Dr. Kelley's in the background--Jessica and I were determined to get a picture with him, even if only by stealth. At the end of the summer, he willingly posed with me. O joy!
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Nativity
This is for me, this blog. It's cathartic, writing whatever I want, in a sort of perpetual email to myself.
I need a rebirth, a change of scenery, something new and wonderful. You get out of life what you put into it--I know it, but so far I've concerned myself with filler.
Whatever will be will be, sang Doris Day. Am I fatalistic? No. I know there's a fork, and the only way to tell which way to turn is by following my inner compass.
I wish for:
genuine connection
mental windex (clarity)
love of all kinds (I have the most unique blessing/curse of sometimes being unable to separate or distinguish types of love--romantic love, the deepest friendship--love is love and when I look into someone's eye's and feel no need to talk, do the size and blood flow of sexual organs matter? Not at all.
It's self-pitying to think "I don't possibly deserve more," and lazy to think I can't earn that "more" for myself.
The soul selects her own society, then shuts the door.
I need a rebirth, a change of scenery, something new and wonderful. You get out of life what you put into it--I know it, but so far I've concerned myself with filler.
Whatever will be will be, sang Doris Day. Am I fatalistic? No. I know there's a fork, and the only way to tell which way to turn is by following my inner compass.
I wish for:
genuine connection
mental windex (clarity)
love of all kinds (I have the most unique blessing/curse of sometimes being unable to separate or distinguish types of love--romantic love, the deepest friendship--love is love and when I look into someone's eye's and feel no need to talk, do the size and blood flow of sexual organs matter? Not at all.
It's self-pitying to think "I don't possibly deserve more," and lazy to think I can't earn that "more" for myself.
The soul selects her own society, then shuts the door.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Aubade
The woman in the alabaster jar
woke up lily white and comely
though cramped all night
in Savior X’s arms.
He felt free to touch
her—ankle, brow, and breast—
bless her with long fingers;
baptize her, cross her heaving
concavity. Such a little sin—
Weeping peccatrix!
Maudlin penitent!—
to bless him in return,
to sneak into that wooden cabinet,
where once she herself had
housed in the Dry and Cracked
Heel and Lip Department.
In her milky satin spar
she spoke with Steve the Sexton
who kept the keys to Section B
(aforesaid Cracked)
where was kept that precious oil.
Raggle-taggle, soft
as gypsum, she rubbed
the spiced emulsion in,
kneaded, braided, rolled,
blessed and loved what was wasting away,
ignored what quivered and shone.
She might then have glided to the back
of the jar, up and out
to what was free (no penitence,
no eternal Whore!)—to seek a place
in poetry or cutlery.
The alabaster jar is dark, like night;
He will not wake, so there she’ll stay,
There she’ll weep and bless and love,
Until he’s crucified and she’s free.
woke up lily white and comely
though cramped all night
in Savior X’s arms.
He felt free to touch
her—ankle, brow, and breast—
bless her with long fingers;
baptize her, cross her heaving
concavity. Such a little sin—
Weeping peccatrix!
Maudlin penitent!—
to bless him in return,
to sneak into that wooden cabinet,
where once she herself had
housed in the Dry and Cracked
Heel and Lip Department.
In her milky satin spar
she spoke with Steve the Sexton
who kept the keys to Section B
(aforesaid Cracked)
where was kept that precious oil.
Raggle-taggle, soft
as gypsum, she rubbed
the spiced emulsion in,
kneaded, braided, rolled,
blessed and loved what was wasting away,
ignored what quivered and shone.
She might then have glided to the back
of the jar, up and out
to what was free (no penitence,
no eternal Whore!)—to seek a place
in poetry or cutlery.
The alabaster jar is dark, like night;
He will not wake, so there she’ll stay,
There she’ll weep and bless and love,
Until he’s crucified and she’s free.
Body Market
Body Market
I heard my body cry:
Won’t you come by?
Come buy—
my imperfect desire:
I must have you,
grasp my succulent fruit—
bletted quinces,
spotted peaches,
come buy, come buy
my pretty goblins tell me,
my carnal carrions cry.
No transgression here.
Peel away my skin.
O guiltless release!
Taste me and try.
I sucked and licked the more
then threw the tasteless rind away.
The poisoned pomegranate
I did pluck,
did chastely suck
then swallowed bitter poppy broth.
Tongue it, bite it.
Tuck the seeds beneath my skeins
of tussled spider-silk.
Ignore the blood-red cherry stain,
like the new grave
we never, we wanted, to crave.
The dead live naked
just as we ought,
barren, fruitless,
safe from all harm.
While we’re alive,
we’re under a charm.
We’ll revel in that goblin fruit,
though you lie shaking in my arms.
Oh, that we’d never tasted the fruit.
My body wanes.
You’re now my gibbous,
my seedless Almost.
I heard my body cry:
Won’t you come by?
Come buy—
my imperfect desire:
I must have you,
grasp my succulent fruit—
bletted quinces,
spotted peaches,
come buy, come buy
my pretty goblins tell me,
my carnal carrions cry.
