#wit would read like a poem if it was phrased a little differently

[mediaevalmusereads]

The Penelopiad. By Margaret Atwood. Canongate, 2005.

Rating: 3.5/5 stars

Genre: historical fiction, mythology, retelling

Part of a Series? No

Summary: In Homer's account in The Odyssey, Penelope—wife of Odysseus and cousin of the beautiful Helen of Troy—is portrayed as the quintessential faithful wife, her story a salutary lesson through the ages. Left alone for twenty years when Odysseus goes off to fight in the Trojan War after the abduction of Helen, Penelope manages, in the face of scandalous rumors, to maintain the kingdom of Ithaca, bring up her wayward son, and keep over a hundred suitors at bay, simultaneously. When Odysseus finally comes home after enduring hardships, overcoming monsters, and sleeping with goddesses, he kills her suitors and—curiously—twelve of her maids.

In a splendid contemporary twist to the ancient story, Margaret Atwood has chosen to give the telling of it to Penelope and to her twelve hanged maids, asking: "What led to the hanging of the maids, and what was Penelope really up to?" In Atwood's dazzling, playful retelling, the story becomes as wise and compassionate as it is haunting, and as wildly entertaining as it is disturbing. With wit and verve, drawing on the story-telling and poetic talent for which she herself is renowned, she gives Penelope new life and reality—and sets out to provide an answer to an ancient mystery.

***Full review below.***

Content Warnings: allusions to rape, violence, slavery

Overview: This book has been on my TBR for a while, and I was in the mood for a mythological retelling, so I picked it up. Overall, this was one of the more interesting retelling I've read in a long time; I loved the way Atwood played with form and how she devoted time to exploring the injustice done towards the 12 maids that were hung in the Odyssey. However, I didn't give this book a higher rating because I was personally a bit disappointed by Penelope's story. I wanted Atwood to delve into her emotions more and perhaps talk about how women find agency in a patriarchal world. However, it felt like Penelope was absolutely miserable all the time, so for that, I couldn't quite feel satisfied with this book.

Writing: Atwood's writing is the standout star of this book, and I loved the way the author played with language and form to evoke an emotional response in the reader. The book is divided up into sections, some of which detail the events of Penelope's life and some of which are poems, lectures, excerpts from a play, or courtroom hearings that expand on the thematic elements of Penelope's story. In my opinion, the poems, lectures, etc. were some of the most clever and memorable parts of the book. I loved the turns of phrase in the poetry and how Atwood's word choices made me feel absolutely enraged on behalf of the hanged maids. I also think the more anachronistic passages, like the courtroom transcript, made this retelling feel more transformative, and it piqued my interest more than a strictly historical narrative would.

Penelope's narration, while not as memorable, does contain some things I like. I was particularly intrigued by the way Atwood blends past and present, choosing to have Penelope narrate after she has been dead for a few thousand years. It not only gave our protagonist a different perspective on thibgs, but it also made the more modern language feel appropriate; because Penelope has been witness to advances in technology and language, she is able to speak to the reader using familiar phrases and metaphors. Plus, the idea of a story transcending time is echoed in the very language and POV itself, and I very much like when authors match form to function.

Plot: The plot of this book roughly follows Penelope's life, answering the question of what Penelope was up to while Odysseus was away at war (and while he was trying to sail back). Personally, I found the story to be somewhat disappointing, particularly because Penelope seemed to be a victim of patriarchy and little was made of her few attempts to claim power. Penelope is ignored for most her life, and that loneliness only seems to increase when she sails to Ithaca. Even her husband and own son don't seem to value her much, and it made me wish that Penelope would have at least one person whom she loved and loved her back. Granted, there are hints of that with the maids, but for me, it wasn't personal enough to feel like a deep emotional connection.

Characters: Penelope, our protagonist, is sympathetic in that she has to navigate some difficult situations. I liked that Atwood portrayed her as clever, almost as a match for Odysseus, and that she voices her displease at being a woman whose behavior is used as a weapon against other women. While I do wish Penelope had more interesting things to do plot-wise, as a character, I enjoyed her way of narrating and her struggle for survival.

The only thing that irritated me about Penelope was her strange obsession with her cousin, Helen of Troy. Helen is portrayed as vain and unkind, always wanting to be the center of attention, and Penelope spends her entire life (and a good portion of her afterlife) either jealous of Helen or judgmental of her. To me, it didn't feel like a productive antagonism; there wasn't necessarily a clear message about something like inner vs outer beauty, or loyalty or the patriarchy. It just seemed like there was conflict in order to make most of Penelope's woes Helen's fault, and I didn't appreciate it.

Supporting characters like Odysseus and his family were fine. I think they were as fleshed out as they needed to be, and any more complexity and they might have been a distraction. I kind of wish Atwood had made more of Odysseus's lack of fidelity (in contrast to Penelope's constancy) and commented on double standards between men and women, but then again, I don't think the reader needs to be beaten over the head with these themes.

But I do wish Atwood had made the maids more complex so that their deaths felt more emotionally impactful. As it stands, only one of the maids is named, and not much is told to us except that most of them were raised by Penelope and most of them were raped by the Suitors while trying to obey their mistress's commands. Most of the time, the 12 maids are treated like a single entity with not much character other than their thirst for vengeance after death. Penelope tells us that they mean a lot to her, but it's hard to feel it because we aren't really shown moments of true connection.

TL;DR: The Penelopiad is an intriguing retelling of the Odyssey, with Atwood's prose and experiments with form as the standout stars of the book. While the tepid feminism and lack of characterization for the maids made this book less exciting than it could have been, I still think this is one of the better reimaginings of Greek myth, and I would recommend it to anyone looking for more stories focusing on legendary women.

[tabby-shieldmaiden]

[ID: text reading “Body modification (or body alteration) is the deliberate altering of the human anatomy or human physical appearance. It is often done for aesthetics, sexual enhancement, rites of passage, religious beliefs, to display group membership or affiliation, in remembrance of lived experience, traditional symbolism such as axis mundi and mythology, to create body art, for shock value, and as self-expression, among other reasons.” ID ENDS]

I don’t know why this bit about body modification hits so hard, but I’m here for it.

#tabby says something #body modification #I weirdly like this bit #wit would read like a poem if it was phrased a little differently

[firstfullmoon]

hello! i really really loved your compilation of quotes about tenderness, thank you so much for sharing! much love to the anon that sent the ask as well! i hope it's okay to ask, would you happen to have favorites about the moon too? if so, could you please share them?? thank you so very much, i hope you have a lovely day ♡

“I am always thinking of the moon rising I am always thinking of you”

— Frank O’Hara, “Biotherm (for Bill Berkson)”

“I defend a moon that is still suitable for a love poem.”

“I saw the moon shining here, its grief plain, like an orange in the night. It guides us in the wilderness to stray paths... Without it, mothers could not meet their children. Without it, wanderers could not read their names in the night.”

— Mahmoud Darwish, “Counterpoint (For Edward W. Said)” / “Like a Hand Tattoo in an Ode by an Ancient Arab Poet” tr. Mohammad Shaheen

“My friend the moon rises: she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?”

“The moon is hanging over the earth, meaningless but full of messages. It’s dead, it’s always been dead, but it pretends to be something else, burning like a star, and convincingly, so that you feel sometimes it could actually make something grow on earth.”

— Louise Glück, “October” / “A Village Life”

“What is the phrase for the moon? And the phrase for love?”

— Virginia Woolf, The Waves

“I am living on the moon, I told myself, I have a little house all by myself on the moon.”

— Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle

“Can you imagine? What would it be like if we had more than one moon? I think I like it as it is, not too crowded and not too lonely.”

— Maggie Nelson, “Birthday Poem”

“It the moon smiled, she would resemble you You leave the same impression Of something beautiful but annihilating.”

— Sylvia Plath, “The Rival”

“There is so much loneliness in that gold. The moon of every night is not the moon That the first Adam saw. The centuries Of human wakefulness have left it brimming With ancient tears. Look at it. It is your mirror.”

— Jorge Luis Borges, “The Moon,” tr. Robert Mezey

“The moon is way up in the sky. Aren’t you scared? The helplessness that comes from nature. That moonlight, think about it, that moonlight, paler than a corpse’s face, so silent and far away, that moonlight witnessed the cries of the first monsters to walk the earth, surveyed the peaceful waters after the deluges and the floods, illuminated centuries of nights and went out at dawns throughout centuries . . . Think about it, my friend, that moonlight will be the same tranquil ghost when the last traces of your great-grandson’s grandsons no longer exist. Prostrate yourself before it. You’ve shown up for an instant and it is forever. Don’t you suffer? I myself can’t stand it. It hits me right here, in the center of my heart, having to die one day and, thousands of centuries later, undistinguished in humus, eyeless for all eternity, I, I! for all eternity . . . and the indifferent, triumphant moon, it’s pale hands outstretched over new men, new things, different beings. And I dead.”

— Clarice Lispector, “Another Couple of Drunks”

I’ve also recently loved these quotes despite them being by Haruki Murakami:

“The moon had been observing the earth close-up longer than anyone. It must have witnessed all of the phenomena occurring — and all of the acts carried out — on this earth. But the moon remained silent; it told no stories. All it did was embrace the heavy past with a cool, measured detachment. On the moon there was neither air nor wind. Its vacuum was perfect for preserving memories unscathed. No one could unlock the heart of the moon.”

“That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose—a gleaming, round saucer—over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul—or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness.”

#w #compilation #frank o’hara #clarice lispector #mahmoud darwish #shirley jackson #louise glück #virginia woolf #sylvia plath #jorge luis borges

[mearihellalicious]

It’s 4 o’ clock in the morning in the most humid city I have ever lived in. I was suddenly awakened by a random noise outside my apartment. As a light sleeper, dozing off again is a hard thing to do. So,what would a solitary woman do at this time of the day? Reminisce. Think of the good old days.

Out of the blue, I stumbled upon my chat box. Heaps of ‘ancient’ talks strolled me down through memory lane. One particular conversation with a guy urged me to write this expressive piece.Perhaps this confession is no longer valuable now since it has been several ages ago, but the thought of penning down a revelation thrills me at this exact moment.

They say the best memories in a person’s life happen in high school — when we are too old for playgrounds but too young for night clubs. I can’t say it’s true for me, but I do have happy high school thoughts. We've been classmates for four straight years in high school. Back then, we were paired up through the matchmaking prowess of our classmates. They assumed we looked good together, that we had ‘physical chemistry’, if that’s even a valid phrase to describe it.

True enough, you were quite a good-looking guy but I was not attracted to you in the slightest bit. Nevertheless, you were the kind of guy who knew how to carry yourself in the most desirable way possible. You were always neat and sweet-scented. You could pull off a white shirt and jeans outfit and would simply look gorgeous.

All throughout my mundane high school life, you consistently made me feel ‘special’ but I hardly cared at some point. The way I treated you was on a mood to mood basis. At times, I rode along with your trips, no matter how strange; other times, I felt irritated with your insistent presence. Sometimes, we seemed to be getting along pretty well; most times, I argued with you and ignored you for no acceptable reason at all.

During summertime, we communicated through text messages or landline calls. I could recall how bipolar I was by asking you to move on from me and promised to remain friends once classes start in June. But the next day, we would cry over the phone, asking each other to hold on to whatever we have — although I didn’t know what was the most appropriate term to label that kind of relationship. We seemed to be more than friends but less than lovers.

As each year passed, we became closer to each other. I was aware of how you felt about me. Everyone else in the class knew it too since you were vocal about it. Yet I didn’t take your emotional state seriously. I would talk to you only when I felt chatty or when I needed something. Every time it rained, you would take your polo shirt off to cover me so I didn’t get wet. Whenever I was hungry, you fed me. Goodness, you were a selfless man!

But then again, I took you for granted because I was eyeing on someone else. I had a lot of silly crushes, not to mention, I went crazy over them. You made me know how jealous you were of the guys I fancied but it was no big deal for me. You quickly became just an option. Despite myself, you stayed still.

Then one day, I was walking alone around the campus, a group of freshmen were calling my name. One of them introduced herself to me. She told me she was your sister. I didn’t realize until then that she was attending the same school.“You’re Ellen, right? My brother really likes you and even keeps your photo under his pillow,” she exposed. From that day on, we somehow became friends. She teased me an awful lot as she revealed all the weird things you did and just how much you adored me.

Every Valentine’s Day, you never ran out of romantic ideas. Although I was single, I never felt out of place. When I arrived in school, a small bouquet of flowers was already waiting for me onmy desk with a note or chocolates with it. You even baked cake for me when I requested it from you. However, on our last ‘Hearts Day’ in high school, things were different. Something happened two days before V-Day.

As an active girl scout, I normally spent my vacant time in that room exclusive for us. When we entered the room, my friend saw an envelope on the floor addressed to me and was signed as ‘secret admirer’. I didn’t believe it until I saw the letter and read it. It was about the sender’s love for me and the hope that I felt the same way. I was clueless who it was from but our classmates pointed their fingers at you. You stubbornly denied the claim saying, “It’s not me. Don’t flatter yourself!”

The next day, I found another letter from ‘secret admirer’. It was an acrostic poem of my name. The words were so deep and heartwarming that I could feel myself melt. Finally, on the 14th of February, another letter came. It was very simple — a whole sheet of bond paper filled with ‘I love you’. I thought there was nothing to it until I noticed there were some capital letters in them, which my best friend and I figured the message, “Please meet me today at the YES-O (Office) at 6 PM. I will be waiting for you. Please don't bring anyone. I want you to be solo. Don’t worry, I only want to introduce myself.”

