The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either.
- Benjamin Franklin
~
It is still raining here in the north, 2 weeks solid now, South Yorkshire's flood plains are somehow going down slowly, but here in Hebden this morning the river looks dangerously high, it rose several feet over the last half hour with the night water running down from the hills. I am happy at home this morning, feeling tired to my core from the last few weeks of throwing myself around the country. There is a pile of paper to sift through, and invoices to send, and books to write. I know the books should come first, but if I don't get through these papers.... well you know the story, anyway, it's raining, Autechre's glorious 'Amber,' album is on the itunes, Walt Whitman & Emily Bronte are both patiently waiting for me to read them with a cup of tea.
e.xx. And the bookshop has rung to tell me Dura's 'The lover' has turned up. I bought a dedicated reading lamp for my sitting room yesterday, it looks like some kind of 1930's war of the worlds contraption, but it's all part of the drive to reduce my tv watching even further, i watch so little, but feel a deep need to nourish myself further with lots of reading.
here is a poem by Old Walt that i have been reading and re-reading
Love
John
THERE was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he
became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a
certain part of the day, or for many years, or
stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and
white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-
bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's pink-faint
litter, and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire
of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below
there—and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads—all
became part of him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month
became part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow
corn, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms, and the fruit
afterward, and wood-berries, and the commonest
weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-
house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that pass'd on her way to the
school,
And the friendly boys that pass'd—and the quarrelsome
boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls—and the barefoot
negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he
went.
His own parents,
He that had father'd him, and she had conceiv'd
him in her womb, and birth'd him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave him afterward every day—they became part
of him.
The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on
the supper-table;
The mother with mild words—clean her cap and gown,
a wholesome odor falling off her person and
clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger'd,
unjust;
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the
crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the fur-
niture—the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay'd—the sense of what
is real—the thought if, after all, it should prove
unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time—
the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes
and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets—if they
are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves, and the faades of houses, and
goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves—the huge
crossing at the ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset—
the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs
and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide
—the little boat slack-tow'd astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests,
slapping,
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-
tint, away solitary by itself—the spread of purity
it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance
of salt marsh and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every
day, and who now goes, and will always go forth
every day.
