Dichroic Reflections

working

Scariest moment of the weekend: when Rudder-the-workaholic, the workout king, the masochist, commented that I'd been "working all weekend". Second scariest: realizing he was right. This weekend, I went to a dinner from Rudder's work, studied instrument flying weather reports and the Head of the Charles rules and racecourse, took a flying lesson, rowed int he double on Saturday and did a half-marathon on the erg Sunday, got about a foot and a half of scarf knitted, did most of my packing for the Boston trip, did three loads of laundry, made chili, and helped load Rudder's and She-Hulk's boats onto a trailer bound for Boston. At that, it was an easier weekend than planned, since I didn't have to plan or fly a cross-country or drive up to Flagstaff to meet the boat trailer.

I'm not sure normal people (if such animals exist) have weekends quite like that, at least not routinely.

Two more days here. My office looks like a moving zone, comprising boxes and stuff waiting to be boxed or tossed.

Thanks to all who posted comments over the weekend. It was very, very nice to hear from real people, especially in view of the 60 sp@mbot comments I've had to delete today (MTBlacklist is a wonderful thing.)

Finally, the poetry meme, one of the better memes I've come across lately - I've seen this all over, and have come across several poems I hadn't seen before. So here are my contributions, though I'm afraid neither is very obscure: one from Stan Rogers, who, I'm pleased to see, did make it into the CBC's longer list of great Canadians, if not into the top ten; and one from Gerard Manley Hopkins, because as an imperfect and quirky thing myself, I've always liked it.

Giant

Cold wind on the harbour and rain on the road
Wet promise of winter brings recourse to coal
There's fire in the blood and a fog on Bras d'Or
The giant will rise with the moon.

'Twas the same ancient fever in the Isles of the Blest
That our fathers brought with them when they went West
It's the blood of the Druids that never will rest
The giant will rise with the moon.

So crash the glass down, move with the tide
Young friends and old whiskey are burning inside
Crash the glass down, Fingal will rise
With the moon

In inclement weather the people are fey
Three thousand year stories as the night slips away
Remembering Fingal feels not far away
The giant will rise with the moon

The wind's in the North, there'll be new moon tonight
But we have no circle to dance in its sight
So light a torch, bring the bottle, and build the fire bright
The giant will rise with the moon.
- Stan Rogers, 1976, on: Fogarty's Cove

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things--
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Posted by dichroic at October 18, 2004 03:33 PM