I was sold to the belief that someone was playing a prank on me so I didn’t plan on meeting the sender.It was raining hard that day and we were having our daily girl scout formation at the oval field. Suddenly, you arrived and called out my name. I excused myself from the drill to meet you when you said, “Someone’s waiting for you at the office, why didn't you go?” “For real? I don’t care whoever he is,” I replied. Then with downcast eyes, you answered, “Honestly, it was me.” At that point, you handed flowers to me and I teasingly punched you in the arm. It felt so awkward that I rudely sent you home. That was our final romantic encounter.Before we graduated, we made a pact that if wewere both single by year 2019 (I’m not even sure of that anymore), we’d meet each other again at the Taoist Temple and we’d start things right.

Several months later, I got into a relationship. We didn’t see each other for quite some time and the communication spiraled from little to none at all.Surprisingly, on my first birthday after high school (since my birthday falls during summer), I was at home when a kid approached me and handed a letter with a rose and said, “Someone asked me to give it to you.”

As I learned it was from you, I ran hurriedly outside the house, hoping to see you again, but you were already gone. I was so moved knowing you still cared for me even when I was already dating someone. You went through all the trouble just to greet me. A few days later, I argued with you for what you did, for simply disappearing. As an apology, you paid me a visit and we chitchat over the pizza that you brought.

During college, we had separate lives. The last conversation we had in 2012 was about our plan of going abroad together, particularly Germany. You wanted me to meet your grandmother and you even said you would still marry me. Perhaps it was meant to be a joke, but I probably believed it at that time.

All of a sudden, you met your first girlfriend. I came out from two terrible relationships while you were in a blissful state with her. I saw all her posts of your little surprises for her, your sweet gestures. I knew the feeling too well and I understood how lucky she was. I felt nothing but pure happiness — that you finally found someone who could love you the way you were supposed to be loved.

Unexpectedly, I noticed that I could no longer see any of your updates in Facebook. I searched for your name and I realized I was already blocked. You unfollowed me on Instagram and you removed me as your Twitter follower. Complete loss of contact.

The last thing I heard was your relationship with her was going strong and you were intensely in love with each other. I used to envy her but I realized that no, I don’t wish to be her. I don’t deserve a man as great as you are. I might not be able to handle you. I only wish you all the happiness in this world.You may not be my TOTGA but you were my sweetest ‘what if’. I hope when you get married, you would at least invite me so I get the chance to witness the happiest day of your life. Yes, there was never an ‘us’ but there was you — someone who once in my life treated me right — because once upon a time, you were my fairytale.

PS. to whoever know him, please don't mention his name:)

[whenyouwishuponadeathstar]

How to Say “I Love You”

A/N: Hello everyone! This little gem is a request from @obsessionprofessional ! I hope you like it! I also tried out a new style that I hope everyone likes!

Also keep in mind that request are open and I'm totally down to do blurbs, moodboards, AUs and more! Anyways, let's get to the good stuff shall we? 💕

-Laura

Kylo

Kylo was a well read man. He had spent years pouring over poetic words of authors, the way they would describe someone that had stolen the protagonist's heart. For years he believed that the feeling of time stopping and his heart racing with one look at someone else far fetched. 

Love didn’t really exist.

He believed that for many lonely years. 

But then… you appeared. When he laid eyes on you it was like the clouds of his dark night parted revealing a shining silver moon. And he was hooked.

Kylo being a man of many words and poetic thoughts under a dark exterior had been finding a variety of ways to tell you that he was in love with you.

“Do you want to wear my jacket?”

“I don’t mind going with you.”

“You look beautiful.” 

Underneath those seemingly simple phrases, he was hiding his true feelings. 

The two of you were walking around downtown in late December. A few snowflakes fell around you two as Christmas lights sparkled, washing the city in a warm yellow glow. When you stopped to look into one of the closed shops that lined the street, a smile crossed Kylo’s face. You were the most gorgeous being that he had ever witnessed. 

You turned to look at him and noticed that smile. You quirked your eyebrow.

“Why are you smiling like that?” You asked. 

Kylo stepped closer to you and grabbed your hands. He leaned down and placed a kiss on your lips.

 “Because I’m in love with you.” He whispered. 

You were left speechless for a moment, and that just made him smile even more. Regardless if you said it back he knew how you felt.

Ben

Ben never expected to be in this situation. The boy had a reputation of stealing girls' hearts and then swiftly breaking them. Something that he had expected to be the case when he met you that fateful day. But even then he knew that you were different, that there was something about you that pulled him to you like a magnet. 

And before he knew it he was in an actual relationship. 

He did things with you that he never thought he would. You two went on dates. You made him laugh. Hell, he took you to family dinners. Everything about you made life so easy. You were a dream come true, showing him that he didn’t have to keep up his stereotypical bad boy persona that he kept up. He could actually show his true self around you. The one that was smart, funny and sweet.

Boy is he sweet. 

He might not be as poetic as Kylo. He might not ever be able to string together all the words to describe how your smile reduces him to his most basic and vulnerable form. Or even be able to profess his love for you in a complex poem, where every word has a deeper meaning to it. 

So maybe that’s why it makes sense that he was able to just blurt it out without even thinking about it. 

You two were sitting in his car. You’d gone out for a Sunday drive. The May sun shined down, warming your soul from the cold bitter winter that had finally passed. The music played loud from his stereo and the windows were down. It was perfect. 

Ben would look over to you and just felt so overwhelmed with this feeling he had deep in the pits of his stomach. He smiled as you sang the wrong words to the song that filled the car.

“God I love you.” He said like it was the most casual thing in the world. This caused you to pause. You turned down the music and looked at him.

“What did you say?” You asked in disbelief.  If he was being honest he couldn’t believe that he had said it either. But he did. He leaned over and gave you a quick kiss on the cheek, the simple action causing the car to swerve  a little.

“I said, I love you.” He said returning his focus to the road. 

You couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. How could he make everything so damn casual?

“Well I love you too.” You said through your laughter before turning the radio back up.

Matt

When Matt pictured his future, he could’ve never imagined that he would end up here. It seemed… forgien. When he was growing up he had a picture for his life. He knew what he had wanted to do and how to get there. He’s had his life planned out since he was seven years old, something that his brothers would constantly tease him about.

“What are you going to do if something changes?” 

“It’s not going to happen Kylo.”

“What if your job actually sucks?” 

“Shut up Ben.”

And for the longest time, his plan didn’t. Everything was going exactly as it was supposed to. But there was a variable that Matt had never planned for. One he never even thought would be possible. 

You.

When you walked into Matt’s life you shattered his belief that he had everything figured out. Because you were so special, at first he wasn’t able to comprehend how much you meant to him. But the more you pushed him to enjoy his present while still planning for the future, he knew. 

He couldn’t say it out loud though. He couldn’t ruin the beautiful thing you two had. And he knew the wrong step could change everything, shattering everything and bringing him back to where he was before he met  you. 

He couldn’t go back to that.

But the more serious your relationship got, the more confident he felt.

The two of you were at the aquarium. You stood wide-eyed watching the various schools of fish swim by. The tank washed both of you in blue light. In any other circumstance he would’ve been completely calm with you by his side. This was different. 

You started to walk away to go look at the next area. He watched you for a moment before the words jumped out of his throat.

“I love you.”

You turned, obviously shocked. But you had been waiting to hear that from him for a long time. A smile cracked across your face. That smile put his nerves to ease, like always. You walked back over to Matt and kissed him.

“I love you too.”  

#solo triplets #solo triplets au #ben solo x reader #ben solo #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #matt the radar technician x reader #matt the radar technician #star wars #ben solo x you #kylo x you #request

[thereoncewereflwrs]

in where i try to date a professor, and we never get to the point

A few years ago (in 2019, although we had known each other since 2015) I fell in love with my ex roommate in Brooklyn. He was, in fact, the total opposite of anyone I had ever had a remote or deep feeling towards prior to him: a white, Jewish, red curly haired, thin, freckly, trans man from upstate New York who had studied at the University of Chicago and knew fancy words in Russian. Regardless, or in spite of this great gap between my taste in men and his entire being, he had been the only man I had ever truly seen myself happy with. With him I learned new things about myself, words like ‘fat’ and ‘ugly;’ I learned that I was not a socialist because of its existing inability to reconcile the impact and affects of the industrial revolution; I learned I liked traveling with him and embarking in mindless and meaningless traditions in ways I had almost sworn myself off to. I had thought ‘well, I don’t ever want kids, but I’d raise his,’ or ‘I’ll never find a singular partner to spend the rest of my life with, but I don’t need that when I want to spend the rest of my life with my best friend anyways.’ Funny how it only takes one particular bundle of culminated cells to eradicate years of logical conclusions that have led you to the ideological and pragmatic decisions made. During a trip to New York that involved a very chaotic Passover dinner that led to an even more chaotic, and much more dangerous, outing in the middle of Manhattan at a lesbian dance club at 4 in the morning, I came to the realization that maybe the love I felt for him was beyond the kind one feels for friendship (up until this point I had convinced myself, and everyone around me, that I was living into the values of radical friendship....). On that trip I drunkenly confessed my newly realized feelings, clumsily putting together words the way a small child puts together lego blocks for the first time with sticky hands. That same trip his boyfriend gave me two books as a gift. I’ll never know why he did this, or what they really meant, but the awkwardness of the moment has stayed with me almost as if it happened yesterday.

Yesterday, in all actually, I scrambled through the piles of books in my small library and stumbled upon the selection of poems by Ocean Vuong that he had given me. As a general, personal rule I dislike poetry. Most often then not I don’t understand the different scraps of sentences cut and pasted together in strange formats to describe, what really? Hardly a plot, hardly a set of characters. A feeling, or sensation, or a set of things subjectively and rhythmically important but lacking in context or deeper development. Vuong is not the exception to this rule, but rather one that cleverly supports my self developed premise. Of course, my ex roommates boyfriend did not know any of this, and probably, he liked poetry and Ocean Vuong very much and thought it was a very nice gift indeed to give to his partners best friend (at the time). I feel inclined to say that Ocean Voung is a beyond amazing writer and I thoroughly enjoyed the few pages I did read of his novel “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.” Anyways, I perused the pages on his poetry book with slight amusement. More then the words on the pages, I relived my ex best friends face as his partner handed me the gift, his expression as he described how annoyed he’d been by the uncalled gesture, and how intrusive he had found the entire affair. I imagined his laughter, his comments, how his silence felt like so much presence that it felt like being home. That’s what it was like to be with him: home, being my own, authentic home, and always having him to gently guide me to that conclusion over and over again.

The only pages that stood out from the book go as thus:

From ‘Night Sky with Exit Wounds’ by Ocean Voung, Part 1:

‘Tell me it was for the hunger

& nothing less. For hunger is to give

the body what it knows

it cannot keep. That this amber light

whittled down by another war

is all that pins my hand to your chest.’

//

A few months ago, while driving up from South Florida after having picked up my mother from the airport, I confessed to her that I had been dating for the last 4 months, and had recently broken up with a Married Man. It had been the early hours of the dark night, and we had just passed the traffic infested city of Atlanta and were making our way through curved roads that led deeper into rural Georgia before it met Southern Tennessee. Tennessee was a new home away from an old home that had never been home to begin with. My anxiety came from the obvious places - a fear that she’d disapprove of my actions, that her judgement would lead to scrutinizing all my past decisions and actions until they became morally ambiguous to us both, and a fear of anger. More and more I think that in reality I feared seeing what I had been feeling all along: that I’d made a cliche joke of myself. Even through that haze, however, I could still feel the overriding, desperate sensation of being utterly heart-broken and sad. I had carried this feeling with me for the entirety of the 21 hour trip, and once the first words tripped over themselves to be heard, the watershed of memories and experiences flooded the car. It was both unbearable, like drowning, and overwhelmingly relieving, like being seen for the first time. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d told this story. But it had been the first time with my mother, and that, for some unrecognizable, instinctual reason, was different.

She held her tongue - an unusual practice for my mother - as I recounted event after event of the last 4 months. I was as honest as I could be: we’d met on tinder after my break up with my previous partner of almost a year, I had wanted to have casual sex, he had wanted more, and (I emphasized) I had not known he had been married at the time. More importantly (I *double* emphasized) when he did tell me, he had confessed that the marriage had been one of convenience. As a fellow immigrant, and as a person who had witnessed a few of these kinds of entanglements, I had cleared myself, in almost the same quickness as I draw breath, of the moral implications of the situation. “As long as you’re not *cheating*” I had muttered, and he had nodded emphatically, “I’m not.” His reassurance was short lived. Soon after that the realities of his “entanglement” became less clear, and more obvious. He had a 4 year old daughter, he had been married for several years (technically, more years then necessary), he couldn’t, as a matter of convenience and then as a practical, legal afterthought, tell his wife where he was or what he was doing (he was lying, that is). I knew very early on that he was indeed cheating on his wife, even if the beginnings of their relationship had started as a marriage of convenience. But by the time I came to that conclusion, it had felt too late, almost as if I had dug too deep into the ground and could now fight my way through mud and dirt until I asphyxiated, or enjoy the eternal rest that was promised.

