Time on my Hands

“I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world,
or if the secret of secrets is inside me again.”

Work in progress. From a series of North Fork skies, for my sister. Oil on linen, 2008.

I read this last night and am still turning over its meaning. It is a translation of the poetry of the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova.

When I was in my very early teens, I saw the movie Dr. Zhivago. It was broadcast on TV late one night, when I probably should have been asleep. It was raining hard outside, and I was swept along in the passion and the tragedy of Yuri and Lara. Soonafter I found a third edition copy of the book by its author Boris Pasternak. Such words were not allowed in Russia at the time, so his manuscript was smuggled out of the country by a friend and was first published in Italy in 1957. With my raging teenage hormones spinning me up and down, this kind of dark romantic stuff really got to me. Russian poetry can still do that to me now.

Meanwhile I finally went to my doctor yesterday after weeks of symptoms. He diagnosed me with walking pneumonia! So I’ve had some time to try a felted wool kit I bought in New Hampshire this summer. How do you like my little fox? He’ll probably look better when I sew on his beady brown eyes.

This morning I went for a chest X-ray and found the most delightful new product. Nice, huh?

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2 Responses to “Time on my Hands”


  1. 1 Anon O. Moose October 24, 2008 at 10:37 pm

    Don’t know much about Russian poetry, but I do know that having “Joaquin Pneumonia” is’nt as debilitating as either “Viggo-mortis” or “Clive Owen-tosis”.

    Feel better.

    -RoxanneAndJoeAndRose

  2. 2 Anon O. Moose October 24, 2008 at 10:39 pm

    (isn’t)


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