At the Wisconsin Dinner Café...

... in Darkmonth, we're eating light.

***

A whole dead month in the dark,
A dawn in the mists that o'ercome her
Stifled and smothered and sad—
Swift speed to it, barren and bad!
And return to us, voice of the lark,
And remain with us, sunlight of summer.

"WHO EVER READS THIS IM IN THE DARK AS IM WRITING THIS I'M DIEING – Im 28 yrs old my name is Mike."

"I had to break in your house. I took blankets off the couch. I have hypothermia. I didn't take any thing.... I hope u can read this I’m in the dark. I took a black jacket too. Goodbye. God all mighty help me."

At the Winter Night Hotel...

... we're speaking in whispers.

On the Badger Trail...

... the view from the fabulous bike path. Enlarge for cows.

That was yesterday. We did not bike all the way to Illinois... or even to Belleville. At my request, we turned around short of Belleville, and the entire ride was only 26 miles. I say "only," although it was the farthest I'd ever ridden, because Meade has done many, much longer rides, including the ride he took on the Badger Trail the previous day, past Belleville, into New Glarus and Mt. Horeb, for a total of 65 miles, some of it in total darkness, even though it was not nighttime at that point:

The highlight of the trail is the restored 1200-foot long Stewart Railroad Tunnel that was finished in 1887 and is located south of Belleville. Because of a slight bend in the tunnel, you gaze into total darkness. We recommend that you bring a bright flashlight. This tunnel may not be the longest trail tunnel in Wisconsin, but is considered by many to be the darkest in Wisconsin.

Meade did not have a light of any kind, but proceeded through the tunnel nonetheless, using various techniques, including yelling, which I don't think was an attempt at echolocation.

Skiing through the woods on a snowy evening.

Not quite yet the darkest evening of the year.

At the Reflection Nightclub...

... you can expound ponderous things or chat about glittering superficialities.

Do you hate the dark, cold days that are upon us?

Or do you love the time inside, perhaps because you've got a great man cave?

"Lord, I'm twittery this morning. Must move on to things that require concentration. Grading. Even blogging. Life's easy in the Twitter lane."

Oh, look at that! An entire 140-character tweet fits in the Blogger headline window, even with quotes added. Room to spare too. Surprising, considering that I often run out of space for things I want to cram into that large colored print zone.

Here's the rest of my twitterage from the last minute:

annalthouse Early breakfast alone in the dark. I'm hoping somehow it will inspire me to efficient exam-grading today. Deadline tomorrow.
less than 5 seconds ago from web

annalthouse Some synchronous things are pleasing, but I'm sorry my art museum foolery coincides with the Holocaust museum shooting.
less than 5 seconds ago from web

annalthouse Obama at the Obama museum, where even the wallpaper is Obama. http://tinyurl.com/kk5x8d
less than 5 seconds ago from web

annalthouse Must there be a thunderstorm every morning at 5 a.m.? Ah, maybe I'd love to adapt to exactly that.
1 minute ago from web

"From web"... I sound like a spider!

Follow me on Twitter. Please. I have 1,103 Followers — yeah, it's capitalized— on Twitter and — do you think it's pathetic? — it means a lot to me. The writing over there is different. Some things don't make it through my blog filter. Some things don't make it through my Twitter filter either. Twitter's just that zone between 2 filters. I'm inviting you to see what collects there.

Do you think it's narcissistic of me? I took this narcissistic personality inventory yesterday, after blake tweeted it, and scored a 14 out 40. "The average score for the general population is 15.3. The average score for celebrities is 17.8." Actually, I took it a second time — with someone else — and got a 19. I don't know if it was the presence of a co-quiz-taker that boosted my score or the fact that I was taking it a second time. The choices require interpretation, and reading something a second time, you see new angles, new reasons to veer one way or the other as you decide which of 2 things you wouldn't say sounds more like something you would say.

Ah! What if one thought each exam should be read twice? And why not 3 times? Do you ever wonder why lawprofs miss grading deadlines? Some of them genuinely fret over what is the one true grade for each exam. Others dither and delay or just quite simply can't maintain the concentration long enough. Law profs who twitter and blog — what kind of concentration do these characters maintain?

It's still raining. The above-quoted tweets have aged to the half-hour vintage. It's still dark. A few different birds have determined it's time to — oh! — to tweet.