Loving the Married Man (because yes, I had foolishly loved him) had not been like loving my ex best friend. Married Man’s love had been wide but shallow - not in the way that denotes a superficiality, but in the way that one sees on the surface of a lake small things grow fast and move away even faster - small tadpoles and water lilies, the creeping of little reptilian noses and little ducklings floating on by. It was the kind of love that felt strongest when we touched, as if my physiological sensory threatened to spill in words and phrases that put together sounded like ‘I love you,’ ‘please don’t hurt me,’ and ‘yes.’ Married Man was married, and therefor there had always been the foreshadowing of a great plot twist, one were he (very unoriginally, as to be expected from men) promised to leave his wife and start a life with me. I rejected this almost as much as I desperately and willingly fell into it. In the same breath taken to tell his lies, almost as if our tongues collided from the desperation of wanting to believe our own delusional narratives, I gave him everything I possibly had in me. My energy, my time, my body, even my money. His wife, you see, had been away for a few months, seeing family in Baltimore with their baby daughter, while he had stayed to work. I had known from the beginning that we weren’t going to end up together, I had righteously, almost superiorly, thought that I knew exactly where we were heading and therefor had control over the entire situation. He had persisted he loved me, didn’t want to lose me, didn’t want to see me with anyone else, needed me there, and that he was in fact preparing the divorce papers as we spoke. I upgraded my status from a casual fuck to his girlfriend, and shamelessly introduced him to my best friends (who, true to who we all are, did not judge but made room for my own dramas to unfold). It took me a while to see that I was a mistress playing the role of pretend-girlfriend. Even more, I was a clown donning on mistress attire.

I can understand, in subtle and in abruptly immediate ways the ‘hunger’ Vuong speaks of. Married Man did not create the conditions for this ‘hunger’ in me, it has always existed. Before Married Man there had been My Ex, and before My Ex there had been my Ex Best Friend, and before him there had been every other man I’d engaged with romantically and in a familial way.

I know this ‘hunger’ inside me craves what can only go right through me. I have stubbornly, recklessly and without analysis, allowed myself to feed it with emptiness disguised as bountifulness. I have sat myself in a table that is all together wrong for me, in a chair that has been made too small for my thick thighs and bulbous belly, looked up at faces that have not smiled back, and taken a bite of food that has not been prepared with love, not really. This is no ones fault. I do not remove myself from accountability by saying this. What I did in a lot of ways can be considered hurtful, immoral, disdainful, distasteful, etc,. I also know that I am learning, still always learning, and need to be graceful and gentle with myself. Today, through a configuration of thoughts, I have realized I have been feeding my body meals foreign to me and my well being. And that I must now learn, or re-learn by tapping into what I hope is some collective, ancestral knowledge, how to make the meals that will nourish and settle in me forever.

//

From ‘Night Sky with Exit Wounds’ by Ocean Voung, Part 2:

‘I wanted to disappear - so I opened the door to a stranger’s car. He was divorced. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast-cancer ribbon on his key chain swayed in the ignition. Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of the suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother’s house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky - to hold flight & fall at once.’

\\

In October of 2020 I went on a date with a Professor from a State University. His profile on tinder promised 1 free joke if you matched with him, and I had casually indulged in the free entertainment. He had sent me 2, neither of which were funny, and instead had proceeded to insult me through a flurry of scattered presumptive discourse that I, true to my very nature, found anxiety inducing and oddly attractive. He had originally chosen to withhold his profession from me, having stated that he had “too many people under him” and wanted to keep the information hidden “for now.” I shrugged it off. I could trick myself into finding this level of secrecy mysterious, or I could see it for what it was, a waste of time as most tinder conversations tended to be. Through further indulgence he had confessed that he was a teachers assistant (here on by known only as the Professor) and was doing research on something or other in history (I really wish I could remember, but it was THAT obscure). I wanted to ask him what the impact and reasoning, and really, the justification he gave himself, was for embarking in studious, rigorous research and reading for a subject matter so far removed from our every day realities, especially during a pandemic and the mass murders of black and brown people at a national scale, but I kept silent. Instead we bantered a bit, exchanged ideas around Imposter Syndrome, and settled on an evening to see each other in where I’d drive to his apartment and he’d cook for me.

I wore my ‘date dress’ - a simple, black dress that hugged my torso and spread over my hips, tricking the eye into seeing less fat then there was on my body. I dressed this way not to obscure my fatness (although I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t sometimes don the dress in part because it had the added bonus of doing so) but because it was an easy ‘fuck’ dress. All I had to do, I knew by then from practice, was lift the skirt part and bring my underwear down. The efficiency of the dress, and how it made me feel, gave me confidence enough to walk into a complete strangers apartment and make casual conversation as if pretending to be old friends who were excited about catching up. This is always the pretext that is built. I pretend to be captured by the magic of his words - he being whoever he is - and ask question after question in the hopes of digging deeper into who the person really is. I didn’t really care that he was from Ethiopia or that his parents had been revolutionaries or that he was stressed about his profession although he got paid almost double what I did, but I didn’t *not* care either, which made all the difference. He had been the *presumably* smartest man I had talked to during my time in Tennessee, and I have always liked feeling like I knew less then the male partners I had. I had my period that day, but after a few awkward moments in where he asked to kiss me (I said no, then felt horribly guilty about it and relented), grabbed my boob, and had his dick out while still in the couch, he came. It was one of the few times I have had casual sex with someone where I didn’t finish. In a strange, almost methodical way, I could give men my attention, my emotional presence, my intellectual capacity, my dry or dorky humor, even my body willing or unwilling, but I found it unacceptable to not finish while having sex with a cis-hetero-male. For this alone I was vexed by the entire interaction, and after taking him to buy cigarettes at the near by gas station and back (he was a Professor without a car), and after he had reassured me that he liked me, that he had had a nice time and that he hoped to see me again, I made the 30 minute drive home. We texted sparingly after that. We tried to make plans but he always flaked, claiming to be too busy and stressed with work (I don’t disbelieve this) and apologizing profusely about it. Saturday, October 31st had been our last text exchange, until two days ago. There’s no reason to berate this long winded summary with the details of that conversation. Suffice it to say that he once again asked to meet up with me, and then today canceled with the familiar excuse of work and stress. I think about him now and write about him because it took everything in my power to not text him reassuring words, to not ease his expressed anxiety at potentially “wasting my time.” To not ease his turmoil of using me by sending him a song and being witty and casual. I have felt, in fact, that my time has been wasted. That he got way more out of the flimsy arrangement we had concocted, and that after having had sex with my hand and mouth, he had no longer felt a genuine interest in talking with me. Of course, he owes me nothing and I am not entitled to his time or presence. But all together this story feels too similar to the many random encounters one has with ‘fuck-boys’ in where they feign interest until they are sexually fulfilled and then suddenly no longer remember your name. I don’t type any of this with bitterness. At most, I feel a slight comical annoyance at him. More importantly, I feel things for and towards myself.

Where does this hunger that needs fulfilling come from? Where was its conception? It’s birth? I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough for myself.

As Nina Simone once said, “you’ve got to learn to leave the table when loves no longer being served.” Tables and chairs and foods and a hunger. That’s all I can think of today.

[jerichobornidor-blog]

Apo On The Wall by: Bj Patino

There’s this man’s photo on the wall

Of my father’s office at home, you

Know, where father brings his work,

Where he doesn’t look strange

Still wearing his green uniform

And colored breast plates, where,

To prove that he works hard, he

Also brought a photo of his boss

Whom he calls Apo, so Apo could

You know, hang around on the wall

Behind him and look over his shoulders

To make sure he’s snappy and all.

Father snapped at me once, caught me

Sneaking around his office at home

Looking at the stuff on his wall- handguns,

Plaques, a sword, medals a rifle-

Told me that was no place for a boy

Only men, when he didn’t really

Have to tell me because, you know,

That photo of Apo on the wall was already

Looking at me around,

His eyes following me like he was

That scary Jesus in the hallway,saying

I know what you’re doing.

Apo on the wall is a mirror and an eye opener. Mirror of the past and an eye opener of today’s generation.This poem enlighten us about the untold stories in the past.

If you read this kind of poem without understanding is not enough. You need to understand each line so you will know how important each line is .The poem is quite intriguing because the writer did not easily reveal the identity of Apo aside from being the boss of the child’s father.

It truly shows people how the martial law during Marcos's regime affected the life of a certain Filipino child. I liked the poem simply because of the figurative languages he used to hide what he wanted us to visualize. It gives also an idea of what kind of relationship the child and father had.The superior of a family is a father which is the child’s natural feeling is to fear as a sign of respect.It is all about how power influence and public fear dominant during the time. One of the lines that really learn about this poem is about the phrase “His eyes are following me like he was that scary Jesus in the hallway saying I know, I know what you are doing” in which Ferdinand Marcos is like Jesus who knows everything we do because of his power.

This poem served as a living testimony for those Filipinos who come across this period. It opened up my eyes to see the not imagined condition, that I myself didn’t witness or experience, of what the victims of martial law go through and it shows how a little child keeps on loitering in his strict father’s room with a picture of his father’s boss hanging on the wall. He says that the picture of Apo looks snappy and keep staring at you as though it is real which means you can imagine how powerful this Apo is being put on a wall in a room of a child’s father.  .I got enlightened of the truth that the new generation has a different view of what had happened during the regime of Marcos compared to those Filipinos who suffered severely to the cause of Marcos’ abusive use of power.

It also imparts a message regarding the Martial Law. From this poem, it states how the Filipinos managed to follow the rules and policies and what are the punishment they may get if ever they will disobey. It shows how during those times the people of the country had to follow strict orders, have their rights violated and how they were abused by power that was beyond their reach.

The poem also shows how Filipinos in the past were disciplined but in a wrong way It was a dark time of Filipinos where this past should not happen again. Being the past that should not happen again, this serves as a foundation for the present. Having a past which is considered dark can serve as a lesson for the future leaders not to execute a relatively abusive method of leading ones country. We should let go of the pain because if we won’t we would be stuck in this situation forever and the pain would not be erase it would just pass to the next generations and we would really not achieve peace.

 

 

[lovemesomesurveys]

● Name something you lost or gave away that can never be replaced. A lot of time wasted.  “I wasted my time...”   ● What 5 websites do you visit often, and why? Tumblr, YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.  ● Name a totally useless possession and how you came to acquire it. Some would consider knickknacks and collectibles and stuff useless, and I mean yeah they just sit on a shelf, but I like stuff like that.  ● What music album would be used for a movie about your life? I don’t know. ● List your bad habits and/or addictions and what you have tried to rid yourself of them. I got a lot of bad habits. As for addictions, caffeine and my pain medicine. I don’t abuse it, I take it as prescribed, but after so long your body develops a dependency. I remember several years ago I tried to cut out caffeine. It lasted a couple days, I think. haha. The headaches are no joke.

● If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be, and what would you do if later on you changed your mind? There’s a long list of things I’d want to change, but I mean if I could have good health (mentally and physically) that would make a big difference. I think some other changes would follow. I can’t imagine I’d ever change my mind about that. ● What are your religious beliefs? Have they changed, or have they always stayed the same? I’m a Christian now. Up until 4 years ago I was atheist and then agnostic.  ● When was your last food craving, and what did you crave? I’ve been wanting Doritos tacos from Taco Bell lately. ● Who was your first crush and what made them special? This kid named Philip when I was in 3rd grade. He was a grade or two above me. He and I were turning the jump rope for people during this event my elementary school had every year called, Jump Rope for Heart. It was to get people active and raise awareness. Anyway, he was across from me holding the other end of the rope and I just thought he was cute haha.  ● Name your most cherished childhood memory. I have a lot of those. I loved my childhood. It wasn’t without struggle or obstacles, but for some reason those things aren’t what stand out the most. I was a strong, resilient kid. Kid me would be so ashamed of how weak I am now. ● Turn to an entry in your journal or diary from a year or more ago. What has changed and what has stayed the same since then? I don’t feel like looking back on old surveys right now. ● What is one thing nobody knows about you because nobody ever cared to ask? Hmm. ● Robert Frost write a poem titled The Road Not Taken. Name a road you’ve always wanted to travel. Where do you hope it takes you, and what might you see on the way? Wait, literally or metaphorically? I mean, metaphorically I’d like to take the road that takes me to working on myself and leading to some happiness and success. That’d be nice.  ● Name one thing you always wanted to do, but haven’t. What has prevented you from doing it? Uhh there’s a lot of things. I feel like I’ve wasted so much time in my life each passing year. I’m just wasting away. I want to just...live. Travel more. Do something with my life. My physical health has been a contributing factor, but ultimately it’s me. It’s my mental health. That affects me more than anything else. ● Write about your first kiss. Was it everything you wished or hoped it would be? It happened behind the drama department at my high school. It unexpected and awkward, but it was my first kiss so it was all I knew. I was so giddy about having had my first kiss it didn’t matter haha. ● What was the worst mistake or decision you have ever made in life? What could you have done differently? Oh jeez. I have a lot of regrets. One that weighs heavily on me in recent years relates to my health. I’m very stubborn. I should have taken better care of myself. I should have neglected certain things. Some things don’t just go away, they get worse. And here I am, still not taking care of myself like I should be. Each passing year... ● What song was stuck in your head recently, and what were you doing at the time that made you think of it? I Love Me by Demi Lovato. I just really like the song.

