snow day desultoriness
Rachel (disambiguation)
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For other people with an alternate spelling, see Rachael.
Rachel may mean:
Rachel, in the bible
Rachel (actress), 19th-century France
Rachel, famous Israeli poet
Rachel, Nevada, a town
Rachel (sandwich), a type of sandwich
Rachel, Rachel, movie
Rachel's, an American post-rock group
...............
so he was like that all along, he strung us from his calloused palm to his hardened fingertips, extensions of the blue vein threading wildly to his wrist, for it is in his blood to be like that, to mark us all along in a row and renew hope by decimation, by speaking low, breathing quiet and heavy, touching napes of necks awkwardly in the dim, and we would see, demurely, and love him for how he swallowed and looked hard and away, at the smoothness of our shoulders the curve of our calves the tentatively marked way we smiled, holding strands of hair up off our cheekbones; he painted things, picked out the bluest blade of grass and wove it around our wrists, but he could not whisper, he hunted, killed, had the sea in him since birth--the turbulent waves that came crashing to her feet murdering themselves on the rocks while she carried him in her, he was esau and jacob both, and so we loved him while he broke off pieces of us here and there and ground them to powder with his blue-veined heel
................
"I would think how words go straight up in a thin line, quick and harmless, and how terribly doing goes along the earth, clinging to it, so that after a while the two lines are too far apart for the same person to straddle from one to the other; and that sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget the words."
--William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying
................
things travel and spin backward, things like truth, originality--things that can't evolve anymore than what we can discover, things that stick in the mud like a worthless reedy wheel, spent things, things that lose flavour with age, that had no taste in youth, things that weight us when, oblivious, we build our sturdy structures atop the volcanoes, when we write with thoughts of the whole (and never mention those ubiquitous shackles), when we sow and gather stalks of jurisprudence, when we reach the highest, purest form by denying the jagged crack which runs all through it
There were some things that I was game for, and you never dared me.Like?Eating ants... insulting the unemployed... loving you like crazy.
Now they want to name their pasts:
as golden, curling wisps of air in
pink-streaked summer skies,
to call again, collect again:
pure breaths and endless youth;
now, again, they want to dress simplicity
in white.
Instead:
they reach back and pluck
grey fruit and carven stones from under purple shadows.
Instead:
they remember when they danced
past rooms of yellow lights,
and tasted the metal while breathing
out of darkened windows;
they held their minutes loosely.
Now they want to name their pasts:
forgetting what they were....
What I wanted to say in that poem, and what I couldn't say because it was a poem, was that they remember everything less shadowed, they see it, now, simpler, as purely white. They weren't really like that, their pasts--not so golden and airy, not so sweet--they were metallic things, the things they did, they were bitter, and full and heady and vivid. And the mould of the past, the mould of true memory (not that faded sentimentality of pastel dreams and lightly wafting scents), is the set the same as the hollowed curve of the present. They are two notes striking the same tone and reverberating off the same wooden cavern, echoing and vibrating, and waving through the air: inextricably intertwined.
That is why to be sentimental is to taste something bittersweet, but to remember is to relive....
The beginning and end, The reason, answer,
The purpose
are there, see?
Hidden for the Esoterical
past those countries of deep blue and purple, and their etchings of stone.
no time or hate, there is no Room for
those spaces and lines and grotesque emotions, instead:
this raping Love and Profit prevail, and Science to a point.
art and language are wasted whittlings,
dreams are escapisms;
for Reality does not dream or seek to capture itself in abstractionism.
it must be a lofty Philosophy
straining itself above children and music to human heights of
Poverty or War.
and all earthen whispers are decorations for
Us who are seeking The beginning and end, The reason, answer,
The purpose
(unaware of laughs and lights spilling on water and those fathomable things within)
syzygy
From a purple viewpoint,
where all husks of earth are spent and
tinged with blue,
one must glance up,
must stop to gaze--
and that which arrests the sight
will stay the mind and draw its line
and reel and reel the thoughtful in;
will hold, and capture, and break
the sea, and one must feel,
must stop to feel,
the crumbling of shadows,
whispers of
tumbling brick
and rumbles of iron towers
falling,
while this one fire, white and pale,
will hold the mind
and steal its thought.
Is it the experiences that really matter, or is it the memories of the things? Is it the looking back, that mulling over of the prominent reds and blues (to draw a concept), or is it the actions themselves, those sights of subtlety and sepia-toned shades, which pass ungloried and uncomprehended before your eyes, today? And why are you so hungry to live oldly, to grow up and travel to a new summer and see the way the waves crash when you are blinded by responsibilities and influences (to watch through grey-tinted glasses) and burdened by skills of lying and hiding?
Sometimes Cynthia would try to read, the way she knew some people did for hours at a time. She would hold a book, and make her eyes run left over a line, then down, and left again. Then she would drag her eyes to the right, and hear the words backwards in her head. retteb dah eh wenk kcaJ llits tub rettam eht fo elpicnirp eht t'nsaw She would end holding the book upside down against her legs, with her face lifted to the warmth of the rain falling against her window, and her eyes closed.
Sometimes Cynthia dreamed, and when she did, it was always in black and white. Sometimes she felt as though the world should be like that, black and white. It would be simpler, and no one would try to paint things that already existed and were just fine existing.
Sometimes Cynthia hated God. She believed in him, but she would wonder why he had created people to create things which were used for uncreating the other things he had created.
Sometimes Cynthia felt as though she wasn't thinking anything at all. The truth was, sometimes she really wasn't, and time would pass, and that was it. When she had moved away from that part of the world, and went to live in that part of the world, she hadn't really ever thought about it.
I'm an aunt!
Little Owen Nicholas Langelaar was born today.
My (2nd) Prize-Winning Poem
Grey-blue glass undulates and crests,
and, stealing silver points of sun,
rushes to kiss a rock-lined shore.
Liquid rubato, rhythmic run.
Constancy falters while waves breathe.
Lake, dappled light, ripples like time.
Peaks descend after pools rise;
sun to shadows, these years align.
Chaotic peaceful paradox
laps smoothly-careless, cold.
Unmoved by shapes or bodies, it
glides, breaks where swells are rolled.
Waves, dappled light, ripple like time.
Sun to shadows, these years align.
Glassy, smooth, softly rippled, waved,
crashing, spewing--unheeding time.
blue and grey, muted, and i watch a bird fly over it
a solitary x soaring, straight straight, pulled along
by an invisible puppeteer
then gone and all is blue and grey, muted
