Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
jonathan safran foer is really quite wonderful.
i'd like to pick apart his mind... like purse or a toolbox... take all the items out... wipe the bottom and sides with a clean cloth and then carefully place the items back in... one at a time.. turning them over in my hand and observing each one.
the part i just read...
the letter of the grandfather to his son in which he describes asking his equally neglected wife to write her story down on the type writer...
only to discover when the woman brings him in to read it...
all 2000 pages of her story...
that he tore the ribbon out years ago... out of his fury of not being able to marry Anna... not being able to forget her...
the grandmothers inability to see well kept her from realizing that all of her efforts were for nothing...
2000 empty pages...
i know i described absolutely nothing to whoever is reading this...
but on page 120 of this novel is one of the most gentle but terrible moments i've ever read.
its written so well that i don't know quite what to do with it.
and i keep going over it in my head.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
how weird... to discover things you like for the first time..
its been a while.
The First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies?
I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
Every angel is terrifying.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing.
Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware
Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we can take into our vision;
Oh and night: there is night, when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at our faces.
Whom would it not remain for--that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence,
Is it any less difficult for lovers?
But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.
Don't you know yet?
Fling the emptiness out of your arms into the spaces we breathe;
Yes--the springtimes needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
All this was mission. But could you accomplish it?
Weren't you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved?
(Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you
But when you feel longing, sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal.
Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them, almost)
Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on;
But Nature, spent and exhausted, takes lovers back into herself,
Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough
Shouldn't this most ancient of sufferings finally grow more fruitful for us?
Isn't it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and,
For there is no place where we can remain.
Voices. Voices. Listen, my heart, as only saints have listened:
Not that you could endure God's voice--far from it.
But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence.
It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young.
Didn't their fate, whenever you stepped into a church in Naples or Rome,
Or high up, some eulogy entrusted you with a mission,
What they want of me is that I gently remove the appearance of injustice about their death--
Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,
Strange to no longer desire one's desires.
Strange to see meanings that clung together once, floating away in every direction.
And being dead is hard work and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity.
Though the living are wrong to believe in the too-sharp distinctions which
Angels (they say) don't know whether it is the living they are moving among, or the dead.
The eternal torrent whirls all ages along in it, through both realms forever,
In the end, those who were carried off early no longer need us:
But we, who do need such great mysteries,
Is the legend meaningless that tells how, in the lament for Linus,
The Second Elegy
Every angel is terrifying. And yet, alas, I invoke you,
Where are the days of Tobias, when one of you, veiling his radiance,
But if the archangel now, perilous, from behind the stars took even one step down toward us:
Who are you?
Early successes, Creation's pampered favorites,
But we, when moved by deep feeling, evaporate; we breathe ourselves out and away;
Though someone may tell us: "Yes, you've entered my bloodstream, the room,
And those who are beautiful, oh who can retain them?
Appearance ceaselessly rises in their face, and is gone.
Like dew from the morning grass, what is ours floats into the air, like steam from a dish of hot food.
O smile, where are you going?
O upturned glance: new warm receding wave on the sea of the heart . . .
Does the infinite space we dissolve into, taste of us then?
Do the angels really reabsorb only the radiance that streamed out from themselves,
Are we mixed in with their features even as slightly as that vague look
They do not notice it (how could they notice) in their swirling return to themselves.
Lovers, if they knew how, might utter strange, marvelous words in the night air.
For it seems that everything hides us.
Look: trees do exist; the houses that we live in still stand.
We alone fly past all things, as fugitive as the wind.
And all things conspire to keep silent about us, half out of shame perhaps, half as unutterable hope.
Lovers, gratified in each other, I am asking you about us.
You hold each other. Where is your proof?
Look, sometimes I find that my hands have become aware of each other,
That gives me a slight sensation.
But who would dare to exist, just for that?
You, though, who in the other's passion grow until, overwhelmed, he begs you:
"No more . . . "; you who beneath his hands swell with abundance,
I am asking you about us.
I know, you touch so blissfully because the caress preserves,
So you promise eternity, almost, from the embrace.
And yet, when you have survived the terror of the first glances,
When you lift yourselves up to each other's mouth and your lips join,
Weren't you astonished by the caution of human gestures on Attic gravestones?
Wasn't love and departure placed so gently on shoulders
Remember the hands, how weightlessly they rest, though there is power in the torsos.
These self-mastered figures know: "We can go this far,
But that is the gods' affair."
If only we too could discover a pure, contained, human place,
Four our own heart always exceeds us, as theirs did.
