L'aura del Campo

Mongolia and The Dead Poets' Mugs

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███████          L'aura del campo           ███████

SUMMER: 16 Kalimát (28 July)

'é a lua,  é a lua,  na quintana dos mortos'
♣    Federico García Lorca    ♣

I know I could learn Mongolian and I know I could learn to ride a horse and live in a yurt. How do I know this? The yurt is easiest. I've slept in the most wonderful bed in the world at my friends' place in Peoria (The Wrights of Limestone Twp). I've also slept on a mat on the floor. I've slept in hotels, motels and in my own house. I've done attics and basements. A yurt is no prob! (Does one have to put up and tear down a yurt like a tent? I may be in trouble.)

Mongolian? I understand the basic concept of a morphological language and would find it easier for me to bend my mind around it than a non-syntactical language like Latin. It took years of French to realise that it would take many years more! However, there came a day when I could think in Spanish, and even now after not using it on a daily basis, the mind will still go there when needed. Unless French from my childhood gets in the way! In which case all is lost in a haze until the mind clears again. Yes, I could learn Mongolian.

The horse would be the worse. I'd not be able to get on. I'd fall off. The stallion wouldn't go. The mare wouldn't stop. Animals like me, but I'm no horse whisperer. I'd only get hoarse trying to coax it to stop and go on command. But I guess it would be like typing. I couldn't type for years. Now when I enter my password, the fingers fly before I think. It usually comes out right. And if it doesn't, I'm merely told to enter again. If the horse were to allow me to ride it each day, I could learn. Yes, I could even learn to ride a horse.

So take me to Mongolia, and give me a yurt. And let me walk next to the horse.

████████ Sizzling? Think cool !
████████ Weather where I am: 86º and sunny hot.
████████ Weather where Dick and Mary Lou Wright are: 87º in Peoria, Illinois.
████████ Weather where I'd rather be: 57º at midnight in Baruunturuun, Mongolia.

IMAGES

In the museum's library:

Hushed converstion, mostly quiet; the sound of footpads, quiet; a beep from the check-out counter, quiet; the tap of these fingers on keyboard, quiet; books knocking against wood, quiet; the barely audible sound of the airconditioning, AND THE FRICKING QUIET!

Oh, and blue backed chairs (very hard wooden chairs), and softer rose colored chairs, and lots of very very quiet books.

Quiet day. Fell asleep last night early, like 9 p.m. like WTF! Got up too late to catch the first bus or second ... so I took a bath and then mosied into town and up to the Art Museum on campus and started this entry. Quiet ... ssshhh!

I went to 'work' and did some watering and some hoeing but it was too hot and muggy. I remembered to take my pill by washing it down with a rootbeer float. I'm learning how to award myself.

In the bookstore they have these mugs for sale that have the faces of poets and writers on them. I couldn't resist and sketched this:

The Poets' Mugs

Drink from the cups of dead writers
from Jane Austen ask her what's up.
And Billy could learn you a sonnet or two
punctuation nor syntax is not ...
so drink from the dead writer's cup.

Sip from the mugs of dead poets
ask Sylvia 'bout life before death
with Bishop discuss evening rainbows,
to Marianne speak only of fish,
then suck in the dead poet's breath.

Slurp on the faces of authors,
their ghosts cannot touch or condemn.
Dribble your drink on their faces.
They've known critics worser than you!
Pray they don't bid you to join them.

Guzzle your tea or your coffee.
Speak to Emily's bust.
Comment on Oscar's illusions,
Offer to Pablo your love,
but let writing be your true lust. [163.275]