To cap off this holiday season I'd like to present you with one of my favorite Christmas songs, sung by one of my new favorite bands.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Even Ringo knows what Christmas is about...
I currently have a play list on my computer with 70 Christmas songs (well 67 – one is Auld Lang Syne which, truly, is a New Year’s song and 2 are Hanukkah songs). There are more actually (84) but the rest are repeats by different artists. How can one chose between Marvin Gay or Dean Martin or Nat King Cole singing The Christmas Song? And should I need more variety for my Christmas listening pleasure, I have my choice of Pandora holiday stations featuring Christmas music in the style of swing, rock, folk, classical, and more. I must have them all, because unlike 99% of the radio-listening population, I can never get enough of Christmas music.
This year’s listening, however, has been tinged with disquiet. I don’t know why this year is different, but for some reason I’m suddenly quite aware of Jesus in Christmas music – or the lack there of. Frankie sings about falling in love, Sting sings about his beloved being all four seasons, The Waitresses wax poetic about crappy presents and Christmas-time discord, Nancy White grouse about being be pregnant at Christmas (though she does point out that it is “Biblical”)…out of 67 songs on my playlist, only 22* mention Jesus. Huh. A measly 33%. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at all. Year after year, Christmas has been made increasingly secular; it’s sacred reverence buried beneath consumerism. Why should the music of the holiday reflect a different picture?
Maybe this year is distinctive for me because more so than any other year I’ve heard this (or a similar) phrase: “I’m not Christian, but I celebrate Christmas anyway.” I have several friends and acquaintances who are atheist or agnostic, or otherwise spiritual but vehemently NOT Christian, and they celebrate Christmas regardless. I’m having a hard time understanding it. What if I were to tell these same friends “I’m not Muslim, but I’m fasting for Ramadan” “I’m not Jewish, but I’m cleaning and removing Chametz for Passover” or “I’m not Wiccan but I’m burning oak for the Summer Solstice”? They’d think I was off my rocker. At the very least, they would question my desire to celebrate a holiday that is sacred in a religion to which I don’t belong, and who’s tenets I don’t believe. If I don’t believe what Islam preaches, why would I celebrate Ramadan? If I do believe Jesus to be the Messiah, why would I celebrate the holiday of a religion that deems him a wise teacher, perhaps a prophet, but not my savior? Many of them would be offended at my lack of sensitivity and reverence for the beliefs of others. I wouldn’t blame them in the least – but I do question the contempt for mine.
I once read an interview with Chrissie Hynde in which she discussed a Christmas party she’d attended. While there, she asked others at the party when they thought Jesus would come back. Most of the people she asked were appalled, and she found it odd that they found discussing Jesus odd. They were, after all, at a Christmas party. Why were they there if they didn’t want to think about or talk about Jesus? I’ll go a step further than Chrissie and ask why those who don’t believe in God, Jesus, CHRIST…why do they celebrate Christmas? And why are they offended when Christians remind that Christmas about the birth of Jesus, whom we believe to be our Lord and savior?
Is it our fault, us Christians? Did we allow the secular to increasingly creep in year after year by focusing on all the things that have very little to do with Jesus? Without a doubt we share the blame in the steady degradation of what SHOULD be the holiest day in our Christian calendar. To a Christian, a follower of Christ and a believer in the saving grace of Jesus, the Messiah - Christmas is about the birth of the savior of the world. That’s pretty heady stuff. Yet we deride presents we deem beneath us, keep mental tabs on who gave what to whom and what’s appropriate in turn, bicker with our families and loved ones, get angry with our pets for messing up our perfect (pagan) Christmas tree, trample clerks at Wal-Mart! I can’t confirm that any in that mob were Christian, but I’m willing to guess at least 33% were.
