30 November 2008
There is something so charming about the love song; it reminds me of my future old lady self with antoher great old lady, living in the cottage, walking along the shore, and smoking our pipes on the porch. I think, just now, my mantra has changed from daring to do something to something more like "Let us go then, you and I."
Today, with the start of December, I have a feeling that we are on the cusp of a microcosmic beginning of the end or the end of the beginning.
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
28 November 2008
---------------------I think it was my first year of college and my last year of high school -- the fam bought Disneyland passes. Many of my friends had passes. I remember Mom bringing Turkey legs for us to eat when we came out just for the evening firework show, Lisa and I taking pictures with the fiddle player, and, at other times, fellow students and I reading and studying in New Orleans Square.
27 November 2008
26 November 2008
I miss that station, those times, the record player that's now stored away... When the weather is blustery, like today, I think of the Beatles.
24 November 2008
Was it 1999 in Big Bear with the Murrays (I read Sherlock Holmes, and we made videos)?
2000 in Oxford (I don't think I celebrated at all), 2003-2005 in Hong Kong, 2006 at Aunties,
and 2007 with J-A in the Bay Area.
and this year, at home once again.
It was cool. We danced, and I particularly remember this song. Weddings and cheese go together like a horse and carriage.
Writing: as if I had the urge to go on enjoying, to feel full, to push, to feel the force of my muscles, and my harmony, to be pregnant and at the same time to give myself the joys of parturition, the joys of both the mother and the child. To give birth to myself and to nurse myself, too. Life summons life. Pleasure seeks renewal.
-- "Coming to Writing"
It is time to liberate the New Woman from the Old by coming to know her -- by loving her for getting by, for getting beyond the Old without delay, by going out ahead of what the new Woman will be, as an arrow quits the bow with a movement that gathers and separates the vibrations musically, in order to be more than her self.
Listen to a woman speak at a public gathering (if she hasn't painfully lost her wind). She doesn't 'speak', she throws her trembling body forward; she lets go of herself, she flies; all of her passes into her voice, and it's with her body that she vitally supports the 'logic' of her speech. Her flesh speaks true. She lays herself bare. In fact, she physically materializes what she's thinking; she signifies it with her body. In a certain way she inscribes what she's saying, because she doesn't deny her drives the intractable and impassioned part they have in speaking. Her speech, even when 'theoretical' or political, is never simple or linear or 'objectified', generalized: she draws her story into history.
-- "The Laugh of the Medusa"
And why don't you write? Write! Writing is for you, you are for you; your body is yours, take it. I know why you haven't written. (And why I didn't write before the age of 27.) Because writing is at once too high, too great for you, it's reserved for the great - that is, for great "men"; and it's "silly". Besides, you've written a little, but in secret. And it wasn't good, because it was secret, and because you punished yourself for writing, because you didn't go all the way; or because you wrote, irresistibly, as when we would masturbate in secret, not to go further, but to attenuate the tension of it, just to take the edge off. And then as soon as we come, we go and make ourselves feel guilty - so as to be forgiven; to forget, to bury it until next time.
Write, let no one hold you back, let nothing stop you: not man; not the imbecilic capitalist machinery, in which the publishing houses are the crafty, obsequious relayers of imperatives handed down by an economy that works against us and off our backs; not yourself. Smug-faced readers, managing editors, and big bosses don't like the true texts of women - female-sexed texts. That kind scares them.
21 November 2008
A friend passed along a Dylan Thomas poem to me not long ago, and it inspired a poem of my own. I've appreciated Thomas' "Do not go gentle into that good night" for some time -- there is a feeling of "to the resistance!" or "viva la revolucion."
After Dylan Thomas
I'll take what I can get,
I'll get what I am able to see.
Do we mean the same thing?
I simply want to touch him.
(Saber and conocer)
Pain shall be meaning in my lips,
Shall be flesh blood and bone surrounding.
Learn to revel in the reality of
Wide-eyed and blind
Looking for a savior in these dirty streets
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
Ive been raising up my hands- drive another nail in
Where are those angels when you need them
Why do we crucify ourselves
Everyday I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Everyday I crucify myself
And my heart is sick of being in chains
And, let's not forget "Winter":
When you gonna make up your mind
When you gonna love you as much as I do
When you gonna make up your mind
Cause things are gonna change so fast
All the white horses are still in bed
I tell you that Ill always want you near
You say that things change my dear
Then, I see this the other day...a comic book based on her!
She's definitely cool.
The only authentic ending is the one provided here:
So much for endings. Beginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with.
That's about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.
Now try How and Why.
For some reason, I've lately found "That's Me Trying" so compelling -- perhaps it's Aimee Mann or Ben Folds.
"Has Been" is a good one -- so is "Common People" and "It Hasn't Happened Yet" and "Live Like You're Going to Die" of course.
Anyways, I just find it sad.
I've never been good at letting go.
20 November 2008
He tells you that he needs you, he’s a liar
He tells you he’s a hero, he’s a fool
He tells you he’ll stay till the lords breaking day
Then babe he ain’t nothing but cruel
Oh roses and cigarettes
Pillowcase that remembers you
the scent of you still lingers on my fingertips
Till I think I might go insane
When will I see you again
I'm looking through a small catalogue of Uncommon Gifts, and one of them is a pillow with a Winnie the Pooh Statement on it:
"If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you."
The statement strikes me as strange and I want to disagree until I think of Winnie the Pooh saying it. I read the Tao of Pooh a long while ago and liked it.
How dreary to be somebody!
Let the beauty we love be what we do.There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground."
Recently heard this for the first time, and I thought of the incarnation of wisdom.
19 November 2008
Then we learn that there is no peace walk;that peace is the walk;
Walk and touch peace every moment.
Earth will be safewhen we feel in us enough safety.
Thich Nhat Hanh,Call Me by My True Names: The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh, Parallax Press, Berkeley, California, 1999, p. 194