Digging into the women writers of WW2 led me to the short stories of Anna Kavan whose life and work brought to mind Gertrude Abercrombie whose art is often said to be influenced by Giorgio Di Chirico who wrote what John Ashberry called the first surrealist novel – Hebdomeros – that some have compared to Anna Kavan’s novel Ice that…
As cats age – the leaping and jumping that once was so effortless is more of a struggle. You may have forbidden the cat to be on the bed or the table or the counter but – when the leap is harder and they can’t quite make it – you have to help them out. Enter the cardboard cat stairway:…
“I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven’t said anything. The border is to be on the way.…
The second half of: “The Island,” by Tove Jansson. Part one is here. It’s a rickety structure, one pays for it with fear of darkness and sudden panic—a stirring in the dark, a boat on the horizon. But during the weekdays, with their calmly repetitive and efficient chores, the protective barrier grows taller and firmer. Pull the boat out of…
The IslandFrom: “The Island” by Tove Jansson There is a surprisingly large number of people who go around dreaming about an island.Sometimes deliberate people look for their island and conquer it, and sometimes the dream of the island can be a passive symbol for what is one step beyond reach. The island—at last, privacy, remoteness, intimacy, a rounded whole without…
All the islands I have known become one island whose Eastern coast spreads sandy arms to welcome bathers and sea tortoises while, in the West, a reef shreds the ships of armed invaders. – from “Scapes” in Fledgling (2021) by Sarah White. It being August – and mid-summer – one naturally thinks of escaping to the island – row out…
In his series of WW1 epitaphs, Rudyard Kipling comments on the all too common fate of a new soldier at the front who – curious about the enemy – cannot resist taking a look and unwittingly exposes his head to a sniper. The beginner On the first hour of my first day In the front trench I fell.…
I did, in the first weeks of the war, before I got my commission, suffer severely from ‘evacuees’.– Evelyn Waugh in a preface to Put Out More Flags complaining about evacuees much as he might have done about gout or rising damp. Evelyn Waugh is often at his most entertaining when he is at his most disagreeable. Reading Waugh – and…
‘Oh, I know all about goats,’ Sonia was saying. ‘People give them the same recommendation as the billeting officers did with evacuees – they’re no trouble. For all I know it may be true of goats. But then, like evacuees, they smell, and that’s quite enough for me.’ – Hemlock and After, 1952, Angus Wilson . It’s Britain post-war, and…
A short drive to the Catskills and a Saturday stroll along the Ashokan Reservoir Promenade. Wildflowers growing in the cracks of the dam. The reservoir provides 40% of New York City’s water. Access is prohibited. It’s a steep drop on the other side. We didn’t see any bald eagles but we did see a cormorant and this fawn still had…
They say the day you get a boat is the happiest day of your life. That is, until the day you sell the boat. The friend who shared those words had just bought a small sailboat. I think she may have actually sailed it a handful of times, the rest of the time it sat in the driveway. The one…
“What are you doing in the wardrobe?” “Narnia business” C.S.”Jack” Lewis spent childhood years in a house in Belfast where he and his brother immersed themselves in myths and legends. They spent wet afternoons sitting inside an old and cavernous wardrobe where they told each other tales of a magical kingdom of talking animals. The world of Narnia was rooted…
All our stories begin before we are born. Not Just the blue eyes or flat feet we inherit, but the stories we hear from uncles and aunts, from grandmothers and grandfathers. Even if oral history is no more reliable than the party game of Chinese whispers, everyone bringing to it their own subjective lumber of myths, half-truths, fancies and deceits,…
Took a stroll around the perimeter and something colorful caught my eye. There – discretely propped against a generator close to the community garden – was this little gem. A slate grey chip – about four inches across painted with flowers. Someone went to the trouble of making this and planting it in the wild. And now I am curious. …
