Coming down out of the freezing sky with its depths of light, like an angel, or a buddha with wings, it was beautiful and accurate, striking the snow and whatever was there with a force that left the imprint of the tips of its wings— five feet apart—and the grabbing thrust of its feet, and the indentation of what had been running through the white valleys of the snow—
and then it rose, gracefully, and flew back to the frozen marshes, to lurk there, like a little lighthouse, in the blue shadows— so I thought: maybe death isn’t darkness, after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us—
as soft as feathers— that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes, not without amazement, and let ourselves be carried, as through the translucence of mica, to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow— that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light— in which we are washed and washed out of our bones.
This morning shows up at my bedside like a mother holding a glass of water, so I say thank you, glancing out the window at the tiny farmhouse flung into the lap of emerald hills below, and feel the sweetness sleep has brought, such sweetness I feel I could pen a volume on the history of sugar, and make readers love it. I am giddy with the lack of war, of pain, amazed at the silent terrible wonder of my health. So I make a rosary of the room, I pray the bedpost, the window panes. I put our children on two doorknobs, our sick friends on chair rungs. Like the aperture of a camera, the morning opens and keeps on opening till the room is filled with rosy light and I could believe anything, that my ancient mother may still get well and thrive, that later when someone robs the bank, all the tellers may survive.
Fig tree dominates the garden, gray and knobby against gray fog, its bare branches grotesque. Like the old, bent parishioners my father would visit, taking me along, a child. They stroked my hands, my woolen dress, reached out with cloudy eyes.
This tree reaches everywhere, as though light can be caught. Slow sun drains through, stirs a wing. Then one morning I see them, green tips of figs hard as emeralds escaping from every knuckled grasp.
Robert S. McNamara, the focus of The Fog of War, an Academy Award–nominated documentary directed by Errol Morris (The Thin Blue Line), served as secretary of defense under the two presidents who took the U.S. into Vietnam—John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson.
where’s alfreddy who cuts your grass or lifts your rake when you’re not looking and where’s the reliable gunfire from the deuce-eights’ section eight doorways down on twenty-eighth on this last day of August lavender all rotted at the bottom splayed across the concrete walk as you sit barefoot on the porch steps and watch without a thought honeybees and bumblebees ascend and drop in praise of higher fragrances and offer thanks there’s no parade today for trayvon on your street named mlk jr way because you’re that weary
so for this moment with this breath you God bless the bees
Islamic Sufis are outraged by a sultry ad for the perfume Just Cavalli. The ad features a scantily clothed Georgia May Jagger, daughter of Mick Jagger, and includes a logo that the Sufis claim is based on a centuries-old symbol of the Arabic word for Allah that represents peace and harmony. Sufis have demonstrated in American and European cities against the Italian design house marketing the perfume. The European Union’s trademark authority has refused a request from the Sufis to have the logo removed (Reuters).