Crowns, Leaves

You should all know before Halloween tomorrow that I am the Harvest Queen. Maybe you have not heard, but it is true. I have it on good authority that the previous Harvest Queen was deposed for fraternizing with spring blooms. So now it is me.

Things Harvest Queens Do:

1. Throw leaves
2. Wear crowns
3. Drink cider
4. Visit castles
5. Kiss gourds
6. Wear boots
7. Kick leaves
8. March in parades
9. Say the word "abundance" with great frequency

They do some other things too, but I am not allowed to talk about those things. They are secret Harvest Queen activities. I would not want to be deposed, after all.

Happy 'Ween, all.
May your moons be full, your leaves slugless.

Bookworm: England, 'Ween

For reading in England near the end of October, or where or whenever you happen to be.

For issues pertaining to classes and brains:

For reading among the stones:

For ennui and ABCs:

Durham, Things They Have In

1. Cathedral, towering
2. Leaves, thick
3. Headstones, tippy
4. Dumbledore, Albus
5. Biscuits, chocolatey
6. Peas, mushy
7. Ghosts, proper
8. Moss, abundant
9. Shandy, sweet

They have some other things, too, like best friends and sheeps and squidgy littles and a very nice river and small children who say "you mustn't forget" and slugs that creep up your skirt when you've been kicking leaves, leaving muddy trails further up than you care to have slugs, thank you very much. And pasties and sausage rolls. We mustn't forget them.

{Spooky mossy photo by me}

I See London, I See France

Tomorrow I'll be on a plane to the U.K. And then, after a couple of weeks, on a train to Paris, where I seem to have somehow rented an apartment for a month, and where "sugar" is "le sucre" and "numbrella" is "le parapluie." There will be friends. There will be yoghurt in glass jars. And then, eventually, I will be home. Or maybe I will be home the whole time, home being where hearts are, and hats. We shall see.

Today I'm just excited to be be packing a suitcase. It is a suitcase with a bit of sand in the bottom for luck, as all suitcases really should have. I'm exited buy a New Yorker and board a plane with a bag under my arm and a warm shawl over it. And to close my eyes. And to open them and find old friends, dear friends, waiting on the other side.

See you soon, soon, soon.

{Photo by Nichole.}

Obsession Three: Silver, Lines

It is the first year in many that I have not dyed my hair. Silver strands crop up, twinkling. Wrinkles have begun to settle in. And I love them. I could not love them any more, these strands that glint among ashy brown curls, these lines that turn up--up!--after all those furrowed brows. On the subway, I consider the term "shot through with gray," eye men gray at the temples. In the sun, I stare hard at wrinkles, folds, muss my hair, squinch my eyes to see whether there are more. This richness of silver, of tiny smiling lines feels worth its weight in gold.

Tuesday Poem: Mermaids, Sea

Emily Dickinson today. Because sometimes you just need a bit of Emily.

I started Early--Took my Dog--
And visited the Sea--
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me--

And Frigates--in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands--
Presuming Me to be a Mouse--
Aground--upon the Sands--

But no Man moved Me--till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe--
And past my Apron--and my Belt
And past my Bodice--too--

And made as He would eat me up--
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve--
And then--I started--too--

And He--He followed--close behind-
I felt His Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle--Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl--

Until We met the Solid Town--
No One He seemed to know
And bowing--with a Mighty look--
At me--The Sea withdrew--

{Image from Peonies and Polaroids' etsy shop. Because sometimes you just need some Peonies.}

Husks, Sky

It is autumn and I spent the weekend wearing coats and kicking leaves and getting things in order. The new boots are very fond of kicking leaves. They would also be fond of walking through corn mazes and picking apples, but there is little time for such things at the moment, I'm afraid. I've tacked this photo up for now--If I close my eyes hard I can hear the wind rattle through the husks, hear littles I love giggling around the next corner, can smell the dirt and the corn and see our mud-caked shoes, ready to lead us out, on.

