Thursday, August 28, 2014

how the hell did they get that voice into that little blonde girl

if you don't know Postmodern Jukebox you are just seriously fucking missing out

It's such a shame Dorothy Parker is remembered mainly for those blazing one-liners (altho she was terribly unhappy that most people remembered her for "News Item"*) when really her sustained riffs are even more funny.

In fact, so thoroughly was I baffled as to the real identity of the thief that, at the end of the first act, I regarded all the members of the cast, the leader of the orchestra, the hat-room boy, and the ordnance officer in the right-hand stage box, with equal suspicion.
It grieves me deeply to find out how frequently and how violently wrong I can be -- it doesn't seem reasonable, somehow.
....Oscar Wilde's An Ideal Husband -- invariably spoken of as "The Ideal Husband" by the same group of intellectuals who always refer to "The Doll's House."**....Somehow, no matter how well done an Oscar Wilde play may be, I always am far more absorbed in the audience than in the drama. There is something about them that never fails to enthrall me. They have a conscious exquisiteness, a deep appreciation of their own culture. They exude an atmosphere of The New Republic -- a sort of Crolier-than-thou air.
 (That one nearly made me choke on my coffee. You don't even really need to know exactly who Herbert Croly is ((I didn't)). But once you do, it's even funnier.)

*The glasses one. You know.

**I actually once saw a Final Jeopardy contestant lose because they wrote "The Doll's House" instead of "A Doll's House." True story.

my neighbourhood on Twitter

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

about that hiatus

Then I hopped on to Tumblr to "just link to one thing" and wound up making something like 200 posts in 2 days.

yyyyyyyeah. //sighs, leechblocks it again (one friend dubbed me, years and years ago, "Queen of Extremes." She was not wrong. Binge-Purge Girl, that's me -- but without the eating disorder)

from the Built to Spill artist page comments

"how have I never heard them before??? It's like emo manchester orchestra"

"'It's like emo manchester orchestra' Manchester Orchestra is like emo Manchester Orchestra"

Monday, August 25, 2014

from other EVSM bio

But dying is really rather hard, you know. Not for oneself, I mean; that's comparatively easy: just get things all neatened up, and then go ahead and do it. No. It's the other people. They hang on to one so.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay, July 27 1944 letter to her publisher (quoted in Savage Beauty) (which is really rather awful)

Ursula K. Le Guin on anger

I know that anger can’t be suppressed indefinitely without crippling or corroding the soul. But I don’t know how useful anger is in the long run. Is private anger to be encouraged?
Considered a virtue, given free expression at all times, as we wanted women’s anger against injustice to be, what would it do?
Certainly an outburst of anger can cleanse the soul and clear the air. But anger nursed and nourished begins to act like anger suppressed: it begins to poison the air with vengefulness, spitefulness, distrust, breeding grudge and resentment, brooding endlessly over the causes of the grudge, the righteousness of the resentment. A brief, open expression of anger in the right moment, aimed at its true target, is effective — anger is a good weapon. But a weapon is appropriate to, justified only by, a situation of danger. Nothing justifies cowing the family every night with rage at the dinnertable, or using a tantrum to settle the argument about what TV channel to watch, or expressing frustration by tailgating and then passing on the right at 80 mph yelling FUCK YOU!
Perhaps the problem is this: when threatened, we pull out our weapon, anger. Then the threat passes or evaporates. Bu the weapon is still in our hand. And weapons are seductive, even addictive; they promise to give us strength, security, dominance. . . . 

I see in the lives of people I know how crippling a deep and deeply suppressed anger is. It comes from pain, and it causes pain.
Maybe the prolonged “festival of cruelty” going on in our literature and movies is an attempt to get rid of repressed anger by expressing it, acting it out symbolically. Kick everybody’s ass all the time! Torture the torturer! Describe every agony! Blow up everything over and over!
Does this orgy of simulated or “virtual” violence relieve anger, or increase the leaden inward load of fear and pain that causes it? For me, the latter; it makes me sick and scares me. Anger that targets everything and everybody indiscriminately is the futile, infantile, psychotic rage of the man with an automatic rifle shooting pre-schoolers. I can’t see it as a way of life, even pretended life.
You hear the anger in my tone? Anger indulged rouses anger.
Yet anger suppressed breeds anger.
What is the way to use anger to fuel something other than hurt, to direct it away from hatred, vengefulness, self-righteousness, and make it serve creation and compassion? 

