The rain plays nicely with the end of a hot, Indian summer. As the air freezes over, all of life seems to change. Silence- greater, and the noise- dead and gone until Spring's alarm unravels it from a well deserved rest. Sitting by myself I can observe two minute people in the world. The only ones, for that matter, who surround my thoughts at this time. Perhaps it is the recipe of their pronounced, emphatic voices, mixed with the atmosphere's calm. I am just the right distance away to engage in their soothing rhythm of cries; an indescribable satisfaction to the ear. I want to sit here for hours, only to watch.
"Why did I ever marry you?!"
Clearly she is not actually screaming these words in honesty, for she has the pacing of an actress. Her engrossing stance won't allow my eyes stray. One hand clasps the script, the other flails about as she hotly tries to embody the spirit of her character. Stepping into their world- the actor's world- is an intimate experience, perhaps because I am watching from a distance, taking their moment as my own.
23 January 2008
08 January 2008
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Ashes of Life
Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;
I must, and sleep I will,—and would that night were
here!
But ah!—to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!
Would that it were day again!—with twilight near!
Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do;
This or that or what you will is all the same to me;
But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through,—
There's little use in anything as far as I can see.
Love has gone and left me,—and the neighbors knock and
borrow,
And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,—
And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
There's this little street and this little house.
Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;
I must, and sleep I will,—and would that night were
here!
But ah!—to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!
Would that it were day again!—with twilight near!
Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do;
This or that or what you will is all the same to me;
But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through,—
There's little use in anything as far as I can see.
Love has gone and left me,—and the neighbors knock and
borrow,
And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,—
And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
There's this little street and this little house.
04 January 2008
It's just writing
I have a fascination with great female writers of the mid twentieth century. The trouble is they write as manic depressives. It's quite beautiful and brilliant, but such a morbid genre. I am drawn to it. I don't think the grimness of it all allures me, but something else. I feel connected to the authors, though I am nothing like them in lifestyle or meditation.
Much of my personal writings- poems, thoughts and such- which I show no one, have a morbid undertone. But it is not about death. They carry an understanding of life; the way things have to be, though no one understands why.
I am afraid to put anything out in the open for fear of being labeled as a person who can't handle life. But this is how I handle, how I release. Perhaps posting these thoughts online isn't the best way to express myself, and I find the idea of a "blog" to be almost pathetic when used to write about yourself. After I write something that means a great deal to me, I don't want to shove it back my notebook and call it a day, either. I need some sort of recognition, without being labeled a psychotic depressive writer.
Will someone loan me their thoughts? Tell me what they think of my feeble attempts to write something of meaning. It won't matter to you, and you won't understand it the way I do in my head, but I need to get some of it out.
Much of my personal writings- poems, thoughts and such- which I show no one, have a morbid undertone. But it is not about death. They carry an understanding of life; the way things have to be, though no one understands why.
I am afraid to put anything out in the open for fear of being labeled as a person who can't handle life. But this is how I handle, how I release. Perhaps posting these thoughts online isn't the best way to express myself, and I find the idea of a "blog" to be almost pathetic when used to write about yourself. After I write something that means a great deal to me, I don't want to shove it back my notebook and call it a day, either. I need some sort of recognition, without being labeled a psychotic depressive writer.
Will someone loan me their thoughts? Tell me what they think of my feeble attempts to write something of meaning. It won't matter to you, and you won't understand it the way I do in my head, but I need to get some of it out.
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