Sunset on the Seine & feeling very lazy

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bring
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

Lord Byron
Some lines from his poem: "She Walks in Beauty"

How many travelers have passed this way?

Sunset on the Seine would be special enough even without the elegance of Paris joined to it. This was in the summer of 2004, with a full- or near-full moon to help set the atmosphere. And, amid all the magic and majesty, my overriding struggle that evening was to resist temptation to vault the side of the boat and swim to the opposite shore. Weird, hah? Now, I have fairly covered the three aces (London, Paris, Rome) with a pair of photographs each. My conscience is clear, and I will label this photograph as, "Yesterday's Gone."

Are you following me around?

I walked by a television again on Sunday, just like the day before, and noticed a movie playing. I sat down to watch the final 15 or 20 minutes of the "Bourne Identity." There we were again. Just like the day before, in the Mediterranean. It is following me around. I swear.

He was born with a smile on his lips, and ....

Mundane Monday has arrived, most certainly, if barely. This day's extra errands will include calling my lawn service and calling a couple of realtors (sort of a strange combination); calling the cable company about high speed (sooner or later); and renewing an expired passport.

I was feeling extraordinarily lazy all day Sunday. The predicted snow did not happen other than for a few minutes of big, fluffy flakes in the morning which, at least, allows me to leave the day with a smile.

I think I will cruise and read now rather than write. Do what I did when I first dove into the sea of blogs. Read, and think about tomorrow .... and tomorrow and tomorrow .... creeps in this petty pace, from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time .... Whoops. Sorry, Mr. Shakespeare .... Drifting again ....

Music Note: Listening to Van Halen ....
Specifically, "5150" ....
("Why can’t this be Love?")

London, courtly love & another pair

And, before reaching the Seine, there was this.

Cruising the Thames with Fram the First ....

As I promised yesterday, I have delved further into the previously unpublished travel journals of Fram the First. And, what can I say? His travels began as a bad boy. His journals indicate that he was among the rampaging hordes that swept into Britain before moving along and searching for greener pastures and brighter gold in lands to the south.

By all indications, Fram the First did enjoy cruising on the Thames and bobbing in and out of coastal towns, as well. He thought the folk friendly, the girls beautiful and the ale adequate. He did, however, mention in his journal that he preferred traditional, realistic art to the modernistic stuff finding its way into the Saatchi Gallery in London town.

My assumption is that had Fram the First been heard of beyond his 27th year, he would have grown to enjoy art ranging from blue girls to green girls. There might be more to be told regarding Fram the First's frantic existence. Apparently, he did make one earlier, civilian trip in, about and around the Continent, however, he was traveling with tintype camera gear during those voyages, which makes it difficult to relay the sights he saw.

There also exists a legend that he was among the first Norsemen to arrive in present-day Minnesota. I shall check into it.

The lover is bewildered, helpless ....

I became wrapped up in the notion of romance a few days ago, even to the point where I began studying it again in literary terms. (What can I say? English majors, i.e., witless fools.) By study, I mean examining how writers and literary movements over the centuries have viewed romance and recorded it. I have discovered that I probably am a "courtly love" man. A brief description:

"According to the system, falling in love is accompanied by great emotional disturbances; the lover is bewildered, helpless, tortured by mental and physical pain ... He agonizes over his condition and indulges in endless self-questioning and reflections on the nature of love and his own wretched state. His condition improves when he is accepted, and he is inspired by his love to great deeds. He and his lady pledge ... and must remain faithful in spite of all obstacles ... C.S. Lewis has made a detailed study of courtly love in 'The Allegory of Love'."

I did not stop there. I continued by adding historical study of romance to the mix. In this instance, I was thinking primarily in terms of how my Scandinavian ancestors viewed it. From the "The Poetic Edda," specifically within the "Hovamol -- The Ballad of the High One:"

"Soft words shall he speak and wealth shall he offer
Who longs for a maiden's love,
And the beauty praise of the maiden bring;
He wins whose wooing is best."

and this:

"The head alone knows what dwells near the heart,
A man knows his mind alone;
No sickness is worse to one who is wise
Than to lack the longed-for joy."

and one more:

"Fault with another let no man find
For what touches many a man;
Wise men oft into witless fools
Are made by mighty love."

