Poem for Wednesday and Farrel McWhirter Park

The Viole(n)t Cat 

By Dan Taulapapa McMullin 

I hear you

Outside my winter studio

Moaning in the alley below my bedroom window

Calling for god the machine of all magics

All spells written on our bodies

All the right incense of rank summer

The flowers breaking through the confusion

You speak for all of us

By that I mean me

You speak for me myself and I

This morning tomorrow’s and

My midnight always now, moan for me

I moan full bridge

Field of lavender

The bridge to Olosega

White sand road and men’s voices

Beneath the road flows the sea between two islands

Lavender stream

The spirits of the sea

My lovers

-------- 

Wednesday was warm and overcast for much of the day, though I was chatting with one of my high school friends and her daughter for most of the morning so I only saw it from windows. After we had finally caught up on everything, Paul and I had lunch and took a walk before the rain arrived -- no eagles today, but lots of ducks and coots -- then I watched the first three episodes of WandaVision with Kristen, after which we watched today's What If...? with Cheryl (entirely in Mohawk and Spanish, apparently in a universe where the Spaniards settled further north). 

We had leftover Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes from Christmas Eve for dinner, then I made Paul watch Ladies of the '80s: A Divas Christmas -- I could not handle any more college football bowl games I didn't care about. It stars Linda Gray, Morgan Fairchild, Donna Mills, Nicolette Sheridan, and Loni Anderson as divas who were all on a soap opera together and are doing a Christmas reunion special, and Christopher Atkins plays Gray's love interest just like when he was practically underage on Dallas. It's as bad as you'd expect! The woods at Farrel McWhirter Park in Redmond:

Lyrics for Wednesday, Supergirl Finale, Black Hill Leaves

Landslide
By Stevie Nicks

I took my love, I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
'Til the landslide brought me down

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Well, I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older too

Oh take my love, take it down
Oh climb a mountain and you turn around
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well, the landslide will bring it down

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 I had a pretty quiet Tuesday. The weather was magnificent, over 70 degrees and clear, so I spent as much of it walking in the neighborhood as I could when I wasn't down the basement sorting magazines. Now I have big stacks of Entertainment Weekly, National Geographic, Popular Photography, Smithsonian, Chocolatier, and various other magazines that are being picked up by a teacher tomorrow, and we will have more shelf space. We had Trader Joe's vegan meatballs for dinner, which I don't like as much as Beyond's, though they were okay. My Voyager group was missing someone tonight, so we put off watching an episode and just chatted. 

Then I watched the Supergirl series finale, which was excruciating plot-wise but had some lovely character bits. I hate what they've done with Alex -- she's a mom for five minutes in series time and she's ready to let everyone else die for a bad plan to save her? -- and Lex should not be so stupid, ever. But we get Lillian Luthor! And James and Mon-El, even Winn, suitably not getting too much screen time -- I hate when finales bring back former cast members then let them dominate the episodes. I always love the Dallas reboot cast reunion when Brenda Strong and Julie Gonzalo are both in episodes and I'm glad Lillian was finally defined by Lena more than Lex. 

But my favorite bits belong to Brainy ("Like Cinderella, without the gender inequality"), Eliza Danvers ("You'd think in another life I was a Kryptonian"), Cat Grant ("Supergirl"), and of course Lena, who comes into her full powers, saves the world with Kara, then changes Kara's life by reinforcing Cat's suggestion that she needs to come out of the closet, which has been a huge theme of this last season -- I have loved the DC growing up gay/growing up superhero parallels since Smallville -- so I'm sad we only got Supercorp friendship, since Melissa Benoist has better chemistry with Katie McGrath than Chris Wood on this show, but glad Lena and not Alex got that scene. 

And of course I'm happy about watching any show that has Pat Benatar's "We Belong" as a wedding song, sung by the two characters played by actors who came from Glee and Smash before this show -- Winn was basically only there to sing with Kara, I was so worried they were going to try to have him upstage her one more time -- and then Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" at the end, plus Mary Fahl's "Going Home" (all songs more appropriate to the ages of the show producers than most of the characters, but since they're closer to my age, that did not bother me). Here are some photos of the gorgeous leaf colors at Black Hill Regional Park last weekend: 

Greetings from Spring

My Monday was mostly about daffodils and basketball, the former because we had spectacular weather and they're blooming everywhere now, the latter because the Terrapins men and women's teams played -- the women in the afternoon, when they scored more than double what Mount St. Mary's did, and the men on prime time, where the Crimson Tide rolled over them. I took photos of bees in my front yard and of flowers all around the neighborhood. 

