The main focus of “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock” is the tension of inertia. Throughout the poem, Prufrock poises upon the edge of taking action or formulating an opinion, but time and time again, he backs down and drifts away on his underwhelming train of thought. This inaction is supported by TS Eliot’s use of repetition, imagery, and a nontraditional rhyming pattern.
Repetition in the poem helps to tie the stream of consciousness style of writing together, threading the entire thing together and uniting it with repeating questions and echoing lines. The protagonist of the poem constantly asks, “Do I dare?” (676) about some unnamed action, and never really states whether he dares or not. Prufrock also asks variations of “How should I presume?” (676), somewhat echoing the thought of “Do I dare?” (676). In addition to these almost direct line repetitions, several lines are referenced or shuffled and rewritten at the ends of stanzas. For example, “If one, settling a pillow by her head,/Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all./That is not it, at all.’” (677) and “If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,/And leaning toward the window, should say:/ ‘That is not it at all,/ That is not what I meant, at all.’” This restructuring of previous lines in the poem is a particularly clever way to retain continuity in an otherwise fractured stream of consciousness piece.
The poem’s use of imagery reinforces the theme of stillness and inaction. The first stanza introduces the inaction with the lines “When the evening is spread out against the sky/Like a patient etherized upon a table;” (675) This line, though strange and dissonant if you think about it too hard, immediately conveys a feeling of lethargy and inactivity. The reader is thus prepared for a long, dreamlike collection of images and phrases that slowly build and then contract throughout the poem like the deep, passive breathing of a tranquilized patient. This sleepy image is reinforced throughout the poem, with lines like “And seeing it was a soft October night,/[the fog] curled once about the house and fell asleep” (675), and “If one, settling a pillow beside her head,” (677). The poem’s theme of inaction is conveyed with sleepy and dreamlike imagery.
Finally, the use of rhyme in the poem imitates the feeling of thought, bouncing up and down then trailing off. Throughout the poem, the pattern of rhyme bounces from line to line, then falls dead before being picked up again. There is no constant abab pattern of rhyme; more often than not the pattern is aabbcaa, or aabacdefe. The rhyming flits about at its own discretion, rhyming some lines, then not others, and then rhyming two lines in a row. Both rhyming and non-rhyming lines carry the poem forward and create pauses after stanzas. An erratic thought process, or a state of dreaming are brought to mind by the pattern of rhyming, further conveying a feeling of inaction.
The poem “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock” seems to mainly focus on a feeling of inertia, while the protagonist leads up to and down from the question of “Do I dare?”. Prufrock never comes to a decision, merely allowing his thoughts to trail off. He avoids taking action, choosing to stay still at the brink of acting. All of the elements of the poem including its use of imagery, repetition, and rhyme, help to convey the tension and release of inaction.
Abcarian, Richard, Marvin Klotz, and Samuel Cohen. Literature:
The Human Experience. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2013.
Print. 675-777
Reading The Legend of Bagger Vance is not what I expected it to be. I am filled with a vague but persistent yearning, much like the yearning of two or three years ago.
Who knew golf could be so intimately entwined with the divine and metaphysical? And it fits so perfectly, it doesn't come off as stilted or silly. The story is just bit cheesy in places, but not so much as to be off-putting.
I learned things from I never expected to learn in the context of golf, and somehow, the sports lingo peppered all through the book aren't difficult to read at all. I know nothing about golf, and I still know next to nothing, but I didn't have to skim through the game descriptions, they were so poetic and fluid.
I'm probably not going to become passionate about the game of golf, but it's taken on a new meaning and color in my mind, and The Legend of Bagger Vance is probably going to be one of those books I carry in my heart forever, the reading of which has defined a pivotal point in my life and growth.
A long time ago I read that people often absorb the personalities of main characters from books they're reading, and the effect can last for a while after they've finished the book.
I read the rest of The Perks of Being a Wallflower today. I've felt like the narrator and protagonist, Charlie, ever since I began reading this morning. He's a great character; really well-written. I identify with him a lot, I too am a wallflower and fairly observant.
I felt awkward much of the day, and rather depressed. It helped to go on a walk after I finished the book. I was getting pretty down when I read the first half of the book a couple weeks ago, so today I thought I'd try getting some exercise and a change of scenery after finishing.