Technology races forward, but wisdom and knowledge were born long before any of us. It is there to assist us if we wish to look for it. No date can be ascribed to the "Hovamol" but, undoubtedly, parts of it are relics of ancient Germanic poetry.

There are women who make me shake in my boots, but .... time to stop writing and to resume my studies before I get any deeper into trouble. To be continued ....

Night run & the magic girl ....

Here are two more true tales told in column form rather than in paragraph form. This is sort of fun.

Night run ....

I miss seeing the stars at night
beneath clean, clear, country skies,
while running along a graveled road
at midnight in January,
with the temperature below zero,
dressed in insulated clothing and boots,
smoking a cigarette, as I run.
I did not dream after such a night,
after running the frozen road beneath the stars.

Magic girl …

I look at her face, I stare into her eyes.
She is there yet, the girl from long ago.
Her smile has dimmed only a slight degree,
but her face shows scars from tears,
a lonely expression there for all to see.

I sense her there, the girl from long ago,
I know she is she, and once she was for me,
but how do I know what is left inside her?
Is she magic still, or has life changed her?
Can a woman return, a magic girl to be?

Music Note: Listening to and sort of watching David Bowie ....
Specifically, the "Glass Spider" tour ....
(Third time in about four or five weeks .... why?)

Following ancestors & "versing" the river

Before reaching the Mediterranean, there was this.

Fram the First was an avid tourist ....

Sometimes it is a bit embarrassing to admit ancestors were less than perfect, but eventually it is best to reveal the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Fram the First was less than perfect. There, I said it. Now, we will move along to the next item on today's agenda.

What? You're asking me in what way he was not perfect? Oh, I suppose I can tell you.

He was with a group of guys who raided Sarzana way back when. Yes, they did the usual amount of burning and looting. What do you expect Norwegians, Swedes and Danes would do after being cooped up all winter in an era before the age of televisions and personal computers? A guy can practice his swordsmanship only so long before going a little goofy.

What? Yes, fine. I'll tell you everything. They thought it was Rome they were sacking, not Sarzana. So, they got lost and were a little confused. They were only a few hundred miles off course. No one is perfect, you know. They still came home with a ship full of gold and Italian girlfriends, didn't they?

And, yes, before the Mediterranean and Rome ... I mean before Sarzana ... they did do a float up the Seine River and they did do a little damage in Paris. So what? That's what guys did back then to earn a buck.

Was Fram the First involved in any other mischief, you ask?

I will have to look at his other travel journals before I can answer that question. I'll get back to you.

Swim with me where the river flows deeply ....

The moment has arrived. Not since I was a college boy have I tried expressing myself in verse. I am not certain if this would qualify even as free verse. Probably not, but it at least tells another true tale. Think of this as a story told in column form, rather than in paragraph form.

A nearly identical event to this had taken place only a month or two earlier on Lake Superior. The "dummy" on that occasion was in the second canoe on this trip. After this, I banned liquor from my canoe trips until camp was set for the night. Two strikes were enough.

The canoe spills,
not by accident,
but by drunkenness,
and down the river we go.
I love it,
and swim with the current.

But dummy cannot swim.
The other idiot, me,
did not think to ask.
He is under, then up, choking.
He grabs the rope I trail behind,
clinging to it for his life.

I know I am smiling.
I should not be, but I am,
I am one with the river now.
I catch the canoe and pass it
and grab onto it, pulling, towing.
The current finally is cut.

I slap dummy around and curse him
after I get him to shore.
He laughs,
too drunk to know he has been a whisper
from watery, meaningless death,
from killing the both of us.

The other canoe rescues my fishing gear.
I had known my priorities,
and tied my own life vest to it.
I lost my grandfather's sweatshirt, though.
It still rests, I know, beneath fast, deep water,
one with the Escanaba River now.

Music Note: Listening to a classic rock station on the radio ....

("Wheel in the Sky" by Journey is playing)