30 March 2011
29 March 2011
the tale of zal and rudabeh
from the shahnameh, stories of persian mythology/history compiled by ferdowsi in the 11th century:
From moment then to moment their desire
Gained strength, and wisdom fled before love's fire;
Passion engulfed them, and these lovers lay
Entwined together till the break of day.
So tightly they embraced, before Zal left,
Zal was the warp, and Rudabeh the weft
Of one cloth, as with tears they said goodbye
And cursed the sun for rising in the sky.
Zal let himself down from the battlements,
And made his way back to his army's tents.
From moment then to moment their desire
Gained strength, and wisdom fled before love's fire;
Passion engulfed them, and these lovers lay
Entwined together till the break of day.
So tightly they embraced, before Zal left,
Zal was the warp, and Rudabeh the weft
Of one cloth, as with tears they said goodbye
And cursed the sun for rising in the sky.
Zal let himself down from the battlements,
And made his way back to his army's tents.
27 March 2011
26 March 2011
25 March 2011
mindreader
part one
i went out with, and later became friends with, a guy who has pretty low standards. he requires two things of a woman, and both must be significant in size: breasts and a brain for books. she can be anything else -- boring, cruel, selfish -- as long as she can smother him with her motherly tits, perhaps while discussing henry miller.
i have no interest in being described as "well-read." i would, however, like to be considered a "thinker."
this, as a compliment, is new to me. it's impossible to define, and so is completely subjective. intelligence is in the eye of the beholder, i guess. even if it isn't widely recognized, it is certainly something to own. most people can read, but the ideas that spring from written words are specific to each being. how i feel about a book, what i think, and what i say about it is just mine. and for anyone to see, appreciate, and even name that process is just ... a miracle.
part two
my brain is (still) having a torrid affair with portraits of a marriage:
what should i read next?
hiroshima by john hersey might be a good choice. it's relevant and i know i love it.
i fell in love with walter moer's world of zamonia a couple of years ago when i read rumo. i recently bought the next in the series, the city of dreaming books.
or, i could satisfy my desire for otherness with the king's rifle by biyi bandele.
it doesn't matter which i choose; it will be read silently, alone. for this, i sigh.
i went out with, and later became friends with, a guy who has pretty low standards. he requires two things of a woman, and both must be significant in size: breasts and a brain for books. she can be anything else -- boring, cruel, selfish -- as long as she can smother him with her motherly tits, perhaps while discussing henry miller.
i have no interest in being described as "well-read." i would, however, like to be considered a "thinker."
this, as a compliment, is new to me. it's impossible to define, and so is completely subjective. intelligence is in the eye of the beholder, i guess. even if it isn't widely recognized, it is certainly something to own. most people can read, but the ideas that spring from written words are specific to each being. how i feel about a book, what i think, and what i say about it is just mine. and for anyone to see, appreciate, and even name that process is just ... a miracle.
part two
my brain is (still) having a torrid affair with portraits of a marriage:
"there was nothing flirtatious about her, neither her eyes nor her posture. there was no invitation ... no, she was a woman willing to look a man in the eye because she thinks she might have something in common with him."
what should i read next?
hiroshima by john hersey might be a good choice. it's relevant and i know i love it.
"many, although injured themselves, supported relatives who were worse off. almost all had their heads bowed, looked straight ahead, were silent, and showed no expression whatsoever."
i fell in love with walter moer's world of zamonia a couple of years ago when i read rumo. i recently bought the next in the series, the city of dreaming books.
"i attended timber-time readings, seated beneath the cellar steps like an old ghost, and listened to lousy poems being recited by tipsy jobbing poets as if they were the music of the spheres."
or, i could satisfy my desire for otherness with the king's rifle by biyi bandele.
"wearily, damisa leant against a tree. he was only twenty-six; in banana's eyes he'd always behaved like a man of twice his age. but now as he rested his head against the teak tree, he looked like a little boy lost."
it doesn't matter which i choose; it will be read silently, alone. for this, i sigh.
