Found:

Quiver

by Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

Speed of neither wind nor ripple,

neither hawk nor dove; she darted

quick across the woods through blister’s

roots, and hyacinths, the river’s blue

narcissus—

gleamed like a pair of scissors

clipping silk. And with what haste

did I proceed, imploring limb and bone

to make the light as we sped trackless

through the night, and I flagged behind.

Gave her the lead by small leagues,

and watched her quicken when the miles

between us vanished by degrees.

Now the light within me slows, quivers

somewhere into color. I know her

like a heft in the blood, like an arrow

that arrives with a sudden red notion.

And wherever you go, I am to follow.

There are people whose frames seem to droop, however which way they shift, and carry, their weight. It's as if the eyes are perennially searching for the ground, or some place close to it; the mouth is fixed in a frown that has a mark of semi-permanence about it, adding a stratum of sadness to a countenance already doleful. Is it a passing grief, some enduring heartache, or some constant solitariness? One may never know, unless the courage to approach and the patience to dig unearths for one an answer. And the answer may well be another trench of more questions, more speculations.

A look upwards, toward a sunlit sky, perhaps, and a breath of fragrant, greens-and-blooms-kissed air, should lighten the encumbrance, a little bit at a time, and then a bit more, until the shoulders inspire themselves to straighten up, the eyes tire of the browns and the grays, and the mouth curls up into the beginnings of a smile, one that will keep coming back, again, and again, until the heart to make it stay finally makes it stay.

Loveliness Found: From Leiv's Facebook wall

I miss home. Where the old woman comes to chase me away from the sea to tell me it's time for lunch. Where playing tag with monstrous waves as the tide rises in the early evening is as common as orange-riddled sunsets. Where everyone knows everyone but not well enough to take the other for granted. Where there's a palatable concoction of the strange and the familiar.

"He knew her, he believed. He would teach her that she was not his possession, he would show her she was free, he would see her flash her wings." 


— A.S. Byatt, Possession

To what distance and by what path
-"Silence Wager Stories"
Susan Howe

These sudden, stalling, momentary standstills make me wonder, sometimes, make me ask when all the running will finally stop.

Picking up

and she pauses, five breaths
long, but soon the clouds
draw over the now vanishing glow,

and she turns to resume
her flight.

Vanessa

That dragonfly should've been a butterfly. LOL

Herman Melville's 1856 U.S. Passport application

"Back then, it was on you to tell the authorities what you looked like. How a person could self-diagnose “Forehead: medium” or “Face: oval” eludes me (what were the other options?), but that might just be one of those things that people knew back then. Another thing they knew, judging by documents related to the Melville application available at Footnote.com, was how to cut through the red tape and go right to the top. Melville addresses William L. Marcy, then the U.S. Secretary of State. The body of the letter is brief: “I am about to visit Europe. Will you be good enough to supply me with a passport? I sail four days hence.” It seemed to work: Melville made it to Europe."
-from this blog, via The New Yorker.

As some anonymous someone once said, "Bad weather always looks worse through a window"

Weather forecast for tonight:  dark.  
- George Carlin

Losses, irreversible. Echoed by this wind, magnified by those clouds, brought to glorious visibility by this rain. Lightning, perforating the mind like a rush of unsought memories, and thunder, hobbling into the mind like some rude, uninvited visitor.

Striking sadness chords

All this angry lashing by the rain, all this careless whipping by the wind --

I'm suddenly afflicted with the blues. =(
How was your day?

Let's give this one a shot

A whiff of the air as I stepped outside told me I should look up, which I would have done even without the scent of grey clouds, anyway, because I almost always look up whenever I step outdoors, and which, anyway, I did. And what I saw was a darkened sky, much altered from an hour ago, when I had taken a peek through the white curtains, and when all there was to see were sunshine and brightness.

I looked with regret at the pair of shades I had in my hand, but which I punctually slipped back into the cream-colored canvas bag slung on my right shoulder, the bag being filled with orange cats with black tails (drawings of, that is) and equally teeming, likewise, with the word "cat". I had bought said bag along with another, similar one, which was orange and had a girl and a red apple (drawings of, of course) on it, both bags having been sure lures because of the ridiculously under-priced tags they had on them at the time that I saw them at some perfectly forgettable shop, but which, of course, I had not forgotten yet, just because it was too soon to forget.

