LINES OF THE DAY

". . . But the past does not exist independently from the present. Indeed, the past is only past because there is a present, just as I can point to something over there only because I am here. But nothing is inherently over there or here. In that sense, the past has no content. The past -- or more accurately, pastness -- is a position. Thus, in no way can we identify the past as past." p. 15

". . . But we may want to keep in mind that deeds and words are not as distinguishable as often we presume. History does not belong only to its narrators, professional or amateur. While some of us debate what history is or was, others take it into their own hands." p. 153

Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (1995) by Michel-Rolph Trouillot

Friday, February 5, 2021

If Cats Had Wings

      . . . . Owls are perhaps my favorite birds, all kinds of owls, and most particularly the plain old barn owl.  I grew up with barn owls. Pairs of them did nest and raise their young in our classic red barn.  The barn itself, full of cattle feed, was a good place to live, because the grain attracted owl's kind of food.  This was the same reason. beyond shelter from the weather, fox and neighbors' dogs, our farm yard cats lived and raised their kittens in the barn. All around the farm yard were granaries and corn cribs, the big garden, and grain fields, all attracting everything from mourning doves, gophers, rabbits, pheasants and mice. A good place to be an owl or a cat.

There's a part of me still, which wishes to adhere to my childhood conviction that owls were cats with wings.




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The Owl




Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;

Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof

Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest

Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.


Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,

Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.

All of the night was quite barred out except

An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry


Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,

No merry note, nor cause of merriment,

But one telling me plain what I escaped

And others could not, that night, as in I went.


And salted was my food, and my repose,

Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice

Speaking for all who lay under the stars,

Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

                   ---- Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

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A perfect day for a walk.  It was warm enough I went without a hat and my glasses didn't fog over from the warmth of my double-masked face.  The only drawback was the intense sun glare when walking south.  But I could put up with that, so enjoyed a long winter walk among the piles of dirty, chunky snow.  People are still digging out here.  People are dining in the streateries in large numbers.

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Huge plus: a dear friend facing some nasty surgery, didn't have to undergo it after all, as the problem was solved another way.  Hooray!


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