Perhaps it’s the very inclusive nature of Christ Himself that beckons the non-Christian to join in the festivities and traditions of the holiday. If Jesus were here, having a birthday party, would he only allow believers to come? Absolutely not. He’d let anyone who wanted come to his celebration. Those beggars we pass in the street, convinced in our modern cynicism they make more money pan-handling than we do hard at work every day? They’d feast at the table with Jesus, and they wouldn’t have to beg for the food they got either. The black sheep of the family? Jesus would give him or her a giant hug and let them know exactly how much He loves them. Jesus would accept every gift, great and small, with the same appreciation, so long as they were given in the spirit of love. And those crazed parents who mangled a poor, minimum-wage big-box clerk? He’d forgive them before their shame kept them from asking. Perhaps I shouldn’t be offended or taken aback by those who celebrate but don't believe, and instead take the opportunity to include them, love them, and share my beliefs.
And what of music? I wonder what kind of music would we find at a birthday party thrown by the Lord himself. Would Jesus love “The Christmas Song”? Few can argue the velvety warm merits of Nat King Cole’s voice after all. Surely Handel’s “The Messiah” would be in His rotation. Who knows? Maybe He’d smile at all the seasonal songs. Perhaps he’d make a distinction between those praising Him, and those that should simply be labeled “winter songs.” Maybe He’d lump them all together and figure anyone using God’s gifts to make beautiful music IS praising Him, weather they know it or not. Whatever the case, everyone in the room would know exactly what occasion the music would commemorate. And they’d all sing along knowing, as Ringo Star did, that they were doing it for Jesus – Jesus loves you.
*I included Stevie Wonder’s “Someday at Christmas” in this number. Though the song doesn’t mention Jesus by name, everything the song hopes for is only possible “when we have learned what Christmas is for” and I happen to agree with Stevie most heartily.
This year’s listening, however, has been tinged with disquiet. I don’t know why this year is different, but for some reason I’m suddenly quite aware of Jesus in Christmas music – or the lack there of. Frankie sings about falling in love, Sting sings about his beloved being all four seasons, The Waitresses wax poetic about crappy presents and Christmas-time discord, Nancy White grouse about being be pregnant at Christmas (though she does point out that it is “Biblical”)…out of 67 songs on my playlist, only 22* mention Jesus. Huh. A measly 33%. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised at all. Year after year, Christmas has been made increasingly secular; it’s sacred reverence buried beneath consumerism. Why should the music of the holiday reflect a different picture?
Maybe this year is distinctive for me because more so than any other year I’ve heard this (or a similar) phrase: “I’m not Christian, but I celebrate Christmas anyway.” I have several friends and acquaintances who are atheist or agnostic, or otherwise spiritual but vehemently NOT Christian, and they celebrate Christmas regardless. I’m having a hard time understanding it. What if I were to tell these same friends “I’m not Muslim, but I’m fasting for Ramadan” “I’m not Jewish, but I’m cleaning and removing Chametz for Passover” or “I’m not Wiccan but I’m burning oak for the Summer Solstice”? They’d think I was off my rocker. At the very least, they would question my desire to celebrate a holiday that is sacred in a religion to which I don’t belong, and who’s tenets I don’t believe. If I don’t believe what Islam preaches, why would I celebrate Ramadan? If I do believe Jesus to be the Messiah, why would I celebrate the holiday of a religion that deems him a wise teacher, perhaps a prophet, but not my savior? Many of them would be offended at my lack of sensitivity and reverence for the beliefs of others. I wouldn’t blame them in the least – but I do question the contempt for mine.
I once read an interview with Chrissie Hynde in which she discussed a Christmas party she’d attended. While there, she asked others at the party when they thought Jesus would come back. Most of the people she asked were appalled, and she found it odd that they found discussing Jesus odd. They were, after all, at a Christmas party. Why were they there if they didn’t want to think about or talk about Jesus? I’ll go a step further than Chrissie and ask why those who don’t believe in God, Jesus, CHRIST…why do they celebrate Christmas? And why are they offended when Christians remind that Christmas about the birth of Jesus, whom we believe to be our Lord and savior?
Is it our fault, us Christians? Did we allow the secular to increasingly creep in year after year by focusing on all the things that have very little to do with Jesus? Without a doubt we share the blame in the steady degradation of what SHOULD be the holiest day in our Christian calendar. To a Christian, a follower of Christ and a believer in the saving grace of Jesus, the Messiah - Christmas is about the birth of the savior of the world. That’s pretty heady stuff. Yet we deride presents we deem beneath us, keep mental tabs on who gave what to whom and what’s appropriate in turn, bicker with our families and loved ones, get angry with our pets for messing up our perfect (pagan) Christmas tree, trample clerks at Wal-Mart! I can’t confirm that any in that mob were Christian, but I’m willing to guess at least 33% were.