I definitely take on the personalities and moods of characters I'm reading about, especially when written in the first person. Today I was Charlie. Everything worked out okay, though. I managed to converse with people my age and not totally freeze up or speak in gibberish. I felt like a part of a group for once, if only for a little while. That struck me as something rather alike to Charlie as well, and the group I was with vaguely reminded me of Charlie's friends Patrick and Sam.
Absorbing the personalities of books characters can be problematic occasionally, prompting moods that are less than ideal. Today I was acutely conscious of this phenomenon, so I got to observe it carefully and not get pulled too deeply into isolation, or the sadness permeating The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
Today I was Amoniel being Charlie; the world was both poignantly fresh and nothing new to look at, just a little bit like walking in someone else's shoes, only they fit your feet perfectly and aren't altogether a style unsuitable to you.
To sit upon and further articulate, incubate ideas as T.S. Eliot once said. To allow them to mature and grow in complexity, giving them free reign before fully writing them out, or even beginning to write them at all.
But to leave them too long, in my drafts, is to allow them to stagnate and decompose, becoming dead bodies in a still pool.
Your iconic Starry Night, troubled life, and self-taught technique inspire me and lead me to despair. You fascinate me, and of course, as human beings perceive about all other human beings, I see sparks and flashes of myself within you; your obsession with the beauty and wonder in nature, your stubbornness and determination to teach yourself painting, your disdain of institutions, and religious fervor removed from religion.
Certainly, Van Gogh, you have managed to spark my interest as no other artist, of any genre or time period ever has. This may be entirely thanks to my local college's impressive array of books documenting your life and works (I have discovered two thick volumes so far), but it began long ago, certain paintings of yours stuck fast in my mind and memory, and later, that amazing, heartbreaking Doctor Who episode.
Oh beautiful beautiful, I know so little about you still. I am learning more; and It will never be enough. Comforting are the long-dead people resurrected in our heads by their own works and other's words.
I feel like a horrible writer. Most of what echoes voicelessly in my mind and heart is perfectly articulated by so many other people. So what use would my own unique experience, not so unique at all, be to anyone who has encountered so many other perfect prayers and poets? I cannot even write of something or someone without relating it to my own heart, and I don't know what this has to do with the previous sentences, but it makes me feel acutely self-conscious. Maybe that self-consciousness is a part of my imperfect but somewhat truthful, though terribly fractured way of putting myself in others' shoes and peering at myself through their eyes.
But these silly, silly cries of pain, oh Seymour, do not matter because I am dramatist. The child still asks, simplemindedly and innocently, "but why should it not matter? Why shouldn't there still be something under it all?" We are all wounded I suppose, but why would that make any individuals' wounds any less important, to them or others? A wound is not healed if it is ignored because it hurts to touch. It must be examined thoroughly, prayed over, medicated and bound.
Can you see me perusing the book-shelves of my ribcage, pulling out one tome and selecting a passage before moving on to the next book and running my finger down its pages to find the words highlighted in my own rainbow blood? But then, would I even know if you did the same in your head?
A Zen master once said a person can not exchange even so much as a fart with another person. This is something that still puzzles me; I understand, I think, the meaning and thought-process behind this, but in my experience, in my great dream, it does not seem true. I am a sponge to life and people and beauty and nature and animals. I am a sponge in my own experience, and so, all I am is not entirely of me, or rather, it is entirely of me in relation to my life and all that entails. Oh god, I share and am shared by everything, life running through me and you and the stones on the ground.
I read "Seymour: An Introduction", and I marvel at the flow of words and the brightness of every person, of Seymour, and the illuminator that is the narrator, Buddy Glass. Neither of them exist anywhere but in the mind of JD Salinger, but, love, they are so real, it is like they created themselves. Children of the mind, as it were... How strange, how beautiful.
Seymour living, breathing, dead; but also a mirror, reflecting you and me and my father. But you see my quandary; why should I write so clumsily when everywhere I turn I see my own heart reflected in the minds and works of other people? It's funny, seeing this makes me feel completely inadequate, but it also awakens that deep itch to write and draw and try my very best to splash my every color every where I can. Both writer's block, a brick wall right in front of the nose; and writer's wound to cause blood to pour through the fingertips onto the page, or keyboard.
