Two men I have loved all my adult life are two men I will never meet.
The first of these is a love I learnt of from my first real love. He sent me a poem which made me both cry and smile and which, even now, after hundrends (if not thousands) of reads, I still discover anew each time:
Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town
(E. E. Cummings)
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
The second is a man I discovered accidentally, flipping idly through a library book in a thirteen-year-old angsty haze. He was simple and yet profound. The way we often forget life is:
Winter Trees
(William Carlos Williams)
All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
The Red Wheelbarrow
(William Carlos Williams)
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
*Poems courtesy of FamousPoetsandPoems.com
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Too cool for school
Two posts in one day. Hurrah!
This is just a heads up for you to check out an awesome blog. Style Rookie is an incredibly witty, intelligent, and rediculously cool blog all about fashion and fun. And the coolest bit. The writer: fourteen years old!
Dear Tavi, if you ever read my blog, I think you're awesome. Can I be you for a day?
This is just a heads up for you to check out an awesome blog. Style Rookie is an incredibly witty, intelligent, and rediculously cool blog all about fashion and fun. And the coolest bit. The writer: fourteen years old!
Dear Tavi, if you ever read my blog, I think you're awesome. Can I be you for a day?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Mundane medicine
Even as a child I would make my bed every day. When all around is chaos, that island of smoothed sheet and plumped pillow can calm me more than almost anything. I think the ultimate thing in making a bed is that it allows at least one task to be completed, even if nothing gets done all day, and that gives my life some small semblance of worth.
I stumbled across this article excerpt on Wide Open Spaces and had to share it, because it's the only way I can describe what making my bed means without sounding insane. Of course, my life is sans the children, husband, and fabulous career, but nonetheless full of small moments of desperation and unsteady waters.
"Making the bed":
The simplest, most satisfying activity I do all day is making my bed. In seven minutes or less, I accomplish something small but worthwhile. I give myself a new beginning.On a morning of chaos, children hollering, misplaced homework, and a husband looking for clean socks, it's the calm in a storm. I love the physical, methodical act of tugging sheets and plumping pillows. I sense my jumbled thoughts being sorted as I exact the length of the blanket along the horizon of the bed. If I am anxious, stretching my arms wide and lifting the sheets high in the air releases some of the unease into the universe along with the eyelashes and the lint. It's organizing in the most gentle of ways.
Life is hard sometimes - hard for everyone differently, but hard. For me, there are intricate blended-family calisthenics, concerns about overcrowding in my kid's school, money worries, children worries, parent worries, and wrinkles in weird places. It can be overwhelming, but I find making the bed is a good first step to getting a handle on it all. Being a mother and a wife, a writer and an actress, is wonderful, really wonderful, but I don't know that I do it right all the time. I make mistakes, feel in search of out-of-reach answers; but I can assemble something that has been dismantled, straighten what has been undone. When I make the bed, I am caring for something important to me and my husband (and sometimes, in the middle of the night, a child.) A made bed is good to come home to. It says to the world and, more important, to you, "I am not unhinged."
It's never to late to make the bed. If it doesn't get done at 7:45 am because I had to start over with the eggs or I slept a little too long, it will still be there later that afternoon. Sometimes I make the bed 15 minutes before I get in it again.
And, inevitably, while i consider if the sheet is on the correct side or pull out a down feather that has poked through the case, there is a moment when it strikes me how lucky I am to have a bed."
The article, published in Real Simple, was written by writer and actress Isabel Gillies. For those of you who loved this passage as much for the writing as the content, you should do as I am and track down her book Happens Every Day.
And in the mean time, make your bed - it'll make you feel good.
I stumbled across this article excerpt on Wide Open Spaces and had to share it, because it's the only way I can describe what making my bed means without sounding insane. Of course, my life is sans the children, husband, and fabulous career, but nonetheless full of small moments of desperation and unsteady waters.
