Inktober 2019, Day Twenty-seven: Oh My Stars!

Inktober Prompt: Coat
GoldspotPrompt: Outbreak

27 October, 2019

Dear Bridget,

My thoughts have been swirling so that I have been roused from my bed these several nights. I have bundled myself up against the chill of the darkling hours and gone to sit on my balcony to watch the Orionids. With the collar of my jacket turned up, I have watched the falling stars coat the sky with movement, one startling wonder after another, then returned to bed to dream of the woods, the pond, and the sense of dragon.

Last night ~ this early morning really ~ perhaps I dozed while star-gazing, but it seemed to me that there was an outbreak of brilliant meteors and that, in one of those elongated flashes of time, they coalesced into the same semblance of a dragon that the sunset casts upon the pond in my dream. The dragon-stars’ head was pointed toward your house, and all the meteors streamed in that direction so that the dragon seemed to fly.

I must have dreamt it; there was nothing in the morning papers about the occurrence.

I write this before the post has had a chance to bring a note from you, but I wanted to jot it down before the rational light off day could persuade me the vision was mere nonsense springing from the fevered brain of

Your
Hannah

#30Inks30Days 8 April, 2020

Troublemaker Inks Sea Glass

As you can see, I’m trying to get back to a story. I have a feeling I’m not going to be able to keep COVID-19 out of it altogether. It’s too much on my mind.

#30Inks30Days 7 April, 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

Taccia Hokusai Saibimidori

(I added the second shot of the page to show off the ink’s sheening and shading properties)

I gave last night’s coyote a cameo. It was quieter tonight; no animals came by, wanting to be included.

 

 

The Waiting Time Continues, Plus: The Peach Tree Chronicles, Part IV

It was a great day for photos.  The peach tree continues to blossom, though some of the petals are starting to fall, either from the frost or from the natural progression from flowers to fruit. Time will tell.

And, as if to take advantage of the warm weather between freezes, the daffodils went from a single bud to a bouquet,

the plum tree burst out like fireworks

 

 

(it should be noted that never, and I mean never, have the birds left us a single plum),

the miniature irises went from little city-states to attempted-empire,

 

and the crab-apple in the front yard, one that we did not plant but that decided to grow there anyway, is dotted with tiny red buds.

We had another beautiful sunset,

that was graced with a couple hawks flying home for the night.

 

 

And then, of course, there was the moon:

It’s the largest Super Moon we’ll see this year and it’s called the Pink Moon and here, at least, it was for a while.

It was hard to catch the colour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am oh so grateful for these moments in the evening that provide some distraction and some easing of the sorrow and distress. But part of me wonders how the world can continue to reinvigorate itself so joyously when so many are suffering, dying, and having their lives up-ended temporarily or permanently by COVID-19. The dichotomy reminds of W.H. Auden’s poem, though the careless entities there are mostly human rather than Nature:

Musee des Beaux Arts

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

(Snagged from http://english.emory.edu/classes/paintings&poems/auden.html. Tgere’s a photo of the Breughel painting there.)

And our waiting continues.

While We Keep Waiting; The Peach Tree Chronicles, Part III

I found a panel in a comic that seems to encapsulate this moment:

That’s how I feel, too. (You can peruse the whole comic here.)

I keep reading on-line pieces here and there that are versions of “I didn’t want to talk about the COVID-19 situation, but…” (for example, go over to Mountain of Ink and read Kelli’s post on “Quarantine 2020 Ink Palettes.” Be sure to check out the link to the dreaming octopus, too. It’s amazing). I do want to talk about the coronavirus, but am having a difficult knowing what to say. I’ve been trying to walk some line between taking the pandemic seriously enough and not freaking out, but all the confusion, the almost non-existent testing, the lack of support for those fighting this disease, the lethal carelessness of the president and governors —well, freaking out begins to look like the reasonable response.

I continue to use my camera to mark the days and to remind myself there is still much beauty in the world. The moon has gone from this,

to this,

to this,

 

 

 

 

 

and, finally, to this:

 

There have been sunsets drenched in all kinds of colours:

 

 

 

 

 

And after one, long, sleepless night, there was a magnificent sunrise.

It got caught in the reflection and frost on our car’s windows.

In my pjs and coat, I sneaked across the street to the park to watch the sun appear.

 

The park was full of crows. 

You can see one flying low across the field in these two:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sun tinged the mountains and clouds pink,

made the eastern sky flame,

and stained the tree bark and pine cones russet.

Frost rimed the grass and the soccer field sparkled in the sun.

