n i g h t i n g a l e s h i r a z / blog
Dancer, Seated

july 2017
june 2017
march 2017
february 2017
january 2017
november 2016
october 2016
september 2016
august 2016
july 2016
june 2016
may 2016
april 2016
march 2016
february 2016
december 2015
november 2015
october 2015
september 2015
may 2015
march 2015
february 2015
january 2015
december 2014
november 2014
october 2014
september 2014
august 2014
may 2014
april 2014
march 2014
february 2014
*april 2013
*march 2013
*february 2013
*january 2013
*december 2012
*november 2012
*october 2012
*september 2012
*july 2012
*october 2011
*september 2011
*august 2011
*july 2011
*june 2011
*may 2011
april 2011
march 2011
april 2010
march 2010
february 2010
january 2010
december 2009
november 2009
september 2009
june 2009
may 2009
february 2009
january 2009
december 2008
october 2008
september 2008
august 2008
july 2008
june 2008
may 2008
april 2008
january 2008
december 2007
november 2007
october 2007
september 2007
august 2007
july 2007
june 2007
may 2007
april 2007
march 2007
february 2007
january 2007
december 2006
november 2006
october 2006
september 2006
august 2006
july 2006
june 2006
may 2006
april 2006
march 2006
february 2006
january 2006
december 2005
november 2005
october 2005
september 2005
august 2005
july 2005
june 2005
may 2005
april 2005
march 2005
february 2005
january 2005
december 2004
november 2004
october 2004
september 2004
august 2004
july 2004
june 2004
may 2004
april 2004
march 2004
february 2004
january 2004
december 2003
june 2003
april 2003
march 2003
 
Lighthouse, Lightmountain, and Other News

Today marks the final edition of Dan Piepenbring's daily dose of everything-and-then-some, via the Paris Review.  I will miss it.

Today I found a recipe for Mrs Ramsay's boeuf en daube.  Maybe I will make it one day, and maybe it will be as good as Janet Malcolm's take on Alice B. Toklas's take on Coq Au Vin.

Today I read this, and laughed out loud.  (It's towards the end; you'll know it when you see it.)

Today I tasted a memory from maybe eighteen years ago and it was as good as I remember it.  But the other thing that makes taste—you know, the taster?—not so much.  As Lily Briscoe might say, time passes.

And today, finally, in thinking about Mrs Ramsay's beef stew and my mutton burger, about the narrative and sometimes not-so-narrative arc of life, about what we make of what we miss and what we make of what we remember and what we want—what I want so often—to make of so much else, I read this, too: The thing to long for is the impossible thing: for time to slow, for the chance to loiter in a moment.

Like Mrs. Ramsay bringing them together; Mrs. Ramsay saying “Life stand still here”; Mrs. Ramsay making of the moment something permanent (as in another sphere Lily herself tried to make of the moment something permanent)—this was the nature of a revelation.  In the midst of chaos there was shape; this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was struck into stability.  Life stand still here, Mrs. Ramsay said.

And life, time, the planet: indifferent.


[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[34 C Street, Dubai]
[venerd́ 14 luglio 2017 ore 20:41:11] []