● Write about something you now know that you wish you knew earlier in life. How could this knowledge have helped you? Just going back to the big thing that’s been weighing heavily on my mind these past few years that I talked about up there. ● Write about your greatest fear. Death, losing loved ones, never getting better/getting worse, and never doing anything with my life. ● Name one thing you feel brings out the good in people. Hmm. ● Describe a time in your life when everything turned out fine, despite the odds. I mean, there have been some times where things turned out to be not as bad as I thought they would be.  ● If you invented a device that could fix one problem you are facing right now, would you use it? What problem would you like to solve? I’ve talked about it enough.  ● Write about the last time you spoke to your best friend. What did you talk about? Last night when my mom got home from work. She was just telling me about stuff that happened at work and the latest Coronavirus news. It’s a wild time right now. All the cancellations of events, school campuses closing, and empty shelfs because people are stockpiling on hand sanitizer, face masks, and toilet paper. Italy is quarantined. I’ve never witnessed anything like this. ● Describe a time you felt alone. I feel that way a lot. I don’t spend a lot of time physically alone, but I still feel alone a lot. ● Name something you found; what was it and where did you find it? Uhh earlier I found a new ASMR channel on YouTube to watch haha. ● What’s on your calendar for tomorrow? I have a doctor appointment.  ● What is the most annoying sound you have ever heard? Eating sounds make my skin crawl.  ● Describe your first job. I’ve never had one.  ● What is the one thing you cannot live without? Besides oxygen, food, and water; my family. And coffee. That doesn’t get lumped into food or water, coffee gets its own honorable mention.  ● Quote the nicest thing anyone has ever said about you. Lane said I was strong, beautiful, brave, and rocked red hair like nobody’s business. :D ● Are you afraid of the dark? Why or why not? I can’t sleep if it’s completely dark or quiet, which is why I sleep with the TV on. I’d be scared if the electricity went out and it was dark if I was home alone. I wouldn’t go anywhere alone at night. Even with with someone I’m heightened alert. ● Describe the longest amount of time you have ever been away from home. A week. ● Write about a recent adventure or travels. I went to Disneyland for a few days last month. It was awesome. ● Who did you idolize growing up? My mom and grandma. And some celebrities at the time that were around my age like Hilary Duff. ● Name a celebrity or famous person you wish would take you out on a date. Alexander Skarsgard. ● Describe your daily routine when you get out of bed in the morning. Take my medicine, use the restroom, have coffee.  ● Name one thing you have always been good at doing. Jumping to the worst case scenarios. ● What is your favorite season, and why? Fall and winter. I love the weather, the clothes, the scents, the holidays, and just the coziness of it all. ● What was the title of the last book you read? I’m currently reading, “The Girl That Vanished” by A.J. Rivers. It’s the sequel to, “The Girl in Cabin 13.” ● List your biggest regrets. I talked about one of them already. That’s enough for today. ● Have you ever seen a ghost? No. ● Describe your note-taking style and habits. Bullet points, underlining, asterisks, and highlighting.  ● Do you believe that we are all here for a reason? What might the reason be? Yes. You have to figure that out for yourself, we all have a different purpose. I’m still trying to figure mine out. ● What comes to mind when someone uses the phrase prolonging the magic? I’ve never heard that phrase. ● Have you ever done something just to feel the danger, or to feel alive? Drinking, smoking weed, and taking a ride in a truck at night on a backroad at night near a levee. That was scary, but definitely an adrenaline rush.  ● What is your favorite cliché? Actions speak louder than words. ● What are all your thoughts on god? I believe in God.  ● How do rainy days make you feel? I love rainy days. I do the same things I do any other day, but it’s just cozy. The sound is relaxing. ● What is the most amount of money you have had at one time? A couple grand. ● Write a celebrity crush list. Alexander Skarsgard. ● What is the most amazing thing you have ever seen, heard, or experienced? I couldn’t pick just one thing. ● What effect does music have on you? It can perk me up, it can give me a little energy if I need to clean, it can make me sad, it can make me zone out, it can make me relax.  ● What did you learn today? What did you learn yesterday? Uhhh. ● What 5 traits do people first notice when they meet you for the first time? I’m sure the very first thing they notice is I’m in a wheelchair. Then probably how thin I am. Then perhaps my hair and my black rimmed glasses. Maybe my freckles. ● Have you ever carved your name or initials into a tree or stone? No. ● Does Never Never Land really exist? No, sadly.  “Cause Neverland is home, to lost boys like me...” ● Where is a great place to get breakfast? This local place that’s known more for their burgers, fries, and shakes, but actually have bomb breakfast, too. I love their country gravy. ● List 3 things that went right (or wrong) today. It’s only 2 in the morning, but so far I had ramen, I’m finishing up my Starbucks Doubleshot energy drink, and I’m watching/listening to an ASMR video. Not a bad start, but we’ll see how the rest of the day goes... I have a doctor appointment later that I’m not looking forward to. Afterwards my mom and I are going grocery shopping and I’ll probably pick up Wingstop on the way home. It’s been hot lately and I’ve had a nagging headache the past couple days, so I hope that isn’t the case today. ● What is the best method of travel, and in what ways have you traveled? Car and plane.  ● If you could give the world just one thing, what would it be? Peace. ● What were your best and worst subjects in school or college? English throughout school, with the addition of psychology in college. My worst was always math. I struggled with science, too. Philosophy was really fucking hard. ● Describe the most outrageous thing anyone has dared you to do. I haven't really been dared to do anything too outrageous.  ● Ice cream: chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry? Strawberry, but vanilla is good as well.  ● What historical events happened the year you were born? Ted Bundy was electrocuted.  ● Pick up a random object that has special meaning to you and describe it in as much detail as possible. I’m on my bed and there’s 2 giraffe stuffed animals, one is a big squishy one. I love all my giraffe stuffed animals, which there are a LOT of. ● Write about a recent visit to a museum or art gallery. I visited a Walt Disney museum a couple years ago. It was really cool. ● What food items do you consider staples in a well-balanced diet? I’m the wrong person to ask about well balanced diets. Well balanced for me is Wingstop, ramen, this pizza from my favorite local pizza place, scrambled eggs, and coffee. haha. ● Describe your feelings in regards to an issue in todays society, and what would be done to fix it. I talked about the coronavirus, which is a big issue and hot topic currently, and my feelings to it already. ● If you had only one wish, what would you wish for? Cures for all diseases. ● If you could tell the world just one thing, what would you say? Wash your hands!  ● Share a dirty little secret about yourself (or someone else). Nah. ● Have you ever gone skinny dipping? Noooo. ● Name something you would like to devote more time to seeing or doing. I need to devote time to taking care of myself and taking some necessary steps. ● What is the name of your favorite book, magazine, or publication? I have too many favorite books. ● Describe your first car. I’ve never had my own car. I don’t drive. ● Thunderstorms… Inspiring or scary? I love them.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

[kristen-lockhart-blog]

Book Review of “(Im)Proper Nouns” by Donna Sparrowhawk

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Kristen Lockhart (Im)Proper Nouns By Donna Sparrowhawk Book Review

In the collection of poems, (Im)Proper Nouns, poet Donna Sparrowhawk utilizes an effortless flow and rhythm within and between her poems. Some of my favorite literary tools she uses throughout her poems are imagery and metaphors. Her collection is split into three sections, that are the nouns persons, places, and things. The poems within each section complement each other nicely as well as the three sections to form the whole collection. Sparrowhawk’s themes and imagery gives insight to a well-rounded and fulfilling life so far as well as holds hope for a fulfilling life to come. In the section titled Persons, Sparrowhawk has an array of poems, some dedicated to someone by use of their name, others with a more metaphorical title. The poem “Even Now I Listen,” is a pretty straight forward poem about the speaker’s dad. I really appreciate the glimpse into the speaker’s relationship with her father growing up. She hones in on the relationship between her and her father through her diction and metaphors.

“I know what tone you would use Soft, sliding your words under The door of my pain-induced silence.” I like the imagery that this stanza creates. I imagine a teenage daughter distraught and not wanting to talk to anyone, but her dad is the one who can truly reach her in these times. As if gently whispering through the crack of her door or sliding a letter with some heartbreak advice on it. In the last stanza, the speaker is reminiscing on times when her father could give her advice in person.

“Would you lift your eyes to mine and gently with your Fatherly tenderness, sweep the hair fallen in my eyes Remind me

To lessen fear…love more.”

She is admittedly fearful and doubtful of something throughout this poem. Perhaps, felt she was not ready to take on some things in her life without her father always being right there with her. All she has is these memories and can only imagine the advice that her father could give her now. Because of the vulnerability, I feel like this poem is a lovely and intimate glimpse into the speaker and maybe even the poet’s life. Moreover, in the poem “Not Quite a Sonnet for Susan on Her Sixtieth Birthday,” Sparrowhawk has a very compelling free form as well as great diction to portray the speaker’s feelings towards “Susan.” The poet reflects on her own use of form in which she originally intended a sonnet that actually became a free form poem.

“I tried to write you a sonnet for your birthday… abab cdcd efef gg but the fact of the matter is you are definitely free verse and otherwise and wise.”

She admittedly switches gears from a sonnet form to a free form. Moreover, I like the analogy of comparing her friend, Susan, to a free form poem herself. As well as the wordplay in “…you are definitely free, verse and otherwise, and wise.” Moreover, she utilizes lots of little comments inside of parentheses throughout the poem.

“extraordinarily fun deliciously irreverent outlandishly chi-ful (and I love it that you know what that means)”

The use of her parenthetical inserts creates more intimacy between her and the friend receiving this gift. She adds some fun, witty inside jokes and personality. And the way she describes Susan; the words she uses, “extraordinary, deliciously irreverent.” She is describing a deep admiration of everything that makes Susan the way she is. While keeping few elements of a sonnet throughout the piece, the author iterates that her Susan cannot be described in any one form. She reminisces on the first time they met recalls specific details with her imagery and describes the instant connection the friends had. I love the final line of the poem, comparing Susan to a child, having the same whimsy and wonder as a newly Sixty year old woman. And ending the poem on an ellipse as to say that her and Susan’s friendship and story is far from over. Much like in the poem about her father, the speaker creates an intimacy between not only her and the person the poem is dedicated to, but also her and the reader. She does so through the use of parentheses, her imagery in describing her memories, and her witty metaphors. The first poem in the “Places” section of the book is one of my favorites called, “Musings on a Train.” I find the setting of this poem so refreshing. She truly captures what it is to feel like you are in the story itself with this poem. “I glance out as sheep newly shorn And young, bolt as the train Whistles, and the old ewes lazily graze, Ignoring the fray.”

I am fortunate to have ridden on a train in England as well, especially as someone who lives in Florida with very few, if any, passenger trains. This poem describes to calm whimsy of riding on a train traveling past hills and grassy fields. A quite relatable stanza in this piece, is as follows:

“I doze in strange comfortable discomfort Drifting in and out, nestled against my Ferdinand’s Jacket, crumpled on the table under my head.”

Though, not all readers might have had the experience of riding a train, the images she creates can certainly come to life in the reader’s imagination. I particularly love the phrase, “comfortable discomfort,” to describe falling asleep on a train. Again, maybe not all readers would know this as exactly as described, but I feel like the sensation of trying to fall asleep on a bus or car even, can be a strangely calming scenario in a not quite so comfortable vessel. Especially if you are riding in said vehicle with a loved one. The scene described in this poem is that of a comfortable, daily event that is intimate between the speaker and a loved one. Sparrowhawk’s imagery allows the readers a glimpse into the speaker’s life because of her descriptions of this sweet life. Another one of my absolute favorite pieces is “Ballad of Equeurdreville.” Sparrowhawk’s effortless rhyme scheme creates a hilariously witty and whimsical story in this poem. I love how while reading this poem the reader gets a scene laid out in front of them of this funny banter between a traveling couple.

“My, what a pleasant urban walk! said he As she dodged the biker […] I’m sure my mate said repast was just beyond this hill A lovely place for dinner, in lovely Equeurdreville.

Why, yes, my love! cooed she to he Somewhat loudly over the roar of the passing lorry.”

From the very first line, the setting is being described as “urban” and disruptive with the biker needing to be dodged, as well as the “roar of the passing lorry.” Yet, the positive attitudes of this couple is already creating a humorous build up.

“I fear a restaurant I will never see, said he. Her reply reassuringly whispered, perhaps more a shrill— Do you think we’ll ever bloody find this Equeurdreville?”

“[…] I dare say one can look from here to eternity, said he. But no sign, no hope of food, nor drink—no, nada, nil In this, this, uh…lovely…Equeurdreville.”

The couple have a shift in attitude the longer it takes for them to find this restaurant. I particularly love the last line of that stanza; it makes it seem like a sassy narrator is reading this poem aloud to the reader. “Oh my, said she. Oh my, indeed, said he As they walked and pondered what was the key Don’t know, said she, but make out a Will Next time you suggest to me Equeurdreville!”

The final stanza after the couple had finished their long awaited meal in Equeurdreville, we get the final round of witty commentary. The poem ends on a silly joke as well, adding to the fun nature of the rest of the poem. This poem reminded me of the whimsical ways of rhyming of Dr. Seuss. This poem is different from the other poems in the collection due to its playful theme. Yet it still holds the particular style especially when it comes to Sparrowhawk’s romantic diction and intimacy between characters. The contrast in playfulness from this poem compared to more mature themes in other poems, as well as her consistent rhyming scheme shows how talented and versatile Sparrowhawk is with her writing. Finally, in the section “Things,” there is a poem entitled, “Twilight,” that has just more of that calming scenery that Sparrowhawk paints.

“It’s that time of day again… The light, in its fade Softens… Well, softens Everything.”

This opening stanza creates such a lovely setting with just a few simple phrases, which is magical. I also love the third stanza continues with this serene imagery and the fourth begins to introduce another theme into this poem.

“I wonder if the fox Will make his appearance tonight Now that you, Not I, Are absent.