"Making the bed":
The simplest, most satisfying activity I do all day is making my bed. In seven minutes or less, I accomplish something small but worthwhile. I give myself a new beginning.On a morning of chaos, children hollering, misplaced homework, and a husband looking for clean socks, it's the calm in a storm. I love the physical, methodical act of tugging sheets and plumping pillows. I sense my jumbled thoughts being sorted as I exact the length of the blanket along the horizon of the bed. If I am anxious, stretching my arms wide and lifting the sheets high in the air releases some of the unease into the universe along with the eyelashes and the lint. It's organizing in the most gentle of ways.
Life is hard sometimes - hard for everyone differently, but hard. For me, there are intricate blended-family calisthenics, concerns about overcrowding in my kid's school, money worries, children worries, parent worries, and wrinkles in weird places. It can be overwhelming, but I find making the bed is a good first step to getting a handle on it all. Being a mother and a wife, a writer and an actress, is wonderful, really wonderful, but I don't know that I do it right all the time. I make mistakes, feel in search of out-of-reach answers; but I can assemble something that has been dismantled, straighten what has been undone. When I make the bed, I am caring for something important to me and my husband (and sometimes, in the middle of the night, a child.) A made bed is good to come home to. It says to the world and, more important, to you, "I am not unhinged."
It's never to late to make the bed. If it doesn't get done at 7:45 am because I had to start over with the eggs or I slept a little too long, it will still be there later that afternoon. Sometimes I make the bed 15 minutes before I get in it again.
And, inevitably, while i consider if the sheet is on the correct side or pull out a down feather that has poked through the case, there is a moment when it strikes me how lucky I am to have a bed."
The article, published in Real Simple, was written by writer and actress Isabel Gillies. For those of you who loved this passage as much for the writing as the content, you should do as I am and track down her book Happens Every Day.
And in the mean time, make your bed - it'll make you feel good.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Pledging
My cousin and I both read a lot, but what and how we read is very different. She is devoted to fanfics and much prefers scrolling computerised pages, with the tv on in the background for the occassional break. She reads books as well, but only if she is unable to find the story she's after online first.
I, on the other hand, despise reading online - aside from obsessive blog trolling of course. For me the story is not just the words on the page but the whole experience: the cover art, the feel of the paper, the location it is read in, the history of the writer, the story, and the book itself. Reading online takes so many of these features away, the story becomes cold, sterile, almost hostile in its reading. It removes a level of connectedness that compells me to read.
I think I've mention once or twice that I love old things, and old books are no different, because they link you to the past in an amazing way. Their smell, their feel, their color, even their war wounds excite me and comfort me. For me, finding a book with yellowing pages, scribble marks, chocolate smudges and dog-eared edges is akin to discovering a Burbery trench - in just the right size - for 75% off. Picking up a book like that means not only is the story obviously worthy of reading (and maybe re-reading), the book was loved by the reader (or readers) and then passed on so that I could share in the goodness inside. It's the same reason I love good food, because sharing either is a chance to share with someone something more than an experience, something more akin to an adventure.
To me the outward appearance, the look, feel and smell of the book are just as important to the reading as the words themselves. With online reading you lose all that. Gone is the ability to put a face to the long-suffering victim on the front cover, gone is the mustiness that reminds you Dickens wrote these words some eighty years ago, gone the exquisite touch of thick, smooth pages that warrant the blowing of your monthly budget to live vicariously through an imaginary vixen. And gone the all-important ability to luxuriate in the reading in any location you choose (for me it's usually under the covers with a naughty treat).
Yes, I am aware there are now portable tablets that allow you to store and read hundreds of books, just like an ipod would music. I'm also aware that laptops can be moved from place to place. But this merely solves the problem of location, and perhaps cover-imagery if there is a photo available. And these factors without all the others are not enough to prevent me rueing the dreaded day when printed word is completely usurped by the multitude of media varieties available. For me, even cooking from a recipe book gives me more pleasure than scrolling the endless blogs I love for the perfect afternoon sweetness.
So you'll understand why, after noticing my dear friend Wabi had pledged, that I must do the same. And so I do:
I, on the other hand, despise reading online - aside from obsessive blog trolling of course. For me the story is not just the words on the page but the whole experience: the cover art, the feel of the paper, the location it is read in, the history of the writer, the story, and the book itself. Reading online takes so many of these features away, the story becomes cold, sterile, almost hostile in its reading. It removes a level of connectedness that compells me to read.
