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Let no nests. Let no feathers.
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[01 Jan 2010|12:00am] |
Eugenio Recuenco
Please introduce yourselves before adding me.
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[31 Dec 2007|10:40am] |
"We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." --f. kafka
( BOOK AS AXE )
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[09 Aug 2007|09:41pm] |
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[15 Jul 2007|09:46pm] |
II.
"There are hundreds of stories out there...thousands. I can't turn the whole ocean into a sad story just for me." -MW
III.
Things I think about at night:
a.) how I am not the only victim of distance and disdain.
b.) how skin aches and longs and remembers, and in the darkest of rooms, I can still feel hands on my back, eyelashes against my chest.
c.) how we are made and unmade, how things fit and unfit, undo and do, and undo again.
IV.
"The Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis concluded that the commonsense idea that words are merely labels that people attach to things is wrong. Language, they concluded, has embedded within it ways of looking at the world. Language, they said, not only expresses our thoughts but also shapes the way we think. Words not only express what we perceive but also help to determine what we perceive. When we learn a language, we learn not only the words but also ways of thinking and perceiving. The Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis indicates that rather than objects and events forcing themselves into our consciousness, it is our language that determines our consciousness, and hence our perception of objects and events."
V.
Lately, I have been trying to keep busy. I try to go to yoga four times a week, embroider birds and trees and music notes for the little store M. and I are building, take two classes at the local uni, am remodeling my room, and in the extra hours, watch movies, drink white tea, and try to not think. I have stopped reading books for the most part just because I cannot bring myself to imagine things anymore. I feel no desire for poetry anymore, poetry or prose, nothing that reminds me of ________. I don't know, really, myself, maybe? Maybe I am trying to stay away from myself. I don't even listen to music anymore, except every now and then, the Hansons. I don't know what I am doing here, I don't really feel a need or desire for this old thing anymore. Maybe that means I am growing, but I feel like I am just regressing into my old roots, shriveling and sinking. I don't know, I don't know. For Brit Lit I am supposed to write a descriptive paper, detailing any plain routine, etc. of mine. I wrote pages and pages on "How to Cope," but I don't even remember how. I am so goddamn pathetic now, it's ridiculous. I bathed today for the first time in a week, and I couldn't even do it. My Momma had to help me peel layers and layers of paint and dirt off while I held my legs and stared at the drain. Ugh, you'll have to excuse me, I'll probably delete this in a little bit.
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| maritime and meristems |
[05 May 2007|11:05pm] |
"The danger lies in forgetting what we had." --A. Rich
I have been studying ferociously to keep my mind off things like the artichoke hearts that J. Winterson writes so passionately about and how skin burns and aches and remembers.
Seventeen has been a year of awful firsts, and there is still another half year to go. I have been awake since six this morning, studying, working, and cleaning. If I happen to lose my train of thought for even a second, I just cry and cry, and I am the silliest creature in existence, I do so believe. To cheer myself up, I have written my biology lab on little index cards and am sewing them into a little accordion book and Mr. Reardon is going to be so mad! I have so many little bruises all up and down my legs because I am so clumsy and absent-minded today, I keep knocking things over and falling down. My daddy was awfully angry because I kept dropping all my jelly-beans and even spilled tea on the stairs. Momma is nicer about it and fixes me more tea and tries to convince me to go to sleep. But I can't, I just cry and cry and cry. I can't wait until summer and go swimming every day and work at the fabric store to sew headbands and stuffed animals all day.
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[27 Apr 2007|11:27pm] |
Which of us will survive
which of us will survive the other
-m. atwood
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[27 Apr 2007|08:19am] |
“You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” —Mary Oliver
Please leave me quotes and book suggestions and poetry. If you have added me and I haven't added you back, please introduce yourself.
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[19 Apr 2007|08:43am] |
C. bought us tickets to go see Modest Mouse in May, but Momma says I cannot go anymore. It makes me a little sad, but I should be over it soonly enough. I am losing track of everything, but I am starting to feel better again. I have started reading poetry again, and showering regularly. I am cutting all of my hair off on Friday, but don't tell anyone. I have moved out of the dorms and am spending half of the week at home, and the other half with my friend D. There I sleep in the loft, with a big skylight over my bed. I have my own sink, desk, and lamp there. We eat popsicles and play with her puppy, Bravo. He is a crazy dog. I don't really know what's happening, but I'm just going to start taking days one at a time. The bell is about to ring now, so I shall write more later. I have not read much recently, I am still struggling.
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| Opening the Cage, Edwin Morgan |
[26 Jan 2007|12:18pm] |
Opening the Cage
14 Variations on 14 words
I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry.
John Cage
I have to say poetry and that is nothing and I am saying it
I am and I have poetry to say and that is nothing saying it
I am nothing and I have poetry to say and that is saying it
I that am saying poetry have nothing and it is I and to say
And I say that I am to have poetry and saying it is nothing
I am poetry and nothing and saying it is to say that I have
To have nothing is poetry and I am saying that and I say it
Poetry is saying I have nothing and I am to say that and it
Saying nothing I am poetry and I have to say that and it is
It is and I am and I have poetry saying say that to nothing
It is saying poetry to nothing and I say I have and am that
Poetry is saying I have it and I am nothing and to say that
And that nothing is poetry I am saying and I have to say it
Saying poetry is nothing and to that I say I am and have it
Today is my seventeenth birthday.
