Montag, 13. September 2010

A Morning Like Any Other

This morning, at breakfast in the conservatory, eating my bowl of muesli and drinking my cup of fennel tea, sunshine falling on the table,  the clouds above, visible through the glass roof, pursuing their indifferent path, some higher up almost stationary, while those lower down in the atmosphere hurried along busily, imperturbably, gently ruffling the leaves at the top of the tall beech tree; the dahlias showing me their deep red faces, swaying in harmony with barely perceptible currents of air; late martins swooping and dipping and circling above, harvesting their last meal before setting off for the South, a flock of rooks cawing noisily, raucously, before taking off in formation across the blue of the sky, only to land again in the old horse chestnut tree across the field; the weather vane on the church tower glinting in the sunshine and the ducks on the river by the bridge complaining loudly at something only they knew  -  it all was exactly like any other morning in late summer, early autumn, when the sun caresses the valley with its rays and makes you happy to be alive.

Except it wasn't the same as any other morning, because this morning was the very first morning when one life was missing, one life had left the valley, never to return. 

This post was written and published by Friko's Musings, see here:

Sonntag, 12. September 2010

David Foster Wallace

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides,
You may have met him, - did you not?
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun, -
When, stopping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

Emily Dickinson

für David Foster Wallace