For some reason or another (and especially not necessarily any of the details mentioned above), I was reminded of the pain on my left shoulder, which had been giving me the most annoying of discomforts  for quite some time, but which was conspicuously absent at that time and, thankfully, at this time.

Right now, there is no sound of rain to listen to. But the paragraphs above, I will have to end with raindrops. Because by the time I had shut the door behind me, a downpour had already begun.

Jeanette Winterson, in the house:

"What you risk reveals what you value."  
(Written on the Body)


‎"You never give away your heart; you lend it from time to time. If it were not so how could we take it back without asking?" 
 (Written on the Body)


"The unknownness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met. "
 (Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit)


"I have a head for heights it's true, but no stomach for the depths. Strange then to have plumbed so many."
 (Written on the Body)


‎"I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them."
 (Lighthousekeeping)


"I am good at walking away. Rejection teaches you how to reject."
 (Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles)


"Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there."
(The Passion)


"I have found that I am not a space where people want to live, at least not without decorating first. And that is the stubbornness in me: I do not want to be someone’s little home."
 (Gut Symmetries)


‎"He wrote on a piece of paper with his pencil.
Psychosis: out of touch with reality.
Since then, I have been trying to find out what reality is, so that I can touch it." 


"It's hard to remember that this day will never come again. That the time is now and the place is here and that there are no second chances at a single moment." 


"The body shuts down when it has too much to bear; goes its own way quietly inside, waiting for a better time, leaving you numb and half alive."
(The Passion)


"When I look at my life I realise that the mistakes I have made, the things I really regret, were not errors of judgement but failures of feeling."


"Perhaps all romance is like that; not a contract between equal parties but an explosion of dreams and desires that can find no outlet in everyday life. Only a drama will do and while the fireworks last the sky is a different colour." 
(The Passion) 


"I have a theory that every time you make an important choice, the part of you left behind continues the other life you could have had."
(Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit)


‎"What should I do about the wild and the tame? The wild heart that wants to be free, and the tame heart that wants to come home. I want to be held. I don't want you to come too close. I want you to scoop me up and bring me home at nights. I don't want to tell you where I am. I want to keep a place among the rocks where no one can find me. I want to be with you."



‎"I seem to have run in a great circle, and met myself again on the starting line."
(Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit)

Anything goes

My daughter's been complaining of "writer's block" for weeks now.

I just realized: we are on the same page.
Paging my muse. Paramdam ka naman, o.

And, oh, before I forget, a couple of days ago, Tori Amos appeared in my dreams, as a lovely, red-haired fairy handing me the most outrageous freebies ever:  a YSL bag and spanking new Prada boots. Hahaha. What am I supposed to make of that?

And where begins the night?
-Rilke, "Girl in Love"


the awakening of dormant stones,
depths that would reveal you to yourself.
-Rilke, "Remembrance"


leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)
your own life
-Rilke, "Sunset"

From out of nowhere, this image:

Gray skies, a cafe, the smell of warm bread and steaming coffee, and I, bundled in a purple, knit sweater, my nose against the glass window, watching the rain falling on the cobbled street, listening to the sound of raindrops tapping on the window sill.

Me. Me. Me.

Amos Lee - Flower

Corinne Bailey Rae - Paris Nights/ New York Mornings

Breakfast at Mickey's, make-up still on 
Elbows on the greasy table cloth 
One more coffee and one last cigarette 

Smiling at the rain cause you hold me close 
My best dress on underneath this old coat 
Walking down Bleecker no one is awake yet 

Still, seven hours 
Nothing but clouds 
It's enough to make your heart sigh 
We should try 
So pick me up and take me out 

Oo we crash into love-filled nights 
(Paris nights and New York mornings) 
Oo we race till we're out of time 
(Paris nights and New York mornings) 
And now that you've taken me up so high 
(Paris nights and New York mornings) 
Don't let me down 
Don't let me down 

I could see the lights from the restaurant 
I couldn't quite perfect that nonchalance 
Paris and champagne with one brown sugar cube 

And we danced while the band played "She's not there" 
Kissed me in the rain by the Rue Voltaire 
It's a perfectly good way to ruin those silk shoes 

Still, seven hours 
Nothing but clouds 
It's enough to make your heart sigh
We should try
For each other and for the lovers 


You change and you grow
But we were young
We were young and we didn't know
We didn't know

Oo we crash into love-filled nights
(Paris nights and New York mornings)
Oo we race till we're out of time
(Paris nights and New York mornings)
And now that you've taken me up so high
(Paris nights and New York mornings)
Don't let me down
Don't let me down 

With a thud

On my FB wall: These past weeks have made me realize that not all minds are broad enough to house the lengths and widths and chasms and heights of the universe. As it is, I am thankful to have friends who I am able to see eye to eye with, given the free reign I allow my perspective, and the hatred I have for boxing things up.