18 August 2014

Friday, August 22, 2014

I have just discovered Maria Bamford

and oh ghod she is so funny it feels like my face will CRACK OFF

and then she starts talking about obsessive thoughts (which I have, in spades, and have almost never talked to anyone about ever, including any shrink, because they make me feel INSANE) and I nearly start crying. God fucking bless you, Maria.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

do the work

Maria Bamford has a mantra of sorts, and here it is: Do the work. Three words, three syllables. An easy, orderly thing. She tells it to herself when she wakes up in the morning, whether it’s at her bungalow in a middle-class neighborhood on the outskirts of Los Angeles or at a Holiday Inn in Boston or a Marriott in Bloomington, or any of the other highway-side hotels she hits for one night before moving on. Do the work. It’s a stay against paralysis, against the descent of dread. It’s less dramatic than “seize the day!” more affirming than “stop overthinking everything!” It is functional, and that’s what she’s trying to be. Do the work. She repeats it on airplanes, in taxis, on the long walks she takes to calm her nerves before a show. Sometimes she amends it to: Just do the work, the “just” a reminder that she’s not, after all, performing surgery on babies. There’s another, more refined version, too. Do your bits, she’ll tell herself, resigned to the idea that this may always be a struggle. Just do your bits.

- via (h/t aerialiste)

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

what I'm reading

During his lifetime, the image and pseudonym of Mark Twain sold playing cards, Oldsmobile cars, Pullman train passenger cars, baking flour, jumping-frog mechanical banks, scrapbooks, photograph albums, cookbooks, postcards, sewing machines, shaving soap, fine china, decorative silver spoons, and, of course, whiskey and cigars.

- Mark Twain's Other Woman: The Hidden Story of His Final Years, Laura Skandera Trombley

(....sewing machines? -- One opportunity for ad copy was lost: Twain's secretary bought him an Arnold electric vibrator for massage, but first tried it out with her future husband: "We had a most lovely evening." Trombley comments wryly:  "Twain loved his slightly used Arnold electric vibrator.....(and) subsequently purchased a second vibrator that ran on batteries.")

ETA: In her endnotes, the author links to this website with pictures of some truly terrifying Mark Twain memorabilia (that DOLL). But still, no sewing machines.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Readings in the humanities tend to be lengthy, intellectually weighty, or both. The challenge of digital reading for the humanities is that screens—particularly those on devices with Internet connections—undermine our encounters with meaty texts. These devices weren’t designed for focused concentration, reading slowly, pausing to argue virtually with the author, or rereading. Rather, they are information and communication machines, best used for searching and skimming—not scrutinizing.

- Naomi S. Baron

I Remember, I Remember

I remember reading John Berryman’s “Dream Song #14” in my twenties, with its famous opening words, “Life, friends, is boring.” I remember being struck by its wit, irony, playfulness, delight: it is the kind of poem students read aloud to each other in a pool of laughter and admiration, and there is nothing wrong with that, for it reinforces their sense of cynicism and superiority, and it is crucial at that age we find a like-minded group to whom we can belong. I remember rereading the poem, not for the second time, some thirty years later, and being struck by its excruciating pain, which is entirely without irony. Many persons who knew Berryman have remarked that he spoke, always, without irony, which means, simply, that he always meant what he said. If you are going through a particularly stable period of your life, and you encounter his bleakest statements, you will react with chagrin and disbelief, as if listening to the ablest jester. If you are going through a particularly unstable period of your life, the straightforward articulation of suffering that has already twisted and dislocated its bearer renders a tension that will very nearly kill you. But I did not know this then.

- Mary Ruefle

in the e-queue

A Queer and Pleasant Danger, Kate Bornstein
Agatha Christie: Murder in the Making: More Stories and Secrets from Her Notebooks, ed John Curran
A Free Man of Color (Benjamin January, Book 1), Barbara Hambly
Herland, Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Love, Sex, Death and Words, John Sutherland
Codex, Lev Grossman
My Brilliant Friend, Elena Ferrante
She's Not There: A Life in Two Genders, Jennifer Finney Boylan
The Sea, John Banville
The Compass Rose, Ursula K. Le Guin (beloved book, time for a reread)
Irish Fairy and Folk Tales, ed William Butler Yeats
Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity, Julia Serano
The Last Days of Dorothy Parker, Marion Meade
Lincoln's Melancholy, Joshua Wolf Shenk
American Eve, Paula Uruburu

WHAT I AM ACTUALLY READING: rereading The Secret Diary of and The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole. Again. (Period brain.) God she was just so funny.

