Poetry Thursday: Luis Palés Matos

Antille, steaming pasture
of freshly crushed cane syrup.
Constant activity of the sugar mill
Molasses Turkish bath.
White-linened aristocracy
skimming over life’s waves
on milk-curdled phrases
and mellifluous metaphors.
Stylized coast drafted
by languid palm trees.

— translated by Rosario Ferré

Luis Palés Matos was born on March 20, 1898, in Guayama, Puerto Rico, a small village with a predominantly black population.

Stay tuned.

Lens-Artists Photo Challenge #50: TREES

Self is joining a new Photo Challenge: Lens-Artists Photo Challenge #50 : TREES.

Thanks to viveka of My Guilty Pleasures for making self aware of this photo challenge.

The pictures below are from a trip to Prague that she took in late May with her niece, Irene.

1.  Trees, Prague, May 2019 (next to the Spanish Synagogue)

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2.  Last Sunday in May 2019: Walking by the National Theatre, Prague

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3. Afternoon Cruise Along the Vltava River

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Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

 

Adolescents in the System: HINDSIGHT, p. 30

If there’s one thing Hindsight: Coming of Age in the Streets of Hollywood, by former student Sheryl Recinos, is making self angry about, it’s about the way children are treated as pawns by the juvenile system.

Recinos was one of five siblings. One of her brothers was given to foster care when he was 13 (Why? Because the parents needed money and took a German exchange student in his place). Recinos never saw her brother again.

She was sent to an adolescent psych ward at 11. The timing is suspicious: it was the start of summer vacation, when she’d be home all the time. She and her new stepmother did not get along.

The other patients in the psych ward were teenagers. A boy named Keith was kind to her.

p. 30:

Keith left. He was sent away to a boys’ group home a few hours away. For boys with anger issues. I’d never seen him angry. He probably had a fake diagnosis, too. After all, we were in the land of TV commercials showing how you could “fix” your difficult teens by shipping them off to a hospital.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Committed.2: HINDSIGHT, p. 29

An 11-year-old who was relishing the start of summer vacation and long hours of freedom instead finds herself committed to a psych ward by her father and stepmother. She lives in two rooms the entire summer: a bedroom (with barred windows) and a dining room.

Her first conversation is with a boy in the dining room, a day after she’s been committed:

The boy next to me whispered: “You should eat that.”

I looked up at him. He was older than me. In fact, everyone was older than me. I would soon learn that I was the youngest kid on the ward. Eleven-year-olds don’t usually get admitted to the adolescent psych unit. Adolescent was a big new word for me, but it meant twelve and older. I carefully surveyed the room, noticing the nurse watching me closely. I nodded and obediently ate the soggy flakes.

Group time came soon after breakfast. Keith, I learned, was fifteen. He was waiting for placement at a nearby group home, and he had anger issues.

Stay tuned.

Global Dickens

Self spent the morning at the Charles Dickens Museum on 48 Doughty Street, checking out the house where Dickens and his wife spent probably the two happiest years of their marriage. The house offers fascinating glimpses of the man’s domestic life, and the audio tour is highly recommended. She came away with a small fridge magnet showing her favorite painting of Dickens: he sits in his study, surrounded by a cloud of his inventions.

She saw a very distressed copy of David Copperfield and read that this copy “travelled with Robert Falcon Scott and his men to Antarctica in 1910. When half of Scott’s men were stranded in an ice cave for 7 months, they read to each other every night for comfort and entertainment. After 60 nights they finished David Copperfield and, as one of the men wrote, they were very sorry to part with him.”

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Dickens also exists in manga form!

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Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

 

Quote of the Day: Tim Dee

Landfill: Notes on Gull Watching and Trash Picking in the Anthropocene, p. 21:

  • Early morning Bristol. The bars, along the street where I live, recycle their glass empties of last night.

She knew nothing about Tim Dee before she began this book.

His writing is SO beautiful.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

Reading Jane in Fowey

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Up one flight of stairs in Fowey Hall there is a telescope. Self tried looking through the it but couldn’t see anything. Ah well.

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What synchronicity, though, with the cover of Persuasion (She bought her copy from the London Review Bookshop, a few weeks ago)

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Fowey Festival of Arts and Literature, Day 3

Self took a walk to Bookends of Fowey, 4 South Street. And such a dear little bookshop it is. So many books, of so much variety, all found in one little corner of Fowey!

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4 South Street, Fowey: Bookends

Self never forgets, not for one moment, that she is here because of Daphne du Maurier:

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She’s made up her mind to buy one of the below. Not more than one because she is still traveling and it is a bear to tote books on/off buses and trains!

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In keeping with the spirit of du Maurier, she thinks her one precious book purchase should be a novel. A novel by a woman.

On her Festival Survey Form, she only made one comment: Points for including such a variety of women authors. Keep it that way!

Stay tuned.

Today Self Discovered

The harbor of Fowey:

WOWOWOWOWOWOW!!!

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And, just in case you didn’t get the point, there is a giant model of a sailboat on the first floor landing of the hotel and, at one end of the first floor corridor, a telescope pointed towards the sea.

Stay tuned.

PERSUASION, pp. 94 – 95: Lyme Regis

After securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the inns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly down to the sea. They were come too late in the year for any amusement or variety which Lyme, as a public place, might offer, the rooms were shut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the residents left — and, as there is nothing to admire but the buildings themselves, the remarkable situation of the town, the principal street almost hurrying into the water, the walk up to the Cobb, skirting round the pleasant little bay, which in the season is animated with bathing machines and company, the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new improvements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to east of the town, are what the stranger’s eye will seek; and a very strange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate environs of Lyme, to make him wish to know it better.

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Fowey Quay (standing in for Lyme here, sorry!)

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