raised by wolves

my cousin died today. he was only 57 and battling cancer. i've noticed that cancer often wins. that's far too young. he was one of dad's favorites, he had worked for the associated press and was also press secretary to a governor. those were things dad admired, and so we did too. he was only 7 years older than me. he was brutally handsome. someone so good-looking should not get cancer. when dad was dying, he came to the hospital with wine and cheese and snacks for us. we didn't know him all that well, since he'd grown up in brookings and we grew up in platte, but still, he understood what we needed in that moment when we were losing dad and so he brought it to us, instinctively. leaving us with our sorrow and the wine, not intruding, but giving us exactly what we needed. only alcohol would do. and dad would have approved. dad would not have approved of him dying so young. he would have made that tsk sound out of the side of his mouth, shaking his head and perhaps choking back a tear. he would have thought it unfair. and it is unfair. i had lunch with him (my cousin, not dad) on my way home after dad died. another cousin (once removed) joined us. and we laughed over our salads at having been raised by wolves. he wasn't sick at all then. the cancer hadn't yet come. and it was only two and half years ago. he was handsome and smart and funny and we laughed and we remembered my dad and we remembered our childhoods and we laughed some more. and he told me some about his life - how he'd married a bit late, but found love and a family at last and how happy that was. maybe it's all we can hope for...a few moments of happiness, some wine...and to be raised by wolves.

in vino veritas: thoughts of st. petersburg

with sabin in st. petersburg, my thoughts turn to russian poetry. i've said it before, i'm a prose person, not a poetry person, but this one by alexander blok is one of the few i like.

The Stranger

The restaurants on hot spring evenings

Lie under a dense and savage air.

Foul drafts and hoots from dunken revelers

Contaminate the thoroughfare.

Above the dusty lanes of suburbia

Above the tedium of bungalows

A pretzel sign begilds a bakery

And children screech fortissimo.

And every evening beyond the barriers

Gentlemen of practiced wit and charm

Go strolling beside the drainage ditches --

A tilted derby and a lady at the arm.

The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water

A woman's shriek assaults the ear

While above, in the sky, inured to everything,

The moon looks on with a mindless leer.

And every evening my one companion

Sits here, reflected in my glass.

Like me, he has drunk of bitter mysteries.

Like me, he is broken, dulled, downcast.

The sleepy lackeys stand beside tables

Waiting for the night to pass

And tipplers with the eyes of rabbits

Cry out: "In vino veritas!"

And every evening (or am I imagining?)

Exactly at the appointed time

A girl's slim figure, silk raimented,

Glides past the window's mist and grime.

And slowly passing throught the revelers,

Unaccompanied, always alone,

Exuding mists and secret fragrances,

She sits at the table that is her own.

Something ancient, something legendary

Surrounds her presence in the room,

Her narrow hand, her silk, her bracelets,

Her hat, the rings, the ostrich plume.

Entranced by her presence, near and enigmatic,

I gaze through the dark of her lowered veil

And I behold an enchanted shoreline

And enchanted distances, far and pale.

I am made a guardian of the higher mysteries,

Someone's sun is entrusted to my control.

Tart wine has pierced the last convolution

of my labyrinthine soul.

And now the drooping plumes of ostriches

Asway in my brain droop slowly lower

And two eyes, limpid, blue, and fathomless

Are blooming on a distant shore.

Inside my soul a treasure is buried.

The key is mine and only mine.

How right you are, you drunken monster!

I know: the truth is in the wine.

Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok

stitched up party invitation

probably the coolest technique i learned at anne brodersen's class was this one...a new way of stitching up photos. normally, my stitched up photos are done on the machine, but for this one, i made a couple of small embroideries - of a bottle and a glass of wine and i embedded them into a picnic photo that i took at the viking market in bork havn. i love the result. i'll be doing more of these. for sure. to start with, as invitations to a gathering we're going to have when my family is here next month.

this was my first attempt and i didn't do a great job of cutting off all my pen marks. but next time, i'll do better.

don't you think it would make the perfect party invitation? now if the weather just warms up for their visit!