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Correspondence \
WUTHERING.UK \
P.O. Box 1302 \
Grand Marais, MN, 55604 \
USA \
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It was supposedly in the nineties, but towards sundown back down to eighty. Now just before midnight sixty-three. The moon is waning and very late, past midnight, with a couple of planets lined up towards dawn.
Ran around the harbor towards five o’clock. Bright, huge blue sky, water shimmering. Not too hot. Walked back home west on 5th Street/County 7 after Y workout. Wildflowers are vigorous, the ox-eyed daisies and false chamomile. Yoga instructor said hello as she passed me on her bike. Lovely young woman with an adorable boy. Don’t really know the husband, though. Only seen him a couple of times.
Listening to Grouper. Duster earlier. Looking at Barbara Baldi’s graphic novel Lucenera, which is only in Italian and French. I got the original Italian used from a bookstore in Massachusetts. Lucenera is set in Wuthering Heights times and is about a young old-soul, long-suffering, melancholic woman who inherits a manor house but no money; her mean, hateful sister inherits the money. More pictures here.
Today is trying to be sunny. But yesterday was a very blustery, wuthering day, the 14th was. A day for which this site is named. A day that closes in on the senses and the mind and makes me feel like there is no other place than here on the Inland Sea, that all other places have ceased to exist. I suppose we’re possessive of one another, I and she, the Inland Sea and her shoulder, the North Coast. But I cannot assume anything more than complete imperious indifference on her part. I must continually adore and prostrate myself to her, while her indifference drives my obsession all the more.
“Come here, my love[fn:1],” she beckons, but in a mocking, almost sinister tone—erasing my memory of it so instantly, that I obey mindless of the order. “Come where?” I occasionally bleat, woken from a dream or trance, day or night.
This has been a typical North Coast (NC) April of weather confusion, sun one day, clouds the next, rain, sleet, snow, every atmospheric instability. Suffice it to say, here at least April she is not your friend. Very low-ceiling misty-cloudy for a day, then open into the huge heavens blue electric, then snow and cold wind. Wuthering.
Last week we saw melting and precipitation flood the Coop’s and city’s parking lot partially. Looking up to the ridge, half was cloud-shrouded, with the very highest parts frosted. Then the sun blazed for a few days. Now snowflakes are confusingly going round basically non-ascending.
The harbour is medium visibility, clouds hanging low. Sleet, snow come-and-go. Winds are big north-easterly ripping across the sea.
so it escapes the scientific scalpels and tweezers of scholarly research. Basically, one reads…and one absorbs—perhaps many times this cycle. And then the exercise part of the process is over. No further left-brain analysis or dissection necessary. No “what does it really mean?” No “what was the context in which…” No “what were his sources of inspiration.” Let’s take a look at a poem from whom I consider one of the leading poets of the age, she being Emily Jane Brontë, specifically, her Fall leaves fall
This is your first test. You either get it or you don’t. No digging or working out its meaning necessary.
The sublime is a particularly badly mauled concept by the academes.
[fn:1] Not the Van Morrison original, but the This Mortal Coil remake: https://youtu.be/H6ypilBoWa4 .