We ran late for dinner because I was sorting ancient papers to scan -- first old medical records (I don't still need pregnancy update reports, do I?), then ancient fannish stuff, where I found the script for the version of Dallas's "Who Shot J.R.?" that I wrote and performed with friends in eighth grade French class, something I've been looking for for years! Here are some of the sheep and their babies whom we met at Frying Pan Farm Park last weekend: 

Poem for Thursday and Croydon Creek

Our Side of the Creek
By Yusef Komunyakaa

We piled planks, sheets of tin,
& sandbags across the creek
till the bright water rose
& splayed both sides,

swelling into our hoorah.
Our hard work brought July
thrashers & fat June bugs
in decades of dead leaves.

Water moccasins hid in holes
at the brim of the clay bank
as the creek eased up pelvic
bones, hips, navel, & chest,

to eye level. When the boys
dove into our swim hole
we pumped our balled fists
to fire up their rebel yells.

The Jim Crow birds sang
of persimmon & mayhaw
after a 12-gauge shotgun
sounded in the deep woods.

If we ruled the day an hour
the boys would call girl cousins
& sisters, & they came running
half-naked into a white splash,

but we could outrun the sunset
through sage & rabbit tobacco,
born to hide each other’s alibis
beneath the drowned sky.

-------- 

I spent most of Wednesday working on holiday cards, with a long break for lunch to talk to my high school friends on Google Meet. The younger sister (Rochelle Walensky) of someone we graduated with (Susan Bersoff-Matcha) was just named head of Biden's CDC, so we were being excited for her and remembering that in eighth grade French class, we performed an abbreviated "Who Shot J.R.?" skit from Dallas in which Susan played J.R., I played Sue Ellen, Hildy played Kristin, and Linda played Bobby. It was also a beautiful day to walk. 

We watched the holiday singalong episode of The Masked Singer, which was lots of fun -- the bouncing singalong pointer changed shape to reflect the costumes of the singers -- then since I was feeling nostalgic about Chuck Yeager, we figured we'd give The Right Stuff miniseries another try, but the women are still so atrociously written that it's hard for me to watch; will see if I even finish. Here is some of the Heritage Trail at Croydon Creek Nature Center, including the ruins of a farmhouse and what's left of a dam on the creek: 

Poem for Thursday and WB Studio Tour

Whispering, then listening close (from The Poem of the Sufi Way)
By Umar Ibn al-Farid
Translated by Th. Emil Homerin

Whispering, then listening close
     from the vision of one
          casting away his all, instantly,
               out of an omnipotent hand.

Thus I read the knowledge of the scholars
     in a single word,
          and I reveal all the worlds to me
               with a simple glance.

I hear the many voices
     of those who pray in every tongue
          in a space of time
               shorter than a flash.

And I bring before me
     what before had been
          too far away to bear,
               in a blink of my eye.

I inhale the bouquet of gardens
     and the sweet scents clinging to the skirts
          of the four winds,
               in a simple breath.

I survey the far horizons round me
     in a momentary thought,
          and cross the seven heavens
               with a single step.

--------

I'm having one of those weeks where I can't keep up with things because the weather is too nice and I keep having to be outside. I watched the Voyager episode I need to review this week ("Future's End Part One" -- one of my absolute favorites) but I didn't get much writing done because of bunnies and flowers, and I didn't fold any laundry but the towels. Paul had birthday coupons for both The Silver Diner and Best Buy, so we continued our week of Eating All The Things and bought a replacement mobile charger for the car since ours is apparently fried.

I almost feel guilty about how much I'm enjoying Arrow this season since I didn't like it during the seasons people I know thought it was good, but the episodes at the moment are more about the interesting women than the man-pain. As opposed to Nashville, where I hesitate to talk about man-pain since it's mostly boy-pain -- I keep waiting for the adults to act like adults but they're pretty much all stuck in adolescence, except Daphne who's stuck in childhood though she at least has the excuse of being a child. From our visit to the Warner Bros lot in L.A.:


The faux elevated train in front of "County General Hospital" that's often used in movies set in Chicago.


