Patience

09; 4/1 Home. 29-32degrees, snow.

A day without the Internet. Snow; ending from beginning. Vacillation. Colors. Reading.

First coffee appreciated, so appreciated I anticipate the second and subsequent cups. But for now, I look out my early morning window to see Spring’s daughter, April, bring us a gentle, warm snow fall of those large kind of flakes. The street and sidewalks, the branches of the lilac refuse the snow, and rather, become puddled, dripping. But the low-lying cedar-like evergreen and the yard’s grass accepts the fresh new, stunningly white, blanket. At this sight, despite my body’s ache for the sunny warmth of Summer, and my growing disdain of cruel Winter, I’m harkened to images in memory of the first snows of December that bring the anticipation of joyous holidays remembered from my childhood.

I notice too, my eye is drawn to, the sharp contrast between the stunning white of the snowy blanket and the deep, verdant green of the hosting cedar shrub. It occurs to me how the single contrast sets up an ambiguity often found in poetry: two things that carry their own meaning, resolve into one. The white and the green, each with its own vivacity become a single, stunning, alluring contrast. Empson said, that “…it is naturally harder to analyse the visual arts than poetry, because their modes of satisfaction are further removed from the verbal system on which the discursive intelligence usually supports itself.” That notion seems right enough in the immediacy of the read, but begs further reflection in the face of snow lacing the cedars. Perhaps we could quickly note that, “usually”, may be the operative word here. For, as I consider the white-on-green into contrast, it occurs also that such is the result of many another color combinations. When we consider, perhaps, any color combination, even such as black and a tone of grey, while we take note of the colors themselves, it takes little further reflection to see that it is “contrast” that underlies the combination, and in appreciation becomes the resolution.

The vacillation of the weather, striking as it is in Minnesota, brings us occasion to wax sentimental on the onset of Winter, even as we long, seemingly against hope, for the gardener’s Spring. But then, as if to teach us once again of our relationship, indeed our kinship, with Nature, I am minded of my own mental and physical vacillations. Vacillations born of the vicissitudes wrought by age, and those born of ambivalences. The sun of Spring warms the ground bringing forth the provocative fragrances of maturing humus; temperature and snow falls and retreat ensues. The joints swell and muscles ache, a cold virus strikes unbidden; the body recoils, retreats. Rest, nurturing nourishment, the system flushes, the virus quickly dissipates, and the body is charged with new energy. The daemon enter, grabs a throttle-hold, tosses and slams, and wounds the will. The muses sing invocations of stirring images, and energies of joy create. The voice of a grandchild beloved redirects. Contrasts; contrasts all.

And now, a day without the Internet. It has been subjected to a worm-ish disease that cautions us to a day of rest and reading -and writing in other places- lest we risk our writing tool to a life of zombie enslavement. Ah well, all is not lost. For always there is conversation in pages read and re-read.

Getting it Together

In my daily ramble I've been here, there, but not everywhere. But I've been to about all the writing/networking sites I'm going to engage with and I'm trying to pull them all together into a loosely-knit network that makes some sense. In the process I've done a short essay for review, done some bit of reviewing myself, and then this will be my "daily".

There are still hours of the day, and other aspects of life to attend to away from here. And still much reading to be done.

Its A Slow Ramble Though

Ok, yet another start. I am forever starting again. Try as I have to not "journal" in public, it seems that I am evermore drawn to do so. Ah well, I trust that those that don't want to read such as these, won't; and those that do take the time will be like-minded, understanding folks.

I'm doing this, here, because I've commited myself to engagement of others' blog writings, and commenting as I see them. Doing so without writing my own self, seems kind of weirdly one-sided. And I've had this blog, A Ramble Through Life, for some time as had struck me as a good idea before I knew what it might be for. Well, perhaps this is it. Sort of a daily journal apart from my writing exercise, Write Everyday.

Because I would seem to be so inconsistent, let me give a short explanation in this first Ramble. It begins by saying that very few things keep me from writing, but those that do, are important to me. They go like this: I have nothing valuable to say; I am away to our UpNorth place with only dial-up service; I have nothing valuable to say; I am in the garden, or playing racquetball; I have nothing valuable to say; I am doing household chores; I'm engaged in other life; I have nothing valuable to say; I am trying to figure-out a newly-found web application (usually from Google or Microsoft); I am reading (ever so slowly). But recently there has come one more.

I bought a new computer; a HP, Mini netbook. It has taken me days and days, to set it up and get acquainted with it (I'm using it now). This is a wireless gizmo, and it is my hope that it will actually provide me more opportunity to write, whatever it may be that I might call writing. But I like this thing so much already that I'm not begrudging the time spent getting acquainted. (and I can listen to net radio while I contemplate the next keystroke).

I'm aware that I began some work on the issue of ambiguity in poetry, and haven't gotten back to that yet. I got side-tracked, not only with this new device, but with some essay reading. Its both enjoyment and lessons-learned. But it does take up time and energy. That reading will soon be done and I'll get back to work with Mr Empson. But for now,its time to read.