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Monday, November 5, 2012

Disappointments and then Some

Below is a Whitman poem I like very much. I hae been reading a lot of nature writing, and get quite lost in essays like Pollan's "Weeds are Us" and the "Ecology of Magic." I lead a bookgroup on Kinsolver's The Lacuna, and marvel at how she touches on Frida Kahlo, Art, Writing, Dia de Muertos and so much I am interested in. My hands still bother me,and I am fighting stress rashes, too, but keep typing. I find there are not enough hours in the day anymore. It is cold now, and we celebrated Halloween with a small fire built in a metal wheel barrel. Cofee tastes good hot and a littl bitter, adding that little extra bite, and we are back to stanard time. I'm reminded of law school where I didn't see daylight from at least November to March, and woke in the dark, and came home in the dark. I pickied the last two green peppers and the last four tomatoes of the season, and took in and covered plants and lawn ornaments. We put our our little graveyard for the holiday, and bought more candy than we needed. And time goes on, withor without us. My knitting beckons, like Betsy Devonshire, needlework and knitting help me to think. One surprise, Pete Seeger is following us on Twitter as Dr. E's Doll Museum. This is quite an honor. We were snubbed by Writing World; I will no longer be posting the newsletter. Moira Allen, the editor would "rather" we not post, eventhough she clearly labels the newsletter "free to share," and it is a free newsleter. It's no different than my handing out or giving it to a friend to read. Ironically, I have ov er 50,000 folks who read or view my 8 blogs; that is probably a lot more than subscribe to her free tidbits. She can't stop me from posting, but I am not in this to tweak or irritate anyone. A Noiseless Patient Spider A noiseless, patient spider, I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated; Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself; Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them. And you, O my Soul, where you stand, Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them; Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold; Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul. Walt Whitman

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