(no subject)
Rolled into New Haven yesterday in the early afternoon. I must have caught Yale some time in between classes, because the streets were choked with people not entirely unlike those I had just left back in New London. "Not entirely unlike", though really very different. The two at the intersection caught my eye for some reason. A pair of tall...partners, their proximity meant they were more than just acquaintances, wearing sickly sweet matching Northface jackets; she in red, he in blue.
"The rose, the delphinium, the red, the blue,
Are questions of the looks they get. The bouquet,
Regarded by the meta-men is quirked
And queered by lavishing of their will to see."
-- Wallace Stevens, "The Bouquet"
It's starting to warm up, though the wind was whipping through the alleys yesterday with some force. All the snow is gone, save for little patches of ice secluded in the shade. Spring, it seems, has sprung, and it won't be long now till it really starts to get warm. I hate this time of year. I want it to be cold again.
"One must have a mind of winter...
...not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind
In the sound of a few leaves.
Which is the sound of the land"
-- "The Snow Man"
Wallace Stevens, unsurprisingly, was from Connecticut.
Went to pick up a pizza for dinner just as the sun was setting, shifting hue from white to gold. The city looked so beautiful. I'm softening in my age, and the disdain I formerly held for the city of my birth is fading away. It still leaves a lot to be desired, but it is, if nothing else, quite beautiful if you catch it at the right times. Something about the scene, though, stole all my energy. What's the proper term for something like this...bittersweet? I'm glad to be home, but not.
Something about those two in the street, about the throngs of them, and about the quality of light. Something has dug in very deep.
"The rose, the delphinium, the red, the blue,
Are questions of the looks they get. The bouquet,
Regarded by the meta-men is quirked
And queered by lavishing of their will to see."
-- Wallace Stevens, "The Bouquet"
It's starting to warm up, though the wind was whipping through the alleys yesterday with some force. All the snow is gone, save for little patches of ice secluded in the shade. Spring, it seems, has sprung, and it won't be long now till it really starts to get warm. I hate this time of year. I want it to be cold again.
"One must have a mind of winter...
...not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind
In the sound of a few leaves.
Which is the sound of the land"
-- "The Snow Man"
Wallace Stevens, unsurprisingly, was from Connecticut.
Went to pick up a pizza for dinner just as the sun was setting, shifting hue from white to gold. The city looked so beautiful. I'm softening in my age, and the disdain I formerly held for the city of my birth is fading away. It still leaves a lot to be desired, but it is, if nothing else, quite beautiful if you catch it at the right times. Something about the scene, though, stole all my energy. What's the proper term for something like this...bittersweet? I'm glad to be home, but not.
Something about those two in the street, about the throngs of them, and about the quality of light. Something has dug in very deep.