Monday, August 18, 2014


I’m grateful that I wasn’t a young writer with a blog or a massive following on social media. The years of silence were deepening ones. My story burrowed its way deeper and deeper into my being until it became a story I could turn inside out, hold to the light like a prism, craft into a story that was bigger than its small, sorry details.

I worry that we’re confusing the small, sorry details—the ones that we post and read every day—for the work of memoir itself. I can’t tell you how many times people have thanked me for “sharing my story,” as if the books I’ve written are not chiseled and honed out of the hard and unforgiving material of a life but, rather, have been dashed off, as if a status update, a response to the question at the top of every Facebook feed: “What’s on your mind?” I haven’t shared my story, I want to tell them. I haven’t unburdened myself, or softly and earnestly confessed. Quite the opposite. In order to write a memoir, I’ve sat still inside the swirling vortex of my own complicated history like a piece of old driftwood, battered by the sea. I’ve waited—sometimes patiently, sometimes in despair—for the story under pressure of concealment to reveal itself to me. I’ve been doing this work long enough to know that our feelings—that vast range of fear, joy, grief, sorrow, rage, you name it—are incoherent in the immediacy of the moment. It is only with distance that we are able to turn our powers of observation on ourselves, thus fashioning stories in which we are characters. There is no immediate gratification in this. No great digital crowd is “liking” what we do. We don’t experience the Pavlovian, addictive click and response of posting something that momentarily relieves the pressure inside of us, then being showered with emoticons.

- Dani Shapiro

Sunday, August 17, 2014

you don't know what what it's like

from the current (partial) book wishlist

Mindfulness for Borderline Personality Disorder, Blaise Aguirre
The Dark Side of Innocence: Growing Up Bipolar, Terri Cheney
A Lethal Inheritance: Three Generations of Mental Illness, Victoria Costello
A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal, Ben MacIntyre
November of the Soul: The Enigma of Suicide, George Howe Colt
Excellent Sheep: The Miseducation of the American Elite, William Deresiewicz
Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren F. Winner
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, ed Richard Lancelyn Green
Virgin Time: In Search of the Contemplative Life, Patricia Hampl
Myths about Suicide, Thomas Joiner
Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, Eric Metaxas
Unexplained Fevers, Jeannine Hall Gailey
She Returns to the Floating World, Jeannine Hall Gailey
Becoming the Villainess, Jeannine Hall Gailey
The Robot Scientist’s Daughter, Jeannine Hall Gailey
How We Do Harm: A Doctor Breaks Ranks About Being Sick in America, Otis Webb Brawley
Letters of Note: An Eclectic Collection of Correspondence Deserving of a Wider Audience, ed Shaun Usher (HARDBACK)
Life after Life, Kate Atkinson (HARDBACK: it was really difficult reading this as an ebook, being unable to flip back and forth even just a few pages)
What We See When We Read, Peter Mendelsund (HARDBACK)
Miriam's Kitchen, Elizabeth Ehrlich
Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson's Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson, ed Martha Nell Smith
The Sabbath, Abraham Joshua Heschel
Out of My Bone: The Letters of Joy Davidman
Nightmare Alley, William Lindsay Gresham
Lenten Lands: My Childhood with Joy Davidman and C.S. Lewis, Douglas Gresham
Surprised By Love: The Life of Joy Davidman, Lyle Dorsett
The Year of Reading Dangerously: How Fifty Great Books Saved My Life, Andy Miller
How to Be Well Read, John Sutherland
Kill or Cure: An Illustrated History of Medicine, Steve Parker (HARDBACK)
Beethoven: Anguish and Triumph, Jan Swofford (HARDBACK)

Bonus wish CD: Acoustic Classics, Richard Thompson

ah, cultural myopia

Before Harry Potter or The Hunger Games, there was a dearth of young adult literature that straight-up admitted how hard the teenage years are. 

