By David Baker
Such pleasure one needs to make for oneself.
She has snipped the paltry forsythia
to force the bloom, has cut each stem on
the slant and sprinkled brown sugar in a vase,
so the wintered reeds will take their water.
It hurts her to do this but she does it.
When are we most ourselves, and when the least?
Last night, the man in the recessed doorway,
homeless or searching for something, or sought—
all he needed was one hand and quiet.
The city around him was one small room.
He leaned into the dark portal, gray
shade in a door, a shadow of himself.
His eyes were closed. His rhythm became him.
So we have shut our eyes, as dead or as
other, and held the thought of another
whose pleasure is need, face over a face ...
It hurts her to use her hands, to hold
a cup or bud or touch a thing. The doctors
have turned her burning hands in their hands.
The tests have shown a problem, but no cause,
a neuropathology of mere touch.
We have all made love in the dark, small room
of such need, without shame, to our comfort,
our compulsion. I know I have. She has.
We have held or helped each other, sometimes
watching from the doorway of a warm house
where candletips of new growth light the walls,
the city in likeness beyond, our hands
on the swollen damp branch or bud or cup.
Sometimes we are most ourselves when we are
least, or hurt, or lost, face over a face—.
You have, too. It's your secret, your delight.
You smell the wild scent all day on your hand.
Not an eventful Monday -- laundry, computer stuff, lots of retagging on LiveJournal (I decided the Baltimore Ravens needed their own tag, and Glee, and important things like that). Oh, and I got a phone call from a radio talk show host in California who was researching Pro-Life Cupcake Day and apparently followed a tweet to my blog post of this morning, but I chickened out about actually being on the show -- I have promises from the PTA, the school principal, and someone on the school board to look into the situation, so as long as that happens, I have no complaints with how the school is handling things, and I really don't want to make my son or his school a target for the right-wing religious fanatics who run the ministry behind Pro-Life Cupcake Day.
Rosie is sneezing a lot this evening. I never know how soon to call the vet, particularly with her, since she seems to get allergies or at least respiratory irritation quite often when the seasons change, and she isn't acting sick otherwise -- she certainly has not lost her appetite for her own food or anyone else's. I am sympathetic, since I have to go to two different doctors tomorrow, including getting fasting blood drawn at 8 a.m. at which point I am just hoping I don't have a migraine (I am making Paul drive me because I've been dizzy after fasting blood tests before). I am sure I had something else to say but it escapes me at the moment which probably means I need sleep!
The Rogues perform at the Blackfriars Theatre.
Hilby prepares to juggle while balancing on a unicycle.
Replicas of the Crown Jewels are displayed inside St. George's Chapel.
Here is Nymblewyke in his more familiar setting with Fight School giving the Vulcan "Live Long and Prosper" gesture. He also made the lirpas for Fight School: Reloaded.
The Museum of Unnatural History has a "cursing well" out front that has been popular with my children since the first time we came to the faire.
This is how Meadow Lane looks shortly after the opening of the faire in the morning, with the court assembling to greet young visitors.
And here is a gratuitous photo of sparowe's brother, Sir Henry Clifford, and his wife -- apologies for the terrible lighting, I was trying to avoid flash so as not to distract the sonnet readers!