I'm a genius at wasting time, at disappearing down black holes of the internet. Probably so is pretty much anyone my age. The picture above is taken through an iced up car window two days ago in south Bavaria - today it is spring again, sunny and 20 degrees Celcius. I said "Man, I could almost go swimming in the lake today!", and my wiser younger sister talked me out of it. It isn't the ocean, she says - it becomes seriously much colder in the winter.
So instead I read my beautiful friend's blog, where she posted about her love for a poet - and I disappeared down a rabbit hole of associated acts and found this, which seems so poignant and perfect when I'm here in south Bavaria at my recently deceased Opa's house, probably for the last time - certainly in terms of the house being how it is now; in terms of it still being his. I'm sitting in his study and his notes to himself still seem so fresh.
Excerpt from 'Poets at Lunch'
by Stanley Moss
Last leaves no time to hesitate.
I would drink strong coffee before my last sleep.
I’d rather remember childhood, rehearse forgiveness,
listen to birdsong or a Spanish housemaid singing,
scrubbing a tiled floor in Seville—
I’d scrub and sing myself. O Susanna
Susanna, quanta pena mi costi.
I would strangle the snakes of lastness
like Herakles in his crib
before I cocked my ear to Mozart for the last time.
There is not sky or clouds enough to cover
the music I would hear for the last time.