Happy Belated Vernal Equinox

By in astronomical events, quotes, Virginia Woolf


I never had a chance to post yesterday, so I’ll make up for it today with some real highbrow literature. This is Virginia Woolf, from the middle section of To The Lighthouse, titled, appropriately enough, “Time Passes.” I think of it whenever, well, time passes.

But what, after all, is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of a wave.

Never made it to the demolition derrby over the weekend. However, there will be chariot races this Saturday and Sunday, at the same arena (Golden Spike). Why we don’t all move to Ogden, I don’t know–they have derbys, chariot races, refineries, trains.

Important Information

By in Uncategorized

I thought it would be more fun to sleep last night than to immerse myself in literature, but I do have some information to share. Like literature, I think this is important.

1.) There is a demolition derby this Saturday at 7:00 in historic Ogden. It’s at the Golden Spike Arena. I will be there, maybe with C. and M., maybe with The Lovely Susannah.

2.) Here is a recipe for ship’s biscuits. You can make these before your next voyage and they will keep a long time. They will not, however, be delicious. (Recipe from the Royal Naval Museum.)

Add water to 1lb wholemeal flour and 1/4oz salt to make a stiff dough. Leave for 1/2 hour and then roll out very thickly. Separate in to 5 or 7 biscuits. Bake in a hot oven approx. 420 degrees F for 30 minutes. The biscuits should then be left undisturbed in a warm dry atmosphere to harden and dry out.

Today, I am wearing a headscarf like a pirate, provoking all sorts of Piratical Phrases Uttered. Yar!
(Missing a picture? I couldn’t decide on just one. Go here. Waste no time. You won’t be diasppointed.)

Dombey & Son

By in Dickens, J.D. Salinger, quotes

I was in a Dickens mood about three weeks ago, went to the main library, and came home with Dombey and Son, which is a later one. I’m about 200 pages into it and getting my Dickens fix (there are lots of descriptions of somber parlors, a “flaxen-haired” little girl, and someone young has just died), but most people I’ve talked to (okay, only three people, but that’s most of my accquaintance) have never heard of Dombey and Son. I had, distantly, and realized last night it was mentioned by Salinger in Franny and Zooey. I love the italics, so it’s the quote for the day. (A quote from literature, about literature! It’s a good day.) This is Franny speaking, near the end:

“He said he was–this is exactly what he said–he said he was sitting at the table in the kitchen, all by himself, drinking a glass of ginger ale and eating saltines and reading ‘Dombey and Son,’ and all of a sudden Jesus sat down in the other chair and asked if he could have a small glass of ginger ale. A small glass, mind you–that’s exactly what he said. I mean he says things like that, and yet he thinks he’s perfectly qualified to give me a lot of advice and stuff!”

So every time I think or read “Dombey and Son,” it comes out Dombey.

Will It Stop Snowing?

By in Uncategorized


It’s typical late-winter bi-polar weather, and, while it’s only March, I thought this was appropriate:

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire...

This is, of course, the opening of T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland and is the only part most people (myself included) really get. There is a good annotated version online here, if you’re feeling scholarly. (Should have majored in English…)

Late-Night Dylan

By in Uncategorized


It’s not that late, actually, but “Visions of Johanna” was in my head and seemed appropriate to quote here. (Hey, it’s officially the weekend now. I don’t have to try as hard to be clever.) Dylan fans, listen to the acoustic version of this from the 1966 Royal Albert Hall concert. Excellent.

“Ain’t it just like the night
to play tricks when you’re trying to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded,
though we’re all doing our best to deny it.
And Louise holds a handful of rain,
tempting you to defy it.
Lights flicker in the opposite loft;
in this room the heat pipes just cough;
the country music station plays soft
but there’s nothing, really nothing, to turn off…”

Less, More

By in Uncategorized 2 Comments

I’m afraid today’s post will be short, as we’re all trying to wrap things up so we can goof off later:

“Avoid adjectives of scale.
You will love the world more
and desire it less.”
Basho


I first came across this in a Robert Hass poem, from Human Wishes. (I’m afraid I can’t rememeber which poem. But it’s in there.)
Office Snack of the Day: Hazelnut biscotti. I made them, first toasting the hazelnuts.

Hemingway on Potato Salad

By in Uncategorized


Yesterday’s Office Snack of the Day, potato salad, sparked a discussion in the office on the merits of French potato salad, prepared with a vinaigrette, versus American potato salad, prepared with mayo and mustard. We concluded our versions of American potato salad were inferior to our mothers’ versions, but that the French versions (pommes de terre a l’huile) we made were delicious. M. adds bacon to her version. I do not.

All the potato salad talk reminded me of a passage in A Moveable Feast, Hemingway’s memoir of writing in Paris in the 1920’s. In this passage, he’s just gotten a check for a story and decides to go to a cafe, since he hasn’t eaten lunch:

“It was a quick walk to Lipp’s and every place I passed that my stomach noticed as quickly as my eyes made the walk an added pleasure. There were few people in the brasserie and when I sat down on a bench against the wall with the mirror in the back and a table in front and the waiter asked if I wanted beer I asked for a distingue, the big glass mug that held a liter, and potato salad.

The beer was very cold and wonderful to drink. The pommes a l’huile were firm and marinated and the olive oil delicious. I ground black pepper over the potatoes and moistened the bread with the olive oil. After the first heavy draft of beer I drank and ate very slowly.”

Good old Hemingway. Whenever I read him, I want to have a cocktail.

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