And we can no longer follow it,
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
in the oregonian! :) "what makes a good date?" ahhaa
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Recently I have had so much difficulty with prayer. I am really battling back and forth in my mind with the ideas of how wicked I must be to not care about talking to the Lord, and the fact that the Lord knows this already and loves me. It’s so cyclical because shouldn’t my understanding of his loving “while I am still a sinner” cause me to long for him (explored under attitudes for prayer)? But I don’t really long for the Lord right now. Do I fake it til’ I make it and just read scripture out of obligation? Or is that frustrating to the Lord? Shouldn’t I give him a contrite heart, considering that is what he always says he wants? Is this question just a way of getting out of doing the work and an excuse to be lazy? Has my Christianity become a self help program were I become good enough to enter into the Lord’s presence or am I concerned about really glorifying the Lord? Where does the idea of entering or exiting God’s presence come from anyway? Isn’t that made up, considering God never leaves me and is inside and outside and in my mind, heart, words, thoughts, and actions? The problem is I don’t love Him and if my faith has ever become confusing I have always turned to the mantra of “Love God, Love People.” Maybe the answer is to obey God, and I’m just becoming silly in needing to feel the amorous affection that comes sometimes into my heart towards Him. Obeying shows God love, so does loving my enemies and “one another.” These all prove our LOVE for him. But I can’t help but think that it is out of a feeling of duty and fear of not doing it rather than love. But when I think about serving my husband in the future even when it feels out of obligation and not amorous attention that sounds like true love to me… so why does it not when it is directed towards the Lord? Why is it that when I talk with the Lord in my head it feels almost as if I’m talking to someone completely removed from this whole ordeal? Is this a problem I’ve created myself, a wall I’ve built up that I’m staring at that Jesus just walked around? Am I really that foolish, to stare at a wall and address next to me the person I’m trying to get over it to see?
Is prayer then really, as I know in my heart of hearts the simplest form of just being with the Lord and expressing yourself and sharing in his expression? When Jesus arose early and sat with the Lord alone was it his mere being with God that caused him to become like him? Did Jesus love God? Was this love amorous or raw and earthen and older than time? Truth feels raw and rough to me, and it smells like rain on tilled earth. That is what Jesus love for his Father seems like. Deep. Beyond comprehension or words; Past what a bridegroom would feel for his bride, or a father for his child, or the master for his servant.
I think that you can’t pursue God wrongly, and it is prideful and wrong for me to wait to address Him because I’m afraid of doing it in a way that won’t be completely worthy. How could I ever be worthy? Don’t I know that by now?
It’s like the tax collector. He was right in his wrongness; another paradox of Christianity. He did not look upon the Lord because he was ashamed. Now a person might examine this and say that this attitude would be saying to Jesus that you did not trust what he did on the cross for you and that you didn’t believe he was who the Father saw when he looked upon you. One could argue this. But Jesus praised the man and said he was right in the father’s eyes. Maybe this passage is more about just entering, rather than allowing a fear to hold you back from the Lords presence because you didn’t do it right. The priest got it all right, but even in that got it all wrong! It’s not about how you enter into the Lord’s presence but the glory you allow of his to fill up your life. If you’ve filled yourself up to the brim with your own pride because of you’re self righteousness then how can God fill you with HIS righteousness? Jesus has come for the sick and so when he sees an empty cup in his presence he’ll fill it up. If he sees a full cup that doesn’t please him any more because its still just a stupid cup. He takes joy in filling me up with his own righteousness and that is something I just simply have to become alright with. It’s more important to simply allow God to Be glorious than to worry about bringing him something he’ll find glorious. I’m just not good enough and I never will be, but it is the attitude that acknowledges this that he wants.
Friday, May 1, 2009
i layed on my back on andrea's floor and stared at the cieling.
i just wanted to escape.
everyones rooms are cluttered with boxes and their things.
we're all packing to go home.
and now... when i need it more than ever, i cannot have tidiness.
i need sea foam with a smattering of yellow ochre.
white birches with a field of breezy poppies.
i need to lay on my back in my bedroom with my windows all open and the walls illuminated by the sunshine.
i miss just being able to be quiet in my room.
azlyn's always in there.
which is fine... its her room.. but i just need time by myself.
but the thing is you can't do that around here.
there's no where safe to go by yourself as a girl.
for example... i'm sitting here on the floor of my friends room and now Pink has just come on...
i can't handle that.
i need silence.
i need breezes.