Journal — Part 7
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EmailLook Homeward, Angel
^^^
... a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.
Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.
Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?
O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?
O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.
Thomas WolfeLook Homeward, Angel
1929
"Tell me the way," she said, "and I'll search you out." "East o' the Sun, West o' the Moon," Norwegian Fairy Tale, illustration by Kay Nielsen.
Leon Bakst: La Sultana -
The Blue Sultana
"The flowers are beginning their masquerade as people. Sir Jonquil begins the fun." Walter Crane (1845-1915) from "Flora's Feast: A Fairy's Festival of Flowers in Full Color."
Emma’s Watercolors
Moriarty
You forget me,” he said. “Am I not your steward?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I can but imagine.”
Dusk embraced us now, at the window here in the blog cupola. The Blue Deer lifted its head, sniffed the air, and then walked off into the woods. I pulled the window shut, picked up my purple and white iris the Phantom had picked for me and we headed down the winding staircase, I behind the Phantom. In case I stumbled I hoped he would catch me. If I went first I feared he would push me. I didn’t want to flatten my iris.
When we reached the foot of the stairs, I thanked him again. We parted there. I lifted the iris to my nose. The stem had a nutmeggy smell, like his hand.
“What is your name?” I called after him.
“Moriarty,” he called back. -- S.M.
Samantha’s Photos
The Raptor
I took a lunch break just now and sat out on my porch in the sun. I watched a dark raptor circle the broad grass plot between the houses across the street. A pair of crows came and chased the raptor, pecking at it. The raptor landed on the roof of the house next to the grass plot. Every time the crows pecked the raptor, the raptor ducked. Then it spread its wings, staying perched on the edge of the roof. Imposing. The raptor's mate showed up and perched beside it. The crows flew down, took a bath in a puddle and flew away. The mate flew away. The raptor left the roof, circled and landed on the grass plot. Now I could see, this was a turkey vulture, and it proceeded to eat what had been a squirrel.
S.M.
The Fog
From the attic I view the fog hanging at eye level. In our tall, thin Victorian house, I have climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor and chanced to look out the window at apparitions of trees and through the belfry in the church steeple at the heavy black bells, the condensation tintinnabulation off the gray, dripping cloud beyond, and faint lights here and there, like spirits holding lanterns, seeking their way up out of the Underground Railroad, while the fog descends, descends upon them.
I watch the fog cloud stealthily drape steeples, trees, houses, and, I can see, it is soon to inch down tree trunks and creep across lawns and up steps and onto Victorian porches.
S.M.