Spring continues to unfold, just as if there were no corona viruses in the world. The daffodils are rising like the sun and my apple tree begins to put out leaves.

 

And while most of the blossoms on the peach tree survived,

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a few took a hit.

 More wintry weather is due this weekend.

I hope you all are staying well and staying at home as much as possible. 

 

 

 

 

 

Inktober 2019, Day Twenty-six: A Choice to Make…

Inktober Prompt: Dark
GoldspotPrompt: Haunting

26 October, 2019

Bridget,

Now I apprehend why you were reluctant to tell me about the last page that you have in the book. After your experiences in the wood, the thought of going back, of returning to the source of thoughts and memories so haunting, cannot be easy or comfortable. But if the women in the story brave the trees, the fog the path, the pond, perhaps that is what must be done?

Have you heard from Dr. Torres yet? Do not keep in a dark as grey as that between the innermost trees

Your anxious companion,
Hannah

#30Inks30Days 6 April, 2020

#30Inks30Days
Diamine Shimmertastic Golden Ivy

I’m still stuck on the story. It may be a lost cause.

#30Inks30Days 5 April, 2020

Organics Studio Limited Edition Jazz Hands 

Sorry about the disruption to the story. Maybe tomorrow my brain will come back.

Inktober 2019, Day Twenty-five: The Other Clichè Drops…

Inktober Prompt: Tasty
GoldspotPrompt: Weird

25 October, 2019

Dear Bridget,

I suppose we should have known that the last tale in the tome would be the one you needed. But it is maddening and too, too cliche that the last page is missing! Have you asked Dr. Torres if she has it? It might have dropped out at her house or office.

Forgive me ~ I know you’re busy ~ but I have questions. Your summary says that, in the story, a weird has been placed on the family, but does the legend say by whom or why? And the illness that strikes the men has the same sense of duality that Dr. Torres discerned? It is strange, fantastic even, that the woods and pond as described in the book are exactly like the woods and pond now. One would expect many changes to have been wrought by Nature over the generations. Tell me in more detail about the last page whose paragraphs seem to point to a missing resolution.

I have, by the way, done something selfish. In order to soothe my sense of uselessness, I have sent ’round to the bakery a note, asking them to deliver a box of pastries and treats for you and your father. I wanted you both to have something tasty from

Your hapless friend,
Hannah

Adventures Outside the House During Our Time of Isolation

Yesterday I ventured forth farther a-field than I have for three weeks. I had an health appointment and my son agreed to take me so I wouldn’t have to take the bus (I don’t drive). I thought I would be excited to leave the house, but in truth I was mostly nervous. I looked up how to make a mask from a bandana and hair bands:

You can find instructions on how to make your own COVID-19 fashion statement here. I had a hard time getting the elastic bands to stay looped over my ears, so when I got home, I strung three together, before slipping the bandana through the end two, to allow the elastic to go around my head. I haven’t tried wearing it outside as I walk around yet, but I have high hopes it will stay in place a little better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the way in, there were some cars, but many stretches of the road were almost empty.

We passed my favourite pond. There were two grey herons on it, a bird I hadn’t seen there before. I hope they’re nesting. Someone pointed out to me that the birds have been loving the quieter days and the cleaner air, and since then I have noticed that there are indeed more birds around than we’ve had for a while.

 

      After my appointment, we had a couple errands to run, one on the pedestrian mall. It was stunning to see how empty it was. The homeless folk had gathered primarily in one area, but most were keeping several yards apart from each other and talking about the pandemic.

I was surprised by how many restaurants were not limiting themselves to take out or curbside pick-up. Quite a number were open for business as more-or-less usual. THIS IS WHY WE NEED A NATIONAL SHUT-DOWN, PEOPLE. We can’t count on folks to stay away from each other if it isn’t mandated as a necessity.

There were few shoppers around; many of them were wearing scarves or masks. We looked like a small convention of highway robbers.

Because I’ve been cooped up at home, my son and I took the scenic route home. We saw trees just coming out of dormancy, still all bones, but not for long.*

There were some mountains, too.

Honestly, I feel as if the world has undergone such a cataclysm that I wasn’t sure the Rockies would still be there. It’s like living in one of those SciFi movies in which most of the population has been swept away by a plague and everyone is afraid of everyone else, but it’s not a movie.

Be careful out there, folks.

________________________

* Winter trees remind me of the first and last verses of Theodore Roethke’s poem, “I Knew A Woman”:

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;   
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:   
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).
………………………………
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:   
I’m martyr to a motion not my own;
What’s freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.   
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:   
(I measure time by how a body sways).
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43331/i-knew-a-woman)