Writing and drawing and photographing often drives this itch to distraction, because I see this light, and I feel it on my skin and across my ribs, but it does not transfer well to any page, it seems. And still, even if it did, would it still be what I saw? I am an imperfect translator. But I suppose it wouldn't be so bad, everyone sees everything differently, coloring it with their own brush. I can not make them see what I see. And I suppose that would defeat the purpose of sharing it with them, which would be to watch it under the light of their experience. The very same reason we converse with other human beings instead of sitting on the ground and talking to ourselves and the vast emptiness of personal god.
What is my voice like to you?
What does this place feel like to you? Is it the same as how it feels to me?
I am so sloppy lately, I don't care to edit or try to edit or try to write well. I don't care. But still I write and some sort of beauty emerges, disfigured and fractured as it is, its voice slack, its posture bent and twisted and stooped.
I wrote a poem Wednesday that was that and more, but a couple of days later, it seemed endearing and maybe just a little bit courageous. It had built a life of its own independent from the lackluster breath i'd blown into it.
I'm feeling like multimedia today, nothing new, but now I've decided to act on it and see what rainbow tapestry of broken strings and hazy figures I can weave with no direction dictated by me consciously. And then maybe I can take that crazy-blanket from the loom and drape it around my shoulders and it will afford me a little comfort and courage.
I'm on a bit of a sentimental bent today, and I still have a streak of disgust for such things. I don't know why. Maybe because I've been such a dramatist and romantic all my life, and I never regarded it as very constructive. It tends to be blinding, sentimentality. I'm terribly sentimental, though, and I don't necessarily want to squash it from my spongy self entirely, but I seek a balance with it and whatever else there is, you know, there's a great many ways to see life.
I don't like indulging in sentimentality, I guess. Seems very self-serving and not much else. It can have it's place on my shoulder with everything else, but heaven forbid it should ever become my matrix again.
I imagine I've been reading a bit too much JD Salinger in the past few days, but I fully intend to read a deal more before this week is up.
All the same, damn his lofty-earthy ideals. I don't want to be integrated into society, I don't want to continue cleaning the kitchen every day, I don't want to see God in every horrible person on the street or over the internet, and I repeat, I don't want to clean the kitchen. I'd like to sit in the clouds, no needs at all, perfectly free to live in my own head or observe the lives of others. But whatever, that's entirely unrealistic, and probably would be boring to boot, I, who would be everyone but myself sometimes.
Still, I'd rather live in a monastery than whatever it is I think I'm going to have to bring myself to do in the next couple of years, college or career or whatever. Not so much career, though as some sort of way to support myself in between stepping stones in life.
Shall I try out a new personality now?
Yes, there is spiritual beauty in the small things in life. Serving others, taking care of oneself, paying homage to small miracles in home, the workplace, and public spaces.
You want to know of a book that sustained me and my sanity this summer? "How to cook your life:From the Zen Kitchen to Enlightenment".
It spoke of simple service and the beauty in it, and I needed that so bad, especially while taking care of my mother and most of the cooking for a few weeks while she was on bed rest.
Over time, gradually, I've learned that every act of kindness, every small work is a sort of prayer, a hope that things will get better, and a way to show how much I do care for my family and friends. That is no bad life, not remarkable, but how much do I really want remark-ability? I remember when I decided to cultivate talents and abilities unrecognized by the majority of this society, and half of that choosing was because I figured I wouldn't have anything or anyone else to compete against in my forum of choosing. I'm actually highly competitive, but I'm also highly understanding, and I know that there's always someone or something better if you think in that way, and therefore, can never ever win. So I chose a place in which I figured there was no winning or losing. No better nor worse, just a pathway, a few sages of my choosing, and my own strength and will. (Which isn't much, love.)
I spoke of mixed-media before. It's something that's growing in attraction to me, and right now I would give almost anything to write in my own handwriting on this thing, or leave my finger prints and doodles in thick paint all over the margins. Maybe that's part of my sloppiness lately, not caring whether or not if the mark I leave is "perfect", but instead looking for the beauty in everything in its wholeness, not just spliced and framed and edited by the ruler in me that was put there and dictated by other people. I'm not really particularly interested in that lately. But to fit under the wings of others, you must pare yourself down to their colors and specifications, and I guess I don't feel like my own wings are strong enough to hold and shelter me on their own. Still, I seem to pare myself down only to my own specifications.
