Great Cathedrals, George Bilgere
Before a date, my college roommate
Used to drive his candy-apple red Camaro
Down to the car wash and spend the afternoon
Washing, waxing, vacuuming it,
Detailing the chrome strips, buffing the fenders,
Spraying the big expensive tires
With their raised white lettering
That said something like Intruder
Or Marauder, with a silicone spray
Until they were slick and dark as sex.
He polished that car as if each caress,
Each pass of the chamois, each loving
Stroke of the terry cloth would increase,
By measurable degrees,
The likelihood that in the immaculate
Front seat, with its film of freshly applied
Vinyl cleaner, at the end of a cul-de-sac
Somewhere above the campus,
She would consent to be rubbed
And buffed just as lovingly.
We do what we can,
And if God is no more impressed
By the cathedral at Chartres
Than by a righteously clean and cherry
Camaro, at least He can't say
We haven't tried
With all our might to conceal our fear
That we have little else to offer
Than stained glass or polished chrome,
The elbow grease of our good intentions.
So I'm happy to see
That in the Christmas card photo he sent
Mark stands, balding now,
With a dignified gut, a pretty wife,
And a couple of nice-looking kids, in front
Of the great cathedral
Like the sweet vision of a future
He'd been vouchsafed one day
Long ago, through Turtle Wax
On a gleaming hubcap.
Friday, 18 July 2008
LoS
so, "lives of the saints" by nancy lehman is totally set to be one of my life's greatest loves. yay. time for some excerpts!
1.
"There's a famous line in a story where there is this married couple and it is observed about them that she had none of the world's dark magic for him, but he couldn't live without her for six consecutive hours. My feeling for Claude was like the reverse: I could live without his presence – as I had just done, when I was away at college – for a whole duration of years between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two. But he had the world's dark magic.
I don't expect him to be near, I mean. He can probably live without me for six consecutive hours. It would not matter to me if I only saw him three times in five years – and it will still be with the understanding that if there are people like that in the world, then there is honour, for here was a fellow whom you could depend on to be kind as a steadfast, incorruptible rule."
2.
"He politely watched me while I read the newspaper, which he'd brought. He did not speak. He had an air of observant logic, just watching me read.
"My eyes are killing me," I said. "I read like a fiend."
"Well, read like an angel," he said mildly, not taking his eyes off my face. "you're too interested in glamour," he said suddenly. "You socialize too much. You go out too much. You stay out too late. You drink too much. You should just be a simple, regular person. You should go to bed at eleven every night. You should just come home from work and cook, do the dishes, and just be a regular person. You shouldn't eat Carnation Instant Breakfast."
I received these stunning recommendations in silence. Then I said, "You're the one who needs that advice."
"No, no, I'm just a regular, normal guy. Who leads a regular life."
"Oh God."
"It's youth – it's just youth," he said looking at me, mild and unintelligible.
"What is?"
"Your behaviour."
"What behaviour?"
"You're so young!" he raved. "You're so innocent," he said. "How have you really been? I haven't really known, these past few years,, when you were away at school. I heard you had a breakdown," he added in a kind voice, solicitous but cheerful, as though it interested him especially. "Breakdowns?" he said. "Tell me about your breakdowns. That's what we're all about down here," he said. "Breakdowns.""
3.
""I've been hearing some things about Claude," Mr. Stewart said to Mr. Collier. "I hear he's been spending a lot of his time at the racetrack."
"Claude is not using his abilities," said Mr. Collier. Mr. Collier turned an eye of amused benevolence on his son Claude. Mr. Collier had a soft spot for Wastrel Youth. In fact, it was one of his favourtie episodes in life. He always said - trying to get the lingo, in his dignified old age - that the young people should "find themselves."
"I'd like to see that boy at the law school, Louis."
"He's finding himself, Walter," said Mr. Collier, ecstatic. He loved wastrel youths, but he loved his sons to a degree approaching beatitude. The combination - his sons plus wastrel youth - was almost too much for him."
1.
"There's a famous line in a story where there is this married couple and it is observed about them that she had none of the world's dark magic for him, but he couldn't live without her for six consecutive hours. My feeling for Claude was like the reverse: I could live without his presence – as I had just done, when I was away at college – for a whole duration of years between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two. But he had the world's dark magic.
