This morning, it was cool enough outdoors to wear my long black coat, the coat my dear father called “smart” last winter; the coat that makes me feel like a real lady. I’m wearing red high heels, too. I feel very much as though I’m a character in a French mystery novel, perhaps one called:
The Baguette and the Professor
Murder at Proodforth Chalet
Or, for the kids:
Cecile and the Boarding School Ghost: French Boarding School Blues, Book #7
Katie and I just examined the Young Adult fiction section at Myopic Books. There are a great many well-written Young Adult books out there, in the reading universe, truly and truly, and I read them in stacks the size of strap-toothed whales when I was a girl. [Jean Craighead George, anyone?] Then you have Young Adult books like this one, a book we actually located yesterday afternoon:
Now, a REALLY wonderful book for youths, which came up on Saturday night, would be:
Reading this book makes one long for nothing so much as a pair of pet oxen for one’s own.
Also farmer’s-wife-baked pie. Or maybe some ham.
Seriously, these people were feeders.
As long as I’m continuing to share visual images, why not press on?
If you go to the website which allows Cook County residents to register to vote, the below picture is featured. The picture which–out of all the pictures available to the Cook County Clerk’s Office–apparently captures the spirit of voter registration better than any other:
When you click on this image, in order to save it to your computer, you find that the Cook County Clerk’s office has named this jpeg:
I saw “Casablanca” for the first time on Sunday night. Ah! How did I ever pass the years without you, “Casablanca”? My very bones ache thinking of it. So good. So good.
Last week, Lara and I attended a poetry workshop for high school students run by Young Chicago Authors. The workshop had to do with “applied poetics”, which means “taking the poetry out to the people and then !revolution!” The man running the workshop was telling a wonderful story about the work he does with poetry and Alzheimer’s patients. He asked some of these patients, in turn, about the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. One woman said: “I saw a cat giving birth.” The high schoolers around us reacted to this piece of information in various ways–“Yuck”, “What?”, et cetera–and then I heard one delightful young man say:
DELIGHTFUL YOUNG MAN: I saw a cat giving birth, once.
ME: Was it beautiful?
DELIGHTFUL: [fervently] It was awesome.
Oh world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide gray skies!
Thy mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I know a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart,–Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me,–let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
Edna St. Vincent Millay