New subject: Tuesday

14 Mar 2011

Oh, how I want to be there. All the East Coasters are there in spirit. 
Will someone please recite Gertrude Stein's:

The World is Round (excerpt)
Gertrude SteinI am Rose my eyes are blue
I am Rose and who are you
I am Rose and when I sing
I am Rose like anything

and also, from Ms. Stein, 

	* "When I said.
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
And then later made that into a ring I made poetry and what did I do I caressed 
completely caressed and addressed a noun." (Lectures in America)
and 
"Civilization begins with a rose. A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. It 
continues with blooming and it fastens clearly upon excellent examples." (As 
Fine as Melanctha)

And I am thinking of Sonnet 18, too: 

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Finally, the long but oh-so-beautiful "Ode," whose last four lines are perfect:

Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900. 

William Wordsworth. 1770–1850 

536. Ode 
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood 

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,   
    The earth, and every common sight,   
            To me did seem   
    Apparell'd in celestial light,   
The glory and the freshness of a dream.          5 
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—   
        Turn wheresoe'er I may,   
            By night or day,   
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.   

        The rainbow comes and goes,   10 
        And lovely is the rose;   
        The moon doth with delight   
    Look round her when the heavens are bare;   
        Waters on a starry night   
        Are beautiful and fair;   15 
    The sunshine is a glorious birth;   
    But yet I know, where'er I go,   
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.   

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,   
    And while the young lambs bound   20 
        As to the tabor's sound,   
To me alone there came a thought of grief:   
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,   
        And I again am strong:   
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;   25 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;   
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,   
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,   
        And all the earth is gay;   
            Land and sea   30 
    Give themselves up to jollity,   
      And with the heart of May   
    Doth every beast keep holiday;—   
          Thou Child of Joy,   
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy   35 
    Shepherd-boy!   

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call   
    Ye to each other make; I see   
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;   
    My heart is at your festival,   40 
      My head hath its coronal,   
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.   
        O evil day! if I were sullen   
        While Earth herself is adorning,   
            This sweet May-morning,   45 
        And the children are culling   
            On every side,   
        In a thousand valleys far and wide,   
        Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,   
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:—   50 
        I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!   
        —But there's a tree, of many, one,   
A single field which I have look'd upon,   
Both of them speak of something that is gone:   
          The pansy at my feet   55 
          Doth the same tale repeat:   
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?   
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?   

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:   
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,   60 
        Hath had elsewhere its setting,   
          And cometh from afar:   
        Not in entire forgetfulness,   
        And not in utter nakedness,   
But trailing clouds of glory do we come   65 
        From God, who is our home:   
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!   
Shades of the prison-house begin to close   
        Upon the growing Boy,   
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,   70 
        He sees it in his joy;   
The Youth, who daily farther from the east   
    Must travel, still is Nature's priest,   
      And by the vision splendid   
      Is on his way attended;   75 
At length the Man perceives it die away,   
And fade into the light of common day.   

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;   
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,   
And, even with something of a mother's mind,   80 
        And no unworthy aim,   
    The homely nurse doth all she can   
To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man,   
    Forget the glories he hath known,   
And that imperial palace whence he came.   85 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,   
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!   
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,   
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,   
With light upon him from his father's eyes!   90 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,   
Some fragment from his dream of human life,   
Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;   
    A wedding or a festival,   
    A mourning or a funeral;   95 
        And this hath now his heart,   
    And unto this he frames his song:   
        Then will he fit his tongue   
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;   
        But it will not be long  100 
        Ere this be thrown aside,   
        And with new joy and pride   
The little actor cons another part;   
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'   
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,  105 
That Life brings with her in her equipage;   
        As if his whole vocation   
        Were endless imitation.   

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie   
        Thy soul's immensity;  110 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep   
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,   
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,   
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—   
        Mighty prophet! Seer blest!  115 
        On whom those truths do rest,   
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,   
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;   
Thou, over whom thy Immortality   
Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave,  120 
A presence which is not to be put by;   
          To whom the grave   
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight   
        Of day or the warm light,   
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;  125 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might   
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,   
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke   
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,   
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?  130 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,   
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,   
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!   

