Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

So, I got up this morning and in a fit of being inbetween six books and being bored with them all, I decided to peruse the book collection that sits on top of the dresser. There's a lot of books there. About a sixth of them got too high and too precarious and fell over one night. However, there's still a lot left. I'm afraid to think that they are mostly now books of my own choice that I've convinced Jeff to buy here and there at book sales and markdown shops and expensive retail stores. And as he's very bent on spoiling me, I've managed to gather many little books to our home.

Today I got up and after spending a grueling hour looking for a place to rent on the internet, I shambled over and picked up Saki.
Saki is someone I've being dying to read for years. He's very famous for his stories from the view point of a cat (since there's so many writers I've been dying to read for years, it takes me years to get around to picking them up. I have a very long list). The book I have are short stories picked out by Graham Greene- on more stories than just the cat one.
Here's a quote from the first short story:
Duchess: “When I was younger, boys of your age used to be nice and innocent.”
Reginald: “Now we are only nice. One must specialize in these days.”
Saki is something of a Wilde but there's something craftier going on with his words. He's very sneaky- it seems like a fierce intelligence is laying under a lazy exterior.
“Not that I ever indulge in despair about the Future; there always have been men who have gone about despairing of the Future, and when the Future arrives it says nice, superior things about their having acted according to their lights. It is dreadful to think that other people's grandchildren may one day rise and up and call one amiable.
There are moments when one sympathizes with Herod.”
I burst out laughing at that though I'm still confused on what he's exactly saying.
His last known words before blown up in a trench in France? “Put out that bloody cigarette.”

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A Tale of Two Worlds

I walk past a window on my way to get a glass of water and note the snow falling outside.  As I fill my glass at the sink, my thoughts have already turned back to my work on the computer. I’m wrestling with the household budget, when I’ll fit some reading in, how to get on with my writing work, when I’ll exercise, when I’ll catch up with email correspondence and the list goes on and on.

Anytime I stop my work and look up, past the chatter in my mind, the snow catches me off guard as if it’s the first time I’m seeing it. I debate whether I can put off the grocery store to avoid driving in the snow.

This is the world of the everyday. It’s full of a thousand petty cares, some essential to living, others not as much but all in a lump group, tugging us along.

But there are times my mind needs something more refreshing, and it’s time to take a break. And that’s where music comes in—as powerful as Circe creating a circle of magic with her staff. I pick out music without words (or words I don’t understand). Today is Rimsky-Korsakov, tomorrow might be the film Phantom Thread’s soundtrack, or a piece of jazz played by Lucky Thompson.

As Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Snow Maiden starts, the circle opens. I come out of the everyday world and enter somewhere extraordinary, where beauty converges with life and cares and worries exit for a time. And all it takes is a little music, a little snow, and entering the moment that is now.

I watch the snow falling, noting the wind direction as the snow blows southeast and then drops and then exhales again southwards. I note the density of the snow, how it’s light and sparkling and then downy, heavy, and wet.  My thoughts finally still and I turn off the music. A heavy relief passes over my body and mind and I am still, watching the beauty of the world.

The Fog Rises Up and We Come Down to Meet It

This winter has frozen and thawed. And then frozen and thawed once again. With the most recent exhale of cold, fog rises up from the melting ground and wraps my town in a trance.

It softens the ragged tops of trees and transforms the dead yellowed grass into a carpet spreading out into unseen lands.  With foggy foreshortened vision, the world becomes finite and in the smallness, my wonder grows.  Trees become gloomy gods, bushes hunch over like mysterious beings with secrets hidden in twiggy souls. The sky blurs out and the land rises up to meet it and everything is reformed or brought down to its most basic form. It is easy to become lost and confused.

I walk the perimeter of my neighborhood park. We become redone together.  The playground becomes enchanted, strangely unknowable as the slides and swings soften and distort.

The ballpark’s high chain link fence however, becomes more sure.  The metal darkens and braces and holds against the diffused white light.  I stare at it through my camera lens, delighted by its ferocity while everything else around it wavers and melts.

A train passes over the hill and I can see nothing, it has been whitened out, but I can hear the busy clack of the iron wheels running on steel rails.

Geese fly overhead for a minute and then vanish.

I press on and the mist parts as I walk and so we walk together, softened, softening with the night closing in behind our steps.  The night takes everything behind us, rebuilds it like it wishes and then I step into my home and close the door.

Rain falls a few hours later and the fog mounts up, gently pressing at the windows but by morning, it is all gone and only little bits of ice remain on the walkway.