You Can Never Find a Rickshaw When It Monsoons

never ricksaw

In You Can Never Find a Rickshaw When It Monsoons Mo Willems captures the joys and travails of the tourist on the road. This sketchbook cum travelogue Willems takes readers on a bumpy around the world trip. The book is 90% cartoons and 10% background insights.

Willems clearly travels as I do in 2nd class open to the real experiences found in Asia and Europe. Kudos to Willems for venturing to Qufu and other cities that most tourists don’t have the time or fortitude to get to. (It can take some chutzpah to buy your own train tickets to smaller towns or figure out where to stay and eat unless you’ve been in China a while.)

taxi dilemma

custoerm china

I think I’d read this years ago. Nonetheless it was still funny. It’s a grade A quarantine read. Available on Hoopla.

qufu

Thursday Door Challenge

 

Hosted by Norm 2.0, Thursday Doors is a weekly feature allowing door lovers to come together to admire and share their favorite door photos from around the world. Feel free to join in on the fun by creating your own Thursday Doors post each week and then sharing it, between Thursday morning and Saturday noon (North American Eastern Time).

Click here, to see more links to more doors.

Poem of the Week

Choriambics

By Algernon Charles Swinburne

 

Love, what ailed thee to leave life that was made lovely, we thought, with love?
What sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, down from the light above?
What strange faces of dreams, voices that called, hands that were raised to wave,
Lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to the sunless grave?
Ah, thy luminous eyes! once was their light fed with the fire of day;
Now their shadowy lids cover them close, hush them and hide away.
Ah, thy snow-coloured hands! once were they chains, mighty to bind me fast;
Now no blood in them burns, mindless of love, senseless of passion past.
Ah, thy beautiful hair! so was it once braided for me, for me;
Now for death is it crowned, only for death, lover and lord of thee.
Sweet, the kisses of death set on thy lips, colder are they than mine;
Colder surely than past kisses that love poured for thy lips as wine.
Lov’st thou death? is his face fairer than love’s, brighter to look upon?
Seest thou light in his eyes, light by which love’s pales and is overshone?
Lo the roses of death, grey as the dust, chiller of leaf than snow!
Why let fall from thy hand love’s that were thine, roses that loved thee so?

Sepia Saturday

2004311 : Sepia Saturday 520 Header (16 May 2020)

Our inspiration for Sepia Saturday this week is the image of three modern men sitting at a café table at what looks like a parking lot. Ah, the days of a pint in the sun without social distancing.

I found another pre-pandemic photo. Below the people seem to be perfect for a Renoir painting.

cafe c

Library of Congress. In Grassis. Circa 1915

Those were the days, n’est pas?