I don't expect him to be near, I mean. He can probably live without me for six consecutive hours. It would not matter to me if I only saw him three times in five years – and it will still be with the understanding that if there are people like that in the world, then there is honour, for here was a fellow whom you could depend on to be kind as a steadfast, incorruptible rule."
2.
"He politely watched me while I read the newspaper, which he'd brought. He did not speak. He had an air of observant logic, just watching me read.
"My eyes are killing me," I said. "I read like a fiend."
"Well, read like an angel," he said mildly, not taking his eyes off my face. "you're too interested in glamour," he said suddenly. "You socialize too much. You go out too much. You stay out too late. You drink too much. You should just be a simple, regular person. You should go to bed at eleven every night. You should just come home from work and cook, do the dishes, and just be a regular person. You shouldn't eat Carnation Instant Breakfast."
I received these stunning recommendations in silence. Then I said, "You're the one who needs that advice."
"No, no, I'm just a regular, normal guy. Who leads a regular life."
"Oh God."
"It's youth – it's just youth," he said looking at me, mild and unintelligible.
"What is?"
"Your behaviour."
"What behaviour?"
"You're so young!" he raved. "You're so innocent," he said. "How have you really been? I haven't really known, these past few years,, when you were away at school. I heard you had a breakdown," he added in a kind voice, solicitous but cheerful, as though it interested him especially. "Breakdowns?" he said. "Tell me about your breakdowns. That's what we're all about down here," he said. "Breakdowns.""
3.
""I've been hearing some things about Claude," Mr. Stewart said to Mr. Collier. "I hear he's been spending a lot of his time at the racetrack."
"Claude is not using his abilities," said Mr. Collier. Mr. Collier turned an eye of amused benevolence on his son Claude. Mr. Collier had a soft spot for Wastrel Youth. In fact, it was one of his favourtie episodes in life. He always said - trying to get the lingo, in his dignified old age - that the young people should "find themselves."
"I'd like to see that boy at the law school, Louis."
"He's finding himself, Walter," said Mr. Collier, ecstatic. He loved wastrel youths, but he loved his sons to a degree approaching beatitude. The combination - his sons plus wastrel youth - was almost too much for him."
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
hindsight really IS 20/20...
so i let it out unwittingly today. and it turns out i came here for an apology - or at the very least an explanation. funny that. and also funny what the combination of ignorance and delusion can do to a person. seriously, what the fuck was i thinking?
major learning: what matters to me matters... but then only to me. and i need to learn to be able to sit and live and dance and... breathe with that - and not just pay lip service to my ability to do so. and i'll have grown up when i truly let go of my need for certain "sorry"s. i just don't know why it's so hard to let it go, you know?
for a while i thought everything hinged on self-awareness - i mean, my ability to be "adjusted" and fine... maybe even happy? i thought that was about me knowing that i can't do x and need to work on fixing that, that i can't do y and need to let that go, that i kick ass at doing z and need to be cognizant of that too. but it... self-awareness isn't even the half of it. i mean, it's a start. the whole point of me blogging was to force myself to be in my head a bit more - but even that does not necessarily grant any results! and it's getting disheartening. it's like... like i find myself in a really deep lake and i take that in (self-awareness feat A)... then i admit to myself that i can't swim (self-awareness feat B)... then i decide that what i need is a raft, and i'll be fine - and there you have it. i have identified the problem and in this case even gone so far as to propose a solution but that does not result in the raft materialising, does it? cos if there isn't one, well... nothing's changing. it's an awful (awful!) metaphor on the whole - to speak nothing of the melodrammatic allusions to drowning in particular - but i couldn't think of a better one.
bottomline: all my expectations were really stupid.
major learning: what matters to me matters... but then only to me. and i need to learn to be able to sit and live and dance and... breathe with that - and not just pay lip service to my ability to do so. and i'll have grown up when i truly let go of my need for certain "sorry"s. i just don't know why it's so hard to let it go, you know?
for a while i thought everything hinged on self-awareness - i mean, my ability to be "adjusted" and fine... maybe even happy? i thought that was about me knowing that i can't do x and need to work on fixing that, that i can't do y and need to let that go, that i kick ass at doing z and need to be cognizant of that too. but it... self-awareness isn't even the half of it. i mean, it's a start. the whole point of me blogging was to force myself to be in my head a bit more - but even that does not necessarily grant any results! and it's getting disheartening. it's like... like i find myself in a really deep lake and i take that in (self-awareness feat A)... then i admit to myself that i can't swim (self-awareness feat B)... then i decide that what i need is a raft, and i'll be fine - and there you have it. i have identified the problem and in this case even gone so far as to propose a solution but that does not result in the raft materialising, does it? cos if there isn't one, well... nothing's changing. it's an awful (awful!) metaphor on the whole - to speak nothing of the melodrammatic allusions to drowning in particular - but i couldn't think of a better one.
bottomline: all my expectations were really stupid.