Dear Lauren Eggert-Crowe, excuse me while I slap you down with the ENTIRE COLLECTION of the works of JUDY FUCKING BLUME. I realize these books were published before you were born, unlike those cultural touchstones Harry Potter and The Hunger Games, but I assure you, they existed and young women actually read them! You could possibly walk into a bookstore and find a copy of one right now! There was in fact this HUGE FUCKING GENRE of YA "problem novels" which pretty much kicked off the "Young Adult genre," you know, that thing that existed before Harry Potter and The Hunger Games, and that's even before books like The Bell Jar and To Kill a Mockingbird and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Emily of New Moon and The Long Secret, all of which I read AS a girl, despite the terrible handicap of being alive in the Dark Ages before Rowling and Collins. And I got that list by getting up from my desk, going into the hallway and looking at a bookshelf. It was not that hard.

("She has written essays, book reviews, interviews, and cultural reportage for Salon, The Rumpus, The Millions, The Nervous Breakdown, Midnight Breakfast, and L.A. Review of Books." God help us all, she wants to be Laura Miller. Well, she's well on her way to being as ignorant as same.)

(Bonus gratuitous slap at older books: "Little Women these books were not." Ah yes, the horribleness of Little Women! Which was only about stuff like young women writing and an all-female household and the domestic front and even, dare I say, sneaking out! Why the fuck do these "I'm too hip for the Marmee" women writers ((who probably brag about their knitting and quilting "skillz")) all have to go after one of the few established Female Books in the canon? The answer is **INTERNALIZED MISOGYNY** thanks for playing.) ("I'm not like other girls, I don't like Little Women! Let me bore you with how I'm canning my own okra! Betty Friedan who?")

(It amazes me that she NEVER ONCE references Anne Sexton's Transformations, which did everything Block does first backward and in glass high heels, but that would be too much to expect from a....woman poet who's published a couple of books? Okay then. Writers are part of a culture! Nobody works in a vacuum! The minute you say some fucking stupid thing like "there was a dearth of" you are very probably WRONG. You should just erase the fucking sentence and move on. Because literature does not work that way.)

bet you tell her I'm crazy

(yes I am obsessed with this album right now)

the pleasures of guilt

It’s a common and easy enough distinction, this separation of books into those we read because we want to and those we read because we have to, and it serves as a useful marketing trope for publishers, especially when they are trying to get readers to take this book rather than that one to the beach. But it’s a flawed and pernicious division. This linking of pleasure and guilt is intended as an enticement, not as an admonition: reading for guilty pleasure is like letting one’s diet slide for a day—naughty but relatively harmless. The distinction partakes of a debased cultural Puritanism, which insists that the only fun to be had with a book is the frivolous kind, or that it’s necessarily a pleasure to read something accessible and easy. Associating pleasure and guilt in this way presumes an anterior, scolding authority—one which insists that reading must be work.

But there are pleasures to be had from books beyond being lightly entertained. There is the pleasure of being challenged; the pleasure of feeling one’s range and capacities expanding; the pleasure of entering into an unfamiliar world, and being led into empathy with a consciousness very different from one’s own; the pleasure of knowing what others have already thought it worth knowing, and entering a larger conversation. Among my catalogue are some books that I am sure I was—to use an expression applied to elementary-school children—decoding rather than reading. Such, I suspect, was the case with “Ulysses,” a book I read at eighteen, without having first read “The Odyssey,” which might have deepened my appreciation of Joyce. Even so—and especially when considering adolescence—we should not underestimate the very real pleasure of being pleased with oneself. What my notebook offers me is a portrait of the reader as a young woman, or at the very least, a sketch. I wanted to read well, but I also wanted to become well read. The notebook is a small record of accomplishment, but it’s also an outline of large aspiration. There’s pleasure in ambition, too.

We have become accustomed to hearing commercial novelists express frustration with the ways in which their books are taken less seriously than ones that are deemed literary: book reviewers don’t pay them enough attention, while publishers give their works safe, predictable cover treatments. In this debate, academic arguments that have been conducted for more than a generation, about the validity or otherwise of a literary canon, meet the marketplace. The debate has its merits, but less discussed has been the converse consequence of the popular-literary distinction: that literary works, especially those not written last year, are placed at the opposite pole to fun.