Perhaps it’s the very inclusive nature of Christ Himself that beckons the non-Christian to join in the festivities and traditions of the holiday. If Jesus were here, having a birthday party, would he only allow believers to come? Absolutely not. He’d let anyone who wanted come to his celebration. Those beggars we pass in the street, convinced in our modern cynicism they make more money pan-handling than we do hard at work every day? They’d feast at the table with Jesus, and they wouldn’t have to beg for the food they got either. The black sheep of the family? Jesus would give him or her a giant hug and let them know exactly how much He loves them. Jesus would accept every gift, great and small, with the same appreciation, so long as they were given in the spirit of love. And those crazed parents who mangled a poor, minimum-wage big-box clerk? He’d forgive them before their shame kept them from asking. Perhaps I shouldn’t be offended or taken aback by those who celebrate but don't believe, and instead take the opportunity to include them, love them, and share my beliefs.
And what of music? I wonder what kind of music would we find at a birthday party thrown by the Lord himself. Would Jesus love “The Christmas Song”? Few can argue the velvety warm merits of Nat King Cole’s voice after all. Surely Handel’s “The Messiah” would be in His rotation. Who knows? Maybe He’d smile at all the seasonal songs. Perhaps he’d make a distinction between those praising Him, and those that should simply be labeled “winter songs.” Maybe He’d lump them all together and figure anyone using God’s gifts to make beautiful music IS praising Him, weather they know it or not. Whatever the case, everyone in the room would know exactly what occasion the music would commemorate. And they’d all sing along knowing, as Ringo Star did, that they were doing it for Jesus – Jesus loves you.
*I included Stevie Wonder’s “Someday at Christmas” in this number. Though the song doesn’t mention Jesus by name, everything the song hopes for is only possible “when we have learned what Christmas is for” and I happen to agree with Stevie most heartily.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Losing Bett
He saw her standing
Radiant in her shining twilight glory
Her coat gleaming, her mane rivaling the splendor
Of smooth, cultured onyx
Head held high, fit for a crown
“Nine” he thought, then said aloud
Even the sound of her, Number Nine,
Made him sure; and glad in his sureness
He fumbled like a school boy to find her name
And again, the sound of her washed over him
Like midnight rain.
“Bett” he thought, then laid down
Before the visored man behind the glass
“All on Bett, all on Number Nine.”
The anticipation, thick on his tongue,
Whistled through the air between them.
His guardian in a sinewy muscled hind
His savior, this beastly angel
Never dared dreamt of, a gift like none before.
He longed to touch that raven mane
And sparkling, glistening, silken midnight coat
But longed, even more, to see her run…and win,
To show the strength he saw
In her might, in her commanding stance,
In the passion buried deep in her shadow-night eyes.
The gambler never would have guessed,
But when she lost he understood,
And realized why she always would.
She’d lose, not because she lacked
In talent, or skill, or heart, or passion, or grace
But simply because
She gave up.
Radiant in her shining twilight glory
Her coat gleaming, her mane rivaling the splendor
Of smooth, cultured onyx
Head held high, fit for a crown
“Nine” he thought, then said aloud
Even the sound of her, Number Nine,
Made him sure; and glad in his sureness
He fumbled like a school boy to find her name
And again, the sound of her washed over him
Like midnight rain.
“Bett” he thought, then laid down
Before the visored man behind the glass
“All on Bett, all on Number Nine.”
The anticipation, thick on his tongue,
Whistled through the air between them.
His guardian in a sinewy muscled hind
His savior, this beastly angel
Never dared dreamt of, a gift like none before.
He longed to touch that raven mane
And sparkling, glistening, silken midnight coat
But longed, even more, to see her run…and win,
To show the strength he saw
In her might, in her commanding stance,
In the passion buried deep in her shadow-night eyes.
