Moss Garden Two

A veritable jungle of mosses, the bright green of a patch of a Bryum species, most likely the silvery bryum. The online NZ Enyclopedia has this to say:

Silvery bryum looks silvery because the cells of the upper third of its leaves die and lose their chlorophyll. Their skeletal remains are white and shiny, especially when dry. The dead tips act like a layer of sunscreen, protecting the still-living lower two-thirds of the leaves from damage by ultraviolet radiation. When the dead leaf tips are dampened by rain, they turn glass-like, allowing light to penetrate the moss cushion.

This patch of Bryum brightens up a a large colony of our old favourite Tortula muralis.

Pablum and Duck Milk

I, a demon, bear witness that there are no more demons left. Why demons, when man himself is a demon? Why persuade to evil someone who is already convinced? I am the last of the persuaders. I board in an attic in Tishevitz and draw my sustenance from a Yiddish storybook, a leftover from the days before the great catastrophe. The stories in the book are pablum and duck milk, but the Hebrew letters have a weight of their own. I don’t have to tell you that I am a Jew. What else, a Gentile? I’ve heard that there are Gentile demons, but I don’t know any, nor do I wish to know them. Jacob and Esau don’t become in-laws.

I came here from Lublin. Tishervitz is a godforsaken village; Adam didn’t even stop to pee there. It’s so small that a wagon goes through town and the horse is in the marketplace just as the rear wheels reach the toll gate.

The Last Demon. Isaac Bashevis Singer. Penguin 2011

Dessert, Glasses & Napery

He told it me with such a direct simplicity of conviction that I could not do otherwise than believe in him. But in the morning, in my own flat, I woke to a different atmosphere; and as I lay in bed and recalled the things he had told me, stripped of the glamour of his earnest slow voice, denuded of the focused, shaded table light, the shadowy atmosphere that wrapped about him and me, and the pleasant bright things, the dessert and glasses and napery of the dinner we had shared, making them for a time a bright little world quite cut off from everyday realities, I saw it all as frankly incredible. ‘He was mystifying!’ I said, and then: ‘How well he did it! … It isn’t quite the thing I should have expected him, of all people, to do well.’

Afterwards as I sat up in bed and sipped my morning tea, I found myself trying to account for the flavor of reality that perplexed me in this impossible reminiscences, convey – I hardly know which word to use – experiences it was otherwise impossible to tell.

H.G. Wells The Door in the Wall Penguin 2010

 

Drowning in Poetic Messages

To compose a poem that is worth reading and remembering is a gift of destiny: it happens to only a few people, without regard for rules or intentions, and to them it happens only a few times in their lives. Perhaps this is good thing; if the phenomenon were more frequent, we would be drowning in poetic messages, our own and those of others, to the detriment of us all. To Pasquale, too, it had happened only a few times, and the awareness of having a poem in his mind, ready to be caught in flight and fixed on a page like a butterfly, had always been accompanied by a curious sensation, by an aura like that which preceded epileptic fits: each time, he had heard a faint whistle in his ears, and a ticklish shiver ran through him from head to foot.

In a few moments the whistle and the shiver disappeared, and he found himself clear-headed, with the core of the poem lucid and distinct; he had only to write it down, and, lo and behold, the other lines hastened to crowd around it, obedient and strong. In a quarter of an hour the work was done: but this flash, this instantaneous process in which conception and birth succeeded one another almost like lightning and thunder, had been granted to Pasquale only five or six times in his life.

Quotation from:  The Fugitive. Primo Levi. Penguin 2011