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August 26
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And in My absence he wrote...
A eulogy to my Fair Lady Loft. May she dance forever, hungry and full now that she is young again.
You burst into my world a whirling wind, a thundering storm that ripped clear through my fences, tore down my walls and melted me into your core.
You entangled me in the vines of your thirst. The further you sucked me into the haunted woodlands of your weary soul, the less I yearned for my shattered home.
You became my home. The home I was never meant to have.
You transplanted my roots into your fertile soil, and I grew proud and lean while you pumped your blood though my veins.
You shone through my eyes.
This morning, I woke to the void of life without you. How long have I been here, suspended in hope, hiding from an awful truth I dreaded enough to keep you alive against all odds?
Once again in this lifetime, I am reminded of my favourite poem, the one you liked so much for all the same reasons: Muerte Sin Fin, by José Gorostiza.
¡Tan-tan! ¿Quién es? Es el Diablo,
es una muerte de hormigas
incansables, que pululan
¡oh Dios! sobre tus astillas,
que acaso te han muerto allá,
siglos de edades arriba,
sin advertirlo nosotros,
migajas, borra, cenizas
de ti, que sigues presente
como una estrella mentida
por su sola luz, por una
luz sin estrella, vacía,
que llega al mundo escondiendo
su catástrofe infinita.
Knock-knock! Who is it? It's the Devil,
it's a death of untiring
ants, swarming
Oh God! over your fragments,
have you died up there,
centuries of ages ago
unbeknownest to us,
crumbs, lint, ashes
of you, who remain present
like a star belied
by nothing but its light,
by a starless light, empty,
that reaches earth veiling
its infinite debacle
Silence is a cold blanket of snow and ice, serene in its emptiness, beautiful in its serenity, sad in its beauty, pristine and sobering in its sadness. It grips the heart in an agonizing embrace of loneliness.
Today I am not proud nor lean. My veins have collapsed in the vacuum of your silence. My eyes are dense with sorrow.
Tonight, I shall weep myself into the sleep of the innocent, nestled in what memory I have of you, sucking your breast, moaning in my sleep.
Tomorrow, I will be brave again.
I never needed to be brave with you. | July 09
A eulogy to my Fair Lady Loft. May she dance forever, hungry and full now that she is young again.
You burst into my world a whirling wind, a thundering storm that ripped clear through my fences, tore down my walls and melted me into your core.
You entangled me in the vines of your thirst. The further you sucked me into the haunted woodlands of your weary soul, the less I yearned for my shattered home.
You became my home. The home I was never meant to have.
You transplanted my roots into your fertile soil, and I grew proud and lean while you pumped your blood though my veins.
You shone through my eyes.
This morning, I woke to the void of life without you. How long have I been here, suspended in hope, hiding from an awful truth I dreaded enough to keep you alive against all odds?
Once again in this lifetime, I am reminded of my favourite poem, the one you liked so much for all the same reasons: Muerte Sin Fin, by José Gorostiza.
¡Tan-tan! ¿Quién es? Es el Diablo,
es una muerte de hormigas
incansables, que pululan
¡oh Dios! sobre tus astillas,
que acaso te han muerto allá,
siglos de edades arriba,
sin advertirlo nosotros,
migajas, borra, cenizas
de ti, que sigues presente
como una estrella mentida
por su sola luz, por una
luz sin estrella, vacía,
que llega al mundo escondiendo
su catástrofe infinita.
Knock-knock! Who is it? It's the Devil,
it's a death of untiring
ants, swarming
Oh God! over your fragments,
have you died up there,
centuries of ages ago
unbeknownest to us,
crumbs, lint, ashes
of you, who remain present
like a star belied
by nothing but its light,
by a starless light, empty,
that reaches earth veiling
its infinite debacle
Silence is a cold blanket of snow and ice, serene in its emptiness, beautiful in its serenity, sad in its beauty, pristine and sobering in its sadness. It grips the heart in an agonizing embrace of loneliness.
Today I am not proud nor lean. My veins have collapsed in the vacuum of your silence. My eyes are dense with sorrow.
Tonight, I shall weep myself into the sleep of the innocent, nestled in what memory I have of you, sucking your breast, moaning in my sleep.
Tomorrow, I will be brave again.
I never needed to be brave with you. January 21 A Favorite Quote
How can we express gratitude when we feel it? We can begin by simply using the proper forms of courtesy at all times; this reminds us that we can't live without other people. January 17
Wolf Creek
Quote
Wolf Creek
Three backpackers go exploring the outback in an old clunker of a minivan. They are adventurous, carefree, and up for just about any adventure.
Courtesy of IFILM January 15
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What really Matters
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Who is Emily Matthews?
Through her richly expressed, deeply personal writing, Emily Mattews shares what is closest to her heart--
the love of family and friends, the beauty of nature, and a quiet reverence for everyday miracles.
In today's complex world, Emily Mattews reaffirms the things that are truly important in life--
faith, hope, optimism, and joy--
precious gifts that can be ours when we open our hearts and believe.
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I feel far away and solitary right now. That oftens happens at the beginning of a new year. And these simple words about Emily Matthews help me remember.
The injury has frightened Me. Mortality is stalking Me, and I am not ready. I have always wondered what it felt like to grow old, and My body is teaching Me.
Lady Loft
| | January 14 I woke so wonderfully this morning. It is a pleasure to wake quietly and rested in My own bed! I had forgotten to be grateful.
It reminded Me of moving into the cabin, getting the bed I borrowed from Karla. Stretching out under the pretty comfortor that Marylin had bought for Me for a birthday gift.
I miss them. Karla - who I ignore, Marylin who is dead.
Dead. I hate to even use that term. So hard and cold and final. Dead.
Not passed on, crossed over, translated. Dead.
I have been thinking of her so much.
LLL January 13
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Finding Her Here
I am becoming the woman I've wanted,
grey at the temples, soft body, delighted,
cracked up by life,
with a laugh that's known bitter
but, past it, got better,
knows she's a survivor-
that whatever comes,
she can outlast it.
I am becoming a deep weathered basket.
I am becoming the woman I've longed for,
the motherly lover
with arms strong and tender,
the growing up daughter
who blushes surprises.
I am becoming full moons and sunrises.
I find her becoming,
this woman I've wanted,
who knows she'll encompass,
who knows she's sufficient,
knows where she's going
and travels with passion.
Who remembers she's precious,
but knows she's not scarce-
who knows she is plenty,
plenty to share.
Jayne Relaford Brown - 1994 | |
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