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What of the sailor and her spinning wheel?
Yesterday. Spent the earlier part of the day climbing around Purgatory Chasm in Sutton, Massachusetts with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fleurdelis28 and Judith, which was as immensely enjoyable as a cyclopean labyrinth of Quaternary granite has every right to be. There were small children all over the place, but they could either be avoided or were entertaining to watch. We had to back off from the hiking trails after Fleur-de-Lis turned her ankle slightly, but this opened up the afternoon to a search for the other Purgatory Chasm; without a map; with the result that we became direly lost on Route 138, drove through Newport and Middletown from several different directions, rediscovered (at least as far as my traveling companions were concerned; I had no childhood memories connected with the place) the Newport Creamery, and eventually wound up in Jamestown on Conanicut Island. I fail geography forever, because I did not realize that this would place us at Beavertail State Park until we were pulling up to the lighthouse. No prizes for guessing, however, that this was the best part of the day for me. The sun was westering, glittering so brightly that the fishers on the farther rocks were silhouettes and the surf had a luminous, antique look, flowering out of deep glass on the rocks. I found a small dead fish in the bladderwrack below the high-tide line, drying in the wind like a discarded toy. I wanted more than anything to strip off and go swimming in the Coke bottle-clear water between two huge spars of phyllite on the island's western side, but Fleur-de-Lis does not keep blankets or beach towels in the trunk of her car. (The rocks were covered with tourists and again their children, but I could have left my shirt on. The trouble was that my hair might not have dried in time to get back into the car.) I stared at the kelp and sea lettuce instead, pleated like a Tiffany window under the tide. I rolled up my corduroys and carried my shoes and bound a ribbon of kelp around my wrist until it dried, dark salt-webbed green from glossy rust. Returning from Beavertail as it began to get dark, we discovered the Village Hearth Bakery and Café, which was having pizza night; we were there five minutes after closing, but they made us both a plain and a special pie (cubanelle peppers, scallions, kalamata olives) and they were amazingly good; we had banked on leftovers, but there were no survivors. The traffic on 95 24 was snail-mail gridlock at ten at night. We listened to a lot of Gilbert and Sullivan. I came home and finished a poem I'd had to leave in the morning when Fleur-de-Lis and Judith showed up.
Today. Shelved upwards of two hundred and fifty books, which was rather more than I'd thought I had lying randomly around my bedroom. Returned some others to the library, which at least got me three or four miles' walk. Discovered that while I cannot find my giant bilingual edition of Antonio Machado, my tastes have broadened considerably since 2006; I read quite a number of people who aren't dead now. I could still swear I own more plays, but I imagine some of them are in boxes. I am amused that I own exactly two cookbooks; one is for chocolate and the other sushi. I have just realized that I forgot to recover the biographies of Mervyn Peake and Aubrey Beardsley from the closet.
Was not as awesome as yesterday.
fleurdelis28 and Judith, which was as immensely enjoyable as a cyclopean labyrinth of Quaternary granite has every right to be. There were small children all over the place, but they could either be avoided or were entertaining to watch. We had to back off from the hiking trails after Fleur-de-Lis turned her ankle slightly, but this opened up the afternoon to a search for the other Purgatory Chasm; without a map; with the result that we became direly lost on Route 138, drove through Newport and Middletown from several different directions, rediscovered (at least as far as my traveling companions were concerned; I had no childhood memories connected with the place) the Newport Creamery, and eventually wound up in Jamestown on Conanicut Island. I fail geography forever, because I did not realize that this would place us at Beavertail State Park until we were pulling up to the lighthouse. No prizes for guessing, however, that this was the best part of the day for me. The sun was westering, glittering so brightly that the fishers on the farther rocks were silhouettes and the surf had a luminous, antique look, flowering out of deep glass on the rocks. I found a small dead fish in the bladderwrack below the high-tide line, drying in the wind like a discarded toy. I wanted more than anything to strip off and go swimming in the Coke bottle-clear water between two huge spars of phyllite on the island's western side, but Fleur-de-Lis does not keep blankets or beach towels in the trunk of her car. (The rocks were covered with tourists and again their children, but I could have left my shirt on. The trouble was that my hair might not have dried in time to get back into the car.) I stared at the kelp and sea lettuce instead, pleated like a Tiffany window under the tide. I rolled up my corduroys and carried my shoes and bound a ribbon of kelp around my wrist until it dried, dark salt-webbed green from glossy rust. Returning from Beavertail as it began to get dark, we discovered the Village Hearth Bakery and Café, which was having pizza night; we were there five minutes after closing, but they made us both a plain and a special pie (cubanelle peppers, scallions, kalamata olives) and they were amazingly good; we had banked on leftovers, but there were no survivors. The traffic on Today. Shelved upwards of two hundred and fifty books, which was rather more than I'd thought I had lying randomly around my bedroom. Returned some others to the library, which at least got me three or four miles' walk. Discovered that while I cannot find my giant bilingual edition of Antonio Machado, my tastes have broadened considerably since 2006; I read quite a number of people who aren't dead now. I could still swear I own more plays, but I imagine some of them are in boxes. I am amused that I own exactly two cookbooks; one is for chocolate and the other sushi. I have just realized that I forgot to recover the biographies of Mervyn Peake and Aubrey Beardsley from the closet.
Was not as awesome as yesterday.
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I don't know about when they were named, but the one in Massachusetts was described by a Dr. Edward Hitchcock in 1841 and his language ("The case of a purgatory in Newport, RI which I shall describe . . .") indicates that purgatory was either a geological or a regional term for a particular type of rock formation, presumably because they were so difficult to get through. Or they were all named by a migratory bunch of Irish Catholics, because isn't Saint Patrick's Purgatory supposed to be a cavern? I admit I'm getting most of this out of the notes for Seamus Heaney's Station Island . . .
There's a Sodom Lane in Derby (or maybe it's Orange?), Connecticut. I've always thought there surely ought to be a story there.
Or at least some hilariously inappropriate architecture.
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Tell me they're near one another.
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Interesting. Thank you!
Now I'm trying to think of a way of finding out more about this usage. Your hypothesis on its derivation makes sense.
Or they were all named by a migratory bunch of Irish Catholics, because isn't Saint Patrick's Purgatory supposed to be a cavern? I admit I'm getting most of this out of the notes for Seamus Heaney's Station Island . . .
Anything's possible, I suppose.
St. Patrick's Purgatory was a cave--supposed to have been filled in ca. 1790, according to the official Lough Dearg website. People today mostly refer to the pilgrimage as "going to Lough Dearg", in my experience, although there do seem to some calling it "St. Patrick's Purgatory".
I'm trying to think if I remember another cave in Ireland being called by the name of purgatory. I've a couple of books at home that might be helpful, and will have to remember to look for them.
Or at least some hilariously inappropriate architecture.
As in Freudian sympolism run amok type of architecture? I don't think I've seen any, although I'd agree that there should be. Then again, I've never driven on it--I pass it by on 34 as I drive between home and New Haven, assuming I've taken 34.