The October Country

So, via the New York Times Book Review, I wandered to a place I would have arrived at anyway.

The October Country.

In brief reviews of old books republished, I found a link to the web site of the Paris bookshop Shakespeare and Company which has a very old copy, among many old books, of short story collection by Ray Bradbury entitled "I Sing the Body Electric."

I love Ray Bradbury. His prose is magic and wonderful and earthy and diamond-like. I would love to drink a glass of dandelion wine with him. I would love to walk a carnival midway with him on a deep and dreamy summer night in Illinois, songs of frogs and crickets in full midnight throat.

Not to be.

Therefore, time again for The October Country. Thank you Ray.  For "The Next In Line," for "The Watchful Poker Chip of H. Matisse," for "Touched with Fire," for "The Cistern," "The Homecoming" and for many more, most especially, for "The Lake," a story of life and of memory.

And thank you, too, to Joseph Mugnaini, (that's your work shown here) for your illustrations.

See you next October.

Much love,
Katy

Noisy world

Since about 2009, my cell phone has been my alarm clock. I've set it to a nice, chime-y wake up jingle that is infinitely preferable to the high-decibel beep-beep-beep of my alarm clock.

Unfortunately for me, no matter what the alarm sound, my drowsy brain is in enough command to order fingers to smash the snooze button.

What can I say? I am not a morning person.

That said, if I am forced to be out and about in the early hours, I truly enjoy the experience: the early morning light, the birdsong, the water dripping off leaves in the park, my dog trotting nicely beside me.

At this time of year, morning or evening (though it seems mostly to be evening) one of the loveliest sounds is of wind, acting like a bow, sliding across tree branches, acting like strings. The effect is most certainly not that of a violin, or cello, or violincello. But it is definitely the effect of an instrument, trees, being played, by the wind. The music is a long, deeply sighing and swiftly moving rush.

It is a large sound, confident yet hurried. You can hear it, sitting inside, in bed. So persistent, but there is no message, except that of presence.

Presence of the wind through the boughs.

One of my favorite books of all time is Ray Bradbury's "The October Country," a short story collection. One tale is titled "The Wind." It is, like most of Bradbury's tales, richly written, bursting with the sense of an age fading farther and farther away in our collective rear-view mirror. The illustrations by Joe Mugnaini in the original make a perfect match of art and story.
There is a cool left-to-right scrolling gallery here.

Meanwhile, the image is of a nearby park, altered to look sort of October Country-ish. Because at this time of year, it does feel that lonely.