Thursday, September 11, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Step Back Gonna Come at You Fast
Sick Today. :( Sucks A Lot, Yucky Blucky.
But damn, I love Yeats and Longfellow.
From The Celtic Twilight:
Paddy Flynn is dead;
He was a great teller of tales, and unlike our common romancers,
knew how to empty heaven, hell, and purgatory, faeryland and earth,
to people his stories.
He did not live in a shrunken world, but knew of no less ample circumstance than did Homer himself. Perhaps the Gaelic people shall by his like bring back again the
ancient simplicity and amplitude of imagination
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for,
and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a
little dust under our feet.
And then, of course, Longfellow's vivid portrayal of one night in history:
http://poetry.eserver.org/paul-revere.html
Poetry bores me, usually. Subjective, vague, and multidimensional; those all sound like good things, but they can be tedious and dull in their attempt to be deep. But then you look at Yeats and Longfellow, and think My God. They are so crystal clear. And yet their clarity can't be mistaken for simplicity; what they write isn't any less beautiful than something you read in a cold university classroom with your rear planted on a butt-moulding-hard-plastic chair, a piece that forces the prof to ask, "Now, what exactly did Pretentious Poet mean when s/he wrote this?"
The Truth.
But damn, I love Yeats and Longfellow.
From The Celtic Twilight:
Paddy Flynn is dead;
He was a great teller of tales, and unlike our common romancers,
knew how to empty heaven, hell, and purgatory, faeryland and earth,
to people his stories.
He did not live in a shrunken world, but knew of no less ample circumstance than did Homer himself. Perhaps the Gaelic people shall by his like bring back again the
ancient simplicity and amplitude of imagination
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for,
and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a
little dust under our feet.
And then, of course, Longfellow's vivid portrayal of one night in history:
http://poetry.eserver.org/paul-revere.html
Poetry bores me, usually. Subjective, vague, and multidimensional; those all sound like good things, but they can be tedious and dull in their attempt to be deep. But then you look at Yeats and Longfellow, and think My God. They are so crystal clear. And yet their clarity can't be mistaken for simplicity; what they write isn't any less beautiful than something you read in a cold university classroom with your rear planted on a butt-moulding-hard-plastic chair, a piece that forces the prof to ask, "Now, what exactly did Pretentious Poet mean when s/he wrote this?"
The Truth.
Monday, September 8, 2008
dinner time!
Glenn blinked and struggled to open her eyelids. She had to squint in order to take in the scene around her. It felt like someone had hammered nails into her head. She felt overwhelming dizziness as she sat up.
"Feeling any better?" His voice. Again. It haunted her when she slept and when she woke.
"No. As a matter of fact I don't," Glenn's icy voice shot at him. She looked around her. The room had light pink wallpapered walls with cream carpet. She was sitting on a bed in the middle of the room with a velour-like cover on it. Immediately she knew she was in a hotel room.
How did I get here? And more importantly, how am I going to get out?
"Feeling any better?" His voice. Again. It haunted her when she slept and when she woke.
"No. As a matter of fact I don't," Glenn's icy voice shot at him. She looked around her. The room had light pink wallpapered walls with cream carpet. She was sitting on a bed in the middle of the room with a velour-like cover on it. Immediately she knew she was in a hotel room.
How did I get here? And more importantly, how am I going to get out?
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Sort of thing
Green berries sprout from the darkest corners of that soul, and the orange sprites flit across and wonder when they will turn purple - magic, majestic, royal purple, not aubergine, or eggplant, or god forbid, elephant. Elephant elephant elephant. You are my ---
Swim splash, can you hear the sound of the pointed horn cutitng the water like a hot butter through knife? Incredible
Avant-garde - to explain someone that is innovative or...
Paramore - no, not crush crush crush - paramour: a lover, an adulterous relationship?
Call her that next time.
Back to the purple elephants. Just watch her wildest tricks come true, she probably said as she stomped her heavy heavy heavy foot. Do you think that maybe there are other worlds, ones that are different than ours, where you can shoot through a tear in the universe, a wrinkle in time (RIP), and see things you could not even wrap your head around or imagine?
Tell me why it is so ridiculous to think that at one time, there may have been a horse with a horn sprouting from its forehead, but it's easy to accept the narwhal, beautiful and poniont.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Everybody wants to be you...
She pressed her back against the door and held her breath.
Did he hear me? Is he close? Glenn wondered. Her eyes searched for an alternate escape route, hoping for an easy way out. Of course I pick a room where I will easily break my neck from jumping out the window. Glenn could feel a drop of sweat running down her face but was too frightened to wipe it away and risk noise. I could hide in the closet. Too predictable. Under the bed? Even MORE predictable. Glenn sighed and immediately regretted it.
"Glenn? What did I say?" His deep voice penetrated the heavy air.
Closer than expected. Glenn shuddered as she crept closer to the closet. She was conscious enough to know that he was still talking but her mind blocked the subject matter. She hid in the back corner of the closet, hoping to be covered by shadows. She slid the closet door shut and wrapped her arms around her legs. A door creaked.
"Why do you hide from me?" He asked like he actually cared. Like the outcome would be different if he knew the answer. A sliver of light fell over Glenn's face.
Did he hear me? Is he close? Glenn wondered. Her eyes searched for an alternate escape route, hoping for an easy way out. Of course I pick a room where I will easily break my neck from jumping out the window. Glenn could feel a drop of sweat running down her face but was too frightened to wipe it away and risk noise. I could hide in the closet. Too predictable. Under the bed? Even MORE predictable. Glenn sighed and immediately regretted it.
"Glenn? What did I say?" His deep voice penetrated the heavy air.
Closer than expected. Glenn shuddered as she crept closer to the closet. She was conscious enough to know that he was still talking but her mind blocked the subject matter. She hid in the back corner of the closet, hoping to be covered by shadows. She slid the closet door shut and wrapped her arms around her legs. A door creaked.
"Why do you hide from me?" He asked like he actually cared. Like the outcome would be different if he knew the answer. A sliver of light fell over Glenn's face.
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