those winter sundays

When I was young, my father had a painting. It was of a very brown forest with some brownish grass, coppery leaves, dusty coloured sky. Generally brown. There was a brown stag in, standing between two trees, and through some mental oddity or lack of visual development, I could not see it. Harry could see it, and had always been able to, even when she was my age. I think I was about three or four then. It's one of my first memories. 

Harry got so angry with me over it. In looking back, I can see she thought I was pretending not to see it, presumably to annoy her, as younger brothers do. At the time, I had no idea why she was shouting. And I remember my father sending her out of the room, showing me right where the stag was, lifting me up so I could touch, but it was no good. Still invisible. He showed me again the next day and I don't even know how many times after that, until one day I could see it. 

I suppose my point is that the holidays always make me think of my family, and I'm trying to be more positive about it this year. Doesn't come naturally, but there you are. 

-

You can also listen to him read it here if you want to.

Those Winter Sundays
Robert Hayden

neither out far nor in deep

I saw Harry for lunch today while L was visiting his mum. She's still sober, and she got a promotion recently, so we were semi-celebrating. Which isn't to say we managed not to piss each other off at all, because we didn't, but even so, it was nice. 

She said she'd like Sherlock to stay with her overnight some time. If he wants to and his mum is all right with it, I think I would be too, at this point. It's funny, thinking about the two of them, Harry wasn't that different from him as a kid. Maybe more socially aware, less sure of herself, but I remember her being absolutely enraged when people (mostly our parents) told her the truth was inappropriate, just the way Sherlock is. I wonder if we might've got along better if she weren't my sister

-

Neither Out Far Nor In Deep
Robert Frost

greg the florist, part i have no idea

Previously on Greg the Florist...

The woman peering out of the window after them seemed to be clutching a wooden cross, holding it out at them, but as he squinted to see more clearly, she moved away into the shadows. He shook his head. It must have been some sort of optical illusion...

la belle dame sans merci

Mycroft rang this evening and told me off for never admitting I was ill and trying to carry on regardless even though I won't let anyone else do that. Probably tells you all you need to know about my day. I honestly don't feel that bad, just tired, scratchy throat, etc. I plan to be better tomorrow, but meanwhile Drs Holmes and Lestrade have made me promise to rest. 

And this still isn't Greg the Florist because I can't find the last bit of it on L's blog and search box won't load. I don't suppose anyone has a link to it? 

-

No laughing at 'her elfin grot', I know you people. 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John Keats

sneezles

I'd meant to write Greg the Florist today, but got a call from Mrs N instead, telling me to come and fetch Sherlock. He's not too ill - at least there's no vomiting (yet) - just quiet, cranky, and miserable, poor kid. And then L came home with a headache, and he and Sherlock napped on the couch in between demanding orange juice (Sherlock) and insisting he was fine (Lestrade). Mrs H came up and force fed everyone tea, and then I was putting Sherlock to bed, and...the day has gone very quickly. 

-

Sneezles

A.A. Milne

in a disused graveyard

View from the top of the monument. It was tall. There were a lot of stairs. I need to run more. I know I've said that already, but mostly likely doing it would be more beneficial than talking about it. I'll look into that. 

 The church, complete with real live blue sky, in as much as the sky is live:

DW asked me: "Doc, in all the time you had soldiers telling you things, did you ever once believe them when they started with "See, it was like this..."? Because if you did, I have a very nice bridge for sale..."

So, once upon a time, in the freezing remains of an abandoned and possibly haunted mental hospital, a soldier sidled up to me. We'll call him M.

M: See, it was like this [emphasis mine], we were just trying to have a little fun [also a phrase to be treated with deep suspicion], like a water slide, only with ice, and now Jameson's got his arse froze to it, so can you come and unfreeze him? I hear vodka's good for that.

The vodka should've been my tip off. In my defense, the rest of his story, given the people involved, was completely believable. Why he thought I had vodka, that's a mystery for the ages, but when I got back from talking to Jameson (unfrozen), I found M eyeing up a bottle of alcohol like he was wondering how it would taste. He'd also pocketed a number of tongue depressors.

We had a talk. Evidently it did't stick, because two weeks later...

M: See it was like this, Doc. I got bit by a bat and now I think I'm turning into a vampire and I don't have any garlic. Do you have some garlic?

The next week...