There's a bit of frustration in those lines, to be truthful. Prior to the number of epiphanies that I had this past week, I'd carried on as if the rest of the world were in tune with my ways of thinking, were on the same wavelength I had placed (or found) myself. Which was, I realized, downright stupid of me to assume; just because we belonged to the same generation (more, or less) didn't mean our minds operated the same way. 


Again, Chanson: upbringing, environment, books read (or, lack of), music consumed, tears shed (or, absence of), cakes deprived of (or, grown fat from), battles fought (or, run away from) --so, stop dreaming that all the world will ever be in one platform. Sheesh. 

Just another twilight post:

There is always something to be made of pain.

-Louise Gluck, "Love Poem"

Dusk found me getting a pedicure at a nail salon. The glass walls let the outdoors in freely, and I saw the sky changing colors. I mumbled "look away, look away," but still found myself stealing glances at the sunset-streaked heavens.

Under the Influence of

Yes, the allergies seem duller, but so do my thoughts. Is it "are" or "do"? It's a bit hazy, too, like, where have the days gone? Or, what day is it today? Or, how many days has it been since Sunday? I could try to count, why not? But it seems an exhausting task. Parallel lines never meet, or do they? In some secret alley (like yours and mine), unknown to the best minds, do these two constants ever meet? Are they constant (like me, unlike you)? Or did I just dream the word up (like I had dreamed you up)? Like I do a lot of words. They populate my dreams (like you do), words, although I hardly ever remember when I wake up. It's just a nice thought, I guess, having one's dreams peopled with words (my dreams, by you).

I hate prepositions. Though not so much, right now.

from Ann Lauterbach's "Alice in the Wasteland"

You have very low self-esteem, Alice said. Everyone here thinks the world of you;
you are always mentioned in poems and songs.
I know. It makes me cringe with shame. Moon this moon that, lovers and
moonlight, nocturnes and sonnets. It’s a total cliche. Stick an r in and you get
moron.
Alice stood up, casting a long black shadow.
Look how tall I am!
I will never be tall, answered the Moon, and disappeared behind a heavy cloud,
erasing Alice’s shadow and sending her back into the total dark.

-from Or to Begin Again

Axioms

We are parallel lines, an exponential bloom
where Zeno predicted your retreat;


and where I come through a, you come through b
—the two of us watching unyielding axioms


fill the space between us. One geometry says
we will meet, but each time I bend, you bend


toward a point beyond my reach. I want you
to be where I am, or I want to be where you are.


But a single truth has fixed us here,
and you are further for it.


-Barbara Perez

Heather Nova - Paper Cup (Love, Actually)

Wishful thinking I might be yours/ And every dream is just a dream after all/ And the night's in a paper cup/ When you want it to last/ Wishful thinking you might be mine

But how to keep

this day folded,

safe.

‎"It's hard to remember that this day will never come again. That the time is now and the place is here and that there are no second chances at a single moment." 
— Jeanette Winterson

A long, loud grumble of thunder

from up there. I feel the ground beneath me shake the littlest bit. Such a chilly, windy night, on the heels of a cold, stormy day. These past 24 hours bring to mind Edgar Allan Poe and Wuthering Heights.

How wonderful to be indoors.

My current obsession:

Sa hindi inaaasahang
Pagtatagpo ng mga mundo
May minsan lang na nagdugtong,
Damang dama na ang ugong nito.
Di pa ba sapat ang sakit at lahat
Na hinding hindi ko ipararanas saýo
Ibinubunyag ka ng iyong mata
Sumisigaw ng pag-sinta.

