Flour, Water and Yeasts of the Air

Day 3 sourdough start bubbled,

her frilled cap almost bursting. 

Yeasts of the air had woken her, 

no ding of an alert to warn of the 

overflow of nature’s goodness.

 

“Blues is to jazz what yeast 

is to bread. Without it, it’s flat”

~ Carmen McRae, American jazz singer (April 1920 - November 1994)

Curved Things

I like curved things like the 

arms of a rocking chair that 

would mold my cupped hand 

to fit; a curve that shapes the 

moon as it passes through the 

universe, the curve of the ear 

of a coffee mug that is just big 

enough for two or three fingers 

on one hand, while the other 

cups the warmth against 

the first tea of the morning. 

If life throws me a curve, I can 

dash it against my anger and frustration

to leave me weak and vulnerable. 

When my sky seems empty, I can cup 

my hands and heart around it to feel 

the ease of the rocking chair with 

the warmth of fresh brewed tea. 

“Cultivate your curves ~ they may be dangerous but they won’t be avoided.”

~ Mae West

It's Easy Enough

It’s easy enough to read the words on any page ~ a crinkly newspaper, a regular book 

with covers, a pamphlet for baby formula, a bus schedule that takes you from here 

to there. It’s easy enough to make all the squiggles and marks on a page with black 

or blue or red ink, or tap them out 

on a keyboard, so words flow or play 

bumper cars with each other. But 

after all the words have been 

written, with care or a finesse 

that is only belief, or maybe were 

dashed off in wild thought, it is not 

easy to round them all up and make 

sense of them. I suppose they are 

rather like cats in that regard. Once 

they’ve curled up and settled themselves, 

they just want to be left alone to snooze. 

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. 

I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.”

~ Kurt Vonnegut

Berry Red

Once again, I was walking to an appointment, not paying much attention to anything but where my feet were going, 

to avoid any stray and threatening pebbles; the cars parked along the street snugged up against the curb; 

a saw horse with a sheet of plywood planning to be part of a wall, or maybe a dog house. It was the bright red that reached 

out and pulled at my eyes. The 

berries that had previously been 

green and ready to go, on another day 

were blushing at being caught out in 

the sun, and on this day were brilliant 

whispers of the ripening season that slips 

us slowly into the turn of the seasons. 

But not just yet.

“You notice. And noticing you live.”

~ John Graves, writer

(August 1920 - July 2013)

Book Review: The English Patient

There is only one story in this book. A story of how war damages people and how they survive. Four people come together in an Italian villa just as World War II has ended. The English patient who was burned beyond recognition. His real name is a mystery throughout novel. He is the main narrator in a morphine filled haze. Hana, a young woman, who had been a nurse in field hospitals full of the never ending dead, dying and injured, feeds him and cares for him, gives him the morphine to ease the pain of his scarred burns. From Toronto, she goes through each day in the routines she learned in this broken land, and misses home. The villa they were in had been a field hospital. 

All patients and staff left to a better location but Hana and the English patient refused to leave. Caravaggio, also Canadian and an old friend of Hana’s father, arrived after he learned of Hana’s whereabouts. He had been a thief and pickpocket before the war and became part of the secret spy world. Tortured and both thumbs removed, he was also addicted to morphine. The fourth person in this single story was Kirpal Singh, nicknamed Kip as a joke, part of a team of sappers. Sappers that defused the thousands of bombs that had been laid by the Germans during the war and on their retreat. 

So each story within the single story of devastation and always potential death, is woven into the other until they become their own unit. But never really together in their minds and hearts. The English patient takes us on many treks through the desert and an impatient love he had in that lost time. Kip’s job doesn’t stop. Michael Ondaatje describes the meticulous, focussed actions of this young man. How and where he learned about bomb defusing. The daily danger that he puts out of his mind to solve the puzzle of the next bomb. Ondaatje also describes beautiful scenes of the sharing of human touch, sometimes love making, sometimes just being together. There is much beauty in the relationships that do blossom out of that need for the human touch. There are games that they play. Hana reads books to the English patient. One belonging to him, but some from a bombed out library of books in the villa. Caravaggio does not seem to have a place in the story which may be because of the life he had always lived in shadows. Never really there, but being present. One name keeps cropping up: Almásy. A master spy that no one could catch. The end of this story comes over Kip’s radio phones. The radio phones that kept him away from the world while he worked in a pit, or in an ordinary room, to diffuse a bomb that could kill. 

Were any medical issues believable? The severe burns, the physical care that would be required, and the amount and availability of morphine. Not to my mind, but I was able to discount all of these for the sake of the story. The reality of the destruction to not just the land and homes, but to the minds and spirits of those involved in war. This single story is a beautiful metaphor of the lives of four people: The English Patient, Hana, Caravaggio and Kirpal Singh.

“A novel is a mirror walking down a road.”

~ Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

Title: The English Patient

Author: Michael Ondaatje

Copyright: 1992

Publisher: Vintage Books Canada

Format: Soft Cover

Type: Novel

ISBN: o-394-28013-x

ISBN: 9780307700872 (hard cover)

ISBN: 9780676514209 (Paper back)

Many Voices of Me

Hear their voices 

echoing from 

many ages ~

listen to them 

for their wisdom, 

their many moods, 

their downfalls, 

their achievements, 

remember each step 

along the way 

steps rushed or slow, 

faltering or striding forth. 

Hear their voices merge 

into the one voice that 

lives in today. Honour them 

all, be kind to them all 

for they are who you 

embody today.

“I’m safe inside this container called me.”

~ Haruki Murakami

Inspired by a poem I read online, but am unable to find again to credit the author with helping me to write my post tonight.

When

When leaves of trees are still

white puffs of cloud hold aloft

When air holds silence until

beautiful music slow dances

When evening light darkens

my breath slows and softens

When leaves of trees are still, 

tiny stars wish all a good night.

“…So let us welcome peaceful evening in.”

~ William Cowper

(1731 ~ 1800)