The gambler never would have guessed,
But when she lost he understood,
And realized why she always would.
She’d lose, not because she lacked
In talent, or skill, or heart, or passion, or grace
But simply because
She gave up.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Future Label: Poison
Bitter bile this dawn --
realize, and remember again
what you already knew,
ever the fool.
the scar never thick enough --
the acid has, is, will
burned, burning, burn always --
such is the fate of a fool.
I refuse
not one word will I recant
..............do not ingest
I refuse
not one swallowed word will I regret
..............do not ingest
I refuse
not one word, I say, I yell, I scream
I refuse!
no mater how fleeting
flames, fires always die --
no matter how draped in pretense
(bile sometimes beguiles the fool)
no matter his words
funny how acid appears as water
as loveless as mine are true --
such is the devotion of a fool.
Yet I refuse
not one syllable will I be repent
..............harmful or fatal if swallowed
I refuse
not one syllable will I renounce
..............harmful or fatal if swallowed
I refuse
not one syllable, I say, I yell, I scream
I refuse!
Bitter ache this dusk --
realize, and memorize again
what you always knew,
ever the fool.
the wounds never diminish enough --
the lesson has, is, will
burned, burning, burn always --
such is the sorrow of a fool.
realize, and remember again
what you already knew,
ever the fool.
the scar never thick enough --
the acid has, is, will
burned, burning, burn always --
such is the fate of a fool.
I refuse
not one word will I recant
..............do not ingest
I refuse
not one swallowed word will I regret
..............do not ingest
I refuse
not one word, I say, I yell, I scream
I refuse!
no mater how fleeting
flames, fires always die --
no matter how draped in pretense
(bile sometimes beguiles the fool)
no matter his words
funny how acid appears as water
as loveless as mine are true --
such is the devotion of a fool.
Yet I refuse
not one syllable will I be repent
..............harmful or fatal if swallowed
I refuse
not one syllable will I renounce
..............harmful or fatal if swallowed
I refuse
not one syllable, I say, I yell, I scream
I refuse!
Bitter ache this dusk --
realize, and memorize again
what you always knew,
ever the fool.
the wounds never diminish enough --
the lesson has, is, will
burned, burning, burn always --
such is the sorrow of a fool.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Daddy’s Little Hothead
Dark, corkscrew pigtails swing free and freeze.
She turns a pointed gaze to the sticky red smile
And fingers of a thief. The last,
Hers by right of passage, carelessly wasted
When her gaze, unaware, landed elsewhere.
She will crush the big girl.
The passionate pride of a people deceived;
Their own tide relentlessly pounding, mocking,
Biting at their heals like a hound at hunt.
Temper’s fueled steady pulse, and throbbing heat
Of their ever-summer isle,
Fuse and Burn from within, rise and redden
The cheeks of her sun-gold olive face.
The smiling desperado they saw, she sees…
But she will not believe.
She will conquer the big lie.
Capricious green eyes, fierce as the Caribbean in storm,
Locked in furious glare beneath furrowed little brows.
Her hands, defiant on overalled hips,
Ready for the fight that never comes.
Enraged with the impotence that forced
An entire generation to flee by way of the bay.
She will face the big waves.
Dark, pouting lips force taut and freeze.
She’s turned a pointed gaze to the
Sticky red lie of the big thief.
High on her father’s shoulders, the waves seem placid.
She swam once…unafraid.
She turns a pointed gaze to the sticky red smile
And fingers of a thief. The last,
Hers by right of passage, carelessly wasted
When her gaze, unaware, landed elsewhere.
She will crush the big girl.
The passionate pride of a people deceived;
Their own tide relentlessly pounding, mocking,
Biting at their heals like a hound at hunt.
Temper’s fueled steady pulse, and throbbing heat
Of their ever-summer isle,
Fuse and Burn from within, rise and redden
The cheeks of her sun-gold olive face.
The smiling desperado they saw, she sees…
But she will not believe.
She will conquer the big lie.
Capricious green eyes, fierce as the Caribbean in storm,
Locked in furious glare beneath furrowed little brows.
Her hands, defiant on overalled hips,
Ready for the fight that never comes.
