Jul. 5th, 2010

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The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.


Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Both by Mary Oliver

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When I was a young man, and very well thought of
There was nought I could ask that the ladies denied.
I nibbled their hearts like a handful of raisins,
And I never spoke love, but I knew that I lied.
But I said to myself, "Ah, there's none of them knows
The secret I shelter, and savor, and save.
I wait for the one who can see through my seeming
And I'll know when I love by the way I behave".

The years they passed over like clouds in the heavens,
The ladies went by me like snow on the wind.
I charmed and I cheated, deceived and dissembled
And I sinned, and I sinned and I sinned and I sinned.
But I said to myself,"Ah, there's none of them knows
There's a part of me pure as the whisk of a wave.
My love may be late, but she'll find I have been faithful
And I'll know when I love by the way I behave".

At last came a lady, both knowing and tender
Who said "You are not at all what they take you to be".
I betrayed her before she had quite finished speaking,
And she swallowed cold poison, and jumped in the sea.
And I say to myself, when there's time for a word,
As I gracefully grow more debauched and depraved.
"Ah, love may be strong, but a habit is stronger
And I know how I loved by the way I behaved".

Deep Waters

Jul. 5th, 2010 08:25 pm
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I enjoy my life best when I feel it's a little out of my control, a little over my head, like I don't know what's going to jump out at me and like there's more happening than I can quite grasp or keep up with. It prevents me from seeking out more trouble to get into.

That's where I'm at right now. (Since my last trip to Iowa I have been in love with that turn of phrase- not 'that's where I am' but 'that's where I'm at.' Every single time I use it it makes me happy)

So, I have a lot going on. There are friends rushing into my life, most of whom I don't have time for because work is also rushing into my life, as is Angus and the Writer. Most days I beeline straight to my garden after work and after fifteen minutes there the world is singing.

Finally we have a day of sun-- they say it should be a week at least, which will double the number of sunny days we've had --and I think I might make it through this year despite the lack of sleep and free time. I am in some ways appalled at how much my mood is controlled by the weather -- where is room for my personality in that?-- but this is nothing you haven't heard before and so I've no need to go on at great length about it again.

My paper journalling is going marvellously well. I have written one pen dry and am working on the next. It feels good to be writing, and when I sit down here the words come out fluidly and easily. The reason I don't write everything here? Half privacy-- that's the lesser half, and I'd ignore it, but the greater half is some bastard hybrid of not wanting to spam everyone who reads this off the planet (we are talking several pages a day here) and not having a keyboard for my phone yet. I've been writing on paper, with a pen, and it brings back memories.

My garden is also gorgeous, though sadly behind-- it's been so cold, and it still is. If the sun doesn't pick up there will be no flowers.

I've been remembering to cook-- that's good. And I've been kissing rat bellies.

I've forgotten how to end an entry, because I haven't been ending them lately, merely blending one into the next. So, be well.

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