Monday, August 24, 2009

inside the cave



There’s an elongated finger

pointing at me wagging in reproach,

like the branch of a tree on a tree

it creeps into me

and will not let me forget.


How you are faded purple,

wonder-less,

it will not let me forget.


I could not survive it

and now

I heave, you leave

a thumb print in ink

dramatic little lines.

In a broken chair in your broken brain

I sit.


What it must be like

to be you

all that grime

peeling off like a slug

leaving wet spaces.


I can crawl

into your snail’s shell

through coal and mud and fire.

Like a priest I will bow my way in.

I am white-washed,

carry me home

indefinitely.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Verlaine

Aurthur Rimbaud's lover, brilliant madman of the Parisian bohemian art scene, exquisite poet.

I often have this dream, strange, penetrating,

Of a woman, unknown, whom I love, who loves me,

And who’s never, each time, the same exactly,

Nor, exactly, different: and knows me, is loving.

Oh how she knows me, and my heart, growing

Clear for her, alone, is no longer a problem,

For her alone, she alone understands, then,

How to cool the sweat of my brow with her weeping.

Is she dark, blonde, or auburn? – I’ve no idea.

Her name? I remember it’s vibrant and dear,

As those of the loved that life has exiled.

Her eyes are the same as a statue’s eyes,

And in her voice, distant, serious, mild,

The tone of dear voices, those that have died.

~

High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress

So that, between the wind and the terrain,

At times a shining stocking would be seen,

And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.

Also, at times a jealous insect's dart

Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white

Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight

Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.

Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,

The women who hung dreaming on our arms

Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms

That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Paris sky


THE PARIS SKY IS BLUE AND BRIGHT
I WANT TO FLY WITH ALL MY MIGHT
HER LEGS ARE LONG
HER HEART IS HIGH
THE CHAINS ARE STRONG
BUT SO AM I.
- LEONARD COHEN

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Sylvia Plath


To a Jilted Lover

Cold on my narrow cot I lie
and in sorrow look
through my window-square of black:

figured in the midnight sky,
a mosaic of stars
diagrams the falling years,

while from the moon, my lover's eye
chills me to death
with radiance of his frozen faith.

Once I wounded him with so
small a thorn
I never thought his flesh would burn

or that the heat within would grow
until he stood
incandescent as a god;

now there is nowhere I can go
to hide from him:
moon and sun reflect his flame.

In the morning all shall be
the same again:
stars pale before the angry dawn;

the gilded cock will turn for me
the rack of time
until the peak of noon has come

and by that glare, my love will see
how I am still
blazing in my golden hell.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem


And from that time on I bathed in the Poem

Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,

Devouring the green azures;
where, entranced in pallid flotsam,

A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;


Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music

Ferment the bitter redness of love!

But, truly, I have wept too much!

The Dawns are heartbreaking.

Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:

Sharp love has swollen me up with heady languors.

O let my keel split!
O let me sink to the bottom!


-Aurthur Rimbaud

Ink



She had written herself all over his body. She surrounded everything. The ink just wouldn't rub off.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Mystery of the Romanov's



National Geographic, my personal favorite website :), has a great short documentary about the Romanov's and their fascinating rule and mysterious, horrible assassinations.  It is a story that is so enthralling to me, I have watched it several times.  

Click here to see the full episode:
http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/series/inside/2883/Overview

Friday, August 14, 2009

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Saturday, August 8, 2009

you are my synesthesia embodied.


I love you


For your little, startled, thoughtless ways,


For your ponderings, like soft dark birds,


And when you speak ‘tis a sudden sunlight.



I love you


For your wide child eyes, and fluttering hands,


For the little divinities your wrists,


And the beautiful mysteries your fingers.



I love you.


Does the blossom study her day of life?


Is the butterfly vexed with an hour of soul?


I had rather a rose than live forever.

 -
ee cummings 

2 Journalists Released in North Korea

I read this today on my friend Julie Bogart's blog
 http://julieunplugged.blogspot.com/2009/08/giving-credit-to-bill.html, and thought she captured the essence of my feelings implicitly.  Never a fan of him before, I am thrilled with what Bill Clinton has done for the female journalists and for America.

"As president, Mr. Clinton had sent Mr. Kim a letter of condolence on the death of his father, Kim Il-sung, according to a former official. For Mr. Kim, the former official said, freeing the women was a “reciprocal humanitarian gesture.”
Did you read that? Try it one more time. A gesture of human caring for someone's father (family being everything in Asia), sending the appropriate human gesture, led to a reciprocal humanitarian release. Americans rarely get how powerful it is to show respect, to honor someone's set of values, to get outside our own western, gun-slinging point of view long enough to be genuinely diplomatic! Bill Clinton! Amazing. The guy has got some of it goin' on.

Now granted, we don't know what that release will cost us. Asians have much longer memories than Americans, and they don't do anything for nothing. We can be sure this "gesture" will go on a tally sheet somewhere. Still, for now, today, a decision Clinton made in office to show respect and care came back to serve America this week. That's a lesson we all ought to internalize.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Every word

"Every word curls my mind with fear, and trembles my soul, my heart open to its agony, its truth, its depression, its wisdom. I'm frozen in revelation to the very beliefs that bind me." -Kierkegaard

"I have seen all, I have heard all, I have forgotten all."