Hey, did you know that a small part of yourself is revealed only after you've loved another and been loved in return? It is, in a way, fascinating, and of course, remarkable beautiful. Can you just imagine all the things we miss, though? Can you imagine all of the things all around and within us that we miss from being so frightened and blind? I read a short story today, the last in "Nine Stories", and, honestly, my favorite. Can you believe that crazy book begins and ends with a death, though? Geeze.
As it was, the short story contained a beautiful little scene that sort of goes with what I'm speaking of, missing things that go on without your presence or observation. Also a concept that came up when I was watching the sunrise last Tuesday. Mmmmm.
"He suddenly thrust his whole head out of the
porthole, kept it there a few seconds, then brought it in just long enough to report,
"Someone just dumped a whole garbage can of orange peels out the window."....
Teddy took in most of his head. "They float very nicely," he said without turning
around. "That's interesting."
"Teddy. For the last time. I'm going to count three, and then I'm-"
"I don't mean it's interesting that they float," Teddy said. "It's interesting that I know
about them being there. If I hadn't seen them, then I wouldn't know they were there,
and if I didn't know they were there, I wouldn't be able to say that they even exist.
That's a very nice, perfect example of the way--"
"Teddy," Mrs. McArdle interrupted, without visibly stirring under her top sheet. "Go
find Booper for me. Where is she? I don't want her lolling around in that sun again
today, with that bum."
"She's adequately covered. I made her wear her dungarees," Teddy said. "Some of
them are starting to sink now. In a few minutes, the only place they'll still be floating
will be inside my mind. That's quite interesting, because if you look at it a certain way,
that's where they started floating in the first place. If I'd never been standing here at all, or if somebody'd come along and sort of chopped my head off right while I was--" ....
Teddy lingered for a moment at the door, reflectively experimenting with the door
handle, turning it slowly left and right. "After I go out this door, I may only exist in the
minds of all my acquaintances," he said. "I may be an orange peel." "
(From "Teddy" in "Nine Stories" by JD Salinger)
Anyway, the last bit doesn't doesn't relate to what I've been thinking of so much, but that doesn't matter and it's an interesting lead off.
I'm crazy, sorry. I guess part of the crazy is what's lending such appeal to multi-media. Yeah. Just slapping whatever's in my head and heart all over whatever blank space presents itself at the time. I don't really care though, I explore myself just as thoroughly as anything around me. And I suppose part of that exploration is testing some of whatever's inside on the outside, seeing if any of it can hold its weight and color with so much all around it.
I think, with this post, I'm trying to see how far I can wander off the beginning course of things without losing anyone everyone who reads it, including myself. I'm still curious as whether or not if I can lead myself back to where I began and sew everything up tight and neatly.
What do you think?
What did it all feel like?
Ah, but that is an ending of no substance at all. It floats away, and that can be pretty, but I think it would be better if the ending buried itself deep in the ground rather than drifting off to ether. After all, that is what I'm attempting to do right here, whether I realized it at first or not; I am attempting to ground myself-- tie myself all over to life like a hot air balloon roped and bolted, straining from the ground.
Oh look at how beautiful they all are,
why come down when I can watch, detached,
unobserved and alone.
But they're absolutely lovely, and yeah, I want to be them-
all and everything,
And here I am,
watching,
seeing,
Wrapping my heart around them,
wings behind my ears like fingers and hands.
Wry smile, silly,
Maybe someday I will break in half, I don't know,
I swear I'm not torn,
just a little too expansive sometimes, and terribly ADD.
A while back I got a lovely comment from from Mary at Cogitational Counterpoints nominating me for the Liebster award, which is kinda fun and totally unexpected :) Thank you Mary, for reading and the nomination :) If you've been nominated or would like to nominate somebody, all you have to do is follow the below set of rules:
Link back to the blogger who nominated you.
Give 11 random facts about yourself.
Answer the 11 questions set by the person who nominated you.
Nominate 11 other bloggers who have a small following.
Create 11 questions for your nominees to answer.
Tell your nominees, on their own blog, that you have nominated them.