And now, I've tweeted and blogged.

At the View-From-My-Window Café...

... you can talk about your immediate surroundings... or how you got through last night's thunderstorms. We sat on that porch in the dark and watched them roll in.

The white tree — late night version.

It's dark now. The warm day is over. Time to pour a glass and sit here silently. Or talk to me.

Winter fog... cemetery...

The suddenly warm temperature on top of deep snow raised a lush fog. Last night, driving on a narrow road next to the lake, I said, "This is what death looks like in the movies. Driving into nothing." All the familiar landmarks had become invisible, and I felt lost even when I knew exactly where I was.

The fog remained, but it was easier to see things in the morning. I remembered the photographs I'd taken in the graveyards last December -- here and here -- so I went back to that place to see what the fog was doing to it this year -- and to do some things to it myself with the fisheye lens.

As I drove into the cemetery, just by chance, on the radio's "Sinatra" channel, Van Morrison was singing "That's Life." I can't find the Van Morrison version, but here's Frank Sinatra. Lyrics (by Dean Kay and Kelly Gordon):

I said that's life, and as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks,
Stompin' on a dream
But I don't let it, let it get me down,
'Cause this fine ol' world it keeps spinning around...

That's life and I can't deny it
Many times I thought of cutting out
But my heart won't buy it
But if there's nothing shakin' come this here July
I'm gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die

What a crazy song! It's all life affirming and then, impetuously, suicidal.

IN THE COMMENTS: Original George says:

Keep On the Sunny Side...

William says:

I like the Jewish custom of leaving a pebble by the tombstone -- a pittance of memory by the eternity of death. Even if you could find them, a few bright flowers on a day like today would be overwhelmed by the bleakness of nature. Sad that the Irish custom of taking a whizz on the most elaborate tombstone has fallen into disuse. A few yellow streaks against the mausoleum of some forgotten notable reminds us of the transience of life and the abiding value of malice and envy in human affairs.

Sir Archy -- our favorite ghost! -- says:

I know, Madam, that Entertainments of the Nature of a Turn through a Graveyard, such as you have taken, are apt to raise dark & dismal Thoughts in tim'rous Minds and gloomy Imaginations; but, for my own Part, because of my Sanguine Nature, I do not know what 'tis to be Melancholy; and can, therefore, take a View of Nature in her deep and solemn Scenes, with the same Pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones, especially when contemplating such Pictures as you have made upon this Occasion.

Dark & dismal Thoughts in tim'rous Minds and gloomy Imaginations... I have these sometimes. But I must say that this morning, I wasn't the slightest bit spooked by the thought of all the dead bodies as I stalked about looking for the oldest headstones and the most gnarled trees. The winter cemetery is more evocative of death than the green one, which I have also photographed, but in winter, I work more efficiently. I'm not here for meditation. I'm here for art. I concentrate on that and on not stepping in snowbanks higher than my boots.

George says:

You can get van morrison's version at amazon as an mp3 or on the album 'The Best of Van Morrison Volume 3', on rhapsody, and on itunes...

Ah, yes. Good point. Done, with iTunes. Now, I'm listening to it on infinite repeat as I write this.

Dark thoughts.

Oh... I'm mulling things over now....

***

a swirling chocolate malt of angry liquid...

About those Christmas graveyard photographs.

I take fewer photographs in winter. It gets dark early, walks are shorter and quicker, and there's much less happening. I could make a practice of looking harder and forcing myself to see photographs, but mostly I don't. Sometimes, things look photographable, but I'm driving. I could stop, but maybe a dog or a man will come at me to see what trouble I'm causing. In winter, there are fewer dogs and men to worry me, but who stops the car in a snow bank? Photographs go untaken.

Yesterday I stopped. I was driving, as I often do, on the road called the Speedway, that runs between the two cemeteries, Resurrection and Forest Hill.



Was it a joke, naming the road between the cemeteries the Speedway? You are alive, but not for long. Earlier in the day, I'd driven over 100 miles on I-94, and the fog had been much worse. I think I was the only driver on the road who was constantly thinking: This is how 50-car pile-ups happen. I drove so I could stop without crashing if I saw an accident ahead, and no one else did. People are crazy. So the graveyards in the fog called out to me. I stopped and stalked through knee-deep snow to get my pictures.

