Creek Running North

There’s part of Philip Larkin’s Aubade that has been in my mind lately, emerging at odd moments.

It’s one of those “in every anthology possible” kind of works, but for good reason. Stunning, understated, precise: very Larkin.

This is the passage I’m taking with me to the Mojave today, along with food and water:

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

I’ve learned a few things lately about inappropriate stoicism. It’s good stuff for keeping your spirits up during waterless desert death-hikes, like Gatorade only without the high-fructose corn syrup. It is not so helpful or productive, though, in running, or in love, or in any pursuit that requires sensitivity to conditions outside the skin of the one who suffers.

I have long thought that strength was the willingness to bear burdens without complaining, and though I don’t fare well at this where physical labor is concerned I have spent my adulthood keeping my fears, my resentments under my vest. A funny thing for the proprietor of this blog to say, perhaps, but what you see here is calculated, second-guessed, with the exception of a few angry political pieces.

Sometimes you find that one you love is grateful when you share some of the burden. What a gift that is. What a gift.

Back Sunday night. And those of you coming in from the Weblog Awards site, welcome. CRN’s de facto comment policy is described here. It has nothing to do with 99.96 percent of you, but I think you’ll find it interesting anyway.