The courthouse facade was still decorated for Hail, Caesar! when we were visiting.


This interior scaffolding from a building in the part of "New York" being set up for Gilmore Girls filming appeared to have been used in this week's episode of Supergirl...


...and these stalactites were right outside the soundstage on which Supergirl is filmed, though the red light wasn't on when we went by.


Driving through the section where props and costumes are constructed, this was the best shot I could get of one of the lanterns from the stern of the Black Pearl.


Inside the extraordinary, massive prop warehouse, which goes many floors up -- we only saw a very small section.


Here I am in the prop warehouse with J.R. Ewing's tombstone from Dallas.


There were Batman v. Superman sets, props, and promos on display all over the lot. Here are the costumes worn by Russell Crowe as Jor-El, Henry Cavill as Clark Kent, and Antje Traue as Faora-Ul in prequel Man of Steel.

Poem for Thursday and Great Falls Vultures

Under the Vulture-Tree
By David Bottoms

We have all seen them circling pastures,
have looked up from the mouth of a barn, a pine clearing,  
the fences of our own backyards, and have stood  
amazed by the one slow wing beat, the endless dihedral drift.
But I had never seen so many so close, hundreds,  
every limb of the dead oak feathered black,

and I cut the engine, let the river grab the jon boat  
and pull it toward the tree.
The black leaves shined, the pink fruit blossomed  
red, ugly as a human heart.
Then, as I passed under their dream, I saw for the first time  
its soft countenance, the raw fleshy jowls
wrinkled and generous, like the faces of the very old  
who have grown to empathize with everything.

And I drifted away from them, slow, on the pull of the river,  
reluctant, looking back at their roost,  
calling them what I'd never called them, what they are,
those dwarfed transfiguring angels,
who flock to the side of the poisoned fox, the mud turtle
crushed on the shoulder of the road,
who pray over the leaf-graves of the anonymous lost,
with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings.

--------

Wednesday was another gorgeous day! There were bunnies and chipmunks and squirrels out enjoying themselves and I got to have all the windows and doors open. I spent the morning and early afternoon doing unexciting work, then I repaired a pair of earrings with carnelian beads so I could wear them with the carnelian necklace I inherited from my sister. Then Paul and I went out to dinner with Angela and Kevin (the plan was Blaze Pizza, but there was an entire high school sports team in line in front of us, so we went to the food court instead)!

Yet again I am giving Arrow a chance, though I must confess to disappointment that my number one reason for watching, John Barrowman, did not appear in this episode even if another special guest star did. Still, it was less manipulative than Nashville, which was particularly Dallas-y this week; only Scarlett's interrupted song in the hospital chapel justified my love. (Hey, we already knew the Cubs were going to win!) When we were at Great Falls last weekend, the buzzards had found something very interesting down in the rocks which we couldn't see:

Poem for Friday and Maryland Zoo Birds

Another Poem on My Daughter's Birthday
By Craig Morgan Teicher

There must be soft words
for an evening like this, when the breeze
caresses like gentle fingertips
all over. I don't know

how not to write darkly and sad.
But it's two years today since
my little girl was born, cut safely
from the noose.

We meant nothing but hope;
how near death is to that.

Only children, only some children,
get to run free from these snags. She
was born! She lived and she grows
like joy spreading from the syllables

of songs. She reminds me of now
and now and now.
                        I must learn
to have been so lucky.

--------

I had a quiet Rosh Hashanah doing what you're not supposed to do on Rosh Hashanah -- work and chores -- and a bit of a walk in the rain, but I could only barely deal with annual Rosh Hashanah services and fashion show at the big downtown synagogue when my kids were in Hebrew school and now feel atheism descending upon me every time I walk into the building, and I don't really feel enough a part of any of the leftie hippie congregations to trek out to them for the High Holy Days. Ironically, when I was putting laundry away, my miniature Torah fell over and knocked a miniature teacup down on a bedroom shelf, which I am sure is an omen of some sort.