What first caught my eye were all the wreaths in Resurrection Cemetery:



Resurrection is flatter and less beautiful than the historic Forest Hill on the other side of the Speedway. Perhaps you know that Chris Farley is buried there. He died 10 years ago last Tuesday.



Where are you on the Speedway?

6 a.m.

There's something special at 6 o'clock in the morning...



... when it's still to early to go to Starbucks...



... because it's Sunday, and they don't open until 6:30 on Sundays, and the door's unlocked, but when you go in, they say "We're not open." It's 6:11, and you're a woman alone. Outside, it's snowing and there's not yet a hint of dawn. It seemed beautiful when I stepped outside my building a few moments earlier, saw the first snow of the season and took those pictures, but now, it seems really sad and lonely. The barista can't say, "Please, take a seat, and I can serve you when it's 6:30," and she doesn't think to say, "I know we're usually open at 6, but not on Sunday... I'm really sorry." She just glares at me, and I see I'm a trespasser. I must retreat into the night. I could walk back to my apartment, and I would if only the WiFi weren't malfunctioning again. I could go walk on the Promenade, take some more pictures, but does a woman walk alone in the dark on the Promenade?

My exile in New York continues....

Eventually, I get a wisp of happiness from a doggywog....





I think about home...

Dark clouds seem to rise from the city like smoke.

This morning, at 7:15 AM.

It was a dark and stormy morning...

Are the humans to blame?



Or are the gods angry that all the world is bowing down today to Al Gore and his theory that the humans cause the storms?

Me, in a few dark places.

There was last night, doing the blogger meetup at Pete's Ale House:



I forget who took this picture, but we looked at it right then, and Palladian remarked on the Diana iconography.

Today, I was sitting in a nook, under a bust of Mozart, at the Caffe Reggio in the Village.



I say that I always avoided the Caffe Reggio, back in the old days when we lived near here. We loved the Caffe Dante. And later, walking back toward my temporary home, I stopped, alone, at the Caffe Dante, where we sat all the time, circa 1980.



No, there's no going back. And nothing can ever be the same.

There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.

An evening walk around the neighborhood.

Carrying only the iPhone, listening to a playlist I call "Fondness," I take this photo at the top of the hill before darkness sets in:



The song in the earbuds is "Across the Universe" and then, "Cabin Essence."

Later, working my back toward home, it's dark now:



The song is "Daniel" and then "I Feel Free."

So here I am back in Madison.

It's Easter. (Happy Easter.) I drove 1235 miles yesterday. Crazy? I set out, as you can see from the last post, thinking it was possible. I was starting at 6 a.m., before dawn, so I'd have a whole long day of sunlight. I'd be way into Iowa before it would get dark again. It would be easy to drive as far as Des Moines. But why stop at a motel in Des Moines, when home is so close? But if you don't stop in Des Moines, you aren't going to see any other good place to stop. And it so annoying to stop, unload, check in, sleep in an unfamiliar place, pack up, pay, load the car back up, when if you just put in a few more hours, you can be sleeping in your own bed.

I kept thinking about the time I drove 1100 miles. If I can do 1100, why not 1200? Of course, the 1100 was a mistake. I'd driven all the way from Madison to Salt Lake City and then made the snap decision to just go as far as the next town, which was remarkably ignorant. Still, I did it, and this time, the end of the drive would be familiar territory -- the push through Dubuque, across the bridge to the southwest corner of Wisconsin, and then the final stretch, which looks horribly desolate at night but is nowhere near as desolate as the Great Salt Lake Desert.

UPDATE: Something in the comments makes me realize that 1100 was not the distance I drove when I went from Madison to Wendover, Nevada. Checking Google Maps, I see it was 1,476 miles! I wish I'd realized that when I was driving 1235 miles on Saturday. I think it would have eased my mind. What a nut I was to drive almost 1500 miles that time! Yes, I think it was about 1100 to Salt Lake, and then I thought I should go a little further, without realizing I was at the edge of a 300 mile desert.

Thermal image: Althouse at Stella's.

ADDED: A description of Stella's (which I'm reading the next day):

The coffee house ... was opened in the early 1990s. It had an old European feel to it and quickly became the home to brooding writers, cynics, Marxist revivalists, and all other manner of people looking for a dark and smokey place in which to waste away the hours of their lives.

Yes, it's an unusually dark café. When I walked in, I said "Oh, it's the beatnik kind."