“I’ve missed you today I should have been with you today, But, painfully I really couldn’t Because we You and I Know how to love.” The speaker is describing beautiful scenery yet is lonely or missing her loved one. Yet, I gather this is the type of missing someone when they are just out for the day, perhaps at work.

“I know you are on your Way back to me now.

Warm soup is waiting And music, and me,

The words can wait.”

The lines of her poetry feel comfortable and familiar. Sparrowhawk has been able to take sorrow in her poems such as this one and spin it around into hope. This entire collection of poems by Donna Sparrowhawk reflects on a life filled with beauty and love for these persons, places, and things. She uses wonderous imagery and metaphors to describe these loved ones and locations in such intimate detail. The warmth, wit and charm in her words are the ties that carry over and connect all her poems in this collection, (Im)Proper Nouns.

#book review #poetry #collection of poetry

[raendown]

Happy Birthday @kitsunekage88! :D

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 2219 Summary: Tobirama takes certain things in to his own hands - figuratively, literally, and maybe a bit of both at the same time.

Follow the link or read ti under the cut!

KO-FI in the blog header!

Present In Absence

With each piece of clothing that fell from his skin he only felt hotter. Crisp evening air wrapped around him like a soothing embrace and still Tobirama burned from inside out, finding no relief in the autumn chill. Sweat was already beading on his brow as he fell back on to the mattress and let his limbs sprawl out across the covers. Naked and hot and already panting, Tobirama closed his eyes and let one of his hands run slowly down his own chest.

This was all Madara’s fault of course. He had to wonder if the other man even knew what kind of damage he was causing, brushing their fingers together so many times. Surely he had to know what sort of thoughts he was putting in to Tobirama’s mind – although Tobirama desperately hoped he didn’t. All of his troubles lately could be traced back to Madara and he would give the man a rather sharp piece of his mind if he didn’t think it would be the most embarrassing conversation of his life, to demand recompense for his constant state of arousal.

A frustrated huff escaped him, the hand stroking his chest slowing to a stop and resting atop his belly. It just wasn’t the same feeling his own familiar hands. His mind was filled with the callouses he had felt on Madara’s fingers, the roughness of the palm that kept brushing against him as they walked side by side. It was a craving his own skin would never be able to satisfy. Every shinobi had callouses of course but that didn’t mean every man’s hand was the same. Madara’s grip was different, the angles he preferred the throw were different, the weight of his weapon was different; his callouses were worlds apart from Tobirama’s but it was those hands he wanted to feel right now.

Cracking his eyes back open, swallowing a rush of shame at just the thought of what he was about to do, Tobirama checked the room to make sure he was truly alone. This was his own room in his own house yet the habit of checking for foreign chakra was deeply ingrained and this was not something he wanted any witnesses for.

His clone gave him an understanding look when it popped in to existence at his bedside. For a single breath he lay still and bore the sympathy in his own eyes before his mirror image lifted both hands for a transformation jutsu. Then it was Madara standing over him with burning eyes and wild hair, wearing evening shadows around his shoulders like a cloak just as he had when they parted ways only minutes ago. Even knowing it was a clone of his own making didn’t stop the hitch in his breath when the image of Madara knelt down on the mattress.

Tobirama remained sprawled out on his back as he took both of Madara’s hands in to his own, running his thumbs across the palms and shivering.

“Perfect,” he murmured to himself. And they were. The callouses were just as he remembered, rough on the fingertips and thick across the arch of the palm. With barely a passing thought for how wrong this was he dragged those hands towards himself and pressed them against his chest, directing them to slide down, down, down until they brushed against the patch of hair between his legs then brought them up against, greedy for the slide of those callouses dragging against old battle scars.

Madara said nothing, only smiled encouragingly and leaned forward to free one of his hands. The firm pressure of his fingers tracing Tobirama’s ribs made it very difficult to remember that this was not the actual man he was becoming obsessed with but for the moment he found it very hard to care. Small details like that mattered very little when Madara shuffled closer and swung a leg over to straddle one of his, riding his thigh and dragged rough palms down his naked hips. Tobirama bucked in to the sensation without bothering to restrain himself. It was only him here after all.

“Touch me,” he rasped, staring up at the face above him and allowing himself to pretend. “I want your hands on me.”

“Whatever you want,” Madara told him with a smirk.

His hands pushed up to caress the sides of Tobirama’s ribs one more time before shifting up to dig his nails in and rake down the creases of his abdominals until they were tangled in pale wiry curls. Their eyes held each other’s gaze as Madara wrapped a hand around him, fingers gripping just that little bit too tight. Sweat dripped down the sides of his temples and Tobirama arched in to the touch until he was almost fucking himself in to the other’s hand.

Curiosity drove his own hand out to claim a fistful of Madara’s hair, hanging loose and so tempting. The softness of the dark strands in contrast to the roughness of the palm around his erection was almost enough to drive him out of his mind.

“Faster,” he demanded mindlessly. Madara complied without question, unusual behavior for him. It made it feel as though he were riveted to the sight of Tobirama writhing beneath him, completely devoted to his pleasure alone, and that by itself was hotter than any of the endless dirty fantasies that bombarded his dreams of late.

“Just like this?” Madara asked him, hand too tight and the pass of dry skin over dry skin too rough to take him as high as he desperately wanted to go.

“Yeah,” he panted in reply. “Just like that.” It was perfect, just how he imagined the real Madara would touch him.

Eyes falling to half mast, he flung one arm out to feel around for the small tube underneath his pillow. When he found the lube he thrust it out towards Madara with a desperate whine. The last time he had indulged he had wanted exactly this, scraped his back against the bark of a tree in the middle of the forest and wished he had the time to open himself up, but he’d been too impatient then, too close to the edge before he even started. Now he had all the time in the world and Madara straddled across one thigh looking beautiful in his own feral way.

The other man took the lube from him with an understanding look as though he knew just what Tobirama wanted. Admittedly that had to be fairly obvious anyway but it was still a good thing that he didn’t have to spell it out. He wasn’t sure he had the words right now.

Letting his eyes fall closed entirely, Tobirama tilted his head back and lifted the one leg that wasn’t pinned down with another’s body weight. He tucked the knee against his chest then groaned appreciatively at the feeling of slick fingers tracing his entrance. It had been far too long since any but his own fingers explored that area, long enough that he felt a dangerous twist in his stomach at nothing more than the anticipation.

“Faster,” he gasped again when he recognized that he was too close to the edge again. He couldn’t help it. Madara lit a fire in him like he’d never experienced before, burning bright and hot and fast, uncontrollable and undeniable. Luckily Madara seemed to know what he wanted without further instruction.

A single finger pressed inside of him just this side of too rough, emptying his lungs of air. If his body had been hot before he was close to melting now. Not even the cool air was enough to keep the boiling heat at bay; every inch of him felt ready to burn right off his bones and all he wanted was more, to fall back in to the fire and let it consume him. Self-control and inhibitions abandoned him further with every tiny increment that thick calloused finger pressed inside, perfect pressure until it curled to drag along his walls as Madara slid it back out.

His belly was tight with need when a second finger slid in, his throat choking on a high keen as he felt his peak drawing ever closer and fought desperately to hold back. Madara’s kept the rhythm of his fingers steady and leaned forward, pressing Tobirama’s knee further in to his chest and dipping his head to draw a wet tongue up the side of his neck.

And then Madara began to speak.

Snippets of the poetry they were both so fond of, the words dark and delicious on his tongue, each phrase given new meaning as they rumbled passed his lips. Between each stanza a pause to growl some fantasy or desire, things he wanted to do to, places he wanted to taste. Tobirama was panting in no time. Callouses and rough touches were incredible but nothing got to him quite like Madara’s voice. Something about the way he formed his words made it sound like he was purring through the letters, making love to each syllable as it fell from his lips, and it was all made worse by the way he hardly seemed aware of the effect he had on those around him.

Partway through a beautiful poem about moonlight on skin Madara slipped in a third finger and bent down to bite the shell of Tobirama’s ear, eliciting a helpless whimper as he writhed and bucked.

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you To-bi-ra-ma?”

“Fuck yes, don’t stop talking!”

Bringing his second hand back to Tobirama’s neglected cock, tightening his grip until it was just on the edge of too uncomfortable, Madara twisted his other hand until the glorious pressure of his fingers against Tobirama’s prostate made him cry out unfettered, unashamed of his own pleasure.

“Anything you say, pretty boy. Do you know how you like right now? I could write a hundred sonnets for the shape of your jaw, a thousand for your hair. Go on, pretty thing. Let go. Come for me.”

Unable to deny that voice anything, Tobirama did. He came with his teeth grinding for fear the shout clawing in his throat would wake the neighbors three streets away. Euphoria rushed through him and his body quaked under the hands that refused to let up until he was clutching the blanket hard enough to tear and whining brokenly. When finally Madara let him come down from the high he collapsed, gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling with his vision hazed with lingering aftershocks.

Rest lasted for barely a minute, however. As soon as he had breath in his lungs he was scrambling around in the covers and grabbing a startled Madara by the hips, drawing him in and pulling at the obi holding his robes closed.

“Wha-wait!”

“No,” Tobirama growled. “I’ve had my fun. Now it’s your turn.”

He gave the other man no time to reply, pulling out his cock and sinking his lips over the thick head with a satisfied groan. It took almost no time at all to have Madara curled over him with both hands fisted in his hair – unsurprising, considering how hard he had already been. Tobirama brought every ounce of skill he had to bear, used every trick he knew would have driven himself crazy.

Triumph and a jolt of exhausted lust burned through him when he felt Madara jerk and something salty touched his tongue. Then he cried out in surprise when suddenly his mouth was empty and his body convulsed under the memories of a secondary orgasm, experiencing it all over again in the aftermath.

For a moment, a handful of shining beautiful moments, he’d forgotten that Madara was only a clone.

Disappointment flooded him and Tobirama buried his face in the blankets to hide his shame. Even with no one here to sit witness he still couldn’t bear to face the world at that moment. It was his own clone, how could he have forgotten that Madara wasn’t actually there? Some kind of genius sensor he was. Even distracted as he was it should have registered that there were no chakra signatures in the room except his own.

Rolling over and stretching out his limbs, he allowed himself a few minutes to at least enjoy the boneless satisfaction currently making it feel like he could melt in to a puddle any moment now. It was a little sad to come back down to reality for sure but it was hardly unexpected. He was more than aware that he and Madara were far from an item – although if he had his way that would change. And why couldn’t he have his way? There was nothing stopping him from at least attempting a few flirtations. It had never been his area of expertise, per se, but he could still try.

With his head full of half-baked plans and his limbs still somewhat in a liquid state he never even realized he was falling asleep. Tobirama’s drifted off in to dreams of calloused palms and a dark voice whispering his every fantasy, uncaring for the chill that pricked at his naked skin or the mess that remained on his sheets. Those were problems to be dealt with after he had found the rest he so deserved.

#rae writes #madatobi #tobirama #madara #fanfiction

[dailyaudiobible]

09/06/2021 DAB Transcript

Song of Solomon 1:1-4:16, 2 Corinthians 8:16-24, Psalm 50:1-23, Proverbs 22:22-23

Today is the 6th day of September, welcome to the Daily Audio Bible, I’m Brian, it is great to be here with you today as we take the next step forward together, which is what we repeatedly do, every day, take another step forward together in life and in the Scriptures. And this next step forward leads us into some new territory. So, we’ve come through the book of Job, we’ve come through the book of Ecclesiastes and explored some of may be that that kind of stuff we avoid exploring. Kind of stuff we just keep running and running and running to avoid. But the Bible puts it right there in the middle and it's there so we can, well, so we can take the time to look into what we’re wrestling with. So, in Job we certainly watched Job claim innocence and seek God while his friends were telling him of his guilt and his need for repentance and then we heard from God, who very clearly revealed there’s a whole lot more to any of our stories than we really understand and we remember those famous words from Job when he’s speaking to God, “I had only heard about you before, but now I’m seeing you and I don't have any, I put my hand over my mouth, I've already said too much.” And then we moved into Ecclesiastes and looked at cautionary wisdom from the perspective of a person who had done it and seen it all and ultimately arrived at a place that we spend our whole lives chasing the wind, we could spend our whole lives in meaningless pursuits. But if we can be present and awake to the now to what's actually happening now and treat what is happening now as a gift and be grateful for what God has given us, then we won't waste our whole lives trying to achieve the next thing which isn't to diminish achievement, it's just what we were talking about, how we can run and run and run and we’re running away from some things and we’re running towards some things but we’re only ever running we’re never actually grateful in the moment that we’re in, we might have gratitude for what God has yet to do in front of us or what he's done but to be here now is in fact, one of the greatest gifts that we get, we get to be alive in God's presence now. So, we move through that territory which brings us today into some new territory. 

