1/07/2007
This is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.
- Willa Cather
These are querulous times, distasteful and confused, and the wise seek counsel from no one. Things are not as
they seem, all is illusory, and quotes from Celestial Seasonings boxes double for wisdom.
Strawberries and spinach are the only greenery in the fields now, but the grass has luster brought about by uncommonly warm days. The daylilies are peeking above ground, and some report apple and peach buds. I am not fooled. Spring will come in its own good time.
The chickens work more than anybody these days, scratching away at whatever it is they scratch at. Everything else seems dormant, suspended in mud. It waits. It rests. It rusts.
Yet another greenhouse goes up soon, though it’ll be a bit complex. Current ownership of the greenhouse is a bit nubulous, and how exactly it will transfer to my hands remains to be seen. It will happen if you believe, or something like that.
The future of this business remains unknown; the next few chapters should prove interesting. Demand increases at a pace that can only be met by commercial growers, but that demand seems in part caused by a family farm pastoral idee fixe in the mind of the consumer. Thus they buy an illusion from a corporation. Meanwhile, back on Spring Creek, a naked 4-year-old helps gather eggs.
Learned a new term the other day, from Virginia Woolf or one of them. Sun stop. Just as you’d think. The mountain over on the back side of Harold’s farm, where the sun is still shining after it has completely left us: Sun stop.
- Willa Cather
These are querulous times, distasteful and confused, and the wise seek counsel from no one. Things are not as
they seem, all is illusory, and quotes from Celestial Seasonings boxes double for wisdom.
Strawberries and spinach are the only greenery in the fields now, but the grass has luster brought about by uncommonly warm days. The daylilies are peeking above ground, and some report apple and peach buds. I am not fooled. Spring will come in its own good time.
The chickens work more than anybody these days, scratching away at whatever it is they scratch at. Everything else seems dormant, suspended in mud. It waits. It rests. It rusts.
Yet another greenhouse goes up soon, though it’ll be a bit complex. Current ownership of the greenhouse is a bit nubulous, and how exactly it will transfer to my hands remains to be seen. It will happen if you believe, or something like that.
The future of this business remains unknown; the next few chapters should prove interesting. Demand increases at a pace that can only be met by commercial growers, but that demand seems in part caused by a family farm pastoral idee fixe in the mind of the consumer. Thus they buy an illusion from a corporation. Meanwhile, back on Spring Creek, a naked 4-year-old helps gather eggs.
Learned a new term the other day, from Virginia Woolf or one of them. Sun stop. Just as you’d think. The mountain over on the back side of Harold’s farm, where the sun is still shining after it has completely left us: Sun stop.
2 Comments:
At January 07, 2007 11:00 PM,
Angel Feathers Tickle Me said…
These eyes they grieve in pity for my heart. I have known the suffering of every tear utterly undone they fall. Will they remember the words I spoke? My gentle heart goes willingly with her, but I must remain here. Weeping, I then will speak of her again, and again, who to her heaven came so suddenly, leaving Love grieving here on earth with me...
To the high heaven she has gone, up to the realm where Angels dwell in peace, she lives with them now. To this world she bade farewell. Tis no degree of cold on her has won, nor of such heat as makes all others cease: it only was her goodness, great appeal. So did her shining humbleness excel, it passed the heavens with such wondrous worth, it moved to marvel the eternal Sire, so that a sweet desire pricked Him to call such worthiness from earth, and made her to himself go from down here: for when He saw this life of suffering had not been made for such a gentle thing...
Her gentle spirit, full of gentle grace, at last departed from her beauteous frame, and chose in glory its most worthy home. He who weeps not, {Mark David Breakiron} when talking of her trace, harbors a heart of wickedness and shame, to which no kindly spirits ever shall come.
No mind, if heart is wicked, may so roam as to imagine in the least her lot: therefore no grief or weeping will transpire. But sadness and desire of tears and sighs and death, and every thought that fails to comfort for a loss of immense, conquer those souls that even once recall the thing she was, now taken from us all...
Ahhhhhhhhh so much anguish nearly halts my breath when the least thought to this comes in my grievous mind brings back the one who split my heart in me; and oftentimes, when thinking of her death the color from my face fades utterly. And when the imagining is sharp in me, from everywhere I'm struck by such dismay that at the ache I feel right then I start to cry, and so distraught it grows. Fore it is then that I am alone in every crowd.
I wander in my tears....
For a face that looks like mine.
Angel Feathers Tickle Me
At January 10, 2007 9:27 PM,
Anonymous said…
Dear friend,
Blue Tape is no longer--did I tell you about that on the phone? Anyway, nowadays, spiral can be found at apatosauruslost.com. She's feeling a bit more room to grow there. Better energy. And stuff.
She still wants chickens and goats some day.
Hugs,
apatosaurus
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