Bakit di papatulan
Ang pagsuyong nagkulang
Tayong umaasang
Hilaga't kanluran
Ikaw ang hantungan
At bilang kanlungan mo
Ako ang sasagip saýo.

Saan nga ba patungo,
Nakayapak at nahihiwagaan na
Ang bagyo ng tadhana ay
Dinadala ako sa init ng bisig mo
Bakit di pa sabihin
Ang hindi mo maamin
Ipauubaya na lang ba 'to sa hangin
'Wag mong ikatakot
Ang bulong ng damdamin mo


Ba't di salubungin ang puso ko at kunin
ang diwang malaya, wag na wag magpapapayapa
ikaw ang pag-ibig, pakinggan ang himig ko,
wala na sanang lalayo/ mundong ito ay hihinto

Of breezes and blues

Goodness, this heat. These days (and nights), I find myself sorely tempted to forgo my  heels for flip-flops, my turtlenecks for tank tops, these concrete floors for sand. The daily latte has already been replaced by iced coffee.
The chilly breezes have been so unceremoniously shooed away, and summer is irrefutably here, languishing in the sun and partying away the buzzing, moonlit nights.
All these talk of  cool, blue waters and beach bumming are distracting me from my day-to-day, makes me wonder what it would be like to get away, far away, in a little dress abloom with flowers, and just lie on the warm sand, count the stars, and fall asleep to the sound of waves crashing and the drifts of a guitar and the beat of a lone drum cavorting in the distance, a snappy, frisky breeze kissing my cheeks...

"Then the writing became so fluid that I sometimes felt as if I were writing for the sheer pleasure of telling a story, which may be the human condition that most resembles levitation." 

— Gabriel García Márquez

Apprehensions

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself --
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags --
This is what i am made of, this, and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.

by Sylvia Plath

Song

The weight of the world 
     is love. 
Under the burden 
     of solitude, 
under the burden 
     of dissatisfaction 

     the weight, 
the weight we carry 
     is love. 

Who can deny? 
     In dreams 
it touches 
     the body, 
in thought 
     constructs 
a miracle, 
     in imagination 
anguishes 
     till born 
in human-- 
looks out of the heart 
     burning with purity-- 
for the burden of life 
     is love, 

but we carry the weight 
     wearily, 
and so must rest 
in the arms of love 
     at last, 
must rest in the arms 
     of love. 

No rest 
     without love, 
no sleep 
     without dreams 
of love-- 
     be mad or chill 
obsessed with angels 
     or machines, 
the final wish 
     is love 
--cannot be bitter, 
     cannot deny, 
cannot withhold 
     if denied: 

the weight is too heavy 

     --must give 
for no return 
     as thought 
is given 
     in solitude 
in all the excellence 
     of its excess. 

The warm bodies 
     shine together 
in the darkness, 
     the hand moves 
to the center 
     of the flesh, 
the skin trembles 
     in happiness 
and the soul comes 
     joyful to the eye-- 

yes, yes, 
     that's what 
I wanted, 
     I always wanted, 
I always wanted, 
     to return 
to the body 
     where I was born. 

                         San Jose, 1954

by Allen Ginsberg

Bend

Daphne, dazzled
by a slice of radiance,
finds herself

turning--

The Way Things Work

is by admitting 
or opening away. 
This is the simplest form 
of current: Blue 
moving through blue; 
blue through purple; 
the objects of desire 
opening upon themselves 
without us; the objects of faith. 
The way things work 
is by solution, 
resistance lessened or 
increased and taken 
advantage of. 
The way things work 
is that we finally believe 
they are there, 
common and able 
o illustrate themselves. 
Wheel, kinetic flow, 
rising and falling water, 
ingots, levers and keys, 
I believe in you, 
cylinder lock, pully, 
lifting tackle and 
crane lift your small head-- 
I believe in you--
your head is the horizon to
my hand. I believe 
forever in the hooks. 
The way things work 
is that eventually 
something catches.

by Jorie Graham

The Dangers of This Craft

by Ma. Fatima V. Lim Wilson

For your own good, do not claim to be a poet.
-Advice of a well-meaning friend.