Introduction to the Song of Solomon:

This is still part of the grouping of what we would know as wisdom literature, but a very different complexion. This new book we’ll read today and tomorrow and it is known as the Song of Solomon or the Song of Songs and so it’s very, very different than the territory we were in Job and Ecclesiastes. It's short, like I said, we’ll read it in a couple days but it…it touches a lot of our lives, depending on how we want to read it. So, let's begin with the fact that this is poetry, and whether we’re poets or whether we've studied poetry or whether we've maybe rarely ever read a poem, we probably should all understand that poems, they say thing things and rhyme and phrase that is well beyond their words so stanza of poetry that's super beautiful and super well-constructed can say what all page would need to say if it were just being explained. Poetry uses plenty of metaphorical language so this is like that or allegorical language, symbolic language, where the symbolism has greater meaning and so the Song of Solomon can be read in a number of ways. If…if we just read it as a poem, literally, for what it's saying, then we will encounter the story of passion and a passionate consummation of love between a man and a woman who are deeply in love with each other, lost in love with one another, and so the poem itself stands on its own, just as it is, a witness to marital love and the bliss that occurs when two become one a, passionate, physical relationship which bothers some people because knowing what's a sex book in the Bible for? I guess because God created this type of intimacy, invalidates this type of intimacy, but there are other ways, if we look allegorically or metaphorically and look at the Jewish tradition, then this is an allegory of a poem that is intended to show the passionate love, the desire for intimacy that God has for his children, and in this case the Jewish people and that has been a way of reading the Song of Songs for a very, very long time and it's a fine way to read it. There's a Christian tradition about the Song of Song's and that is that it's an allegorical look at Jesus, at Christ's love and desire and passion for his bride. So, as we go through this and go through this in any number of ways using any of these lenses and all of them are fine. How is it getting you? How are you receiving it? And so, let’s dive in and drink deep of this beautiful poetry, known as the Song of Solomon and since this poem is largely an interaction between a man and woman, we have a tradition around here at the Daily Audio Bible that my wife Jill, she comes in and we read this together and it's a favorite for us and she is of course over at Daily Audio Bible chronological, and so, they in the chronological order came to Song of Solomon a little bit earlier and so I was able to read Song of Solomon with her over on chronological earlier this year. Now she's here with us to read the Song of Solomon together over these next couple of days. So, let’s dive in, Song of Solomon chapters 1 through 4.

Prayer:

Father, we thank You for Your word. We thank You for this new week. We thank You for this new territory that we are in as we move through the Song of Solomon. Come Holy Spirit as we transition into some new territory in the Scriptures, open our hearts, open our minds and we might love You well and we might love You from a whole heart, that we might surrender to You, knowing that is the safest thing in the whole and the experience of life that we could ever do. Surrender and walk with You. Come Holy Spirit we pray, all of this we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is home base, it’s the website, it’s where you find out what's going on around here. I always love it when we get to this time that we’re doing Song of Solomon, and Jill gets to join me and I look forward to that every year. That's fun and that will be happening tomorrow as well and we’ll finish the Song of Solomon and that's one of the things that are going on around here. But stay tuned and stay connected by being aware of dailyaudiobible.com or the Daily Audio Bible app. If you don't have the Daily Audio Bible app you can download that from your app store. It's free and its good way to stay connected stay connected with the journey through the Scriptures because it helps you keep track and see your progress but you can also access the things that are on the website as well. And so, like the Community section. This is, this is a place to get connected, the different links to the places on social media where the Daily Audio Bible is, you can find those there as well as the Prayer Wall and the Prayer Wall is a beautiful thing in this Community because it does matter what time zone, we’re in, we’re all over the world is the Global Campfire Community. And so, when it's night for me in the rolling hills of Tennessee, it’s daytime somewhere else in the world and so the Prayer Wall is just always on, always happening. There are always things to pray about and maybe it's our turn. Maybe we’re carrying some things that we’ve been trying to shoulder it all by ourselves, or dragging along all by ourselves and maybe we’re exhausting ourselves when we have brothers and sisters, we have a spiritual family that we can reach out to and the Prayer wall is a very, very good place to do exactly that. So, that is in the Community section, whether on the web or in the app, check it out.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible you can do that on the web at dailyaudiobible.com or in the app. There's a link on the homepage, on the web. If you’re using the app you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or the mailing address is P.O. Box 1996 Springhill, Tennessee 37174.

And as always if you have a prayer request or encouragement you can hit the Hotline button in the app or you can dial 877-942-4253.

And that's it for today, I’m Brian, I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Prayer and Encouragements:

Hi, I’m a first-time caller. I’ve only been listening to the DAB for less than a year, I found it by accident. It’s been a great blessing to me. I want to let you know that I pray for all of you and sometimes I pray later and do it again. I’m asking for prayer for my adult children that come back to the Lord and also for I have three grandsons with Autism, that one that’s the worse is non-verbal, he has aggression and self-injurious behavior. And his life is not good, he’s got medical issues and I’m asking for prayer for Willam. And thank you very much. Bye Bye.

Hi DAB this is Ani from Nigeria. First of all congratulations ….. and I’m so thankful for all God is doing for you and in this time, it was much needed journey. Family, I just need prayer to be, today was a hard day, it was a hard day and then I came home. What I need prayer for is just (inaudible) my family. My family is not – towards me but just being around me is almost like – damage. And I – and most times I try to block it out. (Inaudible) And so I’m just praying for healing for myself and for my heart and for my family. There’s a lot of pain and I don’t necessarily know what the solution is but God is able to do exceedingly and abundantly more than I can imagine. So, I am just desiring this prayer for healing for myself especially. And as I’m going into another season of my life, I’m praying that I don’t carry any of this that I have seen or I have experienced into my own life and internalize it. So, that’s really what I want healing from and just freedom really. Freedom from this situation and everything that it in. So yeah, thank you very much guys, I really appreciate this community and I appreciate this family and I would have never have thought this would have become such a stable force in my life but I’m so thankful for it. Have a good day everybody. Bye.

Hi, this is Victorious Solider, just calling tonight, my heart was really heavy for my precious sister Mercy, the one with the 9 children and the 22 grandchildren. My God Mercy, that is such a challenge that only our God can do. Lord, we just ask you to touch Mercy and her precious family. Oh Lord, in the name of Jesus, we need your healing, not only for the children but also Lord for the mother and even the father that they have to be apart of something of this magnitude. Lord, we just ask you Lord, there is nothing to hard for you as you told Moses. You said nothing is to hard for you. Lord, we just ask you to have mercy Lord on our children Lord. We ask you to bless, we ask you to heal them, we ask you to guide them, we ask you to touch that whole family Father. In the name of Jesus, wrap them in Your arms and protect them Father. In the name of Jesus. I want to also pray for Yolanda. The woman who is in the hospital with COVID and her precious baby, about to deliver her baby. God, You are a doctor that (inaudible). The doctors may not know how to handle this but You know how to handle anything. We just ask your protection, we just ask your wisdom, to give them wisdom they need. Oh Lord, that this baby and this mother will be fine. Lord, You open doors no man can close. Oh Father, in the name of Jesus, I saw Your rainbow yesterday and Your promises and Your promises are still fresh that you are God that won’t hold back anything from them. Lord, they Love You so much, we ask You to touch, we ask You to heal, we ask you to deliver and set free. And this COVID Lord, and every aspect of a way, even in this young woman’s life, You have Your way, Father. In the name of Jesus. I want to also pray for God’s Life Speaker who’s struggling with her 21-year-old.

Hi, this is Marked As His, I haven’t called in a long time. But I’m calling years later because I realize that my husband and I need more help than we can do on our own. I don’t know if you guys remember but I was in nurse practitioner school, I have now completed my program. So, I’m a doctor or nursing practice, family nurse practitioner. My husband, we got married last November, we’re both dairy farmers and things are very, very hard right now. We don’t have enough help. We are working very long hours because we believe in what we do and being stewards of the land. But we’re tired and we want to start a family and we devoted all of our time and our energy and our focus towards building this farm and now we’re really struggling to keep it going. So, if you could all please pray for providence, we keep praying for daily bread every day and you know, it seems like we have enough just to get through today but we really wanna live abundantly. And, right now, it seems like the harvest is really dry. So, thank you all and take care, bye.

Hello, DAB fam this is Laura from Eugene. I just wanted to thank everyone for the updates. It has been so good to hear updates and GG, thank you for calling in. You were such a blessing; I pray for God to continue to bless you. And it was so good to hear about Izzy’s situation, I will keep Izzy and the family in my prayers. I just have a little story and a prayer request to tell as well. My friend was at the gym and he see’s this woman in a wheelchair with a significant injury to her leg, it looks like a hole in her leg basically. And my friend notices this and then she hears the Lord tell her to pray with this woman. And my friend does probably what I would do and just say Lord, are you talking to me? Do you mean hear? Do you mean now, really? And my friend wrestles with this a little bit but she goes and speaks with the woman and the woman proceeds to tell her that she’s been to many doctors and no one can heal her or help her get better and so my friend says well, I would like to pray with you and the woman immediately says well, what good is that gonna do? No doctors can help me, I don’t think that can help, and so my friend says well, I could either pray with you or I’ll just pray for you as I go and the woman continues to resist and my friend says okay and she starts to leave and as my friends leaving the woman says well, wait, what can it hurt. And so, my friend prayed for her and I’m just gonna ask for our community to also pray for this woman, her name is Joan and she has the hole in her leg that doctors cannot heal. And we know that God is the great healer and we know this community prays so I would love for God to be glorified through this woman.

[aamjp]

“I was a writer,” said the old man.

“But I gave it up. This typewriter was a gift from my father. An affectionate and cultured man who lived to the age of ninety-three. An essentially good man. A man who believed in progress, it goes without saying. My poor father. He believed in progress and of course he believed in the intrinsic goodness of human beings. I too believe in the intrinsic goodness of human beings, but it means nothing. In their hearts, killers are good, as we Germans have reason to know. So what? I might spend a night drinking with a killer, and as the two of us watch the sun come up, perhaps we’ll burst into song or hum some Beethoven. So what? The killer might weep on my shoulder. Naturally. Being a killer isn’t easy, as you and I well know. It isn’t easy at all. It requires purity and will, will and purity. Crystalline purity and steel-hard will. And I myself might even weep on the killer’s shoulder and whisper sweet words to him, words like ‘brother,’ ‘friend,’ ‘comrade in misfortune.’ At this moment the killer is good, because he’s intrinsically good, and I’m an idiot, because I’m intrinsically an idiot, and we’re both sentimental, because our culture tends inexorably toward sentimentality. But when the performance is over and I’m alone, the killer will open the window of my room and come tiptoeing in like a nurse and slit my throat, bleed me dry.

“My poor father. I was a writer, I was a writer, but my indolent, voracious brain gnawed at my own entrails. Vulture of my Prometheus self or Prometheus of my vulture self, one day I understood that I might go so far as to publish excellent articles in magazines and newspapers, and even books that weren’t unworthy of the paper on which they were printed. But I also understood that I would never manage to create anything like a masterpiece. You may say that literature doesn’t consist solely of masterpieces, but rather is populated by so-called minor works. I believed that, too. Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wild-flowers. I was wrong. There’s actually no such thing as a minor work. I mean: the author of the minor work isn’t Mr. X or Mr. Y. Mr. X and Mr. Y do exist, there’s no question about that, and they struggle and toil and publish in newspapers and magazines and sometimes they even come out with a book that isn’t unworthy of the paper it’s printed on, but those books or articles, if you pay close attention, are not written by them.

“Every minor work has a secret author and every secret author is, by definition, a writer of masterpieces. Who writes the minor work? A minor writer, or so it appears. The poor man’s wife can testify to that, she’s seen him sitting at the table, bent over the blank pages, restless in his chair, his pen racing over the paper. The evidence would seem to be incontrovertible. But what she’s seen is only the outside. The shell of literature. A semblance,” said the old man to Archimboldi and Archimboldi thought of Ansky. “The person who really writes the minor work is a secret writer who accepts only the dictates of a masterpiece.

“Our good craftsman writes. He’s absorbed in what takes shape well or badly on the page. His wife, though he doesn’t know it, is watching him. It really is he who’s writing. But if his wife had X-ray vision she would see that instead of being present at an exercise of literary creation, she’s witnessing a session of hypnosis. There’s nothing inside the man who sits there writing. Nothing of himself, I mean. How much better off the poor man would be if he devoted himself to reading. Reading is pleasure and happiness to be alive or sadness to be alive and above all it’s knowledge and questions. Writing, meanwhile, is almost always empty. There’s nothing in the guts of the man who sits there writing. Nothing, I mean to say, that his wife, at a given moment, might recognize. He writes like someone taking dictation. His novel or book of poems, decent, adequate, arises not from an exercise of style or will, as the poor unfortunate believes, but as the result of an exercise of concealment. There must be many books, many lovely pines, to shield from hungry eyes the book that really matters, the wretched cave of our misfortune, the magic flower of winter!

“Excuse the metaphors. Sometimes, in my excitement, I wax romantic. But listen. Every work that isn’t a masterpiece is, in a sense, a part of a vast camouflage. You’ve been a soldier, I imagine, and you know what I mean. Every book that isn’t a masterpiece is cannon fodder, a slogging foot soldier, a piece to be sacrificed, since in multiple ways it mimics the design of the masterpiece. When I came to this realization, I gave up writing. Still, my mind didn’t stop working. In fact, it worked better when I wasn’t writing. I asked myself: why does a masterpiece need to be hidden? what strange forces wreath it in secrecy and mystery?

“By now I knew it was pointless to write. Or that it was worth it only if one was prepared to write a masterpiece. Most writers are deluded or playing. Perhaps delusion and play are the same thing, two sides of the same coin. The truth is we never stop being children, terrible children covered in sores and knotty veins and tumors and age spots, but ultimately children, in other words we never stop clinging to life because we are life. One might also say: we’re theater, we’re music. By the same token, few are the writers who give up. We play at believing ourselves immortal. We delude ourselves in the appraisal of our own works and in our perpetual misappraisal of the works of others. See you at the Nobel, writers say, as one might say: see you in hell.

