When I was a child, two sounds soothed me to sleep each night: the washing machine in the basement and the bell buoy in the bay. The liquid repetitiveness of the washing machine churning laundry in its gullet contrasted with the intermittent knelling of the bell as it warned ships away from the shoreline.
Archives for February 2013
Looking through a dormant coin collection I discovered a surprise. While I very seldom add to the collection or for that matter even look at it, it is decidedly pre-decimilazation British monarchs. Imagine my excitement when I discovered a Wellington half penny. What caught my eye was the date — 1816.
As a final patriotic attempt by my dad to make the Germans run screaming from all remaining thoughts of invading Britain -or even seeking asylum there- and Scotland in particular, he had the RAF drop my first baby photos over anything that was left standing in Berlin and Dresden Germany.
I wonder how often the “generals” of forest-product corporations visit the clearcuts and view the devastation for themselves. And if they do, do they perceive their surroundings as the wreckage of an ecosystem or as a lawn that has been mowed, as easily regrown as grass?
The era of the brilliant Nabokovs is over. Dmitri died 22 February 2012. He was my age, born in Berlin in 1934 half a year before me. One day when I asked his father about his taste in music, he said he had none; all the musical talents went to his son, Dmitri. The father was very proud of his son and justifiably so.
One of the most important cultural centers in the ancient world was founded by a dolphin. According to a Homeric Hymn, the creature jumped aboard a ship sailing from Crete and commanded the mariners to build a sanctuary at Delphi. The animal was said to be a manifestation of the Greek god Apollo. Apollo Delphinios.
Each recent shooting, from Tucson to Aurora to Newtown, bears a frustratingly obvious similarity to the others: a socially inept, mentally ill but untreated young man legally purchases highly powered assault weapons originally designed for military use, then turns them on a large group of innocent people in a public place.
I am already a wild ghost – only ever half here. How can something like that die?
Out West, were the fog creeps low and steady over the hills and twists
up the morning dew and rising sun in its fingers, there is enough of what is real
to buoy up this freckled skin forever.
Back in the good old, bad old days of the 1960s, Britain’s very few motorways or freeways, were serviced by old-fashioned petrol stations and even more old fashioned transport café’s, known in London as “Caff’s” or more generally “Trannys”.