south-facing window, up against the lace curtain and the cold blaze of snow coming.
Today I’m even almost ready to fall in love again. Maybe.
We were discussing the weather today. There’s a rumor that there’s a chance for snow Friday night.
I don’t consider this a big deal. We’re pretty much north of the Arctic circle here, at least in spirit and daylight hours. Talk turned to how the average first frost is September 6th, which I also don’t consider a big deal. Growing season is Memorial Day to Labor Day, since I was a little bitty girl.
Our first trip up here to look at the farm was on a September 19th. There was snow in the gullies then, so any day past September 19th without snow is one in the win column, as far as I’m concerned. The person I was talking to called me an optimist. I hope that rumor doesn’t spread too far.
I like puppies too, by the way. I blame Pollyanna, and all those weird dresses. I can really belt out, “The sun will come up tomorrow…” when provoked. Serendipitously, “optimist” is also a small dinghy. Put an oar in the water and take away what you will.
Black, male, jobless: Rate mired near 50%
The article is from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. The unemployment rate for black males ages 16 – 64 has dropped to 47%. Dropped. And these figures are from before a loss of 50,000 jobs in the Milwaukee area.
There’s this;
The report ranked Milwaukee fifth-worst for African-American male joblessness among the nation’s 35 largest metropolitan areas. Milwaukee had the greatest disparity in rates between racial groups.
And this;
One factor in the relatively low frequency of employment among black men is racial discrimination, said Lenard Wells, director of two satellite campuses of Concordia University Wisconsin.
No shit, Sherlock. I’m surprised that a paper as seemingly conservative as JS would mention this. The editorial page usually makes me want to wad it up in a ball and spit on it.
Maybe “post-racial” hasn’t made it into “fly-over land.”
ETA; There was this post at Booman Tribune two weeks ago. about ACORN and the people it serves. I don’t want to cut an excerpt; please go read it.
I wonder how many of my posts start that way – and continue on, “I have no idea how I got there any more.”
It’s poems. I’m guessing there are people allowed to post a poem, and they discuss it, and it’s brief, and on a blue background. I just click on random, and wander around. Very elusive, and unrepeatable, and “Mysterious-Tunnel-of-Love-at-the-fair” in that it’s a new surprise each time. Especially since it shows up as “Kingfisher” in my bookmarks. I wander away for a few days, and then wonder what it is.
The First is over, and was just bad this year. Not horrible, or overwhelming. I overheard the two women I punch in with talking about their brothers, and how they can’t wait for this time of year to go by, because they have that same chunk of loss. I find it very comforting that we’re all in it together, this “Dead Brother Society.” I suppose it’s the same, but different, for people who have lost sisters. So look at that; I actually belong to the human race.
I love this time of year. We were at the coffeehouse early this morning, and the people (mostly women) would come tumbling in the door with the wind at their backs tossling their hair, unwinding their scarves all smiling and stomping and shaking off the wet and the wildness that can’t be ignored, out there. Some people hate the wind. I think I wear my hair long, and wrap myself in shawls and skirts, so the wind will come play with me, teasing and pulling me away…
My father died 35 years ago today.
My oldest brother would be 61 today.
A little over three years ago, I heard someone mention this date and ended up in the hospital for five days.
Teeny tiny steps, and a “happy light,’ and a pile of D3, and antidepressants, and anxiety pills.
This year, I might admit to having a birthday.
It seems like the earth is charged this time of year. I think I’ll go out and take pictures. There’s a tree down the block with long branches that end in flames.
This one wins because the post that goes with it mentions Norton I, Emperor of the United States. I like crazy people, especially polite and well dressed ones. The Road To Success looks good, too.
Some weekly horoscope thing has told me to be cool, don’t get all uppity with my supervisors.
The last time it told me that – well, I didn’t quite manage it. And Yes! I have a meeting with my supervisor tomorrow! When life hands you lemons, it means you should go to bed and put your head under the blankies.
Anyway. We went camping. It was wonderful. It’s been a long, long time since I didn’t talk myself out of doing something fun. And we did it our way, which is to say not at all the way we started out.
We were planning to go to a campground about thirty miles away from here. It’s a beautiful place. We scoped it out a month or so ago. But I got thinking how this is Northern Wisconsin, and the campground is near a sort of large town, and it had just rained, and there was ATV-sign when we were out there. So we went around the Lake and up towards the Boundary Waters instead.
So, here we are, driving around in my home state, forgetting that all my internal maps are corrupted by non-use. I think Saturday’s detour was maybe an hour and a half. It was fun, stopping at Gooseberry Falls State Park, which is so busy on the weekends that they have a nice person in the entrance to direct you towards whatever parking lot you want to go to. When she asked, “Do you want to get to the falls?” with her arm half-raised to start pointing the way, I got to say, “No, I want to get to Ely.” She laughed, and said, “Well, you are a little lost.” Then she said, “If you look on your map…” If I’d had a map that was functioning, I would have realized I was supposed to turn thirty miles back. I’ve trained Daughter well; she recognizes the beginning of an adventure. So, we got to go through Finland, and quite a bit of nothingness. It was wonderful.
Sunday’s detour was much shorter, and involved a good deal of the Iron Range. And music history, when we saw the sign that said “Hibbing.”
We had a tent that we’d bought the spring before and never used. We rented a stove, lantern, cooler and pans from the campus store. So, what with all the adventuring, we got to the campsite around 5. Having some wits about me, I realized we’d better get things set up. We stumbled through getting the tent up ( a Eureka, and a great design), but when I tried to get the stove running, I couldn’t get it to pump up. We’d bought firewood, so we cooked hotdogs on sticks, and sacrificed many marshmallows to the Smoregods. (I can’t believe that we aren’t all diabetic from eating those things. Sheesh.) Breakfast was those silly packages of cereal that you can eat out of.
Sunday we stopped at the International Wolf Center, which was kind of a wash. We only saw one wolf, and the exhibits were lame. I guess it’s worth the admission if you go to the lectures. But while we were outside, we heard a raven croak.
I’m not sure where my brain was, in the packing part. I didn’t bring a hairbrush or toothbrush. No cooking utensils, nothing to wash with. No salt or pepper. And yet we managed to have a good time. The Demon of It’s Got to be Perfect For My Daughter laughed at me, long and hard.
So, Minnesota is still my home. I noticed I was driving much more confidently, even when we were lost. Sitting staring into the fire or up into the stars Saturday night was paradise. I can go home, but only to visit, for now. Another Demon to invite in.
Pictures tomorrow, I think.