- Rebecca Mead

Saturday, August 16, 2014

from "The Night The Bed Fell"

Old Aunt Clarissa Beall (who could whistle like a man, with two fingers in her mouth) suffered under the premonition that she was destined to die on South High Street, because she had been born on South High Street and married on South High Street. Then there was Aunt Sarah Shoaf, who never went to bed at night without the fear that a burglar was going to get in and blow chloroform under her door through a tube. To avert this calamity—for she was in greater dread of anesthetics than of losing her household goods—she always piled her money, silverware, and other valuables in a neat stack just outside her bedroom, with a note reading: “This is all I have. Please take it and do not use your chloroform, as this is all I have.”
Aunt Gracie Shoaf also had a burglar phobia, but she met it with more fortitude. She was confident that burglars had been getting into her house every night for forty years. The fact that she never missed anything was to her no proof to the contrary. She always claimed that she scared them off before they could take anything, by throwing shoes down the hallway. When she went to bed she piled, where she could get at them handily, all the shoes there were about her house. Five minutes after she had turned off the light, she would sit up in bed and say “Hark!” Her husband, who had learned to ignore the whole situation as long ago as 1903, would either be sound asleep or pretend to be sound asleep. In either case he would not respond to her tugging and pulling, so that presently she would arise, tiptoe to the door, open it slightly and heave a shoe down the hall in one direction and its mate down the hall in the other direction. Some nights she threw them all, some nights only a couple of pairs. 

This is never not funny and I can't even really tell why. Three things unfailingly always make me happy: An American in Paris, Terry Pratchett's Witches books, and My Life and Hard Times. 

(And now, the Adrian Mole books. Four things. //Monty Python)

Some nights she threw them all.

Friday, August 15, 2014

what I'm reading


-- Girl in Need of a Tourniquet: Memoir of a Borderline Personality, Merri Lisa Johnson

social media 'hiatus' (AHAAHAHA) halfway point sense of time is so bad I remember looking at the calendar last week and thinking, pleased, "I have overshot my social media hiatus goal by ten whole days!" and then remembering, -- NO, LABOUR DAY IS SEPTEMBER FIRST.

(Stuff like this is why people have thought I am dumb/flakey/crazy/putting it on for my entire life. No. No, that is just My Brain. Even when I had an office job for nearly two years, I would amuse/annoy coworkers by saying "See you tomorrow" every Friday at five. Every Friday. I would get lost in the town I grew up in. Frequently. I can get lost in the neighbourhood I have lived in for the past twelve years. ((Less frequently, but this is because I developed agoraphobia and now rarely go outside.)) My mother is the exact same way. I personally think it's the girly "inattentive" flavour of ADD where you can get completely lost in your own head daydreaming out the window and often cannot focus or process for shit. Because again, my mother has been the same way her entire life. Except then later after puberty I got a heaping helping of Oppositional Defiant FUCK YOU, but anyway.)


Staying off Tumblr -- yes! (This was the big one.)
Staying off Twitter -- yes! This is less of a Thing because I dislike Twitter intensely, altho I'm sad because all my friends are either there or on Facebook (which I don't do either). sigh. (Twitter really is just like having ADD. It's distracted by the least little thing, it has no memory, there's no focus and it frequently explodes.)
Reading more -- yes!
Rereading less -- yes! (I love rereading. But if left to my own devices I'll do nothing else, v typically. sigh.)
Blogging more about books -- yes!
Getting up and walking around apartment more instead of sitting for hours -- no, not really. This is No Good. (There's been a heatwave, so I haven't really been exercising at all, also No Good.)
Exercising more -- see above.
More offline activities -- see above. I have been eating a good dinner with T nearly every night, and watching shows and documentaries with him, which is nice (I dunno how "offline" this is since we're streaming from Netflix or Youtube usually).  Being able to snuggle up on the couch and bingewatch shows is pretty damn cool, I can see why it's so popular. I don't have basic cable so I don't get trapped in the CNN news cycle or watching endless shitty reruns anymore. It's been that way for about....eight years now? and really feels pretty good.