I think I've mention once or twice that I love old things, and old books are no different, because they link you to the past in an amazing way. Their smell, their feel, their color, even their war wounds excite me and comfort me. For me, finding a book with yellowing pages, scribble marks, chocolate smudges and dog-eared edges is akin to discovering a Burbery trench - in just the right size - for 75% off. Picking up a book like that means not only is the story obviously worthy of reading (and maybe re-reading), the book was loved by the reader (or readers) and then passed on so that I could share in the goodness inside. It's the same reason I love good food, because sharing either is a chance to share with someone something more than an experience, something more akin to an adventure.
To me the outward appearance, the look, feel and smell of the book are just as important to the reading as the words themselves. With online reading you lose all that. Gone is the ability to put a face to the long-suffering victim on the front cover, gone is the mustiness that reminds you Dickens wrote these words some eighty years ago, gone the exquisite touch of thick, smooth pages that warrant the blowing of your monthly budget to live vicariously through an imaginary vixen. And gone the all-important ability to luxuriate in the reading in any location you choose (for me it's usually under the covers with a naughty treat).
Yes, I am aware there are now portable tablets that allow you to store and read hundreds of books, just like an ipod would music. I'm also aware that laptops can be moved from place to place. But this merely solves the problem of location, and perhaps cover-imagery if there is a photo available. And these factors without all the others are not enough to prevent me rueing the dreaded day when printed word is completely usurped by the multitude of media varieties available. For me, even cooking from a recipe book gives me more pleasure than scrolling the endless blogs I love for the perfect afternoon sweetness.
So you'll understand why, after noticing my dear friend Wabi had pledged, that I must do the same. And so I do:
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Getting Lost
I've been feeling out of sorts for a while. Not really sad, but far from happy. Almost numb. It's as though my feelings have taken a wrong turn and got lost on their way to Emotion Central.
When I feel like this I often realise it's because I've not been doing the things my soul needs. One of these (and the reason I've started this blog) is writing. Writing unscrambles my thoughts and allows all the little halfling ideas in my head to make sense of themselves. It allows me to separate the tangles in my mind and file things in some kind of ordered chaos. It helps me breathe.
My soul craves water. Not to drink, although liquid refreshment is very important. Water soothes me. It is the element that makes me feel the most at home. Swimming in it, gazing at it, or simply smelling it as it splots onto the dusty earth after another scorching day. In all its forms I live for it. Sadly water has also been lacking in my life of late, leaving me restless and constantly on edge.
My soul pines for words. To read allows me an escape from life. It allows me to lose myself in another world. A world where things may even be worse rather than better, but are, most importantly, different. When I find myself feeling the most lost I turn inevitably to books, all sorts of books: fiction, non-fiction, drama, comedy, travel, history, even (and not just becuase I'm desperate) text books. Somehow by getting lost I manage to find myself again.
This is how I'd like to find myself right now:
When I feel like this I often realise it's because I've not been doing the things my soul needs. One of these (and the reason I've started this blog) is writing. Writing unscrambles my thoughts and allows all the little halfling ideas in my head to make sense of themselves. It allows me to separate the tangles in my mind and file things in some kind of ordered chaos. It helps me breathe.
My soul craves water. Not to drink, although liquid refreshment is very important. Water soothes me. It is the element that makes me feel the most at home. Swimming in it, gazing at it, or simply smelling it as it splots onto the dusty earth after another scorching day. In all its forms I live for it. Sadly water has also been lacking in my life of late, leaving me restless and constantly on edge.
My soul pines for words. To read allows me an escape from life. It allows me to lose myself in another world. A world where things may even be worse rather than better, but are, most importantly, different. When I find myself feeling the most lost I turn inevitably to books, all sorts of books: fiction, non-fiction, drama, comedy, travel, history, even (and not just becuase I'm desperate) text books. Somehow by getting lost I manage to find myself again.
This is how I'd like to find myself right now:
Arabesques by Richard Desaix
The compete works of E.E.Cummings
"To me the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the music the words make."
Truman Capote
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)