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Nov. 21st, 2005
Musical Interlude.
Nov. 21st, 2005 08:18 amI am lifted, I am lifted, when I'm up I can't get down...
http://s8.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=2KK3K1QPTQHGB1PVHEQY2DXOZN
It's one of my favourite songs. It always makes me smile- doesn't it you? Some people do caffeine, I do music.
I realise something. Since the beginning of this livejournal, I've softened considerably. Sarcasm and irony are not my primary forms of communication. I don't always have such a clever mouth. I tend to say, more or less, what I mean-- this instead of saying the opposite in a meaningful tone and expecting that to, in fact, make it more meaningful.
I still have a whole ton of combative speech mannerisms that show up, particularly, in my relationship conversations with Juggler. I can keep them under control, though, even then, most of the time. They're fading. They aren't needed. I've beaten swords into ploughshares, and now I'm using words to plough up... er, that metaphor, perhaps, is heading in the wrong direction.
I think, too, I have more to describe now, and less reason to be clever describing it.
But here's the thing: I still love people with clever mouths. I was still raised on the Belgariad. I just have no reason, really, to keep the skills myself. I've insulated myself into a little, lovely social bubble where no one is bad to me, and thus I have no need for protection, for those metaphorical swords up there.
If you look outside, the fog is still there. It clings, sticks, wets the skin. It's a thing, like a bath, that you walk through and interact with; it's not like air, which you conceptualise and leave at that. I get to take the Greyhound bus today through it. Usually there's a weather break about Langley, where the Vancouver side is one thing and the upvalley side the other.
I love transit, transitting, travelling, journeying, the act of moving from one place to another. I love walking, bussing, airplaning, boating. I love being carried onwards. I always write my best on airplanes; how much more symbolic can you get?
Today I would like to be kayaking through the fog, paddles kicking up almost noiseless shimmers of sound from the water, my face wet.
Here's another from Great Big Sea. Enjoy it. http://s8.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=220D47K0ZAJMG0S3U9D96D0AOT
http://s8.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=2KK3K1QPTQHGB1PVHEQY2DXOZN
It's one of my favourite songs. It always makes me smile- doesn't it you? Some people do caffeine, I do music.
I realise something. Since the beginning of this livejournal, I've softened considerably. Sarcasm and irony are not my primary forms of communication. I don't always have such a clever mouth. I tend to say, more or less, what I mean-- this instead of saying the opposite in a meaningful tone and expecting that to, in fact, make it more meaningful.
I still have a whole ton of combative speech mannerisms that show up, particularly, in my relationship conversations with Juggler. I can keep them under control, though, even then, most of the time. They're fading. They aren't needed. I've beaten swords into ploughshares, and now I'm using words to plough up... er, that metaphor, perhaps, is heading in the wrong direction.
I think, too, I have more to describe now, and less reason to be clever describing it.
But here's the thing: I still love people with clever mouths. I was still raised on the Belgariad. I just have no reason, really, to keep the skills myself. I've insulated myself into a little, lovely social bubble where no one is bad to me, and thus I have no need for protection, for those metaphorical swords up there.
If you look outside, the fog is still there. It clings, sticks, wets the skin. It's a thing, like a bath, that you walk through and interact with; it's not like air, which you conceptualise and leave at that. I get to take the Greyhound bus today through it. Usually there's a weather break about Langley, where the Vancouver side is one thing and the upvalley side the other.
I love transit, transitting, travelling, journeying, the act of moving from one place to another. I love walking, bussing, airplaning, boating. I love being carried onwards. I always write my best on airplanes; how much more symbolic can you get?
Today I would like to be kayaking through the fog, paddles kicking up almost noiseless shimmers of sound from the water, my face wet.
Here's another from Great Big Sea. Enjoy it. http://s8.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=220D47K0ZAJMG0S3U9D96D0AOT
Gutpunch Poetry Plus Upper
Nov. 21st, 2005 08:33 amWhen I read this slowly, I get shivers.
After Twelve Days of Rain
( Read more... )
I don't remember when I began
to call everyone "sweetie,"
as if they were my daughters,
my darlings, my little birds.
I have always loved too much,
or not enough. Last night
I read a poem about God and almost
believed it--God sipping coffee,
smoking cherry tobacco. I've arrived
at a time in my life when I could believe
almost anything.
( Read more... )
And I saw it didn't matter
who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.
The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty
of the Iranian attendant, the thickening
clouds--nothing was mine. And I understood
finally, after a semester of philosophy,
a thousand books of poetry, after death
and childbirth and the startled cries of men
who called out my name as they entered me,
I finally believed I was alone, felt it
in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo
like a thin bell.( Read more... )
~ Dorianne Laux
***
When I read *this* for the first time, I didn't think it worth anything. Then I went through one of 'em again, and laughed at myself. That boy, indeed. I think I'm out of the worst of it now. :)
Mother dear, I
can't finish my weaving
You may
blame Aphrodite
soft as she is
she has almost
killed me with
love for that boy.
~ Sappho
(Translated by Mary Barnard)
After Twelve Days of Rain
( Read more... )
I don't remember when I began
to call everyone "sweetie,"
as if they were my daughters,
my darlings, my little birds.
I have always loved too much,
or not enough. Last night
I read a poem about God and almost
believed it--God sipping coffee,
smoking cherry tobacco. I've arrived
at a time in my life when I could believe
almost anything.
( Read more... )
And I saw it didn't matter
who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.
The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty
of the Iranian attendant, the thickening
clouds--nothing was mine. And I understood
finally, after a semester of philosophy,
a thousand books of poetry, after death
and childbirth and the startled cries of men
who called out my name as they entered me,
I finally believed I was alone, felt it
in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo
like a thin bell.( Read more... )
~ Dorianne Laux
***
When I read *this* for the first time, I didn't think it worth anything. Then I went through one of 'em again, and laughed at myself. That boy, indeed. I think I'm out of the worst of it now. :)
Mother dear, I
can't finish my weaving
You may
blame Aphrodite
soft as she is
she has almost
killed me with
love for that boy.
~ Sappho
(Translated by Mary Barnard)
Download this song. It mixes beautifully with the fog.
http://s8.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=0LO8ZMXNWFU2G27BYDCYP0FZK6
Sometimes words catch me up, like so, and I just want to keep writing forever. There's a feel to using language that is such a joy, such a dance, such a flow. When people use language well, it melts me into a kind of awe. This is one of the dangers of being raised by a rhetorician. It's a good time for me to be speaking to a group of people.
Language is the way we touch most people, if we are indeed going to touch them. Why not do it well?
And who doesn't like being touched well?
http://s8.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=0LO8ZMXNWFU2G27BYDCYP0FZK6
Sometimes words catch me up, like so, and I just want to keep writing forever. There's a feel to using language that is such a joy, such a dance, such a flow. When people use language well, it melts me into a kind of awe. This is one of the dangers of being raised by a rhetorician. It's a good time for me to be speaking to a group of people.
Language is the way we touch most people, if we are indeed going to touch them. Why not do it well?
And who doesn't like being touched well?