her last day

December 12, 2010 § Leave a comment

 

Granny felt easy about her soul.  She had her secret comfortable understanding with a few favorite saints who cleared a straight road to God for her.

from the jilting of granny weatherall by katherine anne porter.

 

By the Deathbed, Edvard Munch. 1895 Oil on canvas 90 x 120 cm

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achilles in love

September 22, 2010 § Leave a comment

“achilles in love”

—Stephen Dunn

There was no getting to his weakness.
In public, even in summer, he wore
big boots, specially made for him,
a band of steel reinforcing each heel.
At home, when he bathed or slept,
he kept a pistol within reach, loaded.
And because to be invulnerable
is to be alone, he was alone even when
he was with you. You could sense it
in the rigidity of his carriage, as if under
his fine-fitting suits were layers of armor.
Yet everyone loved to see him in action:
While his enemies were thinking of small
advantages, he only thought end game.

Then she came along, who seemed to be all
women fused into one, cheekbones and breasts
evidence that evolution doesn’t care
about fairness, and a mind so good, well,
it was like his. You could see his body soften,
and days later, when finally they were naked,
she instinctively knew what to do-
as smart men do with a mastectomy’s scar-
kiss his heel before kissing
what he considered to be his power,
and with a tenderness that made him tremble.

And so Achilles began to live differently.
Both friends and enemies were astounded
by his willingness to listen, and hesitate
before responding. Even in victory he’d
walk away without angering a single god.
He wore sandals now because she liked him in sandals.
He never felt so exposed, or so open to the world.
You could see in his face something resembling terror,
but in fact it was love, for which he would die.

f

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on paradise

September 21, 2010 § 3 Comments

“I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library.”

Jorge Luis Borges

f

ah truth.  at least for me.

before i sleep, i often think about this hypothetical scenario:  if you were trapped alone in one room/building for the rest of your days, where would you have it be?


logistically:  costco.  but not considering survival needs, for me it would have to be some kind of library or bookstore.  that in itself covers a vital need.  other answers i’ve considered: quentin tarantino’s home theatre (with his reported million movies), the met museum of art, god why not the louvre?   but a library it would be…


-angie

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when you are old

September 8, 2010 § Leave a comment

“when you are old”

william butler yeats


WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

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on elle driver

September 7, 2010 § Leave a comment

good morning world


possibly the most deliciously evil addictive tune ever?


kill bill… apparently there will be a iii, and i can’t wait to see this evil bitch come back…

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i crave your mouth, your voice, your hair

September 6, 2010 § Leave a comment

“i crave your mouth, your voice, your hair”

pablo neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

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on words

June 28, 2010 § Leave a comment

i’ve added a new category to my little niche of the internet here:  words.

if you bother to think about it, arent words the most valuable resource and product of mankind?  after all, nothing is truly obliterated until the recorded thoughts, histories, dreams, ideas, observations of those from the past are also gone.  we take it for granted, but there forms an extremely special connection between writer and reader the instant they share words.  an image is communicated, overcoming the barriers of space and time.  just think what incredible power we as humans wield by this ability!

i wish i could express these thoughts in words as effectively as steven hall, and sound as mesmerizing as tilda swinton saying them:

-angie

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