Enraged with the impotence that forced
An entire generation to flee by way of the bay.
She will face the big waves.
Dark, pouting lips force taut and freeze.
She’s turned a pointed gaze to the
Sticky red lie of the big thief.
High on her father’s shoulders, the waves seem placid.
She swam once…unafraid.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Friday Funnies - Little Becky
I've been getting off-track here with the purpose of my blog with posts about on-line stuffs. So, starting today, I'm going to be strictly journal/art/poetry* for every post except Fridays. Why bother? Because there is so much internet wonder (or crap depending on your interpritation) that I find ammusing. Why Friday? Because I like alliteration.
And so I bring you the first Friday Funny. Man I love the Irish.
You can listen to more Little Becky jems here.
*May include, but is not limited to, journal entries, poetry, literature, stage and screen, music, essays, opinions, musings, crafting, and the occasional self-pep talk.
And so I bring you the first Friday Funny. Man I love the Irish.
You can listen to more Little Becky jems here.
*May include, but is not limited to, journal entries, poetry, literature, stage and screen, music, essays, opinions, musings, crafting, and the occasional self-pep talk.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Untitled
It’s a guessing game
I know well, dear boy,
and I am not flattered.
Incensed, ill at ease
nauseous and in dire need of fresh air --
...............Do I miss you?
Your unremitting current of honey merely masks
the smoke in your mirror --
smothering, strangling as your expectations.
Your pleas tiresome, and far exceeding
any gratitude earnestness might have rendered.
...............Do I miss you?
Were I not reproached as if I spoke
in tongues --
if only you hadn’t coveted, craved…
your hunger calling for the lovely berry
you placed there, on the flesh in my mouth;
...............Poor boy, is your idiom only that of the idiot?
but listened, instead --
heard it plunge from my dropped jaw
and bathed in the sound as it plummeted.
...............No dear boy:
not the shocked skepticism you’d have,
nor hymn of praise, poised
to replace my mouth’s vacancy
and color the air in brilliant tones --
pure, undiluted resistance
wouldn’t glue my tongue in place
as your honey has.
...............‘Tis a pity I pity you so.
Were your eyes not heavy with idolization,
ruined in erroneous adoration,
you’d see the blood-tipped fork that would stab
that sweet lush berry.
...............Revel in your torture if you will, boy.
So sweep my words beneath the rug
before you’ve chance enough to feel their spear like sting.
No matter --
your ears were always numb
when I spoke,
weren’t they?
Now you may feign blindness as well,
as I crush this inept attempt
like the over-ripe berry in my fingers.
The weight of my foot slides
in your sickening sugar --
there’s a reason they’re called
sweet nothings.
I know well, dear boy,
and I am not flattered.
Incensed, ill at ease
nauseous and in dire need of fresh air --
...............Do I miss you?
Your unremitting current of honey merely masks
the smoke in your mirror --
smothering, strangling as your expectations.
Your pleas tiresome, and far exceeding
any gratitude earnestness might have rendered.
...............Do I miss you?
Were I not reproached as if I spoke
in tongues --
if only you hadn’t coveted, craved…
your hunger calling for the lovely berry
you placed there, on the flesh in my mouth;
...............Poor boy, is your idiom only that of the idiot?
but listened, instead --
heard it plunge from my dropped jaw
and bathed in the sound as it plummeted.
...............No dear boy:
not the shocked skepticism you’d have,
nor hymn of praise, poised
to replace my mouth’s vacancy
and color the air in brilliant tones --
pure, undiluted resistance
wouldn’t glue my tongue in place
as your honey has.
...............‘Tis a pity I pity you so.
Were your eyes not heavy with idolization,
ruined in erroneous adoration,
you’d see the blood-tipped fork that would stab
that sweet lush berry.
...............Revel in your torture if you will, boy.
So sweep my words beneath the rug
before you’ve chance enough to feel their spear like sting.
No matter --
your ears were always numb
when I spoke,
weren’t they?
Now you may feign blindness as well,
as I crush this inept attempt
like the over-ripe berry in my fingers.