11 Random Facts About Me:
I dislike long sleeves, and nearly always roll or push them up.
I miss my dog terribly since he died last January.
Lately, I enjoy doing things that terrify me, I've been able to push past fear in the past couple of years, and I've found that I enjoy the things that are difficult for me all the more fiercely once I've somewhat mastered them. Take guitar tuning, for example, once a vast unknowable unknown, now one of my favorite things about practicing the guitar.
I love writing and receiving letters, though I'm not very good at actually writing and sending them in a timely manner.
The San Rafael Swell is my happy place.
I have no idea how to go about getting ready for Christmas this year, I haven't got a thing done and it's not much longer until December arrives.
The movie Inception was quite the spiritual and enlightening experience for me.
Right now I'm wearing my favorite blue sweater which will quite soon probably fall apart, as it is getting fairly threadbare in places.
I say I have no expectations, I think I have no expectations, but I'm quite open to the possibility that I might. I still maintain that relationship is organic and a thing of space rather than just bonds.
I love deep and thoughtful documentaries like Kumare, I Am, and The Nature Of Existence.
Life is terribly interesting to me, adventure, people, discovery. This outlook does tend to ebb and flow though, as all things do. I'm not sure balance is stillness so much as wave, pattern and resonance.
The 11 Questions That The Person Who Nominated Me Asked:
What is your favorite past time?
I don't really have any one favorite past time, I'm kinda scattered all over the place. I love hanging out with my friends and family, reading, writing, playing guitar. Hiking, whatever. I love doing everything, and it is all my favorite :)
2. Does art imitate life, or does life imitate art?
Both, yin and yang. Not opposite, but intertwined.
3. What's your ultimate goal in life?
Enlightenment and deep relationship.
4. What is the last thing you bought via online shopping?
Light Martin acoustic guitar strings. I'm awesome because I can break a string tuning down...
5. How did you get started using blogspot?
I got sick of how much I was on facebook in 2009, so I created this blog with the help of my dad to sort of experiment with for a week of abstinence from fb.
6. Do you have a favorite film, and if so, what is it?
Far too many favorites, and perhaps all because I have learned or can learn something from them.
7. What's your preferred fall outfit?
Jeans and a sweater over a t shirt, maybe a hat.
8. What's your biggest accomplishment to date?
I don't really believe in that. I just live.
9. Who inspires you the most?
Yo
10. The best show on television right now is:
Doctor Who :) (That's basically the only thing I watch right now that's ongoing and current, though.)
I don't think I shall nominate anyone else, if someone wants to nominate themselves from me, that'd be great, haha :) Just let me know and I'll come up with some questions :]
Where am I right now? I’m not writing about where I want to
be, or where I’m headed, but where I am right
now. So often I write about where I want to be, but instead of that
helping me move forward, I just feel lost and helpless.
Right now, I am lost; right now I can see a tiny light, but
I can’t seem to feel a pathway. I’m blindfolded; enough that everything is hazy
and unsure, but not so I don’t know I am blindfolded. I am numb; finger and toe
and heart-blind. I am deaf; hearing but snatches of sound and song. I am dumb;
half-communicating with incomplete words and fluttering hand gestures. I am
aware of so many perceived limitations, but I am also aware of what might be, beyond
all of this veil and insulation.
All is but impression on me, and I have fractional confidence.
I am an imperfect mirror, reflecting wobbly, watery images of others, and
myself, but reflecting non-the-less.
I am in a chrysalis, but I can’t tell if I, butterfly, am
emerging; or even if this, also, is nothing but a reflection of someone else.
I can sense patterns; but when you’re in the middle of a
pattern, yourself, with other people, it is so hard to stick to that pattern
sense, and to have confidence in it. It is so hard to sense that pattern truly,
objectively, and not reason yourself out of what you do really understand. The pattern of my days lately seems to be the
only pattern I can see without having to feel, without becoming lost in
emotions and the avoidance thereof. Mornings are lost in melancholy and a
certain sort of moping and ennui; afternoons are merely lost; evenings
terrifying and stressful (seems like that’s mostly just when I try really hard
to wrest back control, though.); and the night finally relaxes into pieces of
the puzzle settling in and temporary comfort.
