Indian Spring

After a frigid week and an all-night drenching, the earth awoke to a remarkable redoux -- a humid, balmy simulacrum of Spring, wedged into a crevice of Winter.   And so, though my son and (since the bereavement) principal hike-mate  was still tarrying up in New Jersey (like Odysseus on Ogygia,  entranced by Calypso), I set out for the lake, alone save for ever-sensed presence of my late beloved bride, ethereally by my side.  (For those of you with a Classical background, this will recall the eidolon of Helen of Troy, in Euripedes.)

The lake, only recently frozen over, was now quite free of ice. A flock of diving-ducks made sport with this, plying their dippy trade; and a few turtles had seemingly emerged from whatever mudhole they hide in to escape the winter’s wrath, and were sunning themselves on a log.  Solitary joggers  in T-shirts and shorts  passed by.

On the far side of the lake, a brisk wind had sprung up, and this fickle, now from in front and now behind.  I sat down on a sunlit bench, half-hoping the Muse might whisper, but in the event  I mostly joined the turtles in a dozy pleasure of motionless, wordless sunbathing.  Such exposure increasingly abundant sun is prophylactic against Seasonal Affective Disorder, a kind of dermal dialysis.

[-- 21 Dec 2018, officially the first day of Winter.]

The Brightening, though Frozen Solstice

This time each year,  the sun doth wend,

signaling days-dying’s end.

Henceforth  throughout  the grateful lands

our daily dose of light  expands.

Thus do we, cheered  by this faint grace,

take heart for Winter’s chill embrace.

And though the brisk winds  scourge the earth,

look forward to  our Spring rebirth.

Christi dedico in nomine;
Gratias agimus, Domine.

Depth Psychology of the Riddling Community

The riddle was originally a sacred game, and as such cut clear across any possible distinction between play and seriousness.

-- J. Huizinga

There seems to be a riddle

behind all riddles

which we have not yet guessed.

-- Northrop Frye

Ding-gedicht

Behold the bold and noble toaster,

ever ready  to brown your bread.

Fie on them who spurn her service

and use a microwave  instead.

Gemmological Footnote

In 1955, the noted gemmologist and contrarian Sir Nelson Goodman, in a brief note published in the proceedings of the Devonshire Horticultural Society, questioned the received wisdom concerning the colour of emeralds.  “Everyone says that they are by nature green,” he noted, “simply because they have always been green.”  (Note that, in Sir Nelson’s quaint dialect, “been” and “green” actually rhyme.)  “But our observations to that effect, however numerous and of however long standing, may equally be marshaled to support the thesis that they are in fact grue:  which is to say, green prior to 18 November 2018, and blue thereafter.”

In the half century or more that has elapsed since that time, all sorts of philosophical fuss about “projectible predicates” and whatnot (green but not grue  enjoying this rather circular distinction), but in all of that, thinkers lost sight of the basic facts of the matter: are emeralds in fact green, or grue, or what?

We need wonder no longer, for the great day -- 18 November 2018 -- has arrived at last.

And it turns out that  last night, all over the planet, and into the deepest recesses of intersteller space, quite at the stroke of midnight, every last emerald  did in fact turn blue.  Or rather, “grue”.

So now we know.

March of the Penguins !

Alluding to the current kerfuffle over the northward-tending “caravan”, the lead editorial in this week’s New Yorker  quotes the following startling statement from POTUS:

“They’ve intercepted wonderful people

from South America 

and from other parts further south.”

I rushed to my globe and immediately confirmed that the only point south of South America is … Antarctica.

And the only beings in Antarctica are… penguins.

Coming soon to a border near you.

The penguins are on the march!

[FLASH UPDATE]  It turns out the Administration (or rather, its IC elements) may have been after bigger game than penguins, when they cast their nets south towards Antarctica.  Those with appropriate clearances can view the following video:

Geheimnisvolle Antarktis

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bNROpknHa7o

Blindman’s Ballad

Madame Life's a tart in bloom;

Death's her pimp upon the stair;

she may ask you to her room;

he'll be waiting while you're there.

She may see you as a friend;

you may gyp him once or twice;

but he'll get you in the end;

and you'll have to pay her price.

After it's all said and done;

after laughter, songs, and prayers;

Death takes everything you've won;

and kicks you down the funny stairs.

[ -- a guest contribution from our friend,

the Blind Bard of Indiana]

tableau sur Seine

the Louvre

the river

the green  glass    sky

       [Aldous Huxley, Point Counter Point (1928), p.  311]