The weight of my foot slides
in your sickening sugar --
there’s a reason they’re called
sweet nothings.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Conversation Over Sunday Breakfast
Me: I think Peter Cetera made a big mistake when he left Chicago. I mean what - he had a couple duets and the theme from the Karate Kid?
Kevin: Hey the Karate Kid is a classic! I bet he made a lot of money off that song.
Me: We’re talking about the song not the movie. Do you ever here that song on the radio today? No. And Karate Kid two??? SO not a classic.
Kevin: Well it’s not THAT terrible. (This is where I try desperately to keep the coffee from coming up my nose.)
Me: Did the chick that Mr. Miagi loves in part 2 leave Okinawa and come back with them?
Kevin: No
Me: Why is it the movies end with them getting the girl, but then at the start of the sequel they’ve broken up?
Kevin: Well in 2 Ralph broke up with the girl…
Me: No no no Elizabeth shoe dumped his ass.
Kevin: Yeah but only because he wouldn’t put out.
Me: You’re telling me Elizabeth Shoe dumped Daniel because he wouldn’t have sex with her?
Kevin: Yeah. But in part 2 it was the other way around. See, Daniel wanted to get some but the oriental girl was all good.
Me: Asian. People are Asian – things are Oriental.
Kevin: Whatever. They didn’t start getting bad tough until Karate Kid 4. Three was ok.
Me: With Hillary Swank?
Kevin: No Ralph Machio.
Me: There’s no Karate Kid 3 with Ralph Machio.
Kevin: Yes there is - Ralph Machio and Mr. Miagi try to open their own dojo but the punk with the spiky hair messes it all up. You know the spiky haired guy – what’s his name? Eric….Eric Barnes*. Daniel tries to crane kick him but he catches his foot. That one’s not as bad as 4.
Me: So part 4 is the one with Hillary Swank.
Kevin: Yeah – she’s not hot yet. And the karate isn’t even that good.
*The rival fighter character in KK3 was named Mike Barnes, not Eric.
Kevin: Hey the Karate Kid is a classic! I bet he made a lot of money off that song.
Me: We’re talking about the song not the movie. Do you ever here that song on the radio today? No. And Karate Kid two??? SO not a classic.
Kevin: Well it’s not THAT terrible. (This is where I try desperately to keep the coffee from coming up my nose.)
Me: Did the chick that Mr. Miagi loves in part 2 leave Okinawa and come back with them?
Kevin: No
Me: Why is it the movies end with them getting the girl, but then at the start of the sequel they’ve broken up?
Kevin: Well in 2 Ralph broke up with the girl…
Me: No no no Elizabeth shoe dumped his ass.
Kevin: Yeah but only because he wouldn’t put out.
Me: You’re telling me Elizabeth Shoe dumped Daniel because he wouldn’t have sex with her?
Kevin: Yeah. But in part 2 it was the other way around. See, Daniel wanted to get some but the oriental girl was all good.
Me: Asian. People are Asian – things are Oriental.
Kevin: Whatever. They didn’t start getting bad tough until Karate Kid 4. Three was ok.
Me: With Hillary Swank?
Kevin: No Ralph Machio.
Me: There’s no Karate Kid 3 with Ralph Machio.
Kevin: Yes there is - Ralph Machio and Mr. Miagi try to open their own dojo but the punk with the spiky hair messes it all up. You know the spiky haired guy – what’s his name? Eric….Eric Barnes*. Daniel tries to crane kick him but he catches his foot. That one’s not as bad as 4.
Me: So part 4 is the one with Hillary Swank.
Kevin: Yeah – she’s not hot yet. And the karate isn’t even that good.
*The rival fighter character in KK3 was named Mike Barnes, not Eric.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Future Self Redux
A most bizarre event.
The reading, the meeting
The gaze from across a lattice work
Of metal and fire.
Does she know what I see in her eyes?
Her voice inflicted with inflection
I can’t discern
But it sounds like whiskey tastes.
And she wouldn’t cough
If she didn’t smoke like I do --
Professing, proclaiming it social nuisance
As she lights the fresh one
In her red-tinged-blue lips
With the butt of the one she hasn’t
Yet finished.
Does she know what I sense in her gaze?