M, face covered in god knows what: Doc, I'll be honest, sometimes a man just needs to exfoliate.

I still don't know what it was, but the resulting rash was surprisingly difficult to get rid of.

-

In a Disused Graveyard
Robert Frost

see it was like this

The weather's miserable. Sherlock said someone should find a way to make it colder out and then the rain would be snow and snow isn't as cold. Which...is not true, but I do see what he meant. You're not as cold when you're out in it. Although I can tell you that if you're standing in the snow and some bastard throws a bucket of cold water over you, you will be colder than if you were standing in the rain.

L made curry last night, and I had the leftovers for breakfast and lunch. He wouldn't kiss me for ages, even after I brushed my teeth. He told me to go and gargle with milk at one point, which led to some interesting discussion.

I like this sort of weather, really. It makes the inside seem warmer. Even the colours are warmer, all yellows and oranges, while everything outside is grey and blue.

-

You get a picture for this one, because I'm not going to try to reproduce the line breaks and indents. Blogger always does funny things to my formatting.

See it was like this
Lawrence Ferlinghetti

stopping by woods

So, the Christmas show. I talked to Mrs N today, and I'm reporting the following bit of conversation so that L can see that the result was not my fault. 

Me: Has Sherlock said anything to you about Lestrade playing guitar in the show? 

Her: I didn't know he played! Oh, that would be lovely. I was going to play piano, but it'll be easier to organise everyone back stage this way. Thanks so much for offering. 

...Clearly not my fault, right? L, I can probably still get you out of it if you really don't want to. 

As for the actual content of the show, she said it started with the kids thinking that the most interesting part of the nativity story was the three wise men trekking across the desert and ended as some sort of desert survival story...with science...and dancing. And, she says, possibly a live goat. 

I, for one, cannot wait. 

-

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

loveliest of trees

I did the poem part of this post earlier and then never wrote the post part because Sherlock read the poem and started declaiming it from atop the sofa. Between that and L following me around singing Slade songs and making a tinfoil wig, I laughed so hard my face hurt. 

Tomorrow I will do my best to interrogate Mrs N as to the exact nature of this Christmas show before anyone starts building animatronic camels or shooting stars that really shoot. 

-

Loveliest of Trees

A.E. Housman

when i watch the living meet

I completely forgot about posting today...yesterday, really. I'm up though, and everyone else is asleep, so I'll just do this before I go back to being L's foot warmer. I'm so very glad to have him home. Tried not to fuss at him when he came home and failed completely, I think. He was cold and wet generally miserable looking. Much better by the time we got to bed. 

Sherlock said something about interpretive dance for the school Christmas show... I don't know whether that's actually what his teacher said, or if he's just heard the phrase from L and picked it up. Should be interesting either way. 

Yeah. Sleep. 

-

When I watch the living meet
A. E. Housman

low tide

Well. I imagine you've read L's post so you know his mum is in hospital after a stroke. He's staying with Nicky. I've answered all of Sherlock's and Mycroft's questions that I could. And now I'm really just sitting here staring out the window and failing to think of things to type. So I'd better go and try to sleep. Good night, everyone. Thank you for all the support today. 

Low Tide
Edna St Vincent Millay

second coming

I had lunch with Spence today - he's one of the friends I saw for the first time in a while at Red's funeral. The one who told L every story about me he could remember in the five minutes I left them alone together. To be fair, it was probably a joint effort, but I'm sure he was the instigator. 

We talked, about a lot of things. People and things we remember. Strange times. He said he didn't really talk to anyone when he got back either, including his wife. I gather they're doing a little better now. 

He came along with me to pick up Sherlock, but ditched me when he saw the tidal wave of children coming toward us...heh. Something about having to do the shopping. Excuses, excuses. I took Sherlock to kung fu. He's learning to do this jump kick where you turn all the way around in mid-air and then inflict grievous bodily harm on the foam pad someone's holding for you. They're encouraged to yell while doing it. Quite an impressive sight.

On the way home, he asked me why I was sad. I told him I'd been thinking about people I miss. "Like I miss Grand-mère?" he said. Yes, like that. "People shouldn't die," he said. "It's not right." Leaving aside the difficulties of overpopulation, sometimes I agree. Sometimes not.

And then, perhaps inevitably, we talked about zombies.