'til death do us ... ah, nevermind.
two interesting articles on marriage, or lack thereof:
the power or love
the first couple of guatemala are filing for divorce so the wife can succeed her husband as president.
america's heartland?
conservative iowa's divorce rates are catching up to the rest of the country, eternal damnation be damned. a favorite quote: “There’s a perception here that you need to be perfect,” said the Rev. John Lee ... “When you admit weakness, you invite shame.”
the power or love
the first couple of guatemala are filing for divorce so the wife can succeed her husband as president.
america's heartland?
conservative iowa's divorce rates are catching up to the rest of the country, eternal damnation be damned. a favorite quote: “There’s a perception here that you need to be perfect,” said the Rev. John Lee ... “When you admit weakness, you invite shame.”
24 March 2011
blackout
an old friend found me on the internet, and we exchanged a few emails. i complimented her family photos by mentioning that her parents and brother still look good, twenty years later. she laughed in her reply, saying that max probably does look good, considering that he's been dead for three years.
she explained that while her parents say it was pneumonia that killed him, she admits it was mental illness and heroin. she didn't say much more about it than that.
i've wondered since then if her parents lie because they are ashamed, or are they simply in denial? probably a bit of both.
dope addiction is not easy to conceal, but people see what they want to see, especially when their love is strong. they can't be blamed for their inaction, even if it means life or death.
i imagine that as much as max tried to hide his sickness, he also tried to show it. the sufferer is in a constant battle against himself. the body is programmed to survive at all costs, and that expense may even be another part of itself. the mind, however, is a trickster. it only seeks peace, and can create infinite lines of logic to defend and rationalize any action that seems to promise safety. what is solace for the mind isn't necessarily so for the body.
perhaps the mind and body fight it out until someone calls for a tie-breaker. could that be the soul?
she explained that while her parents say it was pneumonia that killed him, she admits it was mental illness and heroin. she didn't say much more about it than that.
i've wondered since then if her parents lie because they are ashamed, or are they simply in denial? probably a bit of both.
dope addiction is not easy to conceal, but people see what they want to see, especially when their love is strong. they can't be blamed for their inaction, even if it means life or death.
i imagine that as much as max tried to hide his sickness, he also tried to show it. the sufferer is in a constant battle against himself. the body is programmed to survive at all costs, and that expense may even be another part of itself. the mind, however, is a trickster. it only seeks peace, and can create infinite lines of logic to defend and rationalize any action that seems to promise safety. what is solace for the mind isn't necessarily so for the body.
perhaps the mind and body fight it out until someone calls for a tie-breaker. could that be the soul?
20 March 2011
19 March 2011
14 March 2011
no, no, daddy
/ and i think i love him / i love him just like i raised him /
when he call me mama / lil mama / i call him baby /
life is bearing and being children. there is one true love on this planet, and that is between parent and child. every other love is based on this template. even spiritual love is described in familial terms. whether you believe in Our Father, or Mother Earth, you are soothed by being a child of some-One. it makes sense that romantic love would incorporate this idea as well.
i have been happiest with men that display their childlike qualities shamelessly. outwardly, it's a sense of fun and goofiness, but behind the door, he is vulnerable and sweet. i hear all of his secrets and my heart breaks if it seems he hasn't been loved enough. i want to protect him. i want to soothe him, not save him. i mother him quite literally by giving blankets and toys. i hold him if he cries, and love him when he laughs. i offer advice on anything from first-aid to changing careers. i disapprove when he is too drunk, but always bring remedies the next day. i might be the only one to support him without limit.
a man is sexy when he shows his paternal side to me. he draws emotional boundaries without creating barriers. he is serious and sensible with his money, politics, and morals. he protects me, either by "looking out" for me or showing jealousy. he loves his babies, or if he has none, he is happy when he "gets" to hold one. he works hard and earns respect. he believes in me and wants me to believe it, too.
the best thing about parenting each other is that we get to be kids together.
when he call me mama / lil mama / i call him baby /
life is bearing and being children. there is one true love on this planet, and that is between parent and child. every other love is based on this template. even spiritual love is described in familial terms. whether you believe in Our Father, or Mother Earth, you are soothed by being a child of some-One. it makes sense that romantic love would incorporate this idea as well.