“Once I saw an American gangster movie. In one scene a detective kills a crook and before he fires the fatal shot he says: see you in hell. He’s playing. The detective is playing and he’s deluded. The crook, who meets his gaze and curses him just before he dies, is also playing and deluded, although his fields of play and delusion have been reduced to almost zero, since in the next shot he’s going to die. The director of the film is also playing. So is the scriptwriter. See you at the Nobel. We’ll go down in history. We have the gratitude of the German people. A heroic battle remembered for generations to come. An immortal love. A name inscribed in marble. The time of the Muses. Even a phrase as seemingly innocent as echoes of Greek prose is all play and delusion.

“Play and delusion are the blindfold and spur of minor writers. Also: the promise of their future happiness. A forest that grows at a vertiginous rate, a forest no one can fence in, not even the academies, in fact, the academies make sure it flourishes unhindered, as do boosters and universities (breeding grounds for the shameless) and government institutions and patrons and cultural associations and declaimers of poetry— all aid the forest to grow and hide what must be hidden, all aid the forest to reproduce what must be reproduced, since the process is inevitable, though no one ever sees what exactly is being reproduced, what is being tamely mirrored back.

“Plagiarism, you say? Yes, plagiarism, in the sense that all minor works, all works from the pen of a minor writer, can be nothing but plagiarism of some masterpiece. The small difference is that here we’re talking about sanctioned plagiarism. Plagiarism as camouflage as some wood and canvas scenery as a charade that leads us, likely as not, into the void.

“In a word: experience is best. I won’t say you can’t get experience by hanging around libraries, but libraries are second to experience. Experience is the mother of science, it is often said. When I was young and I still thought I would make a career in the world of letters, I met a great writer. A great writer who had probably written a single masterpiece, although in my judgment everything he had written was a masterpiece.

“I won’t tell you his name. It’ll do you no good to learn it, nor do you need to know it for the purposes of this story. Suffice it to say that he was German and one day he came to Cologne to give a few lectures. Of course, I didn’t miss a single one of the three he gave at the university. At the last lecture I got a seat in the front row, and rather than listen (the truth is he repeated things he’d already said in the first and second lectures), I spent the time observing him in detail, his hands, for example, bony and energetic, his old man’s neck, like the neck of a turkey or a plucked rooster, his faintly Slavic cheekbones, his lifeless lips, lips that one could slash with a knife and from which one could be sure not a single drop of blood would fall, his gray temples like a stormy sea, and especially his eyes, deep eyes that at the slightest tilt of his head seemed at times like two endless tunnels, two abandoned tunnels on the verge of collapse.

“Of course, once the lecture was over he was mobbed by local worthies and I wasn’t even able to shake his hand and tell him how much I admired him. Time went by. The writer died, and, as one might expect, I continued to read and reread him. The day came when I decided to give up literature. I gave it up. This was in no way traumatic but rather liberating. Between you and me, I’ll confess that it was like losing my virginity. What a relief to give up literature, to give up writing and simply read!

“But that’s another story. We can discuss it when you return my typewriter. And yet I couldn’t forget the great writer and his visit. Meanwhile, I began to work at a factory that made optical instruments. I did well for myself. I was a bachelor, I had money, every week I went to the movies, the theater, exhibitions, and I also studied English and French and visited bookshops where I bought whatever books struck my fancy.

“A comfortable life. But I couldn’t shake the memory of the great writer’s visit, and what’s more, I realized abruptly that I remembered only the third lecture, and my memories were limited to the writer’s face, as if it was supposed to tell me something that in the end it didn’t. But what? One day, for reasons that are beside the point, I went with a doctor friend of mine to the university morgue. I doubt you’ve ever been there. The morgue is underground and it’s a long room with white-tiled walls and a wooden ceiling. In the middle there’s a stage where autopsies, dissections, and other scientific atrocities are performed. Then there are two small offices, one for the dean of forensic studies and the other for another professor. At each end are the refrigerated rooms where the corpses are stored, the bodies of the destitute or people without papers visited by death in cheap hotel rooms.

“In those days I showed a doubtless morbid interest in these facilities and my doctor friend kindly took it upon himself to give me a detailed tour. We even attended the last autopsy of the day. Then my friend went into the dean’s office and I was left alone outside in the corridor, waiting for him, as the students left and a kind of crepuscular lethargy crept from under the doors like poison gas. After ten minutes of waiting I was startled by a noise from one of the refrigerated rooms. In those days, I promise you, that was enough to frighten anyone, but I’ve never been particularly cowardly and I went to see what it was.

“When I opened the door a gust of cold air hit me in the face. At the back of the room, by a stretcher, a man was trying to open one of the lockers to stow away a corpse, but no matter how hard he struggled, the door to the locker or cell wouldn’t budge. Without moving from the threshold, I asked whether he needed help. The man straightened up, he was very tall, and gave me what seemed to me a despairing look. Perhaps it was because I sensed despair in his gaze that I was emboldened to approach him. As I did, flanked by corpses, I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves and when I reached him the first thing I did was offer him another cigarette, perhaps forcing a false camaraderie.

“Only then did the morgue worker look at me and it was as if I had gone back in time. His eyes were exactly like the eyes of the great writer whose Cologne lectures I had devoutly attended. I confess that just then, for a few seconds, I even thought I was going mad. It was the morgue worker’s voice, nothing like the warm voice of the great writer, that rescued me from my panic. He said: smoking isn’t allowed here.

“I didn’t know what to answer. He added: smoke is harmful to the dead. I laughed. He supplied an explanatory note: smoke interferes with the process of preservation. I made a noncommittal gesture. He tried a last time: he spoke about filters, he spoke about moisture levels, he uttered the word purity. I offered him a cigarette again and he announced with resignation that he didn’t smoke. I asked whether he had worked there for a long time. In an impersonal and somewhat shrill voice, he said he had worked at the university since long before the 1914 war.

‘”Always at the morgue?’ I asked.

“‘Here and nowhere else,’ he answered.

“‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘but your face, and especially your eyes, remind me of a great German writer.’ At this point I mentioned the writer’s name.

‘”I’ve never heard of him,’ was his response.

“In earlier days this reply would have outraged me, but thanks God I was living a new life. I remarked that working at the morgue must surely prompt wise or at least original reflections on human fate. He looked at me as if I were mocking him or speaking French. I insisted. These surroundings, I said, with a gesture that encompassed the whole morgue, are in a certain way the ideal place to contemplate the brevity of life, the unfathomable fate of mankind, the futility of earthly strife.

“With a shudder of horror, I was suddenly aware that I was talking to him as if he were the great German writer and this was the conversation we’d never had. I don’t have much time, he said. I looked him in the eye again. There could be no doubt about it: he had the eyes of my idol. And his reply: I don’t have much time. How many doors it opened! How many paths were suddenly cleared, revealed to me!

“I don’t have much time, I have to haul corpses. I don’t have much time, I have to breathe, eat, drink, sleep. I don’t have much time, I have to keep the gears meshing. I don’t have much time, I’m busy living. I don’t have much time, I’m busy dying. As you can imagine, there were no more questions. I helped him open the locker. I wanted to help him slide the corpse in, but my clumsiness was such that the sheet slipped and then I saw the face of the corpse and I closed my eyes and bowed my head and let him work in peace.

“When my friend came out he watched me from the door in silence. Everything all right? he asked. I couldn’t answer, or didn’t know how to answer. Maybe I said: everything’s wrong. But that wasn’t what I meant to say.”

Before Archimboldi left, after they’d had a cup of tea, the man who rented him the typewriter said:

“Jesus is the masterpiece. The thieves are minor works. Why are they there? Not to frame the crucifixion, as some innocent souls believe, but to hide it.”

#Bolano.Roberto

[paulakirstine]

a smile to remember.

1.  A few themes within the poem “A Smile To Remember” by Charles Bukowski that I could point out include pain, domestic abuse, hiding, smiling and death. Pain was the biggest theme for me in terms of how prevalent it is in the poem, even when it wasn’t mentioned all that often. This helped me understand the poem the most because it was clearly shown despite the irony of smiling within the poem and how difficult it was (for me) to interpret these ideas. The next theme I picked out was domestic abuse, which is clearly stated in the line “but my father beat her two or three times a week”, from this I was able to pick out that the narrator, Henry, is describing a little bit of what his life is like living in a home with domestic abuse. The next theme is hiding. The significance of this theme to me is one I was able to resonate with greatly. There are many things this family could be hiding apart from what is stated in the poem, but there is a feeling of secrecy when reading this poem, as if I was reading something I wasn’t supposed to be reading. This helped me to understand the poem in a way that Henry may have felt when witnessing such things in his home. Lastly, smiling, which is stated multiple times in the poem. This in accordance to the other themes helped me to understand the poem by showing that smiles aren’t always what they seem. Within the poem, smiling is represented in a way that can be interpreted in multiple ways and helped me pick out what kind of smiling I really saw which was mostly pain and hiding. 

2. Considering the hard time I had understanding and interpreting the poem in a way that was easy for me, I would say I agree with the poem in terms of all of the pain and hiding that is felt from all the living things in the poem, including the fish. From this I can agree with the mothers maternal instinct to show her son that she is “happy” and “smiling” and not in pain and hiding all of her emotions. There are many reasons as to why the mother is smiling, but at the end of the day she’s mostly just hiding her feelings and showing Henry that smiling is a way to make most of life, even if you don’t feel like smiling. I can agree with the comparison of Henry’s mother to being a goldfish, in a sense that she feels trapped and stuck in her abusive home but “wanting to be happy”, like goldfish in their fish tanks shimmering with their shiny scales but still confined to such a small space. Despite the fact the the father is an abuser, I can see his pain and suffering as well which are shown clearly through his actions (yes, even feeding the goldfish to the cat) which is most definitely what I agree with, but despite the lack of information I get when it comes to why he does what he does, his emotions are still shown very clearly. Overall, I agree with the poem because I can justify the actions taken by the mother (just the mother, not the father) in order to keep her son from thinking the worst, even though he seems to know exactly what is going on. 

3. My favourite line in the poem is “and then, she did to show me how, and it was the saddest smile I ever saw upon the earth, like hell and hell and hell and hell, and nothing else.” This is my favourite line in the poem because it shows that the mother is trying her best to look happy for her son. Mothers are truly some of the strongest people on earth, they go through so much yet give just as much to their children. In this line, Henry is able to see that her smile is fake, that she isn’t smiling because she’s happy, but because she’s struggling and wants him to know that she’s trying to be okay. Her smile is “like hell and nothing else” and Henry is able to notice that, but he knows better. The description of her smile being “like hell on earth” is interesting to me because when I think of that phrase, I don’t think of smiles yet I can understand and feel why is smiling in that way, it’s not the smile itself that's hell, it’s the feelings behind that smile, it’s why the mother is smiling the way she is. 

4. There are a number of ways I can relate to this poem, mostly when it comes to hiding. I have a lot of secrets like most people do, there are many things that I don’t want others to know and things I can’t let others know. Despite the fact that the mother is hiding her pain in a way that doesn't really do so efficiently, she is still masking her true emotions. Although I don’t really hide my pain to some people, I do hide many things, especially things that can ruin relationships and cause many different fallouts that I’m not quite ready to deal with yet (not to get too personal). I can relate to smiling through pain whether it be physical, emotional, and even smiling when it’s not appropriate to. I have smiled when I stub my toe on my bed frame, I’ve smiled when someone was telling me an unfortunate story and I’ve smiled when deep inside all I wanted to do was cry. There are many things to hide from other people, whether it be serious or not so serious things, nonetheless it is something can greatly relate to in the poem, maybe not to the extent that is shown but in different ways. 

[gurguliare]

eileen chang? (thanks for the rec btw)

She wrote a commentary on Dream of the Red Chamber, parts of which I’ve been gleefully forcing my mother to translate—from the introduction:

…Recent criticism of Dream of the Red Chamber has all “looked at it standing up,” and didn’t have time to sit down; as to do it oneself, my only qualification is, in truth, to have read the book so many times as to be truly familiar with it. In reading different [manuscript] versions, and without needing to be especially careful, characters that look a little novel to my eyes would jump right out. But because I’ve never written any theory before, of course I would tend to laugh at people who are very precise—and of course I may be laughably imprecise myself. I may have been poisoned by too much classic Chinese prose, as evidenced by the fact that the one sentence I remember most from Shakespeare is “brevity is the soul of wit”—but I don’t think that’s true just of witty conversation. Each character, to me, is as big as a bottle, so being able to do without even one would be good. And because I hate nagging, sometimes even simple reasoning isn’t clearly explained [in my work]. On top of that, I also abbreviated “the complete handcopied version” to just “the handcopied version.” The truth is all these versions were handcopied. No wonder, after “Early Encounter with Dream of the Red Mansion” was published, one of my friends told me they didn’t understand. Of course, their comments were gentler than that.

Another thing I remember now is that some critic said he didn’t understand the title “Zhang Kan [張看 / ‘Chang looks’].” So I’ll take this opportunity to explain. “Zhang Kan” is just borrowing a very common phrase which says “A look at _____,” and you can fill in any subject or person’s name. “Zhang Kan” is “Chang’s opinion”—or one might hear it as “Zhang wang [张望 / ‘peering inside’]”—a most shallow form of double entendre.

Before, the title of my memoir Liu Yan (流言 — rumor/malicious gossip; literally ‘flowing words’?) was borrowing from an English phrase—or poem? “Written on water” in English means the words won’t last, while also expressing the hope that they’ll spread as fast as rumor. I was often doubtful, wondering if people understood the intention behind that title; but I also never asked.