(Altho "cocooning" loses some of its appeal when it happens because you're agoraphobic, let me tell you.) ("No, no, spending all day in the bathroom with a blanket and a pillow and a bowl of cherries and five books is not a good idea. No, no, making a little nest in the bedroom closet with a blanket and a pillow and a bowl of cherries and five books is not a good idea, either. Making a little nest on the couch?....okay." Mental health means treating yourself like the world's crankiest toddler: patience, calm, much repetition, refusal to take the tantrums seriously, constant distraction. "No, you don't want to die! Look at these envelope poems by Emily Dickinson. Aren't those neat? If you were dead, you wouldn't be able to see them." "BUT I'M GOING TO DIE AND THEN I'LL BE DEAD AND I'LL BE NOTHING AND I WON'T EVEN KNOW -- " "But that is later. You can look at them now." "BUT EMILY IS DEAD TOO AND AND -- " "But you can look at her now! See?" Dealing with a cranky toddler might be less exhausting, because you would occasionally get a break when they fucking slept.)

I do feel like I am slowly reclaiming my brain from the Tumblr emphasis on visuals and nothing but, and the cutesy stunted baby-speak ("feels," "totes," "p rn," could you talk like a fucking adult, please) and one reason why I got disenchanted with Twitter early on was I could feel myself thinking in shorter and shorter bits that would fit more easily into 140 characters. That was kind of horrifying. (Many people would probably argue that I could do with a lot more brevity, but well, how can we put this delicately, fuck you.) (See above about that Oppositional Defiance thing.)

So even though I have not been writing five thousand words every night and cleaning my house madly and reading The Man Without Qualities in the original and running a marathon, I have made some progress! This is not bad! Go me. 

Thursday, August 14, 2014

like reading a bad fucking student paper

Pythagorean philosophers deprecated a voluntary end to life because, to them, life is sacred. Pythagoras taught that each of us is stationed at a guard post, responsible for attending to it until we are dismissed. Plato would borrow the idea, which remained a cogent metaphor for centuries.

- Jennifer Michael Hecht, Stay

DID NO ONE EDIT THIS. And it's illiterate too -- she fumbles on about Euripides before concluding "Euripides values life and seems to disapprove of suicide." Medea? Never heard of her, apparently. How, how did this get published at all, let alone reviewed favourably? How?

In her unwillingness to interrogate the concepts she introduces, Hecht gives us an unphilosophical history of philosophy, a non-intellectual history of ideas. Nothing disturbs the premise of her own pain: that when it comes to the immorality of suicide, the suffering of survivors is proof enough. This makes for an unconvincing argument—and one that ultimuately embodies the very ethical confusion it sets out to diagnose.

ahem (what do you want from me, my life is dull)


What better voice to deliver the dry, brooding, suspenseful story? Without melodrama, and without understatement either, he delivers the prose of the master spy novelist. A friend of mine who has watched the series and read the book several times tells me she never really, deeply understood the plot in all its intricacy until it was read aloud to her by Jayston.

I already checked on my favourite "positively seething with goodwill" moment and it is fabulous. (Jayston does different voices for each character, which is also fabulous. His Toby Esterhase just about made me fall out laughing.)

Sadly, no adaptation -- film, miniseries, audiobook, dramatization -- has ever managed to make me shiver the way just reading this one sentence on the page does: "'For God's sake,' Guillem whispered, 'let me sweat the bastard.'"

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

in memory of Robin

 Dear Moira Russell,
Amazon will now donate 0.5% of the price of your eligible AmazonSmile purchases when you shop at AmazonSmile ( We will reach out to Depression And Bipolar Support Alliance to ensure it is ready to accept donations from Amazon. 

Little enough, but it is at least something. (Was torn between supporting bipolar charity or AA, since partner and I are both bipolar addicts, and my family is full of same. But I like this charity a lot -- a friend of mine used to do blogathons for it.)

on the other hand

Nobody tells you the rage and grief and sick jealousy you feel as you watch your peers named Most Promising This and Best Young That will go away.

Unfortunately, it will be replaced only a short while later by rage, grief, sick jealousy and a new horror as you watch people a decade younger than you named all of those things.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

"The Sea," Ruth Dallas

The sea like death accepts all things,
Bird-voiced water from far inland springs,
Sunset rock-pools of a few hours,
Snow and glaciers and summer showers;
There the muddy river is made clear,
Uprooted tree and flood-wrack disappear.

Bone with my bone is every abandoned shell;
Calm the water lies as in a well
In open pools along the unresting shore:
In hollowed bone I hear the seas roar
Telling of what is past and still to pass
A voice among voices like the voice of grass.