How we sing, even as we are boiled alive.
Those who torment us strain to sustain
our last notes. In a landscape
of sameness, our crooked towers scrape
sensibilities, the well-trained eye.
Why, when starved, do we thrive?
Remembrance of childhood's bread
rising. The taste of dulcified 
droppings of air. Our well-
meaning friends beg us, please,
speak in the measured tones
of the mediocre. Show off
our mastery of muteness,
the ambidextrous virtuosity
of work-stained hands. Let
those knitting needles, heavy
handled axes fly. Why must
we hear voices? See the moving
parts of still objects? And so,
we insist we no longer see
through white-washed walls.
We confess our dreams of flying
have ceased. We scheme,
the miracle of money keeping us
awake. Our pleasure lies
in memorizing the exactness
of recipes. We are found to be
most eloquent when quiet, even
as we argue happily with the teeming
inhabitants opening doors in our heads.
We stare seemingly unmoved at the fire
of our burning books, all the while
enthralled, reading secrets in the flames.
They think they've killed us off
even as somewhere, everywhere, a child
recalls the beat of the ocean womb.
They dance upon our tombs, unaware
of how they have fallen
victim to the rhythm
of our singing bones.

From this morning's browse

Poor Love, you were but Color, Motif, Mood --
Need of my poetry, not my womanhood.

- from "Love is My Need" (1945),
Trinidad Tarrosa-Subido

Mooning over this cup of coffee

The interminable tapeworm of time unreels
unwinds and stops dead.
-Ophelia Alcantara Dimalanta, "The Time Factor"

Where he is, my dad is currently building his fish pond. Miles away, sun-lovers are frolicking on beaches. Sundry, unknown distances separate me from the bibliophile chewing away at his book with a cup of coffee; from the little ones having snacks of milk and cookies; from the corporate dweller crunching away at data and gossip; from the mountain-climber trekking, inhaling the breeze of the outdoors. A butterfly is cooing, soundlessly, at a newly-opened blossom, and a puppy barks at a yellow moth, flitting by.

I wonder what twilight is like in other places. Where I am, and in the places I've been, it is almost always sad.

What's it like, where you are?

Face Paint!

Only your real friends will tell you when your face is dirty.  

- Sicilian Proverb

Take-home quote for the day:

"Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies. It wanders perturbedly through the halls and galleries of the memory, and is often heard again, distinct and living as when it first displaced the wavelets of the air. "
-Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton, 1803-1873
English politician, poet, playwright, and novelist

from the weekend couch:

Paul Thomas Anderson, 1999

Songs of the self

"…words have been all my life, all my life--this need is like the Spider's need who carries before her a huge Burden of Silk which she must spin out--the silk is her life, her home, her safety--her food and drink too--and if it is attacked or pulled down, why, what can she do but make more, spin afresh, design anew…." 
— A.S. Byatt, Possession


This morning, not by chance, at all, I unearthed my old copy of Songs of Ourselves: Writings by Filipino Women in English (edited by Edna Zapanta Manlapaz) and spent a good hour and a half browsing through its pages. On the upper left hand of the flyleaf, I had, with a red pen, written my name and, in blue ink, "1998". Whew, such a long time ago. I was 18, then, just beginning to adjust to life far, far from home, and to English Major-hood in the UP. I had bought the book at the Katips branch of National, hell-bent on making up for the time I had lost in Grade School and High School, being confined to reading Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson, stuck in the time and literature of Shakespeare and Keats, thinking that Robert Burns's "A Red Red Rose" was the end-all and be-all of poetry. I seethed, a little angry at my former English teachers for keeping Angela Manalang Gloria, et al, from my sphere of consciousness. Oh, that there were lines as beautiful as

They tried in vain 
to understand how one so carved from pride
and glassed in dream could have so flung aside
her graven days
(from "Soledad", Angela Manalang Gloria)


or

she concentrates upon the rosebuds

of the china, hoping, hoping

they would break.