{Photo by me}

Letters, Sets

For any of you seeking extracurricular Sendak fun this weekend, the following:

The Animazing Gallery's Sendak in Soho exhibition and sale is well worth a visit. Well. Worth. Perhaps you'll head home with a bronze of Max and his ship, with a set design from the Nutcracker Suite or Where the Wild Things Are Opera. Or maybe you'll just levitate a little, floating among the drawings, clutching the price list in your hot little hand. Preview the art here. The sale runs through November eighth.

For those of you who would prefer not to brave the rain, peruse the Booooooom/We Love You So Wild Things Fort Contest, and get out your hammer, your sheets.

And because I cannot help myself today, an excerpt from a particularly wonderful letter between (who else?) Ursula Nordstrom and (who else?) Maurice Sendak:

"Maurice, before I sent the paste-up I went through it, rereading the words, and looking at the pictures again. It is MOST MAGNIFICENT, and we're so proud to have it on our list. When you were much younger, and had done only a couple of books, I remember I used to write you letters when the books were finished, and thank you for "another beautiful" job--or some such dopiness. Now you're rich and famous and need no words of wonder from me. But I must send them, anyhow, when I look through Where the Wild Things Are. I think it is utterly magnificent, and the words are beautiful and meaningful, and it does just what you wanted it to do. And you did just what you wanted to do."

To doing the things you want to do.
Happy Friday, all.
A.

{Art by Maurice Sendak, via the Animazing Gallery}

Gnash, Roar

I'm off to gnash my terrible teeth and roar my terrible roar. May you stir things up of your own accord, or at least see Maurice Sendak do so here, reminding us all why Max and his monsters kick Lottie the Otter's pearl-wearing ass.

Obsession Two: Gray, Grey

We're a little obsessed with gray leather up in here, and it is beginning to be a problem. It started with these gray leather boots, which I finally emptied my Boot Fund for, and which finally agreed to stay after I patiently explained that a trip to Paris might be in store. They were a mite bossy at first, suggesting that my coat and bag were not up to their soft, gris leathery level of perfection. "Not quite up to snuff," was how they put it.

They mentioned that they might not be willing to stay unless I jumped for this bag as well. I told them I could not. Could Not. Because I did not have a Bag Fund. Only a Boot Fund. And the Boot Fund had been spent. And I asked them if they knew how much yoghurt costs in this town.

We went to Cole Haan, the boots and I, and we visited the bag. Twice. And we smelled it and patted it tenderly and wished it well in the world. But, friends, the gray-leather love has not abated. I have since fondled this bag at Urban Outfitters, and considered asking a stranger carrying Hayden Harnett beauty if I could hold it to my cheek. I have yearned to slide my fingers into the depths of these buttery gloves. The madness continues, has merely been whetted.

Obsession: Pen, Little Brown

A couple of weeks back, lovely LPC listed a smattering of obsessions (LPC is good with lists). And ever since I've been thinking hard about obsession, and what it means to be obsessed. As for lists, well. I have never seen I list I have not liked. And LPC posted a LIST, you see. A LIST OF THINGS I HAD NOT YET MADE. So here we are.

Obsession One: Nichole over at Little Brown Pen.

Perhaps it would be more refined to just say Little Brown Pen itself. But really it's Nichole, who is utterly charming, and who has sensibly managed things in a way that allows her to spend bits of her life in Paris. And I am going to Paris. As you may know.

It is all Deb's fault for pointing me that way. "Deb!" said me, "You are bon! And an oiseau! Paris! Help!" And Deb, because she is wonderful, said many helpful things, including but not limited to "Oui. Get thee to Little Brown Pen." And over at Little Brown Pen, where I now spend a distracting amount of time when I should be doing other things, there are very many things Parisienne. There are carousels! And stores with livres! And handsome chapeaued, chocolate-faced boy littles.

Also, Nichole is informative, and has been teaching me all the words I really need to know to survive in Paris for a month. Gaufres, for example, and galipette.

Get thee to Little Brown Pen.

{Photo by Nichole, of course}

For Explorers, Wild Things

Friends, it is Wild Things week in New York City, and it shows.
The hipsters are clearly beside themselves. (So am I.)

