Thirty-five is the half-life of 70. The path to Ithaka is long, with jewels lining the route by sea, air, and land. Some of these jewels now line my pockets, while others lie up ahead, waiting to be connected to their destined discoverer. The path is clear: we need only fear the brigands of our own invention.

by C. P. Cavafy
Translated by Edmund Keeley

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.


A Song for You

Leon Russell, Willie Nelson, and Ray Charles, but the song really gets goin’ when Ray hits the mic.

Ja, da, und alles između.

Nothing says Eurotrash like Iäm.

“Bug Powder Dust” by Bomb the Bass, remixed by Austria’s finest Kruder & Dorfmeister:

Flash Fiction

From a discussion on flash fiction:

“So Rebecca, how do you handle adverbs?”


Morning at the Window


T.S. Eliot (1917)

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

The Porch Player

The Porch Player

Porch player drops makin’ mars Pop.
Wile E. Son riding by.

He left me with all I have.
A mendacious teacher laugh.
And some vague notion of the future…past.