rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Not Iced Tea Weather

Evening is remarkably chilly. Though most of the clouds were gone and the sun was bright, the day never warmed much. The little purple sourgrass flowers were closed tight, and even the few golden poppies which have already bloomed opened only slightly. The lilies have bloomed, but some of them are turning brown, maybe from the cold. Something has delivered us a big mass of Alaska's air. Yesterday was chilly, too, but today was even more so.

The good side of this is that it seems to have dampened the ardor of the local vegetation sufficiently to prevent releases of pollen, for the time being. I got to enjoy the bright but chilly day without sneezing. Enjoying the full moon will be a bit more difficult, as the temperature has dropped even lower so quickly that even my fleece hoodie was not warm enough to induce me to finish my evening walk. Even the birds went in early, and the dusk is now quiet, with no sound of either crickets or frogs. I think I'll be spending the night indoors.



Sunday Verse

The Map


by Elizabeth Bishop


Land lies in water; it is shadowed green.
Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges
showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges
where weeds hang to the simple blue from green.
Or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under,
drawing it unperturbed around itself?
Along the fine tan sandy shelf
is the land tugging at the sea from under?

The shadow of Newfoundland lies flat and still.
Labrador's yellow, where the moony Eskimo
has oiled it. We can stroke these lovely bays,
under a glass as if they were expected to blossom,
or as if to provide a clean cage for invisible fish.
The names of seashore towns run out to sea,
the names of cities cross the neighboring mountains
—the printer here experiencing the same excitement
as when emotion too far exceeds its cause.
These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger
like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods.

Mapped waters are more quiet than the land is,
lending the land their waves' own conformation:
and Norway's hare runs south in agitation,
profiles investigate the sea, where land is.
Are they assigned, or can the countries pick their colors?
—What suits the character or the native waters best.
Topography displays no favorites; North's as near as West.
More delicate than the historians' are the map-makers' colors.




Behold! I found this October, 1951 photo in the USC Digital Archives. It's from the Los Angeles Examiner collection. It depicts a Pasadena woman named Wilma Starkey holding a skunk she rescued from traffic. Little information accompanied the photo, and for me the most notable absence was any mention of the fresh bandage Mrs. Starkey appears to be sporting on her thumb. No other mention of the event is available anywhere on the Internet, but I suppose if Mrs. Starkey had gotten rabies and died, we'd have been told about it... wouldn't we?

As usual, click photo multiple times to ultimately embiggen.


Wilma and her skunk
Wilma and her skunk
Wilma Starkey, 42, with the skunk she rescued from traffic in Pasadena, California, October 1951.

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