If you're in need of mischief of one kind and another before the wild rumpus starts, you can done your wolf suit and sail to one of these celebratory events throughout the week. Perhaps you will be crowned king. Perhaps you will dance with Wild Things. It is possible that your dinner will be waiting upon your return. And maybe, just maybe, it will still. be. hot.

Linger, Pour

I am nearly out of words today, but would like to proffer a reminder that Vermeer's Milkmaid is still at the Met, and will be through the end of November. As you may or may not know, I am very fond of milkmaids, and think it important to support other milkmaids in their milkmaidery. And the Met is my favorite. And staring at well-rendered light playing off all my favorite hues? Well. It seems that Tess and I have a date.

And to those of you who have recently become followers of this blog, a warm, milky welcome to you.
Happy Friday, all.

Hoard, Keep: Acorn Caps, Thumbtacks

A bit of autumn from the desk of this milkmaid today. The acorns, picked up at Central Park and Greenwood Cemetery, make all the difference toward the end of the week, when I yearn to be out-of-doors. They make me feel gladder about the grown-up sorts of things haunting my desk. Now: What to do with them?

The tiny dishes, incidentally, hail from CB2. They catch my hoardings oh-so nicely, and their smooth lines and slight price-tag cry out for giving into. Your acorn caps and thumbtacks will thank you.

Wednesday Tuesday Poem: Alexander Beetle

A little A.A. Milne for today's Wednesday Tuesday poem. This one, "Forgiven," from Milne's Now We Are Six, is very simply my favorite, though it has been known to alarm beetles from time to time.


I found a little beetle, so that beetle was his name,
And I called him Alexander and he answered just the same.
I put him in a matchbox, and I kept him all the day...

And Nanny let my beetle out
Yes, Nanny let my beetle out
She went and let my beetle out-
And beetle ran away.

She said she didn't mean it, and I never said she did,
She said she wanted matches, and she just took off the lid
She said that she was sorry, but it's difficult to catch
An excited sort of beetle you've mistaken for a match.

She said that she was sorry, and I really mustn't mind
As there's lots and lots of beetles which she's certain we could find
If we looked about the garden for the holes where beetles hid-
And we'd get another matchbox, and write BEETLE on the lid.

We went to all the places which a beetle might be near,
And we made the sort of noises which a beetle likes to hear,
And I saw a kind of something, and I gave a sort of shout:
"A beetle-house and Alexander Beetle coming out!"

It was Alexander Beetle I'm as certain as can be
And he had a sort of look as if he thought it might be ME,
And he had a kind of look as if he thought he ought to say:
"I'm very, very sorry that I tried to run away."

And Nanny's very sorry too, for you know what she did,
And she's writing ALEXANDER very blackly on the lid,
So Nan and me are friends, because it's difficult to catch
An excited Alexander you've mistaken for a match.

Edward Bear, Winnie-ther-Pooh

Can we just talk about this Winnie-ther-Pooh sequel business? I am very upset. Mostly, I am keeping my words to myself until I have finished the book sometime tomorrow. I will say this: I know deeply and well how it is to yearn for more books by the same author. At age eight, when I discovered that Roald Dahl had passed away, I cried for three days.

But surely this is not right.

Clever retellings of stories, with stinky cheese men or zombies? I'm down. Creative prequels, perhaps told in the voice of another character? No problem. Sequels written by very small children? Understandable. Sequels by adults who are not the author? Sequels sactioned by the Representatives of Pooh? I cannot bear it.

What say you, gentle reader?

NPR story here. New York Times story here.

Cafe au Lait, Clouds

Hello, darlings, and happy Saturday to you. I have a little postlet up in the land of the BonBon Oiseau on this sleepy Saturday. There is soup! There are clouds! And words from a grumpy French poet. You like grumpy French poets, don't you?

Thanks to lovely Deb for having me in her absence--hope all is well in belle France, my dear!

{Photo by Mattscoggin}

Whoopy Once, Whoopy Twice

Happy October, my dears. I'm holing up with chocolat chaud and books on France this weekend. And taking chilly autumn walks, of course, to stare at some of the largest pumpkins I have ever seen.

Below from Maurice Sendak's Chicken Soup With Rice. Whoopy once whoopy twice whoopy chicken soup with rice.