A unique characteristic of Dream of the Red Chamber is the length of time spent on revision—how could that labor have been limited to “revising five times in ten years”? To his death, the work occupied the whole of the author’s adult life. Cao Xueqin’s talent is unlike the goddess Athena, who sprang out from Zeus’s skull fully-grown. Through revision, you see his growth. Sometimes I think that’s the cross-section of his genius. And because he revised for over twenty years, it makes sense that not every major revision (even revisions made to multiple chapters) would incur a whole new copy, to conserve the effort required for copying it. Of course one would try to get the most out of the current version/the copy at hand. Early revisions, at different times, were already being lent out, and the author continued to revise afterward, which also means he couldn’t recover the distributed copies and revise those. This is why all the different versions have inconsistencies. You can’t just determine the timeline of individual chapters as a way to date the manuscripts. This is almost common sense, but it’s one very important aspect of my book, because a lot of other critics didn’t pay attention to this. There are a couple of other things which may make my comments look silly, or almost unbelievable to people. For example, I believe that a great deal of revision happened at the beginnings of chapters, or at the ends, for this reason: each chapter was a sewn booklet, so it was easier to replace the first page or the last page. Is this an indication that our author is very careless/lazy? No! The reason I think this is because sewing the books is Sheyue’s job—Zijuan and Sheyue were real people, and in the end only Sheyue was left by the author’s side—and you can see he’s very loving and considerate of her.

In this “broadcasting age,” it’s hard for us to imagine the very closed society of long ago; in chapter 23, it talks about how Baoyu has four poems, and opportunists saw that these were written by a rich young heir, so they spread the poems about and praised them. When one reads this chapter, it’s difficult not to think of the other side of that—the author himself was poor and living on the west side of Beijing; in the preface, Gao E and Cheng Weiyuan say “oh! it’s lucky that copies weren’t spread around,” so you can see that copies were only handed out in this small circle of family friends. Besides, in those early days, the novel didn’t have much place even in literary circles; it was only for entertainment—self-indulgence. Even compared to today’s underground writers in the Soviet Union, who can actually obtain gratification because the books are circulated widely, Cao Xueqin, in his very poor and lonely environment, really could only rely on the couple of soulmates within his own family circle to encourage him. He seems to have been a warm and emotional person. His popular song called “People need people” … for him to become attached to writing, and to this work, was understandable. Recently, some folks have said that this book was the product of group activity! You can only write Communist operas through group collaboration. He was completely alone.

Even if there was contact with foreign lands at the time, there were no books to be used as reference. The Russian novels hadn’t been written yet. The Chinese novel, at this point, was “early to rise, but late to market.” At the very moment when the development of the Chinese novel approached a summit, it was pushed back. Novels at the end of Qing and in the early years of the Republic were often indebted to The Scholars, which was written before Dream of the Red Chamber. It’s not just that Dream of the Red Chamber was not finished or complete; what’s worse, someone added a dog’s tail to it, and it became like a cancer attached to the bone. Please excuse my mixed metaphor. Dream of the Red Chamber has been made vulgar, and everyone knows about it, just like the Bible in the West. This impacted readers’ perceptions of the book. A hundred years after Dream of the Red Chamber was written, a book called The Sing-Song Girls of Shanghai faintly evoked it… but was twice rejected by readers, down to the edition published in the early 30s of this century. On the one hand, readers are changing, and that’s often influenced by external factors/foreign literature; they have formed a kind of prejudice against old Chinese novels. But also—because the old Chinese novels tended to follow a certain stylized pattern—in the West, to talk to people about Chinese classic novels, we should make analogies to poetry and painting. But the people who understand Chinese poetry in the West are very few. And if they know you are also someone who writes novels, then there’s even more of a sense of “the melon-seller selling melons: he sells it himself, he praises it himself.”

THEN THERE WAS A REALLY MEAN ANECDOTE ABOUT ONE OF HER FORMER LITERATURE STUDENTS which I didn’t take down but. anyway. the thing I like about Eileen Chang is that she’s history’s handsomest monster. glad you enjoyed the rec

#hong lou meng #i should have just made all these answers red mansion related somehow #anoteinpink #no one expects the fannish inquisition

[nolongerornery]

An Open Letter to “The Girl Who Loves Her Next”

To the lucky girl,

If you are the person who loves her next, please listen carefully to what I’m about to write.

 So, no, we may not have dated, but she was the first person who I actually felt certain feelings for. She taught me that I am capable of what I felt and that I’m also capable of moving on afterwards too so I am very thankful for both parts of that. I care deeply for her and want her in my life forever as a friend. So as a friend, I would like to provide some tips just to spare any potential heartbreaks. I never, ever want to see anyone break her heart. Ever.

First of all, you are so extremely lucky so never forget that or take that for granted. She’s a rarity. There is no one like her so make sure she knows that. I really do mean it when I say that you’ll never meet anyone like her ever again so don’t let any moment pass without taking it all in. She’s different than most and she’s capable of caring a whole lot. Funny, smart, beautiful, has an energy to light up any room, and could talk your ear off for days – but you should find that out the moment you meet her.

Make her feel like she’s more than enough; she deserves that. Her “non-existent” laugh will be your new favorite thing to witness, I promise. When she smiles your heart will beat like crazy, your whole body will weaken, you won’t know what to do with yourself, and you will want to do anything you can to keep her smiling. (If you don’t feel that way then stop reading because I can already tell you don’t deserve her.)

When she lets you - love her. With every ounce of your being. Make sure she knows you love her and care for her. Do the small things. Do all of this – only if she really likes you back; otherwise it will just make her more anxious than she already is.

 Some of these I was able to do. Some I didn’t get the chance. Some are just little facts. But it’s just a fraction of what I learned about her and what I’m willing to share.

          ⁃        She loves snuggles. They keep her calm and feeling safe and loved. Let her lay her head on your chest and play with your hair. Let her listen to your heart beat. It’ll calm her heart when she gets nervous.

        ⁃        Buy her coffee on her best and her worst days

-       Hold her hand when either one of you are driving

        ⁃        When being the big spoon, hold her tight, kiss her head, play with her hair. Let her know when you want to be little spoon or when it's time to roll over to sleep so she doesn't feel like you're annoyed. She likes being held a lot.

        ⁃        Kiss her on the forehead - just once

        ⁃        She likes broccoli or green peppers on her pizza

        ⁃        Beer not liquor

-       If she has an anxiety attack or is just anxious, make sure she knows it will be okay. Keep her breathing. Be there for her the whole time. Comfort her. Hold her. Try to get her mind off of it. Play music (Kings Of Leon, Alt-J, The 1975, Harry Styles, My Neck My Back, Shabba).

        ⁃        Give her all your hoodies

        ⁃        Bring her sunflowers

        -        Kiss her everywhere. I’ll let you figure this one out.

        ⁃        When she's drunk, provide hella mozzarella sticks or mac’n’cheese bites

        ⁃        Bananas are a no go along with like.. a lot of vegetables

        ⁃        If she sends you a poem, book, video, song, whatever - devote your entire concentration to it and thank her for it because she thought of you and that is special

        ⁃        Get her to say ‘stfu’ or ‘stop’ as much as possible because that means you said something cute to make her blush and she deserves you saying cute things

        ⁃        Learn her triggers. I never learned them all, but drugs, certain shampoo, and classic Lana Del Rey are triggers.

        ⁃        She can't sleep naked

        -        Her best friend is not going anywhere. Don’t be jealous. Trust her. Become friends with her best friend. I had an ex who didn’t like how close I was with my best friend and that was so frustrating. Don’t be that person.

        ⁃        Moan her name in bed because she thinks it's hot

        ⁃        Be patient with her. Never stop reassuring her no matter how many times she asks for it

        ⁃        Commit to the fuckedupness. I would never say she's fucked up by any means, but I just like this phrase. I just mean - be all there for her; the good and the bad. Hold her tight through both, okay? Be. All. There. And. Committed.

       -        Don’t rush her, let her take her time. Don’t rush her, let her take her time. Don’t rush her, let her take her time. Don’t rush her, let her take her time.

       -        Support her. With whatever she wants to do. She’s so determined to be successful and it’s all within her capabilities. Her major is hard and grad school will only be harder so the support will be nice even though she can handle it by herself just as well.

      -        Make her a priority. Make her feel like she is wanted and fits in. She deserves to be happy and feel that way.

I’m begging you to just never give up on her. Fight for her. But promise me this. Promise me you won’t hurt her. Protect her heart and take care of her. Please. She’s the most amazing girl and she deserves the world. And if you don’t - I’ll still be in her life and I will come after you.

Ultimately, I hope you never stop choosing each other and I hope you feel at home and safe when you look at each other. So please love her. Love her with every ounce of your being - I mean everything you have. Love her because she didn’t want my love.

Yours truly,

N

#open letter #personal

[frankwallace]

Five Short Pieces now published

Fünf Kleine Stücke (Five Short Pieces) is my most recent composition, now for sale, click here to purchase a PDF download. I recently paid a visit to my friend Aaron Green where I had the opportunity to play four different Hauser guitars from 1931, 1941 and two from 1959. The 1939 Aaron recently had was sold and not available as the fifth, so we used one of Aaron’s recent guitars which was inspired by the Llobet model of early Hausers. Read more below about my conception and the birth of this new work.

Fünf Kleine Stücke was written for Dr. Daniel Pewsner in thanks for many favors and good friendship. Also for my new found love of Switzerland and its many graces and lovely medieval towns, such as Basel, Bern and Solothurn.

Fünf Kleine Stücke I. Sequenz I II. Basel, 1298 III. Lindenberg, 2017 IV. Durch den Rhein V. Sequenz II

My wife Nancy and I were on vacation in Basel, Switzerland and I had borrowed a beautiful guitar belonging to Dani. It, and the gorgeous 14th and 15th century surroundings, inspired me to do more more than a little technique maintenance while trying to relax (not my forte!). Composing does relax me, and so it went: a morning coffee, a few warmups, then composing, lunch with Nancy at an intimate downtown cafe, then off to a museum, walking the beautiful streets of Basel to get there. On those walks we continually looked for the earliest date above a medieval doorway – the winner, 1298. Thus the title of #2 – Basel, 1298, with appropriate harmonies to that time, many parallel fourths and a spacious flow reminiscent of the long and luxurious reverberation of tones in an all-stone cathedral or chapel.

My dedication of #4 to José Sanchez (another guitarist/friend residing in Bern who possesses perhaps the most beautiful tone I have ever heard!) is based on a trip we took twice to a country chapel on the outskirts of the exquisite town of Solothurn. José grew up near there and had recollections of discovering this magical place some 30 years before – all the while it sat in his memory. I was touched that I was visiting when it occurred to him to take me and Dani there to share his experience. The memory was good – the all stone acoustics were amazing and we soaked up the vibrations in joy and wonderment. On the first visit, a somewhat elderly woman with few teeth, thin, but strong in appearance, entered and asked if we could be quiet for a few moments. Abiding her request, she disappeared into a crypt behind the alter. Our eyes gazed in question at each other upon hearing the bass tones that emerged – wasn’t that a woman? Our question was soon answered by the next phrase that leapt two octaves and more. And so the questions and answers bounced off the walls, floor and ceiling of hard stone. We did ask what language, as she emerged, “my own, they are sounds that come to me.” And the music? “The same – it comes.” She departed, as mysteriously as she had entered, and left us aghast.

The five works are conceived as studies, tone poems they might be called. The prime purpose of any study is to achieve the maximum resonance of the guitar with beautiful tone in any technical circumstance. So a study takes a particular pattern and repeats it a bit more than normal. The several problems presented here are: scales with slurs, thus the two “Sequenz,” or sequences, that are inspired by the medieval form, and feature long scales with slurs, slurs that need to be incorporated into the flow, or pattern, with strength, clarity and fluidity; Basel, 1298 and the following Lindenberg, 2017 (the street on which these works were composed) focus on im chords, two note intervals, that span all six strings, demanding the right wrist be fluid and accommodate all strings so that the tone remains consistent (though variable as dictated by musical demands or inspiration); and the third major focus is simply melody and accompaniment, though in #4, Durch den Rhein, the melody constantly shifts between bass and soprano.

On this last point, I would comment that I have a rule that is essential to my particular style of playing: ALL melodies should be played rest stroke. Now, you may immediately react, “how old fashioned!” But I would have you pause for two seconds and reconsider. Every rule MUST be broken, so I by no means ever achieve this goal. But, even if it is totally impossible or impractical to play a note rest stroke. it is crucial that you try, that you practice it this way. Why? To get that lovely rich sound in your ear. If the ultimate decision is to play free stroke, you have been informed by the attempted execution of rest stroke, and your ear has been infected by that sound. You may want the melody to be soft and wispy, slightly or emphatically ponticello, where rest stroke feels to heavy and punchy. Great – do it. But I have witnessed too many great guitarists playing the opening phrase of Villa-Lobos Prelude #1 free stroke – it sounds weak – it can never achieve that full cello like quality that must be used. Imagine a cellist bowing across the string without wanting to press the string too hard! Shifting between rest stroke thumb and rest stroke finger demands flexibility of approach, particularly in the wrist, but also demands sensitivity in the fingertip/nail connection and arc of the fingers.

Enjoy!

Copyright ©2017 Frank A. Wallace Cover photography and design by Nancy Knowles All rights reserved.

Five Short Pieces now published was originally published on gyremusic.com

#Basel #classical #classical guitar #etude #Hermann Hauser #new music #sheet music #study #technique #Wallace