May 18, 2012

High on a Mountaintop

It's hard not to just sleep in the sun.

That's the temptation on a sublime May day with its 78 degrees and harmless palette of white clouds.

It's the sort of day almost impossible for me to have off work, since I tend to back-load days towards the end of the calendar year, for better or for worse. Days taken here and there in May rarely coincide with the sort of picture-perfect weather displayed today.

A flutterby blys fy.

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The sun is out and the music good ("Love's Gonna Live Here" playing on the bluegrass station). I'd like to read some Mark Doty poetry before it's o'er too.

So it's May and this season of growing things reaches an apex. Flowers are everywhere, numerous fantastic blooms, seas of them undulate with the wind to my right.

I feel a tad nostalgic on this May day for it gives off the cues of past nostalgias, that of the end of so many school years. They ended on notes just like today, with a pile of future promises to collect and the whiff of freedom unvarnished.

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It's only mid-May, but there are snippets of June in the air. There's an early release of the cottonwood tree seeds, which bathe the air in an elixir of richness. I underrate May; it has the long nights without the hangover of foreshortening days that late June and July and August have. The temperatures may be cooler, but as I grow older and thus heavier the temps seem warmer and are in any wise mitigated by the aforementioned knowledge that the light isn't going backwards. Yet.

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I like the title of my latest potential read, "Truth like the Sun" but not sure I'm going to commit to it. It's set in Seattle, a town I have a passing interest in given that it's so. far. away. Wouldn't mind going there sometime. It has the frisson of hipness, but one can't hold that against it. It's also said to be often greycast, but there's a foreignness to attaches to it nevertheless, if only in terrain with that mountain range in sight.

Am always on the lookout for the poetical novel, or maybe the novelistic poem. Downloaded the opening chapters of some seven novels and will give each a decent try or, as the Irish say, a "day-cent" try. Leaning towards Seattle presently.

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Oh the civilizing influence of that one singular day off, that Monday, my figurative Antonia! Drank I from the well of welcome quietude while suffusing with literature and enjoying the "tri C's": chocolate, coffee and cigars. I was feeding my word-buzz as the afternoon spilt gold on the patio. How I pined, post-Monday, for an extension. Surely I could write something interesting about the past, or at the very least perhaps another term paper on the effect of John Denver on my youth.

"High on a Mountain Top" comes to mind, the old Marty Stuart cover: "As my memories return / oh how my heart did yearn / for you and the days that used to be. High on a mountaintop, standing all alone, wonderin' where the years of my life have flown... High on a mountaintop, winds blowin' free, thinking about the days that used to be."

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Spring has a frisson, literally. So says one of the novels I'm thinking of taking on: "There's a curious frisson in the city's atmosphere today, almost spring-like, though spring is long gone, but you recognize that slightly vernal restlessness in the people going by, that stirring of potential in the air, that possibility of audacity- though what audacities they might be, here in Vienna, who can say?"

How can I not buy that novel, since it uses my favorite word (frisson)? I feel such a book-lust upon finishing a novel and thus having a "right" to another. (The best I can say about "The Map and the Territory" was it was readable. It must've been for me to finish some 480 pages.)

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Enjoyed a systematic reading of my Google RSS feed after work. Betty Duffy's dog
died and Steven Gershom writes of envy and loner'ing. The great HK seems to be going through a particularly wrenching time in which she's revisiting some of her basic assumptions about God's will and such. To put it simply, she can't keep living off her nest egg and has to get a real job. It seems like she's experiencing the cruel reality of capitalism: you must give me something many others want in order to feed and clothe and house yourself. Not enough people wanted, or knew of, her book. I'm not sure what I give at work is popular enough either, which means I'm similarly vulnerable to a "market correction".

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