Turning, turning...
Jun. 26th, 2005 10:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenstormThe world keeps turning.
First, Pablo Neruda. He says:
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
this version is translated by W.S. Merwin.
Another's, she will be another's. As she was before my kisses ...my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
This poem always makes me think of Kynnin, of course. How not? Someday I'll tell you more of that story.
Tonight is Sunday night, the end of the weekend, the beginning of rest for me. I've been so busy lately, and now I've taken a bunch of half-days this coming week. Along with the catsitting, which assures I'll be home (well, in someone's home) every night, it may be good for me.
The weekend had been crowded with people I love. I've gone from Juggler's to Devon's to Chris' to Juggler's to Mom's. I'm stretched thin - stretched, not spread, pulled out like a constant unspooling until the cardboard tube rattles in me. My rats have missed me. My room has missed me, it's starting to lose its Greenie-shape. I'm getting a little irritable. The centre is missing.
My bed loves me. Even sitting here on the edge to talk to the computer, it rises up to suck me in. It's a welcoming bed.
I've done things. I've started to read Steinbeck's letters. He says:
I don't care any more what people think of me. I'll tell you how it happened. You will remember at Stanford that I went about being different characters. I even developed a theory that one had no personality in essence, that one was a reflection of a mood plus the moods of other persons present. I wasn't pretending to be something I wasn't. For the moment I was truly the person I thought I was.
Well, I went into the mountains and stayed two years. I was snowed in eight months of the year and saw no one except my two Airedales. There were millions of fir trees and the snow was deep and it was very quiet. And there was no one to pose for any more. You can't have a show with no audience. Gradually all the poses slipped off and when I came out of the hills I didn't have any poses any more. It was rather sad, but it was far less trouble. I am happier than I have ever been in my life.
He says many other things, too. I own the book, so I can run through and hilight it. This makes me happy, if kind of guilty-feeling. I'm scared to take posession of things outside of my own skin, often.
Speaking of things, I now own something to wear to bio on the 2nd. They're the black ones and look better on me than on the model here:
This makes me feel tremendously guilty, because I'm spending a chunk of cash (I have it, it's free to spend, it's not a problem, but...) on something I can't even wear comfortably in the street. Oh, well. They're *fun*.
Watched some movies with Devon: Secretary and Kissing Jessica Stein. Fascinating. I remember Estrellada saying something about Secretary. LARP'd, farmer's-marketed, shoe-shopped (obviously), and, um... sanded the boat.
Also, I lost my bank card today. I need to go in and get one reissued tomorrow, I don't think I lost any money on it.
First, Pablo Neruda. He says:
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
this version is translated by W.S. Merwin.
Another's, she will be another's. As she was before my kisses ...my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
This poem always makes me think of Kynnin, of course. How not? Someday I'll tell you more of that story.
Tonight is Sunday night, the end of the weekend, the beginning of rest for me. I've been so busy lately, and now I've taken a bunch of half-days this coming week. Along with the catsitting, which assures I'll be home (well, in someone's home) every night, it may be good for me.
The weekend had been crowded with people I love. I've gone from Juggler's to Devon's to Chris' to Juggler's to Mom's. I'm stretched thin - stretched, not spread, pulled out like a constant unspooling until the cardboard tube rattles in me. My rats have missed me. My room has missed me, it's starting to lose its Greenie-shape. I'm getting a little irritable. The centre is missing.
My bed loves me. Even sitting here on the edge to talk to the computer, it rises up to suck me in. It's a welcoming bed.
I've done things. I've started to read Steinbeck's letters. He says:
I don't care any more what people think of me. I'll tell you how it happened. You will remember at Stanford that I went about being different characters. I even developed a theory that one had no personality in essence, that one was a reflection of a mood plus the moods of other persons present. I wasn't pretending to be something I wasn't. For the moment I was truly the person I thought I was.
Well, I went into the mountains and stayed two years. I was snowed in eight months of the year and saw no one except my two Airedales. There were millions of fir trees and the snow was deep and it was very quiet. And there was no one to pose for any more. You can't have a show with no audience. Gradually all the poses slipped off and when I came out of the hills I didn't have any poses any more. It was rather sad, but it was far less trouble. I am happier than I have ever been in my life.
He says many other things, too. I own the book, so I can run through and hilight it. This makes me happy, if kind of guilty-feeling. I'm scared to take posession of things outside of my own skin, often.
Speaking of things, I now own something to wear to bio on the 2nd. They're the black ones and look better on me than on the model here:
This makes me feel tremendously guilty, because I'm spending a chunk of cash (I have it, it's free to spend, it's not a problem, but...) on something I can't even wear comfortably in the street. Oh, well. They're *fun*.
Watched some movies with Devon: Secretary and Kissing Jessica Stein. Fascinating. I remember Estrellada saying something about Secretary. LARP'd, farmer's-marketed, shoe-shopped (obviously), and, um... sanded the boat.
Also, I lost my bank card today. I need to go in and get one reissued tomorrow, I don't think I lost any money on it.
