When it comes to weather, New Englanders are delusional. In his ten years on the East Coast Howard had lost count of the times some loon from Massachusetts had heard his accent, looked at him pitiably and said something like: cold over there, huh? Howard’s feeling was: look, let’s get a few things straight here. England is not warmer than New England in July and August, that’s true. Probably not in June, either. But it is warmer in October, November, December, January, February, March, April, and May—that is, in every month when warmth matters.
In England letter-boxes do not jam with snow. Rarely does one see a squirrel tremble. It is not necessary to pick up a shovel in order to unearth your rubbish bins. This is because it is never really very cold in England. It is drizzly, and the wind will blow; hail happens, and there is a breed of Tuesday in January in which time creeps and no light comes and the air is full of water and nobody really loves anybody, but still a decent jumper and a waxen jacket lined with wool is sufficient for every weather England’s got to give.
"A familiar thing to common people: a beer,
when it is hot, and the sun
into your eyes. Makes you forget history’s
only meaningful in retrospect. While flowers, like daffodils,
only have their meaning in the fleshy present. Perspective
cannot explain sexual feelings, though. Perspective-
ly, viewing a glass of beer,
we compare the color to daffodils
and perhaps a simple morning view of the sun.
The appetite is history’s
fact. Common. Dull. Repetitious. Not flashing….
full of exceptions, and I think I’m one. Yet, what history’s
really about how common, recurring, we all are. The daffodils,
once planted, really do come back each spring. And drinking beer
is a habit most ordinary men have. The flashing
gold liquid recurs in war, in factories and farms. The sun
has explosions that we don not know, record, or even keep in perspective.”
I ran into this bridge while I was walking through Hamburg, Germany. Lovers come with engraved locks, attach them to the bridge, and then, presumably, throw the key into the river—lovers for life.
"…I see how clearly anyone’s mistaken
who believes the grace that rains down from divine you
could be equalled by my feeble and fleeting work.
Genius, and art, and memory give up:
for one who’s mortal can’t, from himself, repay
a heavenly gift, even with a thousand tries.”
Everyone looks just like with her.
Don’t sleep with anyone. Don’t sleep.