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[02 Jan 2007|10:42pm] |
photographer: unknown
walk real slow: a mix for the slow progression of months
including:
emily - joanna newsom
in my back - the tiny
string quartet in f major - maurice ravel
ocean breathes salty - sun kil moon
walk real slow - lady & bird
song for a blue guitar- red house painters
gold day - sparklehorse
all the landslides birds have seen - kaki king
same but diffeent - vashti bunyan
sleep don't weep - damien rice
light enough to travel - the be good tanyas
heartstopper - emilianna torrini
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[01 Jan 2007|01:35am] |
"the sea no longer torments me.
the self i wished to be is the self i am."
--louise gluck
my first and foremost new year's resolution is
to be able to read this aloud and mean it
from the inside out.
the sea no longer torments me.
the sea no longer torments me.
the sea no longer torments me.
the sea no longer torments me.
i love you all, so intensely, you will never understand.
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[19 Dec 2006|10:39pm] |
I.
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
-- W.S. Merwin
II.
give me all your loving - sunforest
III.
They dream about themselves.
They dream of dreams about themselves.
They dream they dream of dreams about themselves.
Splash them with twilight like a wet bat.
Unbind the dreamers.
Poet,
Be like God.
-- Jack Spicer
IV.
I am learning to live and love in degrees instead of all or nothing because I must learn to keep some things for myself. I am starting to breath and think in terms of TS Eliot and of Wastelands. I want someone to write Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata on my bathroom mirror, scream it into the phone, send me postcards of Da Da Da. I want someone to shake my shoulders and say, I know, I know, I know!
V.
The winter solstice is in three days and I am going to have a bonfire and dance barefeet in the grass. I love that it is the middle of December and I am still running outside in my undies and no shoes. I am going to sit on the roof and drink red wine and learn the stars by heart and be able to point and say, "there, that is the second star to the right and we shall go straight on till morning."
VI.
For Christmas, I bought Momma a white gold necklace, Daddy good red wine, Kimmy three books and toys. I bought Lisa a grey and green striped sweater, Amy a knit green purse that I want to keep for myself. I have not gotten anything for anyone at school yet, but I think that can wait until January. Oh! I'm going to see the Cirque du Soleil in January, and going to the High Museum to see art from the Louvre, I hope it is nicer than the Art History Lady at the Birmingham Museum. I know more about techniques and frames and the Virgin Mary than I ever intended. But there is this Christmas ornament of me dressed as Mary from preschool at First Baptist, I will have to scan it. I am pouting next to a Cabbage Patch Doll Jesus. I am starting to resent Christmas and the holidays because it is all starting to feel so superficial and fake. I used to love wrapping presents with Momma in her room but this year I wrapped them all by myself since Momma has been so busy with work. I also used to love decorating the house and making fires and drinking cocoa but they decorated while I was at school and I haven't been feeling like fire-nose-time just yet.
VII.
Be like the bird,
Who halting in his flight
On limb too slight,
Feels it give way beneath him, yet sings
Knowing he has wings.
Victor Hugo
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[02 Dec 2006|04:16am] |
If bird's bones are hollow, does it follow
that so are their hearts?
--Danielle Pafunda
We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths, and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them. We speared them, we clubbed them, we tangled their feet in glue, we netted them, we spitted them, we threw them onto hot coals, and all for love, because we loved them. We wanted to be one with them. We wanted to hatch out of clean, smooth, beautiful eggs, as they did, back when we were young and agile and innocent of cause and effect, we did not want the mess of being born, and so we crammed the birds into our gullets, feathers and all, but it was no use, we couldn't sing, not effortlessly as they do, we can't fly, not without smoke and metal, and as for the eggs we don't stand a chance. We're mired in gravity, we're earthbound. We're ankle-deep in blood, and all because we ate the birds, we ate them a long time ago, when we still had the power to say no.
--Margaret Atwood
( eyes closed, beaks open )
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[10 Nov 2006|06:15pm] |
balzac and the little chinese seamstress
Tell me we will never change; you will always be five and kissing me behind the apple tree. Tell me we are permanent and one day someone will tell stories about us. Tell me our story will start with "once upon a time" and will end on "and they lived happily ever after." Tell me that story will turn into myth will turn into legend. Tell me life comes full circle, and after forty, we start to age backwards. Tell me we die with diapers on.
Tell me that this is just how it is. Falling in love is like hunting for whales. You hold on to your harpoon as tight as you can and pray he doesn't pull you under.
Tell me our story.
9 ♪ the new damien rice album
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[21 Oct 2006|07:42pm] |
I am worn and shining (like copper metal: the harder you scrub, the harder it shines)
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