By Wallace Stevens
Who is my father in this world, in this house,
At the spirit’s base?
My father’s father, his father’s father, his—
Shadows like winds
Go back to a parent before thought, before speech,
At the head of the past.
They go to the cliffs of Moher rising out of the mist,
Above the real,
Rising out of present time and place, above
The wet, green grass.
This is not landscape, full of the somnambulations
Of poetry
And the sea. This is my father or, maybe,
It is as he was,
A likeness, one of the race of fathers: earth
And sea and air.
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Friday, like Thursday, was mostly overcast and chilly but no rain, so a nice fall day. I did some online research, and then some online shopping, in the morning, then took a walk to the beach, where we saw a bunny for the first time in ages as well as the geese and ducks who are coming back as the season changes. We switched off between the Dodgers game (which ended well) and the Terps-Northwestern game (which was a hideous mess).
Then, because I am observing Yom Kippur this year only in my head, we watched the first episode of The Franchise (somewhat entertaining, quite over the top, should be funnier) and the first episode of Bad Monkey (very entertaining, pretty dark but also often hilarious). These are the Cliffs of Moher, which are spectacular, with views of the Aran Islands, the coast of Clare, and a cave that may or may not hold a horcrux:
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