Wednesday 25 April 2012
Tuesday 24 April 2012
The Language of the Dying Suns
Listening to She Keeps Bees - Dig On
I finished another paper last night. Ending it, I was listening to Bright Eyes' I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning and at 3:30 in the morning I was in that place where I too felt like going wild. I'm close to this first finishing and am excited to not know what to do. I have hope. Let me reiterate: I have hope.
I find it difficult to post on a poetry blog because I have been in a drought of inspiration. I get crazy in times like these and I will write about anything. I will write because, of course, I would die if I did not. The community poetry blog is a good format though; in the same breath it allows you to show your poetry to other people, critical people, and to place a more realistic level of importance on your writing. It does not allow you to be esoteric, you must engage.
listening to Shakey Graves - Roll the Bones
I just thought I'd share that. One of my loaned books was returned to me last night with a letter and more poetry. That is the best way. So long as we keep writing letters and putting poetry in them, our language will not be one of metal or binaries. I had hoped to leave this particular book in this particular person's care for a time, but I cannot pass up a letter; letters are the best. But let me say it again (til our language dies and we are left speechless on the shore of an unknown ocean (and even then)): hope remains.
Will
I finished another paper last night. Ending it, I was listening to Bright Eyes' I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning and at 3:30 in the morning I was in that place where I too felt like going wild. I'm close to this first finishing and am excited to not know what to do. I have hope. Let me reiterate: I have hope.
I find it difficult to post on a poetry blog because I have been in a drought of inspiration. I get crazy in times like these and I will write about anything. I will write because, of course, I would die if I did not. The community poetry blog is a good format though; in the same breath it allows you to show your poetry to other people, critical people, and to place a more realistic level of importance on your writing. It does not allow you to be esoteric, you must engage.
listening to Shakey Graves - Roll the Bones
I just thought I'd share that. One of my loaned books was returned to me last night with a letter and more poetry. That is the best way. So long as we keep writing letters and putting poetry in them, our language will not be one of metal or binaries. I had hoped to leave this particular book in this particular person's care for a time, but I cannot pass up a letter; letters are the best. But let me say it again (til our language dies and we are left speechless on the shore of an unknown ocean (and even then)): hope remains.
Will
Wednesday 18 April 2012
Notes from Under a Bare Pine
If I must make one post in the year 2012, I suppose it makes sense that it would be in the heart of paper writing season; right where I have no business writing anything extraneous but have the greatest desire to do so.
Listening to Codeine by Trampled by Turtles
It's nothing to do with the Buffy St. Marie song, of which The Litter did an incomparable cover, but Trampled by Turtles is putting down some sweet bluegrass vibes here.
The semester is going; it evaporates and I am left with the dross of all the things I didn't do and the refuse from all the things I did.
Hope is persistent. It cannot be ignored.
Listening to First Love by Emmy the Great
It isn't Leonard Cohen, but it somehow escapes being simply derivative. This song exists on a different plane from that abominable pastiche of Sweet Home Alabama from He-who-shall-not-be-named.
Newness enters the world and I couldn't tell you how. Bhabha claims it's all hybridity; that we are made new as we encounter the other. I'm inclined to agree, but the places that this idea leads to; the places I am led to by hybridity, identity as negotiated, losing a progressive view of history (with our comforting origin and telos), and knowing otherness in proximity. These are frightening and beautiful. (what's wrong with a few sentence fragments here and there; they'll be resolved eventually (it really just serves to build tension))
Listening to If I Wanted Someone by Dawes
If I wanted someone? Want? Desire is fickle. I'm not sure what I want, but this sentiment rings with some truth in my ears.
And suddenly we are paralyzed. We go from melting glaciers to falling, exhausted, under a bare pine. We had the world coursing in our veins for the shortest time, climbing through the substance of nothingness with blinding voracity. And we are muted, lost in a hollow of snow. Silent and brooding before a mountain that is stronger than we are. But hope is persistent, it cannot be ignored.
Will
Listening to Codeine by Trampled by Turtles
It's nothing to do with the Buffy St. Marie song, of which The Litter did an incomparable cover, but Trampled by Turtles is putting down some sweet bluegrass vibes here.
The semester is going; it evaporates and I am left with the dross of all the things I didn't do and the refuse from all the things I did.
Hope is persistent. It cannot be ignored.
Listening to First Love by Emmy the Great
It isn't Leonard Cohen, but it somehow escapes being simply derivative. This song exists on a different plane from that abominable pastiche of Sweet Home Alabama from He-who-shall-not-be-named.
Newness enters the world and I couldn't tell you how. Bhabha claims it's all hybridity; that we are made new as we encounter the other. I'm inclined to agree, but the places that this idea leads to; the places I am led to by hybridity, identity as negotiated, losing a progressive view of history (with our comforting origin and telos), and knowing otherness in proximity. These are frightening and beautiful. (what's wrong with a few sentence fragments here and there; they'll be resolved eventually (it really just serves to build tension))
Listening to If I Wanted Someone by Dawes
If I wanted someone? Want? Desire is fickle. I'm not sure what I want, but this sentiment rings with some truth in my ears.
And suddenly we are paralyzed. We go from melting glaciers to falling, exhausted, under a bare pine. We had the world coursing in our veins for the shortest time, climbing through the substance of nothingness with blinding voracity. And we are muted, lost in a hollow of snow. Silent and brooding before a mountain that is stronger than we are. But hope is persistent, it cannot be ignored.
Will
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