Marie Antoinette



All dressed up like kings in their robes of desire
The poets are going insane

Thursday, August 6, 2009


“Be strong saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.”

Little Rose on the Prairie

http://bitchmagazine.org/post/Little-House-with-a-Bigger-Story

A great little article on Laura Ingalls Wilder's daughter, Rose.  I was so in love with those books as a child and this update on the author's daughter and her work in the feminist movement is interesting to read.

Perils of a She-Wolf

Shakira’s new She-Wolf music video is on the verge of sexual pornography. Let me explain to you exactly why. And why it upsets me so.

First off, the video opens with her writhing helplessly (yet somehow ever-so flexibly) in a cage, wearing a nude colored body suit, ass in the air, legs spread remarkably wide, and of course, her fingers are in her mouth. It’s not only overtly sexual and vulgar, but it presents her in a “Lolita-esque” position that further fortifies the epidemic of perversity through the exploitation of a woman being helpless, innocent, and “begging” for the man to come and “satisfy her untapped sexual needs”. Which in turn, equates sexiness to that of a young, inexperienced, virginal girl. That is sick. I would not be comfortable watching this video in front of my boyfriend. That’s how insanely crass it is.

The dance moves are laughable and clich├ęd, in an obvious attempt to be “Lady GaGa-like” weird or different, but it just falls flat and awkward. She skips, she smiles, she tosses her hair, arches her back, touches her lips, does the robot, you know, all the stuff really sexy women do.

Shakira’s sometimes-decent-in-the-past voice actually regresses in this song. She sounds like a deflating plastic bazooka (you know those things you blew into as a kid in music class) when she does the signature “wolf moan/howl” at the end of the chorus. It makes the ears bleed. She is obviously out of her range in the chorus as well. It is WAY to high for her. So they synthesize and electronica-size the heck out of the song in an attempt to cover her feeble singing-- thus turning it into a 70’s disco anthem of a Spanish persuasion, about a woman who is a secret wolf. Ahem.

Did I mention that this she-wolf business takes place while her boyfriend is home in bed? Yeah. That happens too. She goes out, dressed like a prostitute clown, finds her “prey”, then sneaks back into bed after her animal tendencies are fulfilled, smiles angelically at the camera before cuddling up to the unsuspecting boyfriend lying next to her, and falls into a blissful guiltless sleep. Must be nice to be character and conscience free.

Oh, and lest we forget, the lyrics are complete shit. Example: “I’m starting to feel just a little abused like a coffee machine in an office”. Or this treasure of Shakespearean eloquence, “To locate the single men I got on me a special radar and the fire department hotline in case I get in trouble later.”

The video isn’t even artistic. It borders on cheap (if it wasn’t for the soft lighting). My personal favorite is when she is contorting inside what appears to be a glittered foam esophagus or some other human-anatomy-type recreation.

I am more than open to sexuality being presented in an artistic way, I am by no means a prude. But this is just asinine.

Of course the song is blowing up all over MTV and the radio. Because the mass populace loves degradation, sexuality, and beyond ignorant songs. “I just love to dance to it!” “Imma wolf too! Hehe!”

Please take my advice and stay as far away from this she-wolf as possible. She is about to come “out of her closet” and I am frightened by this reality.



Tuesday, August 4, 2009

nights with Shai

I am pretty tired today because Shai was up until to 2am last night talking to me. Like seriously chattering away.

I get in bed around 12:30 and he wants to pray. So we go through and thank Jesus for EVEY SINGLE PERSON HE HAS EVER KNOWN. "Thanks for Munkle, and mommy because she is beautiful and Micah and Fitzy and Bowie and Janice and Cain..." this goes on for about 10 minutes.


After a few minutes of silence has gone by I think he is dozing off. Nope.

Suddenly he sits upright in bed and exclaims, "I want a burger! And ice cream."

I tell him this probably isn't going to happen for him and that he should just try to go to sleep.


Then he starts playing with my hair and pinching my cheeks. Whispering in my ear (I am half asleep at this point), "Munkle I'm pinching you." (sounds like "peeenching" when he says it).


He starts talking about how he has a robot arm and it kills bugs.


He reminds me of the time I told him I had a rocket ship in my heart for him and asks if it's still there. I groggily respond with a sleep-voice "Yes, it's there. It will always be there. I love you. Goodnight. Go to sleep."


Well apparently my tired-voice was so creepy that he feels the need to say, "Munkle, why are you talking like this," (mimics my deep voice) "it scares me. You are a monster."


So then I have to wake up, consciously lighten my tone and explain to him that I am just sleepy, and when you are sleepy your voice gets scratchy.


It's 1:20 at this point and I tell him "Shai, you HAVE to go to sleep." To which he responds by elucidating the many virtues of fighting a bear and a dinosaur and a bee all at once.

I finally manage to "story him" to sleep with a really boring tale I made up about a puppy who finds a bone and hides it in the bushes. Well, actually this turns out to be a riveting adventure story in 3 year old boy world, and he begs for more until we both finally fall asleep mid-story.


AH! I love him.