        O joy! that in our embers   
        Is something that doth live,  135 
        That nature yet remembers   
        What was so fugitive!   
The thought of our past years in me doth breed   
Perpetual benediction: not indeed   
For that which is most worthy to be blest—  140 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed   
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,   
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—   
        Not for these I raise   
        The song of thanks and praise;  145 
    But for those obstinate questionings   
    Of sense and outward things,   
    Fallings from us, vanishings;   
    Blank misgivings of a Creature   
Moving about in worlds not realized,  150 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature   
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:   
        But for those first affections,   
        Those shadowy recollections,   
      Which, be they what they may,  155 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,   
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;   
  Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make   
Our noisy years seem moments in the being   
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,  160 
            To perish never:   
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,   
            Nor Man nor Boy,   
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,   
Can utterly abolish or destroy!  165 
    Hence in a season of calm weather   
        Though inland far we be,   
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea   
        Which brought us hither,   
    Can in a moment travel thither,  170 
And see the children sport upon the shore,   
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.   

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!   
        And let the young lambs bound   
        As to the tabor's sound!  175 
We in thought will join your throng,   
      Ye that pipe and ye that play,   
      Ye that through your hearts to-day   
      Feel the gladness of the May!   
What though the radiance which was once so bright  180 
Be now for ever taken from my sight,   
    Though nothing can bring back the hour   
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;   
      We will grieve not, rather find   
      Strength in what remains behind;  185 
      In the primal sympathy   
      Which having been must ever be;   
      In the soothing thoughts that spring   
      Out of human suffering;   
      In the faith that looks through death,  190 
In years that bring the philosophic mind.   

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,   
Forebode not any severing of our loves!   
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;   
I only have relinquish'd one delight  195 
To live beneath your more habitual sway.   
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,   
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;   
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day   
            Is lovely yet;  200 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun   
Do take a sober colouring from an eye   
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;   
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.   
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,  205 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,   
To me the meanest flower that blows can give   
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.   

________________________________
From: Clay Stromberger &lt;cstromberger(a)mail.utexas.edu&gt;
To: weeklong-l(a)lists.wikimedia.org
Sent: Sun, March 13, 2011 10:19:04 PM
Subject: Re: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday

Augie, Emma and I will be there, ready to follow the instructions of those who 
actually know what they are doing in a garden.  

cs

On Mar 13, 2011, at 8:56 PM, Jeff Larsen wrote:

...
  Will and I are planning to be there and will bring a
few implements of 
destruction.  Would it make sense to try to put in a watering system of buried 
garden hose or PVC?  

                                          Love, Jeff
 --- On Sun, 3/13/11, Maggie Megaw &lt;maggie(a)bizaffairs.com&gt; wrote:

  From: Maggie Megaw &lt;maggie(a)bizaffairs.com&gt;
  Subject: [Weeklong-l] Tuesday
 To: weeklong-l(a)lists.wikimedia.org
 Date: Sunday, March 13, 2011, 7:08 PM
 Thought we should touch base about
 Tuesday--who's going, what we need in terms of shovels,
 watering cans, and so on. Doc, shall we each come equipped
 with the above and shall we each bring a bag of potting
 soil?  You said before that you would get the rose
 bushes--is that right?  Let us know--I can bring tools
 and can run errands tomorrow. 
 Xxxmaggie

 Maggie Megaw
 Business Affairs Inc
 2415 Main Street
 Santa Monica, CA 90405

 _______________________________________________
 Weeklong-l mailing  list
 Weeklong-l(a)lists.wikimedia.org
 https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/weeklong-l

 _______________________________________________
 Weeklong-l mailing list
 Weeklong-l(a)lists.wikimedia.org
 https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/weeklong-l 
Clayton Stromberger    
Outreach Coordinator, UT Shakespeare at Winedale
College of Liberal Arts, University of Texas at Austin
www.shakespeare-winedale.org
cell:  512-363-6864
UT Sh. at W. office:   512-471-4726

_______________________________________________
Weeklong-l mailing list
Weeklong-l(a)lists.wikimedia.org
https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/weeklong-l