Monday, 15 October 2007
fsg 2 and eh 1
i don't know why i'm so fascinated by these two men, but anyway - here goes...
"When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
"You see it's awfully hard to talk or write about your own stuff because if it is any good you yourself know about how good it is—but if you say so yourself you feel like a shit."
- Ernest Hemingway
"Eschew the monumental. Shun the Epic. All the guys who can paint great big pictures can paint great small ones."
- Ernest Hemingway
"When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
"You see it's awfully hard to talk or write about your own stuff because if it is any good you yourself know about how good it is—but if you say so yourself you feel like a shit."
- Ernest Hemingway
"Eschew the monumental. Shun the Epic. All the guys who can paint great big pictures can paint great small ones."
- Ernest Hemingway
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
poetry 5: hope for the past
Thanks, Robert Frost, David Ray
Do you have hope for the future?
someone asked Robert Frost, toward the end.
Yes, and even for the past, he replied,
that it will turn out to have been all right
for what it was, something we can accept,
mistakes made by the selves we had to be,
not able to be, perhaps, what we wished,
or what looking back half the time it seems
we could so easily have been, or ought...
The future, yes, and even for the past,
that it will become something we can bear.
And I too, and my children, so I hope,
will recall as not too heavy the tug
of those albatrosses I sadly placed
upon their tender necks.
Hope for the past, yes, old Frost,
your words provide that courage,
and it brings strange peace that itself passes
into past, easier to bear because
you said it, rather casually, as snow
went on falling in Vermont years ago.
Do you have hope for the future?
someone asked Robert Frost, toward the end.
Yes, and even for the past, he replied,
that it will turn out to have been all right
for what it was, something we can accept,
mistakes made by the selves we had to be,
not able to be, perhaps, what we wished,
or what looking back half the time it seems
we could so easily have been, or ought...
The future, yes, and even for the past,
that it will become something we can bear.
And I too, and my children, so I hope,
will recall as not too heavy the tug
of those albatrosses I sadly placed
upon their tender necks.
Hope for the past, yes, old Frost,
your words provide that courage,
and it brings strange peace that itself passes
into past, easier to bear because
you said it, rather casually, as snow
went on falling in Vermont years ago.
poetry 4: the more loving one
The More Loving One, W.H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now i see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now i see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
poetry 3: friends
To My Friends, Primo Levi
Dear friends,
I say friends here
In the larger sense of the word:
Wife, sister, associates, relatives,
Schoolmates,men and women,
Persons seen only once
Or frequented all my life:
Provided that between us, for at least a moment,
Was drawn a segment,
A well defined chord.
I speak for you, companions on a journey
Dense, not devoid of effort,
And also for you who have lost
The soul, the spirit, the wish to live.
Or nobody or somebody, or perhaps only one, or you
Who are reading me: remember the time
Before the wax hardened,
When each of us was like a seal.
Each of us carries the imprint
Of a friend met along the way;
In each the trace of each.
For good or evil
In wisdom or in folly
Each stamped by each.
Now that time presses urgently,
And the tasks are finished,
To all of you the modest wish
That the Autumn may be long and mild.
Dear friends,
I say friends here
In the larger sense of the word:
Wife, sister, associates, relatives,
Schoolmates,men and women,
Persons seen only once
Or frequented all my life:
Provided that between us, for at least a moment,
Was drawn a segment,
A well defined chord.
I speak for you, companions on a journey
Dense, not devoid of effort,
And also for you who have lost
The soul, the spirit, the wish to live.
Or nobody or somebody, or perhaps only one, or you
Who are reading me: remember the time
Before the wax hardened,
When each of us was like a seal.
Each of us carries the imprint
Of a friend met along the way;
In each the trace of each.
For good or evil
In wisdom or in folly
Each stamped by each.
Now that time presses urgently,
And the tasks are finished,
To all of you the modest wish
That the Autumn may be long and mild.
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