Today, this afternoon, is lost and wandering; raw, drained,
and dry. I really don’t feel terrible though, because I finally shook off
sentimentality for a time, albeit ennui is not entirely gone. Maybe I am sick
in heart.
Still I manage to find puzzle pieces, and still I manage to
stick them, if only temporarily, to their places in life.
Why all of this writing of where we’re going, or where we
should be? Jonathon Livingston Seagull, how beautiful in its idealism and
teaching, but I can hardly see myself there. Did Richard Bach ever reach the
point his characters traveled? Did he even mean or strive to? Did he find any
of what he was looking for, and did he learn to practice it?
I keep finding small pieces in small places; small answers
in short books. We look for answers in other people and their works, but they
don’t even seem to be where they say it is possible to go. Maybe all they mean
to create is beautiful metaphor and nothing else. I have yet to actually meet
anyone who truly loves or flies or heals with their bare hands. Only healing
with herbs and heart, loving at all,
and flying in mind and spirit. Isn’t any of that, imperfect as it seems to be,
still miraculous?
Don’t we find something
in the search, don’t we come to understanding as we share? I don’t believe in
disregarding wisdom in a great person -or any person- because they’ve done
something stupid or bad in their lives. Wisdom is wisdom, and we are all so
complex and flawed, beautiful in our imperfection, beautiful in our strife and
struggle. We can come to some sort of completion, some sort of wholeness, in
sharing.
To finally answer my first question of where I am right now;
Estoy pero aqui, curled up writing on my bed, wandering life and my own heart
and mind.
Oh gordy, with people like Malala Yousafzi on this Earth, why does it not seem like anything is getting better?
Or more to the point, how the heck does one decide to be that outspoken in spite of possible consequences?
It feels like there is a need for more people like that, it feels like that is what would turn things around. We are headed in such a terrible direction, and yeah, I can't see the future, but I've learned a little of the past, however misrepresented that may be, but I don't know enough to see if it'll all be okay or if we're just building the world of 1984. That is somewhere I do not want to be, somewhere I don't want anyone to be, friends, relatives, strangers, the birds and bugs and trees.
But what is one to do? I am a person who is extremely intimidated by possible consequences. And I don't really know how or if not to be.
(Link, if'n you want to know what the heck I'm talking about:">Malala Yousafzi on the Daily ShowIt is not that I am in awe of her, for she is doing what every human being can and ought to do, it is that I wonder why on Earth more do not)
Did you find what you were looking for Out there, in the sand and rock? Is that why you, so bright, (I am tuned to you, resonating with your heart, what you desired) Did you find the beauty, Is that why you did not come back?
Dear Wood,
You are a splendid character.
I think it's great that you were the one
who introduced Harry to Quidditch.
You were a great team captain, and I
hope you went on to make a career of
Quidditch after you graduated Hogwarts.
I rather wish that the books had made
more mention of you, I am of the opinion
that you are a vastly under-appreciated
character.
The weather kinda stinks today, 'twouldn't
make for an ideal Quidditch practice, and
it makes for dismal roller blading.
Too bad.
The weather just can't decide what it
wants to be, again. That's how it is most
springs, and it always snows in march,
sometimes even as late as may.
Our winters are that of mild befuddlement,
as opposed to the usual rage :/
I am excited for Summer! I wish it would
come a little quicker. We haven't had our
spring break yet, though my dad was on
his a little while ago. Come to think of it,
his spring break was pretty short.
Here I am, talking of summer, and we
haven't even had spring break yet! How silly.
Oh, look at the time, it's 3:03 according to
the 'Touch's clock. Haha, there's a band
named 3OH!3, you know.
Not something I would name a band,
personally, but memorable nonetheless
I should be going now, I am eager to
go outside and roller-blade.
Thank you for taking the one to read this
letter, I hope you enjoyed it :)
I am closed, but all the people I admire are open.
In my happiest, greatest dreams, I am open.
I am masked and cloaked and closely guarded.
I keep then all out, so why do I so badly want them in, why do I hope they'll let me in?
The things I want most to be, I keep in myself, away from others.
My heart is giving, my soul is tender, but I keep them draped in watchful distrust, not the blackest or heaviest of shrouds, but very interfering in the filtering of light from within and without.
