walking and talking

Yesterday I was companioned on my usual ramble by >F. We went to Pure Vanilla for a dazzlingly artistic lunch, then to Willows Beach, where we discussed beaches of the world, >F's travels in Mexico, and what makes a really good tequila.

Then we wandered about (a key component of a ramble, natch) ('natch' is a bit of lingo I acquired from Archie Comics, as I recall) in the park around Cattle Point. Because there was a lot of diving in and out of brush and trees and deep grass, and a fair amount of climbing up on top of rocks and down again, I began to feel a bit like we were a couple of hobbits on a Journey. We did eventually make it into Mordor (Uplands) though, alas, no ring nor Great Enemy; just eerily empty streets and eventually a well-appointed bus.

( A few thoughts on Ten Lost Years )

( And on intimacy. )

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two from rilke

Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.

Command the fruit to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone, will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander on the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

Is it bad if that sounds kind of okay to me?

The last stanza is a friend of mine. I wish I did spend my evenings writing long letters, proper ones on paper. I wish letters felt relevant as ways to tell people things, because letters are works in themselves, limited editions of One. Emails aren't like that. LJ entries -- well, more like magazine puff pieces. Still. That is like producing something. But the physical, tangible result is always much more satisfying to me, especially in the cool of an evening that stretched itself out as far as the dark could reach and yet was not long enough to satisfy my hunger for solitude.

( Funny story about me and Rilke. )

Before Summer Rain

Suddenly, from the green all around you,
something--you don't know what--has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window
in total silence. From the nearby wood

you hear the urgent whistling of a plover,
reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour

will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide
away from us, cautiously, as though
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now:
the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid.

I feel a kind of kinship with Rilke's emotional character in these poems, their curious proud vulnerability. My favorite conceit is that this is because we were both raised as girls, though of course in my case this was a little less peculiar a choice on my mother's part.

( Comments on the translations )

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