i have been happiest with men that display their childlike qualities shamelessly. outwardly, it's a sense of fun and goofiness, but behind the door, he is vulnerable and sweet. i hear all of his secrets and my heart breaks if it seems he hasn't been loved enough. i want to protect him. i want to soothe him, not save him. i mother him quite literally by giving blankets and toys. i hold him if he cries, and love him when he laughs. i offer advice on anything from first-aid to changing careers. i disapprove when he is too drunk, but always bring remedies the next day. i might be the only one to support him without limit.
a man is sexy when he shows his paternal side to me. he draws emotional boundaries without creating barriers. he is serious and sensible with his money, politics, and morals. he protects me, either by "looking out" for me or showing jealousy. he loves his babies, or if he has none, he is happy when he "gets" to hold one. he works hard and earns respect. he believes in me and wants me to believe it, too.
the best thing about parenting each other is that we get to be kids together.
13 March 2011
how could you?
now, when i need you most, you've left me. we've been close for over ten years; i thought it would last forever. i even bragged about your loyalty just the other day! what can i do now? you know i've never liked to do it alone. before you came, i was awkward and shy and denied myself so many pleasures. somehow, with you, i felt safe. now, my body will fall dormant again. i will never take on another like you. there can only be one "us."
12 March 2011
mmmm, otherness.
the first boy to kiss me "there," was hungarian.
just out of high school, i was in a fever with a guy from honduras.
in new york, i stumbled through the subway and found a lovely german to carry me back to union square, where we loved bagels and each other, briefly.
i roamed around the bobo/hobo parts of cincinnati and stayed with a smooth columbian for a while.
in my mid-twenties, i fell madly in love with an indian boy, while two more of them fell for me.
i went out with a nice persian engineering student, once.
oh, and my algerian tennis partner. 30-love!
again, in nyc, i crushed on a russian kid cycling me in his rickshaw around times square.
and most recently, well ... yeah.
what flavor is next? brasilian? perhaps a swede -- i do love me some ABBA.
(it should be noted that the one to capture my heart the most completely was one who reminded me of my own family, of the self of mine that i've hidden forever. blond, fair, and quite american, but still with a sexy accent. i think that's the trick.)
just out of high school, i was in a fever with a guy from honduras.
in new york, i stumbled through the subway and found a lovely german to carry me back to union square, where we loved bagels and each other, briefly.
i roamed around the bobo/hobo parts of cincinnati and stayed with a smooth columbian for a while.
in my mid-twenties, i fell madly in love with an indian boy, while two more of them fell for me.
i went out with a nice persian engineering student, once.
oh, and my algerian tennis partner. 30-love!
again, in nyc, i crushed on a russian kid cycling me in his rickshaw around times square.
and most recently, well ... yeah.
what flavor is next? brasilian? perhaps a swede -- i do love me some ABBA.
(it should be noted that the one to capture my heart the most completely was one who reminded me of my own family, of the self of mine that i've hidden forever. blond, fair, and quite american, but still with a sexy accent. i think that's the trick.)
10 March 2011
who dealt this mess?
i didn't shuffle, or even cut the deck.
i'm just playing the hand i was given.
it could be shit, or it could be a winner.
that doesn't matter.
i'll still go all in.
i'm just playing the hand i was given.
it could be shit, or it could be a winner.
that doesn't matter.
i'll still go all in.
05 March 2011
02 March 2011
a telling sign
i'm not close with any dead people, but one day i will be. i see myself continuing communication with them, which is something i always thought was strange. people sitting at gravesites, weeping and offering, seems so false to me. your person is not there, don't you know? it's just dirt at this point (or ooze, depending on the "quality" of the casket).
now i realize that i can't help sending love to people i've lost, dead or not. if i sent letters to a dead person, it would be seen as spiritual and sensitive. trying to stay in touch with someone who might wish i were dead is simply pathetic.
i don't care.
now i realize that i can't help sending love to people i've lost, dead or not. if i sent letters to a dead person, it would be seen as spiritual and sensitive. trying to stay in touch with someone who might wish i were dead is simply pathetic.
i don't care.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)