Asakiyume mita

That song, "Clamanda," those lines,

And shall the world with dread alarms
Compel you now to ground your arms

I'm hearing it as drown your arms

The scene--

Archers drown your fiery bolts
Foot soldiers, your flaming swords
Into the wide sea send them
Into the ocean plunge them
Now kneel here on the shingle
And drown your incandescent rage
In the brine of your deep grief

But I just made that up. The actual hymn is more real, more intense:

fires fill the sky from whence you came
And brimstone in a driving rain
Blows ash and dust upon your heels
As you in haste your savior steal

I tell you, shape-note hymns. There's just nothing like them.

Can't quite manage anything it seems, not even LJ posts.

My grandmother is 102; she broke her hip and is recovering. I went to visit her on Monday. We held hands, and she told me over and over what a wonderful day it was, how she was going to remember it for ever and ever and never forget, how people never forget things. She has senile dementia and is troubled by forgetting, but I knew what she was saying--she was glad not to have been forgotten in the hospital and wanted always to hold this moment.

Me too. It feels so strange to be smiling and to feel full of love and to be constantly blinking back tears. I wanted to hold her tight and make the whole world disappear; we could just be sitting somewhere Else, in the sun, just chatting. For ever and ever and ever.

I haven't been up to much since then. When I came home, the double CD Awake My Soul/Help Me To Sing was waiting for me, and never has shape-note singing felt more right. These hymns know all about loss and suffering and mysteries. One day maybe I'll post a review, but at the rate I'm going, maybe not.

Oh but that little girl on the cover (this little girl)? Her name turns out to be Lorraine Miles. The liner notes said so.

I have a short Halloween story for you all, but at the rate I'm going, that will not see the light of day either.

Also, the youngest of the forest creatures is plagued by a high fever, and in my dark mood this worries me, though we've done all the precautionary things we normally do.

Also, family obligation. My sister practically airlifted me a birthday present, and the message I got from that was that I had jolly well better not neglect hers, since these things mean a lot more to her than to me. I've made her a little something--dried apple slices, including from Golden Russet apples, that, my apple book tells me, are especially prized by a cider mill near her place--and so now I had better airlift them to her or they won't make it in time.

And work, yes, that... must get to it.

What shall I do? Shall I lie down
And sink in deep despair?
Will He forever frown,
Nor hear my feeble prayer?
No; he will put His strength in me,
He knows the way I've strolled,
And when I'm tried sufficiently
I shall come forth as gold.
--from "Columbus," no. 67; Tune: Columbian Harmony, 1829; Words: Anon., found in Mercer's Cluster, 1823