4.16.2023 – when all one’s prospect

when all one’s prospect
landscapes, portraits, flowers, are
nothing but a line

If my Readers have followed me with any attention up to this point, they will not be surprised to hear that life is somewhat dull in Flatland.

I do not, of course, mean that there are not battles, conspiracies, tumults, factions, and all those other phenomena which are supposed to make History interesting; nor would I deny that the strange mixture of the problems of life and the problems of Mathematics, continually inducing conjecture and giving the opportunity of immediate verification, imparts to our existence a zest which you in Spaceland can hardly comprehend.

I speak now from the æsthetic and artistic point of view when I say that life with us is dull; æsthetically and artistically, very dull indeed.

How can it be otherwise, when all one’s prospect, all one’s landscapes, historical pieces, portraits, flowers, still life, are nothing but a single line, with no varieties except degrees of brightness and obscurity?

From the book, Flatland — A Romance of Many Dimensions (1884) by Edwin Abbott Abbott (1838-1926).

I am struck by the line … when all one’s prospect, all one’s landscapes, historical pieces, portraits, flowers, still life, are nothing but a single line, with no varieties except degrees of brightness and obscurity?

I feel had Mr. Abbott been writing today he would be thinking of … Florida.

Something dull, æsthetically and artistically, very dull indeed.

How can it be otherwise?

I am also reminded of James Thurber’s long short story, The Wonderful O, about an island community where everything with the letter O in it is banned.

Geese are okay as long there are geese, but if there was just one bird, it’s goose was cooked.

Words with the letter O are banned.

When Father storms out the door and is asked, “Where are going?”

“UT!” he replies, and “UT he went”, writes Mr. Thurber.

For so long, if ever I was asked where I was going I would reply, “UT and UT HE WENT!”.

So much so did I say that, that when I saw a University of Toronto sweatshirt in a Toronto store that was emblazoned with a bold UT, my friends told me, “Hoffman You HAVE TO GET THAT!”

And I did.

And I wore it for years.

And I explained why as well, when ever I could.

The people of the Island put up with this O business for a while until they figure out that without the letter O you lose the word FREEDOM.

As Thurber writes:

Then they heard the ringing of a distant bell, sounding near and sounding nearer, ringing clear and ringing clearer, till all the sky was filled with music as by magic.

“Freedom!” Andrea echoed after him, and the sound of the greatest word turned the vandals pale and made them tremble.

Take away that word.

Take away that letter O.

And what do you have but a place where all one’s prospect, all one’s landscapes, historical pieces, portraits, flowers, still life, are nothing but a single line, with no varieties except degrees of brightness and obscurity?

… Flrida.

4.15.2023 – I want to die while

I want to die while
you love me never see this
grow dim cease to be

Adapted from the poem I Want to Die While You Love Me by Georgia Blanche Douglas Camp Johnson, better known as Georgia Douglas Johnson (September 10, 1880 – May 15, 1966), was a poet. She was one of the earliest female African-American playwrights, and an important figure of the Harlem Renaissance according to Wikipedia.

I want to die while you love me,
While yet you hold me fair,
While laughter lies upon my lips
And lights are in my hair.
I want to die while you love me,
And bear to that still bed,
Your kisses turbulent, unspent
To warm me when I’m dead.
I want to die while you love me
Oh, who would care to live
Till love has nothing more to ask
And nothing more to give!
I want to die while you love me
And never, never see
The glory of this perfect day
Grow dim or cease to be.

4.14.2023 – he had been standing

he had been standing
shadowy deck formless boat
as it rushed, he woke

The gaunt man, Abraham Lincoln, woke one morning
From a new dream that yet was an old dream
For he had known it many times before
And, usually, its coming prophesied
Important news of some sort, good or bad,
Though mostly good as he remembered it.

He had been standing on the shadowy deck
Of a black formless boat that moved away
From a dim bank, into wide, gushing waters–
River or sea, but huge–and as he stood,
The boat rushed into darkness like an arrow,
Gathering speed–and as it rushed, he woke.

He found it odd enough to tell about
That day to various people, half in jest
And half in earnest–well, it passed the time
And nearly everyone had some pet quirk,
Knocking on wood or never spilling salt,
Ladders or broken mirrors or a Friday,
And so he thought he might be left his boat,
Especially now, when he could breathe awhile
With Lee surrendered and the war stamped out
And the long work of binding up the wounds
Not yet begun–although he had his plans
For that long healing, and would work them out
In spite of all the bitter-hearted fools
Who only thought of punishing the South
Now she was beaten.
But this boat of his.
He thought he had it.
“Johnston has surrendered.
It must be that, I guess–for that’s about
The only news we’re waiting still to hear.”
He smiled a little, spoke of other things.

That afternoon he drove beside his wife
And talked with her about the days to come
With curious simplicity and peace.
Well, they were getting on, and when the end
Came to his term, he would not be distressed.
They would go back to Springfield, find a house,
Live peaceably and simply, see old friends,
Take a few cases every now and then.
Old Billy Herndon’s kept the practice up,
I guess he’ll sort of like to have me back.
We won’t be skimped, we’ll have enough to spend,
Enough to do–we’ll have a quiet time,
A sort of Indian summer of our age.

He looked beyond the carriage, seeing it so,
Peace at the last, and rest.

They drove back to the White House, dressed and ate,
Went to the theatre in their flag-draped box.
The play was a good play, he liked the play,
Laughed at the jokes, laughed at the funny man
With the long, weeping whiskers.
The time passed.
The shot rang out. The crazy murderer
Leaped from the box, mouthed out his Latin phrase,
Brandished his foolish pistol and was gone.

Lincoln lay stricken in the flag-draped box.
Living but speechless. Now they lifted him
And bore him off. He lay some hours so.
Then the heart failed. The breath beat in the throat.
The black, formless vessel carried him away.

On the anniversary of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, 248 years ago.

This passage is taken from John Brown’s Body by Stephen Vincent Benét.

According to Wikipedia, John Brown’s Body (1928) is an epic American poem written by Stephen Vincent Benét. Its title references the radical abolitionist John Brown, who raided the federal armory at Harpers Ferry, Virginia in October 1859. He was captured and hanged later that year. Benét’s poem covers the history of the American Civil War. It won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1929. It was written while Benét lived in Paris after receiving a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1926.