-

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats

the lady of shalott

I'm tired, and extremely full of pie - still - so this will be short, apart from the poem, which is long. 

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, we had to pick something to memorise and recite in class, and I did Resume, by Dorothy Parker, which you can look up  or find in the comments of the previous post. It was...not well received. It deals with methods of suicide in a more lighthearted manner than my teacher felt was appropriate. My parents were called, I had to see the headmaster, etc etc... Despite the fact that Parker was, as I insisted repeatedly, a 'real, famous poet'. 

I'd got it out of one of my mother's books, and my parents were, for once, on my side, and the only punishment I got in the end was to pick a different poem. I picked this one, primarily because it was the longest one in our book. I recited it as slowly as humanly possible. It took up nearly half the class. I also completely alienated that teacher completely, which made the rest of the year rather unpleasant. Still, no regrets. And I do like the poem. It's very peaceful. 

-

The Lady of Shalott 
Tennyson

bee-scuits

Sherlock and Lestrade's creation of the day, bee biscuits. Or, as Lestrade insists, bee-scuits:

With chocolate wings, legs, and stinger, of course. Unlike actual bees, they are delicious. 

The off road place was good. I definitely still have mud in unexpected places, but if that and a few bruises are the worst price we pay for getting to act like complete lunatics for a few hours, I'd say it's more than worth it. 

Sherlock had a ride on the back of L's bike again...he's almost there. Just a touch unstable still. Not quite enough length in his legs, but since he's growing like kudzu, I don't think it'll be too much longer. 

I watched Mycroft go around the track by himself and thought about my father's reaction when I asked him to teach me how to drive: an aghast look, accompanied by a demand to know how old I thought I was. He knew, of course, so I can only assume it was the shock talking. I can sort of understand it now, when I realise that Mycroft will be old enough to have his own bike in a very few years. 

I'm getting into an odd place with the poetry, where the only ones that leap to mind are ones that I suspect will seem vaguely depressing to everyone else and inappropriate for happy posts involving bee-scuits, but that I personally find amusing or hopeful. I'm also trying hard not to make this Millay Month, but nevertheless... 

Spring

Edna St Vincent Millay

departure

Today Sherlock and I worked on his bee innards and looked at a lot of pictures of bee wings, close up. I also answered the question 'When is Mycroft coming home?' roughly 5000 times. He is home, at last. He and Sherlock spent a little time on the bees before Sherlock decided to make off with L's Murder Investigation Manual, and he also showed us all this:

More about it here: http://calebcharland.com/energy-from-a-single-orange/

Which is pretty amazing, I think you'll agree. The orange is powering the LED that's lighting it up from inside. Sherlock wants to make one. 

-

Departure

Edna St Vincent Millay

hope is the thing with feathers

I went to see Lestrade play his guitar at a very small pub tonight. Last night, technically. I was under strict instructions to not do anything whatsoever - applaud wildly? Fling various items of clothing at the stage? Not sure what he had in mind. I behaved with perfect decorum but was still accused of looking 'soppy'... Well, he might've had a point. Couldn't help it. I really do think he's amazing and was so pleased and proud to be there with him. 

Sometimes I wonder how things would've gone if we'd met years and years ago, when I was in med school and he was still in his band. Really poorly, probably, when I think back on most of my relationships. And that's assuming I got up the nerve to talk to him at all; also unlikely back then. 

On nights like this, it's possible to believe that sometimes things really do turn out for the best. 

-

Hope is the thing with feathers

Emily Dickinson

purple bougainvillea vine

Our day was, as L said, lovely. We were awakened at a semi-godly hour, and I got to stay in bed a bit longer while L and Sherlock did ill advised things with cheese on toast and calculated the speed of light, all before breakfast. Took Sherlock to school. He likes L going with us because he'll let Sherlock ride on his shoulders. It gives Sherlock a chance to see over garden walls and mimic L's hand gestures while L can't see. It's a good show. 

Got home, had a semi-healthy breakfast, by which I mean that although it contained bacon, it didn't contain pancakes, and lay about on the couch for about an hour saying we should do something. Nice to have the time for that, for once. 

Then a slightly chilly bike ride with random pub lunch - just pulled over and took a chance, as people did before the days of the internet. The food was good, but there were some people talking about Arsenal...in ways that L did not approve of. Thought we might have to leave early for a few minutes there... 

