3.14, do you want a little more?

Cleaning out my inbox, I found pictures of the pie's we made my sister's boyfriend (now fiancée, as of last weekend) Jake's family when his grandmother's automated scooter hydroplaned off the road and into a ditch. That was REALLY funny, right up until she died. Oh well. Here are some pies.



That's me in the corner--that's me in the spot light, loooooosing my religion!! Now I believe only in pie...



Behold the luscious texture of the berry goo!



Behold my artful MOOSE THEME!!





From the back: southern sugar cream, with blueberries. Peach cobbler with brown sugar crumble topping. Pecan pie. Mixed berry.

3.14, do you want a little more?

Cleaning out my inbox, I found pictures of the pie's we made my sister's boyfriend (now fiancée, as of last weekend) Jake's family when his grandmother's automated scooter hydroplaned off the road and into a ditch. That was REALLY funny, right up until she died. Oh well. Here are some pies.



That's me in the corner--that's me in the spot light, loooooosing my religion!! Now I believe only in pie...



Behold the luscious texture of the berry goo!



Behold my artful MOOSE THEME!!





From the back: southern sugar cream, with blueberries. Peach cobbler with brown sugar crumble topping. Pecan pie. Mixed berry.

More inbox cleaning

An sent me this poem forever ago, and I /quite/ like it, but how do you read the last stanza? Anyone? I'm a bit ambivalent here.



Odysseus to Telemachus [Joseph Brodsky]

My dear Telemachus,
  The Trojan War
is over now; I don't recall who won it.
The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave
so many dead so far from their own homeland.
But still, my homeward way has proved too long.
While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,
it almost seems, stretched and extended space.

I don't know where I am or what this place
can be. It would appear some filthy island,
with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.
A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.
Grass and huge stones . . . Telemachus, my son!
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
I can't remember how the war came out;
even how old you are – I can't remember.

Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.
Only the gods know if we'll see each other
again. You've long since ceased to be that babe
before whom I reigned in the plowing bullocks.
Had it not been for Palamedes' trick
we two would still be living in one household.
But maybe he was right; away from me
you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,
and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.

More inbox cleaning

An sent me this poem forever ago, and I /quite/ like it, but how do you read the last stanza? Anyone? I'm a bit ambivalent here.



Odysseus to Telemachus [Joseph Brodsky]

My dear Telemachus,
  The Trojan War
is over now; I don't recall who won it.
The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave
so many dead so far from their own homeland.
But still, my homeward way has proved too long.
While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,
it almost seems, stretched and extended space.

I don't know where I am or what this place
can be. It would appear some filthy island,
with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.
A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.
Grass and huge stones . . . Telemachus, my son!
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
I can't remember how the war came out;
even how old you are – I can't remember.

Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.
Only the gods know if we'll see each other
again. You've long since ceased to be that babe
before whom I reigned in the plowing bullocks.
Had it not been for Palamedes' trick
we two would still be living in one household.
But maybe he was right; away from me
you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,
and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.