I want to give, but to protect myself from potential harshness from others, I beat them to the punch and make myself feel bad first, even though they had no such intent themselves. I was not raised to be anything but my most authentic, honest self, I was never told that anything about me wasanything but beautiful or multifaceted, and none of my friends have really stuck around long enough or been the kind of person to tell me anything of the sort. And yet, here it all is; the shroud, cloak and mask, the stinging barbs of "What you are you should not be" and "Nobody should/could/will ever like or love you".
But it is all lies, the voice that said I need all of this, the need for all of this, this in and of itself.
The Art Of Asking: it's okay to ask, it's okay to be open.
By asking, you are at your most vulnerable, your most earnest and authentic; your most open.
It is great, overflowing, boundless joy, and people respond to that on a very deep level, I respond to that on a very deep level.
Something will probably always be there (though I'm not going to over look the possibility that it won't), the worm-tongue whispering to the light of my being, "Hide. That is the only way to safety. Stay closed." But that voice is wrong; we get from others what we give, and I want the world to be as bright as I sometimes feel always.
"It might be a good idea if the various countries of the world would occasionally swap history books, just to see what other people are doing with the same set of facts."
Bill Vaughan
I must confess that these past few days haven't been the best for me, not depressing, just a little melancholy and listless. I want to do something really big, really cool. And by big and cool, I probably don't mean anything you might be thinking of; by big and cool I guess I mean quirky and creative. I want to put smiles on a bunch of people's faces, even if I'm not there to see it. I want to shine a light on the unseen corners of my world so other people can cock their heads to one side while their eyes light up with the sunshine of discovery; I want to bring about a smile in their hearts as well as on their faces. I want them to look at the world, and go "Oh!" as something shifts in their minds.
I guess I rather want to do something like what Katie Sokoler from "Color Me Katie" does, but I don't seem to have the energy or the space or the resources to do it with; whether or not if I really do, I think I don't.
Perhaps I need to tell myself a different story, one where my life is exciting and easy and I have lots of friends, because, for all I know, all of those things could be true, and my current mindset could be false.
At least I finally got one of my wishes today; I've overcome the writer's block I didn't even know I had, I'm managing to write what I feel in an eloquent and descriptive way, in earnest and in honesty.
I keep saying to myself lately "I wish I could write like Raven", He's so kind and clear in his replies to strong-minded and narrow-sighted comments of every sort. I get too emotional, in type and in person, I feel, or rather, felt that I wasn't very good at expressing myself in an earnest and helpful way, in a way that would set my opinion free without rising up in contest to other people's opinions. I've finally unlocked that ability right here, in this post, though I'm still a long way from the intricacy of writing like Jane Austen, and of speaking with the easy eloquence of my dad.
“An old woman is opening a letter from her son. He is suggesting she moves into a home for old people. She doesn’t want to go.”
Opal carefully slit the letter open with one of her long, dark-purple nails.
The porch swing she sat on swayed back and forth in front of her beloved home; her adoring young husband, Eli, had built the small, pristine white house as a celebration of their marriage. He had died more than four years ago, but Opal still felt the gaping hole that had been left in her life after his passing.
She began to read the tidy penmanship of her eldest son.
“Dearest Mother,
“I know you have reassured me that you’re quite fine; I still worry about you living all alone in Vermont, so far away from my brothers and myself. Since you won’t consider my offer to come and live with me and my family in California,” Too damn hot, Opal thought to herself before she continued to read the letter with trepidation;
“I decided to research homes for the elderly in Vermont. I’ve found a very promising institution, with minimal rules, and it’s close enough to your neighborhood that you won’t feel out of place.
Please consider this offer, Mother, I truly want the best for you.
Your loving son
Michael.”
Opal set the half-open letter down on the porch swing, the edges of the paper trembled slightly in a spring breeze.
If that well-meaning, persistent, eldest-son of mine thinks I’ll move into an ‘old folks’ home’, he’s as crazy as the kaizer. She thought, while a fond and annoyed grin stretched her wrinkly mouth. Though her face was as creased as a Shar Pei puppy, she was a beautiful woman.
She sat up from the porch swing, her joints creaking more than a little, and stalked through her front door to fetch a pen and paper, a determined look giving strength to her face and stride.