Dark swimming orbs
Surrounded by shadow that’s almost not there
Above, finely arched brows.
Below, a smear of lipstick
Smudged in the divot of her cupids’ bow.
Do I do that with my water, too?
As she grips my hand
In a too-soon fare-well,
Her salutation more sincere than imagined,
She gets one last good look
And sees --
Within her smoke-whiskey eyes
What I see
Is me
The reading, the meeting
The gaze from across a lattice work
Of metal and fire.
Does she know what I see in her eyes?
Her voice inflicted with inflection
I can’t discern
But it sounds like whiskey tastes.
And she wouldn’t cough
If she didn’t smoke like I do --
Professing, proclaiming it social nuisance
As she lights the fresh one
In her red-tinged-blue lips
With the butt of the one she hasn’t
Yet finished.
Does she know what I sense in her gaze?
Dark swimming orbs
Surrounded by shadow that’s almost not there
Above, finely arched brows.
Below, a smear of lipstick
Smudged in the divot of her cupids’ bow.
Do I do that with my water, too?
As she grips my hand
In a too-soon fare-well,
Her salutation more sincere than imagined,
She gets one last good look
And sees --
Within her smoke-whiskey eyes
What I see
Is me
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Reading Cate
Listen to your story
..........Do each other’s hair
..........Have a drink or ten
..........Dance and laugh
..........Borrow your make-up
..........Giggle at nothing
May I tell you mine?
..........Till 4 A.M.
..........Show you the town I don’t know
..........Be your midnight confidant
..........Smoke more cigarettes than you
..........Here, have a brownie
We needn’t have bothered
..........Do each other’s nails
..........Yours are chipping
..........Mine would be too, were they painted
..........Is your hair that carelessly pinned on purpose,
..........or haphazardly lovely?
For they reflect and refract an image
..........Open your book
..........Swim inside,
..........read through the wake
..........of your Ink-stained typhoon
..........And share the audience burden
Equal to that before the glass
..........Have a drink or a hundred
..........Feed from the town that brought you
..........I’ll wear that lovely hair
..........When I be you,
..........in a year or ten,
..........And I’m inside your skin.
Friend like mirror,
be patient.
..........Do each other’s hair
..........Have a drink or ten
..........Dance and laugh
..........Borrow your make-up
..........Giggle at nothing
May I tell you mine?
..........Till 4 A.M.
..........Show you the town I don’t know
..........Be your midnight confidant
..........Smoke more cigarettes than you
..........Here, have a brownie
We needn’t have bothered
..........Do each other’s nails
..........Yours are chipping
..........Mine would be too, were they painted
..........Is your hair that carelessly pinned on purpose,
..........or haphazardly lovely?
For they reflect and refract an image
..........Open your book
..........Swim inside,
..........read through the wake
..........of your Ink-stained typhoon
..........And share the audience burden
Equal to that before the glass
..........Have a drink or a hundred
..........Feed from the town that brought you
..........I’ll wear that lovely hair
..........When I be you,
..........in a year or ten,
..........And I’m inside your skin.
Friend like mirror,
be patient.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Cali 1, technology...
Ok so technology will always one(hundred)-up me, BUT I did finally figure out how to embed a video into my posts and will no longer need to add those silly "click to play" captions. Jolly smashing!
So for my very first embedded video, I'd like to share my favorite on YouTube. It has everything - drama, tragedy, laughter, pain, triumph, and forgiveness. And two adorable british boys.
Oh yes I am genious!
So for my very first embedded video, I'd like to share my favorite on YouTube. It has everything - drama, tragedy, laughter, pain, triumph, and forgiveness. And two adorable british boys.
Oh yes I am genious!
