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Bal du moulin de la Galette, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir.
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Do you
remember where you were when you first heard the word quarantine? For me it was
October 22, 1962 when President Kennedy spoke about preventing the Soviet Union
from placing nuclear weapons in Cuba. The weaponry came in by ship, and Kennedy
decided that a “quarantine” of the island nation was the best course of action.
The administration called it a quarantine, because the term
"blockade" would symbolize war.
And because
I thrive on small joys, I’m a bit off balance. Small joys are a major part of
my minimalist livelihood.
Here
are some small joys sans quarantine, from Lawrence Durrell:
A bureaucrat:
“the endearing solemnity of a talking watermelon just down from Cambridge.”
Another
official: “his starched cuffs rattled crisply.”
A group
of people: “the disconsolate air of a family of moulting turkeys.”
Pigeons
suddenly taking flight: “with the sharp wingflap of a thousand closing books.”
From an
airplane: “The slow loops and tangents of the brown river lay directly below,
with small craft drifting about upon it like seeds.”
Wearing
a bulky, heavy uniform: “It was like being dressed in a boxing glove.”
Late afternoon:
“the violet light of dusk was already in the air…gnats rose into the eye of the
dying sun in silver streams, so store the last memories of the warmth upon
their wings.”
Shop
talk: “You thought you would somehow sneak by the penalties without being called
upon to do more than demonstrate your skill with words. But words…they are only
an Aeolian harp, or a cheap xylophone. Even a sea lion can learn to balance a
football on its nose or to play the slide trombone in a circus.”
And from
the world of music: Alondra de la Parra
And from
the world of art: Deborah Roberts
