Crow Says

Here's a poem by Mary Oliver that caught my fancy today.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Crow Says

There is corn in the field,

what should I think of else?

Anyway, my thoughts are all feathery.

I prefer simple beak talk.

Maybe it's having wings.

It does make a difference.

As for that business about brothers,

of course I'm concerned that we

share the corn, to the extent

that I get my plenty.

As for later, how can "later" exist?

When old crows die I don't cry,

I peck at their silly, staring eyes

and open my wings and fly to

wherever I want to. I've forgotten

both father and mother,

even the pile of sticks

in which I was born. Well, maybe

now and again, and mostly in winter,

I have strange, even painful ruminations.

When you're hungry and cold

it's hard to be bold, so I sulk,

and I have dreams sometimes, in which

I remember the corn will come again,

and vaguely then I feel that I am almost feeling

grateful, to something or other.

Untitled

Reviewing the year
Today was turbo-taxing
Stressful and (at last) complete.

The Third Man

Two women, sisters, in their fifties decided to go to a recently released movie. It was 1949. Tagging along was a seven year old boy, son of the younger sister. The movie was “The Third Man”, and this movie was an unforgettable moment for that boy. It would be the greatest movie that he would ever see, better even than “Citizen Cane” (1941).

It was a British production, filmed in post-war Vienna. The opening credits scrolled over a shot of the strings of a zither. It was a close in shot, no musician, no fingers, just the vibrating strings. The zither was a perfect musical instrument choice for the film’s score. You were constantly reminded by the music of where the film’s location was in Eastern Europe on the border with the menace of the Soviet Union.

 

The main actors were: Orson Wells, Joseph Cotton, and Trevor Howard, with Alida Valli in the female lead. The screen play was written by Graham Greene. Carol Reed was the director and Robert Krasker the cinematographer. The reason I mention Krasker was his supreme use of black and white film to enhance the story. I am not sure if it was Krasker or Reed who selected the shots but they were stunning. The use of light and shadow, all the scenes except three were shot at night enhancing the noir atmosphere. Faces illumined by shafts of light, the shadow of a running man projected on a blank building wall. Some of the shots were slightly askew. All the while the zither plays in the background setting the tone for the scenes.

A bit of history: After WWII Austria was divided into four zones corresponding to the four allies who defeated The Third Reich, Britain, France, the United States, and the Soviet Union. The capitol, Vienna, was administered jointly by the four powers. So you see police patrols with four officers, one for each of these powers. This arrangement lasted for only a few years until Austria regained its independence.

Post war Vienna lent it self to the proliferation of the “black-market” which dealt in all things that were hard to get and that was the background for the story, a story of love, betrayal, and mystery. Who was the third man>

 

A few scenes where etched into that seven year old boy: a chase through the sewers of Vienna, a huge Ferris Wheel with its cuckoo clock speech, faces illumined out of the shadows, a the scene of an old man selling balloons.

That boy returned over the years to see it again and again. He never has gotten tired of  this wonderful movie.

February frost

February frost
Pruning soft spring shoots and buds
Groundhog was right!

"fur Eloise"

Fact or Fiction

Musing whether 'tis better, or more fun, to write "fact" or fiction, non-fiction fiction or fiction.  I think I will choose the non-ficton/fiction option more often than not at least as I feel my way into this co-conspiracy.   So, with the understanding that it's ALL fiction, let the games begin!

Piano-playing, slippage and restoration.  I imagine Eloise laughing out loud.

The Piano

Eloise played the piano. There was a time when she thought she was getting quite good. Not that she planned to go on the concert stage. When she wanted an audience, she played for her family. Mostly she played for herself. She loved Bach and had been learning “The Well Tempered Clavier.” And like her idol, Glenn Gould she hummed, almost moaned when she played.

She and her family live in a rambling house on the shore of a small lake just outside the city. Her father is a lawyer by profession and was recently appointed a judge. Her mother teaches art history at the university.

She first learned to play at her mother’s side, but soon surpassed her mother’s ability. She had successive teachers over the years until she couldn’t stand it any more. When she turned fifteen she succumbed to adolescent juices and closed her practice book. She did not play a note for the next six years and only approached the piano to dust it.

After high school she went on to university. In her senior year she met a third year medical student. She was certain that this was “It”, not entirely convinced what “It” was. They were married and after one year divorced. “It” did not stand. This was when she returned to the rambling house by the lake with its hard wood floors and French doors which opened to the long lawn stretching down to the water. Her parents were gone all day so she was left to herself. “Eloise, oh Eloise what am I to do now?”

She swam, sun bathed, and even considered fishing. She would sleep late and read trashy novels. One day out of sheer boredom she took to sliding on the polished wood floors in her green knee socks. Her mother had taken pride in those floors. A woman came once a month to wax them.

It started with a small slide, a slip really, when she was rushing to answer to phone. Then occasionally on the way back from the kitchen through the hall way, slip, slide, glide. Then it developed into the most interesting part of her day. She would roll up the Afghan carpet, get a running start, hit the bare floor with both feet and the broadest grin that she had in years. She could reach three quarters of the way across the room. Then one day she tried for the record. It was the day after the lady waxed it to perfection. It was like glare ice. She started her run from out on the patio through the French doors. By the time she reached the floor she was going at top speed. Within four feet she lost it, landed on her back side and slid a few more feet. There was a thud when she was stopped by the leg of the piano. She lay there in pain under the piano listening to the fading chord of her crash. Crawling out she sat down at the key board and for the first time since she was fifteen started to play.