Mark Twain on “sponsored content” and “native advertising,” 1873.
Sparrows, from Black Sparrow Press - 50 cents and 75 cents apiece, at a time when that was something I had to save for, when I lived for something else …
McClure, Creeley, Wakoski, Sherril Jaffe, Olson - heroes, and lovers of a sort. ….. what got me through …
Moving now, turmoil, uncertainty. Also then, but expectation, some sense of the possible.
The Sandhill Cranes are back. Some will pass through, others will nest here and spend the summer. There seem to be more this year, at least here. A different way to count wealth? They are a marker for spring, and a thing of wonder given their path over the earth and the distances involved, and their beauty.
What I wonder about is why we love our children so asymmetrically, so entirely, knowing that the very best we can hope for is that they will feel about us as we feel about our own parents: that slightly aggrieved mixture of affection, pity, tolerance and forgiveness, with a final soupcon - if we live long enough - of sorrow for our falling away, stumbling and shattered, from the vigour that once was ours.
Our love for anything cannot be explained by our possession of genes, any more than our love for football can be explained by our possession of feet. … It is not that the big emotions we feel - love or lust or loyalty - are more mystical than their biological origins but exactly that they are far more material, more over-loaded with precise dates and data, associations and allegiances, experiences and memories, days and times.
The mechanism of life may be set in motion by our genes, as the mechanism of football is set in motion by our feet, but the feelings we acquire are unique to our own weird walk through time.
My own best guess about the asymmetry of parental love lies in a metaphor borrowed from the sciences. Merely a metaphor, maybe, but one that - as metaphors can - touches the edge of actuality.
One of the rules of mathematics and physics, as I - a complete non-mathematician - read often in science books, is that when infinity is introduced into a scientific equation it no longer makes sense. All the numbers go blooey when you have one in the equation that doesn’t have a beginning or an end.
Parental love, I think, is infinite. I mean this in the most prosaic possible way. Not infinitely good, or infinitely ennobling, or infinitely beautiful. Just infinite. Often, infinitely boring. Occasionally, infinitely exasperating. To other people, always infinitely dull - unless, of course, it involves their own children, when it becomes infinitely necessary.
A couple more pics from the weekends tour in the Wasatch. Climb a mountain, ski down, get home by 5:30 and make dinner. What a great place to live.
A bit of that,
will get you into this.
A nice long shot down the bowl with plenty of sweet turns. Trip was well timed with a good dump of fresh snow both days.
Not sure which I like better, the up or the down. Both are hypnotic and immersive.