-

Purple Bougainvillea Vine

Don Blanding

the listeners

Despite Federer losing last night, I had an absolutely amazing time at the tennis with L. Being there makes all the difference. The seats were closer than I've ever been to the court at a tennis match; I was afraid to ask what he spent on them. It was incredibly kind and thoughtful of him, not just to arrange it, but to go and sit through two and a half hours of a sport I know he doesn't really care for! Must be love. 

And whatever he tells you, I did not get Federer to sign any part of my body. 

The poem today doesn't fit with the post at all, I realise, but I was thinking about it on the way home last night with us out later than usual and the streets relatively quiet (for London). 

-

The Listeners

Water de la Mare

driftwood

Tonight is the World Tour Final...final. It's Federer and Djokovic, here in London, which means I've gone another year without managing to see him at this one or Wimbledon. With Wimbledon, I have some excuse, but it's fairly easy to get tickets to the WTF, at least for the earlier rounds. I suppose I don't need to worry since he's now saying he might play at the next Olympics as well... I assume he's not serious, but with Federer, who knows? He is, as Nadal once said, from another planet.

And apparently I wasn't the only one thinking of Red yesterday. I got a call from Spence this morning...as well as a series of drunken texts from Murray around 3am his time, asking me if I remembered the time Red decided he was going to save the bottle cap off of every water bottle he drank while he was over there, and did I know what had happened to them. (I do know - he was ordered to get rid of them, because within a week there were so many he was having to hide them in other people's packs without their knowledge, so that when they stopped to get something out, a waterfall of white plastic caps would flow out...)

Today's poem...Don Blanding isn't someone you'll find taught in any school, I'm pretty sure, but I like him. He lived in Hawaii, wrote mostly in the 1920s and 30s, and a lot of his poems are about that, or about his travels.


Driftwood
Don Blanding

into my heart an air that kills

I don't have a post for this day two years ago, but I remember how I spent it. Indoors, staring at the wall, feeling sorry for myself. At the time it seemed like the only choice I had. And yet I knew Red was in London. I could've called him easily enough. I remember thinking it was his leave and he should see his family and I didn't want to bring him down.

So I didn't call him, and a few days later I was in Devon, and soon enough he was back in Afghanistan.  I never saw him again.

When I started this post I meant to write about how I met him. It's a good story and more cheerful than this, but I can't seem to do it. Maybe another day.

Into my heart an air that kills

A. E. Housman

miniver cheevy

I almost did Richard Cory instead of this one. It's better known and I suspect better thought of. But I like Miniver Cheevy. It makes me think of Harry. She wanted to be a knight when we were kids. I always had to be the dragon. 

And I feel like this should be longer, but it's been a long day and I've got a headache, so...the end.

Miniver Cheevy
E.A. Robinson

the guest house

On Tuesday, I went to see Dr E. It was mainly getting reacquainted, or perhaps I should acquainted for the first time, given how resistant I was to actually telling her anything before. I'm not terribly keen on it now, but I've realised that there are worse things. 

She asked what I wanted to get out of it. I said a lot of things, but what I came to in the end was that it would be good to be able to initiate difficult talks with L without making him feel like it's solely for his benefit, which I think I do. Maybe not intentionally, or at least not with conscious intention, but it's still not good. So. There's that to start with. 

From here: "This tractography image was made to help the neurosurgeon to choose the right approach for his neurosurgical planning. The surgery was at risk of damaging the visual field, as well as damaging complex sensory and visuospatial functions such as orientation in space, perception and motor functions."

The Guest House 

Rumi

translated by Coleman Barks

tu fu to li po

After school:

"John, can we go see the dinosaurs?"

"Do you have homework to do?"

"Maybe." 

"Maybe?"

"If I say I do, are you going to say no to dinosaurs?"

He's getting sneakier...but not a lot sneakier. You can guess how that one turned out. There was also no to swimming, jumping in ponds, getting ice cream (isn't it past ice cream season?), buying bats to keep as pets, going immediately to the zoo to satisfy a sudden bat craving, going to the library to look up everything on bats instead of doing homework, no, not even if he did a report on bats because I don't think Mrs N would consider it an adequate replacement for fractions. Polar bears and making a video of him baking cake: also not a replacement for fractions. 