-Merlinda Bobis, "Dinner in Progress"

and that Ophelia Alcantara Dimalanta and Gilda Cordero Fernando had been, and still were, churning out wonderful works of poetry and fiction--I tried to devour as much of their, and other Filipino writers', works, as I can. I was hungry and eager and greedy for understanding, and the book's pages bore the marks: underlined passages, marginal notes written in pencil, my alacrity showing in the slits of what should have been O's, the pointy L's, the exclamation points after the comments. Some examples:

as if by burning the clothes, she could also burn/ kill the memory of Pedro's dead wife ("The Small Key", Paz Latorena)

the controversial poem, Commonwealth Awards ("Revolt From Hymen", Angela Manalang Gloria)

work of a genius, as expected ("Paradox", Angela Manalang Gloria)

love this! so amazing! ("Speck of Rain Roaring", Edith Tiempo)

the failure/ inability to grieve; to acknowledge the loss as such ("Behind the Fern", Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas)

this is foreshadowed by the preceding stanzas; still, it is jolting enough./ suspicion; stirrings of rebellion/ protest --very mild; still inchoate ("Tribeswoman", Marra Pl. Lanot)

this is so nice! poignant, really, without being glaringly so. very subtle. ("Dinner in Progress", Merlinda Bobis)

Yes, yes, you can tell that literary criticism was not one of my strengths when I was a student (and it still isn't, by the way, and I don't think it will ever be), but coming upon these small, candid lines is a precious experience for me, mainly because these scraps of observation remind me of a time when I was wide-eyed and ardent, bringing back that all too familiar longing to drown myself in lines and whole texts, that itch to fish for words and play with them on blanks and spaces, the incomparable high of being in a roomful of people who understand what it's like to be hungry that way. Instead, I'm stuck in a daily grind of facts and statistical analysis and numerical figures, where people think that Dan Brown and Paulo Coelho write literature.

Still, I keep the faith and continue to make time for cherished moments like this: stolen and swift, and all the more precious because they are so.

Breakfast at Tiffany's Final Scene

Moon River - Breakfast at Tiffany's

Daylight.

I used to tell you my dreams.
- Louise Gluck, "Siren"

These short, sudden silences, in syncopation with each other, like the miscalculation of tears, and, in between, the small pauses. The words, spread across spaces, as mute, as immobile, as the reach of this depleted while. The sky dissolves the moon, and the stars slip away, like nights often do. And because everything melts into everything else, we lose the moon. Soon, that gush of sunlight, bathing the sylph-like vagueness in clarity and certainty, revealing the gaps, the hideousness, in things.

Fluorescence, fizzling, flimsy, faint, fade, futile, forsake, forget.

Found:

My traipses into Jonathan Carroll's blog almost always yield loots of beautiful snippets. This morning, I found this there and it just really hit right home:

The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it is not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of the other person - without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other. They allow the other absolute freedom, because they know that if the other leaves, they will be as happy as they are now. Their happiness cannot be taken by the other, because it is not given by the other. 

- Osho


Is that beautiful, or what?

May the Holy Week hold for us all a time for reflection.
Peace be with you.

THINGS SHOULDN'T BE SO HARD by Kay Ryan

A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small —
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn't
be so hard.

*Kay Ryan won the 2011 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for her book The Best of It: New and Selected Poems by Kay Ryan (Grove/Atlantic)

And then, there's Estella

"...life is made of ever so many partings welded together."

'So,' said Estella, 'I must be taken as I have been made. The success is not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me.' 

"The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I loved her nonetheless because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection."

"I never had one hour's happiness in her society, and yet my mind all round the four-and-twenty hours was harping on the happiness of having her with me unto death."

- Great Expectations, Charles Dickens

Stowaway Holly:

"I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together.  I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. "

"Never love a wild thing.... If you let yourself love a wild thing,  you'll end up looking at the sky."

So, it's Argentina for Ms. Golightly.
I'm definitely adding her to my list of favorite girls.

quotes are from Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's

Rest Day

"And today is whatever I want it to mean."
- Beth Orton, "Central Reservation"


If my eyes are to be trusted, I'd say it was a full and orange moon I saw in the sky, early this evening. The wind was benign, not biting, at all, just all coltish and balmy, bringing memories of violins and vanilla. Beth Orton was in the background, and Miles Davis followed suit with his trumpet and his band. The lines of a just-read poem still floated in my head and I breathed it all in: the aftermaths of twilight, the cool scent of the evening, the loveliness of beat and song, the exquisiteness of words and spaces, the lucid state my mind was in.

I had my music and my sanity. Everything was in its right place.

So much loveliness here...

What are regrets?
They're just lessons we haven't learned yet
It's like catching snow on your tongue
You can't pin this butterfly down
Can't pin this butterfly down..


Another day draws away
And my heart sinks with the sun