The Flight, The Fall, The Beautiful Mitt

The higher you fly, the farther you'll fall.
So it goes through every season.

And therefore we must find beauty in even the fall, not merely the flight of spring from highest perch.
But Dignity? Is there any to spare in this world?

We should hope so, Love.

But not for the instinct to build nests we would not find our courage to fly. If we did not fly we would yet live, but merely dream.

A life full of dreaming is not murder, is it? Are its vacancies even real?
Glass, wax, wool and wood dust fill emptiness in me.

Sadly, the feline dream is not the same as the avian; thus, one falls to pieces as the other acts on ambitions it soon forgets.

._~!~_.

(the cat dreams mostly in red,
and red are all my clothes,
because my dear is red,
my dear is red,
red, my dear)

L'Oiseau de poire

My sister and grandmother's feathered creation of pear, date, boursin, pimento, grape, ginger cookie, cinnamon, and cloves.
My cousin's vegetarian family in Basel will adopt these next year as part of their turkey-free turkeyday.

(I hope yours was a happy one).

A Fiction, A Domesticated Reality

"Art is troublesome

not because it is not delightful, but because it is not more delightful: we accustom ourselves to the failure of gardens to make our lives as paradisal as

their prospects.

"This is the record of a struggle to assimilate more and more to the real of delight, which takes up less and less obvious sources of gratification till in the end we feel we can take the same joy in almost any made thing. It is about bringing things indoors, about domesticating reality, and the model for all these objects is a building-- the palpable idea, the traversible speech, the simplest experience of being in more than one place at a time."

-Robert Harbison, Eccentric Spaces (P. xi)

.
. . .
A lovely affirmation.
A melancholic sentiment.
(now kiss me, you old fool)
. . .
.
.