Notebook
For a while I didn't know what to call this; maybe I'm still not sure. It's not a diary. It's not a blog. It's not a column. Words, ideas, images worth keeping. Stories that might not have happened, but are true nonetheless. In any case, here's some stuff I like. Perhaps you'll like it, too.
Archive
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
From and English mummers' play of the 1930s: Scots & Scars, The Doctor, Saint George, Bold Slasher, Grandfather Christmas, Johnny Jack and The Turkish Knight respectively... Catch the tour of Hugh Lupton and Chris Wood's Christmas Champions while you can and celebrate the season... or listen again on the BBC if you can't. It's well worth it.
posted at 16:29
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Thursday, 13 December 2007
Away for a while. Life lived back and forth across an ocean, one shore or some other. Here's a fragment of Frances Leviston, you can buy her book Public Dream. This is from "Unthinkable":
but when I woke in the master bedroom I could still hear
the cry from the sixth-floor harpy at dusk, which is the
same long cry
that sails from the pigeon coops across the valley
where tenderness is not unthinkable, and I understood the
terrible coughing
in the shut room was laughter, and that love -- love! --
answered, came
in from the cold each night, hands shoved in pockets,
unspeakable, so much the fiercer for that
but when I woke in the master bedroom I could still hear
the cry from the sixth-floor harpy at dusk, which is the
same long cry
that sails from the pigeon coops across the valley
where tenderness is not unthinkable, and I understood the
terrible coughing
in the shut room was laughter, and that love -- love! --
answered, came
in from the cold each night, hands shoved in pockets,
unspeakable, so much the fiercer for that
posted at 12:45
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