When I said we could probably go to the library after he did his homework, he said: "Instead of is way more fun than after." So often true. 

-

I'm not entirely sure that Carolyn Kizer actually wrote this; I've seen different attributions, and I've never seen the poem anywhere but online, despite my best attempts to find out what books it's in. I think it's her though. 

Tu Fu (or Du Fu (I don't know which version of their names is more correct)) and Li Po (or Li Bai) were 8th century Chinese poets. 

Tu Fu to Li Po

Carolyn Kizer

upon a peak in darien

This one I would probably never have read if it hadn't been quoted at the beginning of Swallows and Amazons, which caused me to look it up. I remember being slightly disappointed when I found out he was only talking about reading a translation of Homer, and then still more disappointed when I tried to read the Iliad. (Hint: it's better when you're not seven.) 

And that's all I have today... I was going to post about going to see Dr E, but I find I need to think about it for another day. 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer
John Keats

at noontime

Sherlock's class did their reports and floated their boats on the pond today. He was happy enough with his boat last night, but when I picked him up, he'd hidden it somewhere in the classroom and wouldn't tell Mrs N where, so we had a chat about that. He produced it, finally, from behind a bookcase and shoved it in the bottom of his bag. A couple of the other kids came up with things he wished he'd thought of, apparently.

I tried to explain that that didn't make his bad - I thought it was very nice, especially for someone who'd never tried carving anything before - and L tried to introduce the concept of telling the other kids he thought their boats were good... Not sure how well either of us did. I suppose we'll see. Makes a change from him being impatient with everyone who's not picking things up as quickly as him, at least.



At Noontime
Sappho
translated by Mary Barnard

siege

I'm stealing L's question again, which was: 

what I wish someone had told me when I was 7 and 14, that I'm making sure the boys know now...

Fourteen...that the world was bigger than I thought it was, bigger than I could even understand, then. That things always change, not always for the better, but they always change. That my whole life would not be decided based on my marks at school. 

Seven...that my sister wasn't as horrible as I thought she was and that she had her own problems, and so did my parents. That very little of what happened between them was my fault. 

I don't know if those are really things Sherlock and Mycroft need to know, or, if they are, if I'm getting them across. I think they're both more grown up and aware of the world than I was at those ages. 

Siege

Edna St Vincent Millay

modern declaration

I found this while I was looking up another poem of hers to make sure I had it right. I'd never seen this one before. She wrote it during World War II. Good time to find it, I think. 

Modern Declaration

Edna St Vincent Millay

spring and fall

More poetry...I feel I'm getting off lightly here while Lestrade comes up with actual posts, but I am enjoying it. I'll answer the question he did today as well, which was what he'd like to learn that he hasn't yet. 

I'd like to learn to cook, like he does, by just looking at food and knowing how it goes together and what cooking method suits it. I can just about get by these days if I follow a recipe, but it's not the same. 

I remember making something that called for six sage leaves and having ten or so left in the package. Lestrade said to just put them all in and use them up, and I said, 'But it only calls for six! Six is not ten!' I still get slightly irrational when I try to cook. 

I think I'd like to be able to write fiction some day too. 

Spring and Fall: to a Young Child
Gerard Manley Hopkins

the bearer of evil tidings

Kestrel suggested poetry, which I could probably do all month, though I'll try not to. I know it's not everyone's thing. This is the first one I memorised, partly because I thought it was funny, but mostly because Harry said it was too long and I'd never be able to remember it. I was eight, I think. 

New words I learned from it: bower, discreet, mandates, divine.

Other things I've done primarily because Harry said I couldn't, or wouldn't dare: jumped in Lake Windermere with all my clothes on, stole a teacher's hairpiece, spent the night in a supposedly haunted house... On the whole, this one probably turned out the best. Or at least got me in the least trouble. 

The Bearer of Evil Tidings

Robert Frost 

every day??

L is doing the posting every day thing that we did last November. I suppose I'll make the attempt as well (no promises). I feel singularly uninspired recently though, so I'll need your help. Questions? Post topics? Anything?

Do you think they let people get married in that bombed out church L likes?

Also, I have an appointment with Dr E next week, which L may or may not attend, as he likes. We'll see how that goes. When I rang her she seemed to think I must've fallen into some sort of deep and desperate depression and was rather surprised when I explained. I told her it served her right for not keeping up with my blog...