July 23, 2010. Friday.
Situation: Last night I described to Moi the purple wildflower down at bug land – without looking at it, she said it was probably Canadian thistle, but I don’t think she’s right about this. This morning I searched thistle online, as well as the similar knapweed, but I didn’t find anything to my satisfaction. The photo on one site of a common knapweed showed a flower very similar to mine, but nothing in the description of the plant seemed right. I came across a guy named Josh in a similar dilemma I’m in, but with the advantage of having a camera, who posted a flower he took a photo of and confessed he didn’t know whether it was a thistle or a knapweed, and asked for comments. I see I’m hardly alone in the world about being confused about wildflowers, but Josh’s flower, whether a thistle or a knapweed, didn’t look like mine. I have to work tonight, and decide to take Mway for her walk about 10:30, bringing along the Audubon, though without much hope of settling my confusion.
State of the Path: Near the pig pen, underneath a couple young black walnut trees, I see a bull thistle – no doubt in my mind about this, as the photo in Audubon matches exactly what I see, and whatever’s down at bug land is definitely not a bull thistle. I decide to take the side path along the old orchard, as I haven’t gone this way in a while. With the dry weather, the path is still fairly open, except where it finally goes into the goldenrod, which I end up having to wade through. Some of the jack-in-the-pulpit fruit is still green, some white and rotting, and others, I notice for the first time, are turning orange. Jewelweed is still flowering here and there, but not as much as I recall it doing in past years. I don’t whack back any weeds with my stick, although I think about bringing my clippers with me on a walk soon, and I have to pull aside many briars that arch along the path. Down near the wigwams, a bramble seizes my shoulder and claws my skin for a step or two before I finally pull away from it. Along the creek, I decide that the yellow flower I saw yesterday is indeed fringed loosestrife, but much beleaguered from the dry weather. Finally in bug land, I take another look at the purple wildflower – I still can’t identify it. Whatever it is it has purple thistle-like flowers, about a half-inch wide, with bracts beneath them, appearing in clusters at the crown. The clusters on some of the plants have as many as thirty potential flowers, although only a half dozen to a dozen of the flowers in the center are opened. The leaves are bluish-green, elongated, with fine serrations on the edge. If I had a camera like Josh, I could post a photo online, and ask for help; as it is, I can only close my book and head with my stick up to the clearing.
State of the Creek: Under the tree stand, Mway goes into the pool of water – still enough water to take a sip and cool off. Down where the path narrows, I notice that the piece of vinyl siding, which was under water when I last mentioned it, is now lying on dry creek bed – the vinyl siding acts as a good marker for the water level. I see some movement of frogs in the pool of water here, and as I’m trying to see what’s going on, I lose my footing on the creek bank and nearly fall into a patch of weeds.
The Fetch: Only one fetch – good enough for Mway, good enough for me.
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James Joyce’s Ulysses: My Obsession – Why? by M.
Continued from July 22.
“Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing…” “Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley.” “His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge’s inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father.” “And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897…” These are some of the main avenues of Dawson – white-washed curbs, manicured berms, pedestrian signs, with the hero strutting down the middle of the sidewalk, trained not to look right or left but to walk calmly straight ahead, his license-bearing collar fastened to a leash held by his master, who totes a poop bag. Our literate dog, how does she feel here? – all too likely as though she is leashed herself. But set her down instead in Dublin, or rather, the vegetable overgrowth atop the rubble that passes for Dublin. There snakes and lizards slither beneath vines and rocks, voles and woodchucks scoot down hidden holes, animal carcasses lie rotting: “Stately, plump Buck Mulligan [who’s this? should I bark?] came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather…” “Introibo ad altere Dei [what’s this stirring?].” “Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful jesuit [definitely bark!].” “For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine; body and soul and blood and ouns [What? I better go over and have a look!].”
For you see – it is the hunt that matters, not talk about the hunt. No matter how much the city of Dawson touts its devotion to the life of Buck and to the instincts in him that become enlivened in the wild, these activities do not actually occur in its streets but are only recounted as narratives in the dioramas and display cases of its museums and shops. Buck’s life, his “call to the wild,” his untaming in the brutal world of the Yukon, is the domesticated mythology of curators, the sales pitch of merchants, and, to the sensibilities of le chien moyen besides, it all sounds a bit clichéd and far-farfetched. The city of Dublin, however, makes no such pretensions. It has sent no circular to the chambers of commerce – its ruins, neglected by human hands, are simply there for the dog to explore. It makes no difference that only two brothers will be encountered in a crumbling vault somewhere, for what strange things and denizens otherwise creep about in the flora: This loud-talking plump Buck Malachi Fertiliser and Incubator filling his mouth with a crust thickly buttered Lambay Island isn’t the sea what Algy calls it pogue mahone! acushla machree! gestures too wildly obviously can’t be trusted. Or Stephen snot picked from his nostril laid on a ledge of ineluctable Dedalus -- brooding, quiet, fearful of everything, afraid of stood pale silent morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this frate porcospino in words of words for words palabras Oisin with Patrick Faunman he met in Clamart woods ashplant don’t know about him but guess let him pet me if he tries. Or Deasy because a coughball of laughter rattling chain of phlegm she never let them in make a wide circle around, come in for a snap, Gerty MacDowell four dinky sets pretty stitchery different colored ribbons always know a person well by her undies, Baby jink a jink a jawbo Boardman sending up his complements onto his brandnew dribbling bid mmmm can get a lick of that, Molly yes he used to break his heart at me taking off the dog barking in bell lane poor brute yes hold them like that a bit on my side piano quietly sweeeee theres that train far way pianissimo eeeeeeee yes definitely hop up onto bed with her.
Or Mr. Leopold liver slices fried with crustcrumbs Flower Esq. Bloom – follow him everywhere -- poured warmbubbled set it slowly on the floor hanks of sausages cooked spicy pig’s blood Plasto’s high grade ha bloodsmeared paper fall kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce brown gravy trickle over it curious the life of drifting cabbies I. N. R. I.? No; I. H. S. House of Keys waterlover drawer of water swilling wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food saucestained napkin shoveled gurgling soup halfmasticated gristle chump chop bitten off more than he can chew roast beef and cabbage one stew knifeful of cabbage roast and mashed here Ham and his descendants mustered and bred there what a stupid ad pure olive oil cutlet with a sprig of parsley devilled crab a cheese sandwich then gorgonzola have you? M.
Continued to July 24.
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