Quote of the Day, 1: "Disquiet," and envy.

From now on, I'll be alternating "Question of the Day" with "Quote of the Day," neither of which is to be confused with "Poem of the Week" or "Soup of the Month." That latter isn't really a thing, but shouldn't it be?

Here's today's quote:

Our envy of others devours us most of all.
-- Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

Here's how today's quote matters in my life:

Last night, having finished Disquiet in one day on Saturday, I went to Barnes & Noble for a new book. I wandered, carrying Mr Bunches, into science fiction, where I saw The Host by Stephanie Meyer. The Host is a book I read about before I knew who "Stephanie Meyer" was, and I put it on my list of books to get. Then I found out who Stephanie Meyer is, and I envied her success and now, I can't bring myself to actually buy The Host. Not yet.

Plus, because of Stephanie Meyer, about 99 of the top 100 books on the best seller list are about vampires. So it's not purely envy that's making me upset with her.

Question of the Day: 31

What purpose do measures serve in music?

I've played the piano for 32 years and never understood why music is divided into measures. Those little lines dividing the measures don't serve any purpose I can tell. They're not supposed to make you pause, or stop, or speed up. They don't denote a new thought, like a paragraph does. So why do they exist? Why, when we say four beats to a measure does there have to be a measure, period?

Pervigilium is not a word: Sunday's Poem Number 1

The Sunday Poem is a new feature on "Thinking The Lions." Feel free to submit your own favorites.

Blur
by Andrew Hudgins

Storms of perfume lift from honeysuckle,
lilac, clover—and drift across the threshold,
outside reclaiming inside as its home.
Warm days whirl in a bright unnumberable blur,
a cup—a grail brimmed with delirium
and humbling boredom both. I was a boy,
I thought I'd always be a boy, pell—mell,
mean, and gaily murderous one moment
as I decapitated daises with a stick,
then overcome with summer's opium,
numb—slumberous. I thought I'd always be a boy,
each day its own millennium, each
one thousand years of daylight ending in
the night watch, summer's pervigilium,
which I could never keep because by sunset
I was an old man. I was Methuselah,
the oldest man in the holy book. I drowsed.
I nodded, slept—and without my watching, the world,
whose permanence I doubted, returned again,
bluebell and blue jay, speedwell and cardinal
still there when the light swept back,
and so was I, which I had also doubted.
I understood with horror then with joy,
dubious and luminous joy: it simply spins.
It doesn't need my feet to make it turn.
It doesn't even need my eyes to watch it,
and I, though a latecomer to its surface, I'd
be leaving early. It was my duty to stay awake
and sing if I could keep my mind on singing,
not extinction, as blurred green summer, lifted
to its apex, succumbed to gravity and fell
to autumn, Ilium, and ashes. In joy
we are our own uncomprehending mourners,
and more than joy I longed for understanding
and more than understanding I longed for joy.


Discussion topic: If pervigilium was not a word before the poet used it, is it a word now? And will you make an honest effort to use that word in conversation this week?

Punk Rock Pickle:

Take That, Salad!
by

brianefp

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