No transgression here.
Peel away my skin.
O guiltless release!
Taste me and try.
I sucked and licked the more
then threw the tasteless rind away.
The poisoned pomegranate
I did pluck,
did chastely suck
then swallowed bitter poppy broth.
Tongue it, bite it.
Tuck the seeds beneath my skeins
of tussled spider-silk.
Ignore the blood-red cherry stain,
like the new grave
we never, we wanted, to crave.
The dead live naked
just as we ought,
barren, fruitless,
safe from all harm.
While we’re alive,
we’re under a charm.
We’ll revel in that goblin fruit,
though you lie shaking in my arms.
Oh, that we’d never tasted the fruit.
My body wanes.
You’re now my gibbous,
my seedless Almost.
entymology
I've been up for a while, so blame any stupidity upon that. I had to post again to wonder about the word blog. I know I've heard the history of the word before and am just sluggish in remembering it. But why do I blush as I type it out?
Why does the word blog sound so obscene? While we're on the subject of four letter words, why are curse words so taboo? Sometimes nothing will do in a situation but an Anglo-Saxon four letter word, and accompanying gestures.
I go home in three days for Thanksgiving break. I miss my babies, the three Furry Ones. My mother says that Cleo, largest of them all, being a standard schnauzer, has been sweeter and more affectionate since I was home for Veteran's Day weekend. When I'm there, she's my world, truly my infant. I've taught her so many little tricks. She sits, shakes, lays, rolls over, and stays. She can catch a ball if you say "catch" and count to three before you throw it. She performs her tricks really quickly, really perfunctorily, as though she realizes how ridiculous what I'm asking her to do is, but she'll do it anyway for the doggy treat. Most of my life plays out in the same manner. I perform ridiculous and mindless tricks because I really want that end-road treat.
An excerpt from an essay I'm turning in on Tuesday:
I. What do you think has become of the young and old men?
Mayfly: a winged insect, of the order Ephemeroptera, white in body with dark eyes and two long cerci, or antennae-like tails. Vestigial tails that weave together as the insects mate in an art-nouveau chain of S’s and U’s. They swarm near bodies of water and live out night-long lives by the light of our silvery patio spotlight. They live as nymphs, young mayflies on the water, sometimes for years before moulting and seeking their mates. They beat themselves to death against our front door windows, our sliding door. The next day, hundreds of their bodies, now crisp and old, completely blanket our “Welcome to our Home” mat. A few are stuck to the glass door, perfectly preserved, like specimens between two slides, but these things were just alive, and now are dead.
Why does the word blog sound so obscene? While we're on the subject of four letter words, why are curse words so taboo? Sometimes nothing will do in a situation but an Anglo-Saxon four letter word, and accompanying gestures.
I go home in three days for Thanksgiving break. I miss my babies, the three Furry Ones. My mother says that Cleo, largest of them all, being a standard schnauzer, has been sweeter and more affectionate since I was home for Veteran's Day weekend. When I'm there, she's my world, truly my infant. I've taught her so many little tricks. She sits, shakes, lays, rolls over, and stays. She can catch a ball if you say "catch" and count to three before you throw it. She performs her tricks really quickly, really perfunctorily, as though she realizes how ridiculous what I'm asking her to do is, but she'll do it anyway for the doggy treat. Most of my life plays out in the same manner. I perform ridiculous and mindless tricks because I really want that end-road treat.
An excerpt from an essay I'm turning in on Tuesday:
I. What do you think has become of the young and old men?
Mayfly: a winged insect, of the order Ephemeroptera, white in body with dark eyes and two long cerci, or antennae-like tails. Vestigial tails that weave together as the insects mate in an art-nouveau chain of S’s and U’s. They swarm near bodies of water and live out night-long lives by the light of our silvery patio spotlight. They live as nymphs, young mayflies on the water, sometimes for years before moulting and seeking their mates. They beat themselves to death against our front door windows, our sliding door. The next day, hundreds of their bodies, now crisp and old, completely blanket our “Welcome to our Home” mat. A few are stuck to the glass door, perfectly preserved, like specimens between two slides, but these things were just alive, and now are dead.
Blogging at last
Finally I've been sucked into the world of the Blog. I intended to do this at the beginning of the quarter (we go by the quarter system here) as a sort of literary journal, to turn in to Kathy Fagan at the end of the quarter as part of a written assignment. Procrastinator that I am, I did not do this, so when it can do me no good, I've finally decided to do it.
I'm confused by html, have no idea what I'm doing here. It's an experiment. I must learn to enjoy experimentation, to avoid easy frustration. Frustration takes more time up than if I just calm down, get to some hunkering and rolling up of sleeves, and just go!
I'm confused by html, have no idea what I'm doing here. It's an experiment. I must learn to enjoy experimentation, to avoid easy frustration. Frustration takes more time up than if I just calm down, get to some hunkering and rolling up of sleeves, and just go!
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