April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers
to what purpose do you return again?
Recent Entries 
15th-Apr-2013 07:08 pm(no subject)
it falls on you and you die
Today. SUCKS. From start to finish.

All of my Boston family and friends are okay, and I am so, so grateful for that. But beyond that? Today sucks. I am, simultaneously, selfishly glad that I'm safe in another city, four hundred miles away, and also grieved that I'm so far away, and there's nothing I can do to help, and I can't be with the people in Boston that I love, to stand next to them while we come to grips with what happened in our beautiful city. My last temp job in Boston was near Copley. I used to walk through Copley on my way home from school, just because I liked walking through the city. I can picture the place where this happened. I can't reconcile it in my mind with a bomb. When I try to see this in my head, it makes me want to cry.

Intellectually, I have no trouble understanding why someone would target the marathon--it's an internationally famous event that draws media attention and draws thousands of participants from all over the world. And I understand terrorism, internatnal and domestic. Intellectually, I understand atrocity. But some emotional part of me can't fathom why anyone would set a bomb to blow the legs off of athletes. Can you imagine that? Finishing the freaking Boston Marathon, only to lose a limb? It's sick. And makes me feel sick.

Today sucks.
24th-Sep-2012 06:52 pm - cookery, drinkery, and housekeepery
god I'm awesome
Via telophase: Bold the ones you have and use at least once a year, italicize the ones you have and don't use, strike through the ones you have had but got rid of.


I wonder how many pasta machines, breadmakers, juicers, blenders, deep fat fryers, egg boilers, melon ballers, sandwich makers, pastry brushes, cheese knives, electric woks, miniature salad spinners, griddle pans, jam funnels, meat thermometers, filleting knives, egg poachers, cake stands, garlic presses, margarita glasses, tea strainers, bamboo steamers, pizza stones, coffee grinders, milk frothers, piping bags, banana stands, fluted pastry wheels, tagine dishes, conical strainers, rice cookers, steam cookers, pressure cookers, slow cookers, spaetzle makers, cookie presses, gravy strainers, double boilers (bains marie), sukiyaki stoves, food processors, ice cream makers, takoyaki makers, fondue sets, and mandolines languish dustily at the back of the nation's cupboards.

Woo! It's like I'm economical!
25th-May-2012 10:15 pm - DC
mai
Hey, y'all...I'm going to be working/staying in the DC/Bethesda area between 6/3-7/4. I've been to DC on a few short trips (a couple when I was a kid, and one day trip about a month ago during which I had no free time), but never as an adult, traveling under my own power and with time to explore. What shouldn't I miss while I'm there?

I don't have a car, so public-transportation-accessible stuff is to be preferred.
putting on my face
Incompleted.

Cosmetological poetry

Nails

Oh, my hands and my nails are all one pink color;
One sameness, one white-rimmed pinkness.
What happened to my deliberation,
To my self-determined decoration?
Wherefore this dull and natural state of the fingers?

Hair

Shit, I shouldn't have dyed my hair;
Now my eyebrows are too fair.
Between now and Sunday
I could wash my hair a hundred times
And it still wouldn't match on Monday.
death is the only way
Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Spring." Again and again, darkly; the year circles and returns.


To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
we came out of the desert together
When my prodigal child comes back

When my prodigal child comes back
I know he'll be hungry.
Let him eat--
Let him eat all he wants
From the fields and groves.

He'll be thirsty--let him drink
From the lake and the well
Til he's sated. He'll be tired;
Give him a good room to rest in,
As long as he needs.

He's my child. Give him all the things he needs.
nana in the field
Conrad Aiken, "Morning Song From 'Senlin'"


It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.

Vine-leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea...
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me....

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, clouds of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.

Vine-leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones;
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains....
It is morning, I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor....

...It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where;
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know....

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three dear tones.
I won't back down
I can stop the rock

I
can stop the rock,
she says.
I am the master of earth and of fire.
I am the volcano and the lava and the igneous rock
and the artifacts of fire.

I
can stop the rock.

I can make it fly through air;
I can make it run through, and
Rise above the water.

I can stop the rock.
it's roses not blood
Conrad Aiken, "The Vampire"

She rose among us where we lay.
She wept, we put our work away.
She chilled our laughter, stilled our play;
And spread a silence there.
And darkness shot across the sky,
And once, and twice, we heard her cry;
And saw her lift white hands on high
And toss her troubled hair.

What shape was this who came to us,
With basilisk eyes so ominous,
With mouth so sweet, so poisonous,
And tortured hands so pale?
We saw her wavering to and fro,
Through dark and wind we saw her go;
Yet what her name was did not know;
And felt our spirits fail.

We tried to turn away; but still
Above we heard her sorrow thrill;
And those that slept, they dreamed of ill
And dreadful things:
Of skies grown red with rending flames
And shuddering hills that cracked their frames;
Of twilights foul with wings;

And skeletons dancing to a tune;
And cries of children stifled soon;
And over all a blood-red moon
A dull and nightmare size.
They woke, and sought to go their ways,
Yet everywhere they met her gaze,
Her fixed and burning eyes.

Who are you now, —we cried to her—
Spirit so strange, so sinister?
We felt dead winds above us stir;
And in the darkness heard
A voice fall, singing, cloying sweet,
Heavily dropping, though that heat,
Heavy as honeyed pulses beat,
Slow word by anguished word.

And through the night strange music went
With voice and cry so darkly blent
We could not fathom what they meant;
Save only that they seemed
To thin the blood along our veins,
Foretelling vile, delirious pains,
And clouds divulging blood-red rains
Upon a hill undreamed.

And this we heard: "Who dies for me,
He shall possess me secretly,
My terrible beauty he shall see,
And slake my body's flame.
But who denies me cursed shall be,
And slain, and buried loathsomely,
And slimed upon with shame."

And darkness fell. And like a sea
Of stumbling deaths we followed, we
Who dared not stay behind.
There all night long beneath a cloud
We rose and fell, we struck and bowed,
We were the ploughman and the ploughed,
Our eyes were red and blind.

And some, they said, had touched her side,
Before she fled us there;
And some had taken her to bride;
And some lain down for her and died;
Who had not touched her hair,
Ran to and fro and cursed and cried
And sought her everywhere.

"Her eyes have feasted on the dead,
And small and shapely is her head,
And dark and small her mouth," they said,
"And beautiful to kiss;
Her mouth is sinister and red
As blood in moonlight is."

Then poets forgot their jeweled words
And cut the sky with glittering swords;
And innocent souls turned carrion birds
To perch upon the dead.
Sweet daisy fields were drenched with death,
The air became a charnel breath,
Pale stones were splashed with red.

Green leaves were dappled bright with blood
And fruit trees murdered in the bud;
And when at length the dawn
Came green as twilight from the east,
And all that heaving horror ceased,
Silent was every bird and beast,
And that dark voice was gone.

No word was there, no song, no bell,
No furious tongue that dream to tell;
Only the dead, who rose and fell
Above the wounded men;
And whisperings and wails of pain
Blown slowly from the wounded grain,
Blown slowly from the smoking plain;
And silence fallen again.

Until at dusk, from God knows where,
Beneath dark birds that filled the air,
Like one who did not hear or care,
Under a blood-red cloud,
An aged ploughman came alone
And drove his share through flesh and bone,
And turned them under to mould and stone;
All night long he ploughed.
puttin' on mah boots
John Keats, "A Song About Myself"

I.
There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be-
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow'd his nose
To the north.

II. There was a naughty boy And a naughty boy was he, For nothing would he do But scribble poetry-Collapse )
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