The Turn

I am looking for You. For most of my life I have felt followed. Men in white lab coats behind one-way glass. Clutching clipboards. Conferring. Or shadowy figures in black raiment obscured by trees off in the distance behind me. Speaking into their cuffs. These ghosts came and went over …

WhereMI

I don’t always understand what I feel. Just now coming out of the Saint Louis Art Museum’s exhibit on impressionism, I stood briefly on its front steps and freeze, inert and overcome with an unidentifiable feeling: a thrill; some ancient ache; a half recognition as if a curtain been momentarily …

History of my Spine

I’m tempted to not write about my spine, because it’s not terribly interesting to anyone that has one of their own. But I feel I must. It is my crucible and it’s hard to come away from the serpentine fillet without feeling defeated, but not destroyed and drunk with oblivion’s …

We Sleep Together

Jigsaw The Wonder Cat brings me a dead mouse. It’s bulging in her small mouth, limp; the mouse’s eyes closed as if it had been scared to death. There’s no blood, no trauma. Folk wisdom believes cats can fling mice by their tails bashing their tiny skulls on the ground …

And I miss Winnipeg’s winters, which any Winnipegger will tell you is ridiculous. Nonetheless, I miss the winter sun on snow and ice, the blue sky too cold for a scrap of cloud, and clear air like a healing draft so strong that too much will kill you. Walking in such weather is necessarily walking meditation, every breath sears with cold, every footfall in the snow crunches and squeaks. My expatriate sorrow is that the weather has become warmer and the government colder since I left.

— SARAH McNALLY, a bookstore owner in today’s New York Times on what is Canada’s day of national celebration.  So true.

Drive, drive in your nails, oh ye waves! to their uttermost heads drive them in! ye but strike a thing without a lid; and no coffin and no hearse can be mine:—and hemp only can kill me! Ha! ha!

Ahab the zealot in hot pursuit of the white whale that shall be the harbinger of the captain’s death.

Raids on the Inarticulate

Eliot’s “Four Quartets” is an autobiographical poem of experiences the poet had at four locations, told over four seasons and in reference to four elements: earth, wind, water and fire, all of which helps to situate the poem somewhere between prospective experience and the seal of meaning the poet has …

Aye, breach your last to the sun, Moby Dick!” cried Ahab, “thy hour and thy harpoon are at hand!—Down! down all of ye, but one man at the fore. The boats!—stand by!

Herman Melville, cetologist