You are going to get two posts about this topic, but I have to write a preemptive one to psych myself up for tomorrows events. I've always been surprised that I didn't turn out vegetarian... considering my appreciation for animals is at times excessive.
Anyway tomorrow I'll be putting that to the test as several friends are coming over to kill... I mean cook lobsters. We are buying them live - then .... well giving them their final steam bath? Is that putting too much of an optimistic twist on it.
So I’m writing you in an effort to prepare myself for this event. I think my main dilemma will be looking into the tank of lobsters at QFC and knowing it’s going to be Frank, Fred or Toby’s last night… I’ll pick the meanest one and then perhaps I won’t be as sad.
This is my latest piece from art class. I don't have a name for it yet. We're just starting to use charcol (the little pieces of it rather than the pencils) and so this class was about lines versus edeges and things like that....
Also I started a new book this week which I love Plan B Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott. She is pretty much the exact opposite of me in every way... which is maybe why I love reading her so much! Anyway she opened with this poem and I thought it was lovely. What a scattered post. Sorry! Expect the lobster follow up this weekend... perhaps.
Monet Refuses the Operation
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don’t see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don’t know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
- Lisel Mueller