Monday's Muzik

Unless you live under a rock, I'll warrant you can not have avoided the rocket-like rise to global celebrity of South Korean pop star Psy.

But I'll bet few of you have heard of Berkeley, California-based Korean band Ra-On?


By the magic of the interblogs, I can remedy that.  They play Psy's hit song. But differently.

Friday's Poem.

 Eve Speaks:

Once I was in Eden and walked, blithely,
out of it.
How was I to know?
There seemed another Eden,
just next door. It looked familiar,
and I was tired of the new.
All day he strolled around with his name tags.
Glitter turned specific, but I craved
the blobbiness of things,
the inexact borders,
the possibility that this could also be

that. Of course I was an idiot. I'd run back
now, if I could, bear his painless
children, even call the girl If Only,
the boy, I Told You So.
Instead of living in this okay crowded world,
I'd make all my mistakes in Paradise.
Is that possible?
Is it?
I didn't even see the gate.
Then the gate closed.

Jan Heller Levi

Poem. Today's selection.

Let me tell you about my marvelous god, how he hides in the hexagons
of the bees, how the drought that wrings its leather hands
above the world is of his making, as well as the rain in the quiet minutes
that leave only thoughts of rain.
An atom is working and working, an atom is working in deepest
night, then bursting like the farthest star; it is far
smaller than a pinprick, far smaller than a zero and it has no
will, no will toward us.
This is why the heart has paced and paced,
will pace and pace across the field where yarrow
was and now is dust. A leaf catches
in a bone. The burrow’s shut by a tumbled clod
and the roots, upturned, are hot to the touch.
How my god is a feathered and whirling thing; you will singe your arm
when you pluck him from the air,
when you pluck him from that sky
where grieving swirls, and you will burn again
throwing him back.

Susan Stewart:- "Let me tell you about my marvelous god"

via Three Quarks Daily, where Jim Culleny posts a regular thursday poem.
Three Quarks makes interesting reading.

Whoa!

In my dreams, I skate and glide, I perform effortless curves, banking around corners, my feet just a couple of inches above the ground, I'm graceful, I could fly, and I never fall.

Which bemuses me, because I never was great at that sort of thing. Roller skates. Elizabeth Simpson had roller skates when I was about 7. And a key. And I was so impressed as she skated up the concrete driveway. Skates seemed like the ultimate liberator. As good as, no, better even than having a real bicycle. And Elizabeth, bless her generous little heart, offered to teach me, so I sat on the kitchen doorstep, and we did the skate key and straps thing, over my 'Start-Rite' sandals, and the bees of summer zigzagged by on their quest for pollen, and I stood, and my left foot went one way, and my right foot shot out, and I sat back with a crash, and banged my head on the glossy deep-red painted door. And I bit my lip and tried not to cry.

On the next try, Elizabeth clung to me carefully as I unfolded my unreliable limbs, and I gripped her in a fearsome clinch.

Now, bear in mind we were seven. Damn. If we were fifteen, that clinch would have seen steam coming out of my ears. But at seven? Nah.  So, I let go and tried a tentative step, one hand on the house wall. Yes! it works!
"You're doing it!" she cried, all excited, " just let go!"
At the end of the house, the driveway sloped.

And gravity sucked my legs.
And I accelerated, flailing arms, trying desperately to..
And I'm not sure what happened next. Maybe the skates crossed. Maybe my legs shot out, forward, backward, sideways.  Either way, the next I remember is lying in a bloody heap of pain.
Took a while to get those skates off. Sniffling but trying not to cry in front of a girl. Humiliated.  She could move on those skates as if born to them, and me? I can barely stand.
My knees were a swelling mess of blood and gravel, as were my hands, elbows and forehead.
I stoically told her I was okay, but it was time for me to go home for tea, and she accepted my excuse. "You can come back tomorrow for another go!" she yelled as I limped off up the road, to sanctuary.

But I didn't. The next day, I went to play with Barbara Wallace. She had a pedal-car.

I'm De-Cluttering.

 

My radio has to go. The problem is that this one doesn't receive any programmes from after about 1945. It's all big bands and flamboyant orchestra leaders. Any time now, I'm expecting to hear that allied forces have established a beach-head in northern france, and are advancing under heavy fire.

It's a british military PCR No. 1.  

From PYE radio's website: "War-time employees of Pye Ltd are quite certain that the equipment was intended as an "Invasion Receiver", that is, a general purpose, portable communications receiver (hence the type designation PCR) , for use in Europe by the British 2nd Army after the D-Day Normandy landings, to receive military progress and information broadcasts as part of Operation Overlord, as the various divisions moved across Europe. The term "Broadcast" has a different meaning in the Military, compared to domestic radio communications, and this may have given rise to the popular myth that the design was originally intended for the reception of domestic broadcast signals. Recent information from British Armed Service personnel indicates that the set was also supplied by the RAF to Resistance Groups in Norway, Holland and France. This is confirmed by the Dutch Royal Corps of Signals Verbindingsdienst web site. It was also later used by the British Army during the Korean war.

Dutch Military Radio Museum says :
"Radio receiver PCR - 1.
Was used during World War II by resistance groups to receive messages about the dropping of weapons, agents etc."

I'll probably bung it on ebay and hope for the best. 

In Which a Package Arrives!

A big red van stopped outside. 

A man came to the door. He had  a parcel for me!

Luckily it did not contain porcelain, or delicate instruments, because it looked like someone had been practicing their throwing skills.

 (but not the catching ones)

Now, I'd been awaiting a package, because the Red Dirt Girl, far away in  Texas,had told me she'd sent me a present. I had no idea what was inside... Until I looked at the sender's label. Ohhhhh!  Zhena's Gypsy Tea!

 Ohhhh!

 And I do so love the Gypsies....

Now, just as described in Proust's  À la recherche du temps perdu, a scent, an aroma, can evoke so much. If it was a movie, there'd be a fuzzy-fade at this point, and The Red Dirt Girl and I would be strolling through the little town of Bastrop, Texas, and into a gallery, a place where artists ply their trades, and there's a store with natural remedies, and teas. And I'm slowly recovering from a very very bad throat infection, my throat feels like its been scoured with broken glass, I can barely eat solids. I'm hoping I might find a natural soothing remedy, and, for sure, some peppermint tea.

In this little store, scented with all manner of herbs and spices, I find Zhena's Gypsy Tea. 

Coconut Chai, Ceylon and Assam black teas, blended with cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, and coconut, orange peel, nutmeg, black pepper and cloves. It's just what I need.

Soothing, a sybaritic luxury. I love it.
Back at the Pecan Street Inn, I open my can of teabags and am immediately surrounded by a sense of calm. O zen tea! And so, until I returned home, that scent, that flavour, was the scent of a happy holiday with The Red Dirt Girl, roaming around Texas, having a good time, the best times...

And look what was in the pack!
Excitement!
Quick, get the kettle!

Keep Calm!

Oh my. She's the best, just the best person in the world. I should have known this woman forever. Where has she been all these years? My soulmate!

Got a Bike? Need a Horse?

p p

Compliments of the Seasonings.

Via Eclecticity