Monday, December 1, 2008
Language, Poetry, Art and the F-bomb
I started this blog…well for lots of reasons but mostly to break away from fear, out of myself and past the block I’ve been rutting in for oh…about 3 years. I have all these poems and snippets (things I haven’t looked at in years if I’m honest) and thought I’d start there – revisit my writing past, see if I can’t trigger some cogs into motion. But when I read them and think of posting them…I can’t distance the words from the girl who wrote them enough to be objective. I remember where I was then, and it’s SO FAR from where I am now. But I know, too, that being an artist means putting it all out there, even the ugly. I know that despite our differences, that girl did what I am struggling to do - put it all out on the page, especially the ugly, so that whatever power it held could be transformed into something else....something that might just touch a cord with someone, something that could possibly resonate on a different scale, something that would mean more than a singular moment in a single day of one ordinary person's life. She knew that if you write something that doesn’t come from a place of truth, your reader will know it, you will know it, and yet…here I am agonizing over the last poem I posted. Why? Because it uses a certain word some people might find offensive.
Oi vey.
When I wrote Act... I found that specific word to be the most appropriate expression befitting the poem, line and momentum…I still do. Read aloud, there’s no mistaking that word is there for a reason, and everything that word carries with it is intentional. The explosion of the hard consonants after the push of breath between teeth and lip – there’s no getting around that sound. So why am I wringing my mental hands over a four letter word that might offend someone who reads my blog?
“I think there’s something missing in an actor’s persona, or maybe mind, about censoring out certain emotions. They are “overreceptive” …People who are tremendously good at closing out the troublesome tend not to be brilliant performers.” Michael Boyd from Mind, Memory, and the Actor a public discussion held at New York’s Columbia University.*
I think what Mr. Boyd speaks to here applies to all artists and art forms. I think it’s a crucial, integral part of creativity, and that same “overreceptivity,” I believe, is what compels an artist to create in the first place. And it is fear (another four-letter-word beginning with F) the stunts that creation, or keeps it in hiding. Do I really want others to see the world as I perceive it? Maybe. Do I really want to show the world my vulnerabilities? Mostly (like 99% mostly) no. Do I have to bear my every tender feeling, bruised heart, or wrenching sob story for the world to see? No, I don’t HAVE to.
That being said…I will. While I may not give away every naked detail, I will at times allow (or force as the case may be) myself to pour out whatever prompted the work in the first place, warts and all. Because I must never allow the feared reaction of others to affect my pen, I can never allow my own trepidation to make my voice stutter, I cannot hesitate to embrace the embarrassing and painful as I reach for the wondrous and joyful. MUST I be completely honest with my subject, and myself, and my work if I’m to be even remotely satisfied with any artistic endeavor I embark upon?
Without a doubt.
So prepare yourselves.
*Thanx for the article Eric .
Oi vey.
When I wrote Act... I found that specific word to be the most appropriate expression befitting the poem, line and momentum…I still do. Read aloud, there’s no mistaking that word is there for a reason, and everything that word carries with it is intentional. The explosion of the hard consonants after the push of breath between teeth and lip – there’s no getting around that sound. So why am I wringing my mental hands over a four letter word that might offend someone who reads my blog?
“I think there’s something missing in an actor’s persona, or maybe mind, about censoring out certain emotions. They are “overreceptive” …People who are tremendously good at closing out the troublesome tend not to be brilliant performers.” Michael Boyd from Mind, Memory, and the Actor a public discussion held at New York’s Columbia University.*
I think what Mr. Boyd speaks to here applies to all artists and art forms. I think it’s a crucial, integral part of creativity, and that same “overreceptivity,” I believe, is what compels an artist to create in the first place. And it is fear (another four-letter-word beginning with F) the stunts that creation, or keeps it in hiding. Do I really want others to see the world as I perceive it? Maybe. Do I really want to show the world my vulnerabilities? Mostly (like 99% mostly) no. Do I have to bear my every tender feeling, bruised heart, or wrenching sob story for the world to see? No, I don’t HAVE to.
That being said…I will. While I may not give away every naked detail, I will at times allow (or force as the case may be) myself to pour out whatever prompted the work in the first place, warts and all. Because I must never allow the feared reaction of others to affect my pen, I can never allow my own trepidation to make my voice stutter, I cannot hesitate to embrace the embarrassing and painful as I reach for the wondrous and joyful. MUST I be completely honest with my subject, and myself, and my work if I’m to be even remotely satisfied with any artistic endeavor I embark upon?
Without a doubt.
So prepare yourselves.
*Thanx for the article Eric .
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