Friday is Daniel's 21st birthday, which most feels incredible to me -- I have no idea how that happened so fast! We are having dinner with his grandparents on Saturday to celebrate, since he has work that has to be finished tomorrow. Caught up on Dallas. Ever since we went to the fair in Boonsborough and I got to see wine bottle fairy light lamps at one vendor's tent, because I love fairy lights (I am glad they make them now in non-Christmas colors, even Halloween sets), I have been playing with bottles and lights and had nice relaxing colorful lighting for this gray and drizzly day. Here are flamingos, cormorants, cranes, and penguins in their new homes at the Maryland Zoo:

Poem for Wednesday, Laptop, Baseball, Falconry

Baseball and Writing
By Marianne Moore

(Suggested by post-game broadcasts)

Fanaticism?  No.  Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
   You can never tell with either
      how it will go
      or what you will do;
   generating excitement—
   a fever in the victim—
   pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
        Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
        To whom does it apply?
        Who is excited?  Might it be I?

It’s a pitcher’s battle all the way—a duel—
a catcher’s, as, with cruel
   puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly
      back to plate.  (His spring
      de-winged a bat swing.)
   They have that killer instinct;
   yet Elston—whose catching
   arm has hurt them all with the bat—
        when questioned, says, unenviously,
   “I’m very satisfied.  We won.”
        Shorn of the batting crown, says, “We”;
        robbed by a technicality.

When three players on a side play three positions
and modify conditions,
   the massive run need not be everything.
      “Going, going . . . "  Is
      it?  Roger Maris
   has it, running fast.  You will
   never see a finer catch.  Well . . .
   “Mickey, leaping like the devil”—why
        gild it, although deer sounds better—
snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,
        one-handing the souvenir-to-be
        meant to be caught by you or me.

Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;
he could handle any missile.
   He is no feather.  “Strike! . . . Strike two!”
      Fouled back.  A blur.
      It’s gone.  You would infer
   that the bat had eyes.
   He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, “Thanks, Mel.
   I think I helped a little bit.”
        All business, each, and modesty.
        Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
        In that galaxy of nine, say which
        won the pennant?  Each.  It was he.

Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws
by Boyer, finesses in twos—
   like Whitey’s three kinds of pitch and pre-
      diagnosis
      with pick-off psychosis.
   Pitching is a large subject.
   Your arm, too true at first, can learn to
   catch your corners—even trouble
        Mickey Mantle.  (“Grazed a Yankee!
My baby pitcher, Montejo!”
        With some pedagogy,
        you’ll be tough, premature prodigy.)

They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.  Trying
indeed!  The secret implying:
   “I can stand here, bat held steady.”
      One may suit him;
       none has hit him.
   Imponderables smite him.
   Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds
   require food, rest, respite from ruffians.  (Drat it!
        Celebrity costs privacy!)
Cow’s milk, “tiger’s milk," soy milk, carrot juice,
        brewer’s yeast (high-potency—
        concentrates presage victory

sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez—
deadly in a pinch.  And “Yes,
   it’s work; I want you to bear down,
      but enjoy it
      while you’re doing it.”
   Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,
   if you have a rummage sale,
   don’t sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
        Studded with stars in belt and crown,
the Stadium is an adastrium.
        O flashing Orion,
        your stars are muscled like the lion.

--------

I have spent pretty much the entire day reconfiguring Adam's old laptop, a 2009 Dell Inspiron running Windows 7, but it has all been worth it because my well-loved 2007 Latitude running XP finally reached the point where it couldn't run the few programs for which I need a laptop. I had a minor crisis in the morning because my father, who was going to give it to my uncle, couldn't remember the system password from many months earlier, but eventually we guessed it and I spent the next very many hours deleting and installing programs.

Tonight, however, I am in a good mood, not only because I have a laptop doing everything I want it to do that didn't cost me anything, but because both the Orioles and Nationals have won their respective divisions and are both trending as #eastchamps right now! We were watching The Roosevelts during the end of the Nats game, following the score online, and less than half an hour later, the Os had clinched too. Now I am catching up on Dallas (go Pamela)! Some pics of the falconry at the Pennsylvania Renfaire last month: