How can a heart expression find?
Expect a most agreeable letter, for not being overburdened with subject (having nothing at all to say), there shall be no check to my genius from beginning to end.
--Jane Austen
mischief
Expect a most agreeable letter, for not being overburdened with subject (having nothing at all to say), there shall be no check to my genius from beginning to end.
--Jane Austen
how should another know your mind?
And there was a beautiful view
But nobody could see.
Cause everybody on the island
Was saying: Look at me! Look at me!
--Laurie Anderson
will he discern what quickens you?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010 @ 4:25 AMThe Dreadful Has Already Happened by Mark Strand
The relatives are leaning over, staring expectantly.
They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feel
them urging me on. I hold the baby in the air.
Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun.
A small band is playing old fashioned marches.
My mother is keeping time by stamping her foot.
My father is kissing a woman who keeps waving
to somebody else. There are palm trees.
The hills are spotted with orange flamboyants and tall
billowy clouds move beyond them. "Go on, Boy,"
I hear somebody say, "Go on."
I keep wondering if it will rain.
The sky darkens. There is thunder.
"Break his legs," says one of my aunts,
"Now give him a kiss." I do what I'm told.
The trees bend in the bleak tropical wind.
The baby did not scream, but I remember that sigh
when I reached inside for his tiny lungs and shook them
out in the air for the flies. The relatives cheered.
It was about that time I gave up.
Now, when I answer the phone, his lips
are in the receiver; when I sleep, his hair is gathered
around a familiar face on the pillow; wherever I search
I find his feet. He is what is left of my life.
They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feel
them urging me on. I hold the baby in the air.
Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun.
A small band is playing old fashioned marches.
My mother is keeping time by stamping her foot.
My father is kissing a woman who keeps waving
to somebody else. There are palm trees.
The hills are spotted with orange flamboyants and tall
billowy clouds move beyond them. "Go on, Boy,"
I hear somebody say, "Go on."
I keep wondering if it will rain.
The sky darkens. There is thunder.
"Break his legs," says one of my aunts,
"Now give him a kiss." I do what I'm told.
The trees bend in the bleak tropical wind.
The baby did not scream, but I remember that sigh
when I reached inside for his tiny lungs and shook them
out in the air for the flies. The relatives cheered.
It was about that time I gave up.
Now, when I answer the phone, his lips
are in the receiver; when I sleep, his hair is gathered
around a familiar face on the pillow; wherever I search
I find his feet. He is what is left of my life.
I find Mark Strand rather prose, for poetry. He tells stories in his poems. Very Good Stories.
ANYWAY.
I don't get my taste, I really don't.
BUT ANYWAY.
TODAY WAS WALKABOUT BWAHAHHA. and choir auditions.
(THANK GOD FOR THE LATTER.)
I THINK I made it. but you can't really be sure. Their admin is mighty weird, I tell you. Three smses in quick succession telling me entirely different things!
I just took the last one as truth and went for it. Apparently, a soprano 2 am I. sadness. saikang warriors unite. Sop 2s are like the saikang warriors of choirs! ONE MORE SEMITONE TO HIGH HIGH CSHARP AND I COULDN'T REACH JUST THEN.
SO BUHBYE SOP 1 ): -sadness- I think I've ranted to at least three people about it already
on a brighter note, I think I'll be joining debate.
I HAVEN'T DECIDED ON MY INTEGRATED HUMANS OPTION YET.
I love both literature and history, yes, a freak am I, but you only get one, you know. [for all you know I might decide to just take the same option as jerk]
decisions! I trust God to lead me to the correct one.
JEREMIAH 29:11! :D
a thought once uttered is untrue.
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Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.