Eliot rant

**i thought this was a bit pretentious so i tried to edit a bit**
an alarming number of people claim that Thomas Eliot is *esoteric.* i beg to differ. no: i just differ. vehemently. take The Waste Land, for example. i grant it is difficult, even acrobatic. if one troubles to break it down to any degree, however, one will find that Eliot uses the sources common to any good artist or poet: mythology (the nightengale and tiresius), shakespeare (especially the tempest), wagner (especially das ring des niebelungen and tristan und isolde), history, and geography. what is so esoteric about that? if you look into norse mythology, old english, and ancient british history, you will discover that tolkien lifted half of his languages and ideas from those sources. eliot does the same thing. he uses a more fragmented manner because he is trying to write a poem that reflected the fragmented confusion of post-Great War europe. he does use personal experience (what artist doesn't!), but still in a universal manner. what is so obscure about a nostalgia, insomnia, adultery, neuroses? i'm not especially well-versed in these things; i'm not a particularly good scholar--i'm too lazy and careless--but i have found that it doesn't take extraordinary amounts of knowledge to make Eliot's poetry accessible or meaningful. it just takes some time and care to actually read the poem. the more knowledge one has about the great works of literature, history and so forth, the more meaning can be seen, but that does not mean his poems have no meaning without that knowledge. it means that eliot's observations and commentary are not baby food, that they actually take some time for thought, to make connections, draw parallels, and so forth. this is a basic principle of literary analysis that should be used anyway, for any poem or novel or whatever. so there is my tirade. feedback appreciated.

damyankees

i was born and raised in detroit, but i think i got all of my grandmother's yazoo city, mississippi blood. i miss the south. perhaps the only way that michigan has got virginia beat is the thunder storms. there have already been two up here that beat any down in virginia.
drivers in NoVa are assinine, but drivers up here try to kill you. the speed limit on the highway is 70, which means you'd best be going at least 80 or you're likely get shot or run off the road.
nanynka, my filly, knocked a board down on the fence and decided to pay the folks a visit at home. she's a friendly little girl.
speaking of little girls, i am inundated with them and loving it. also my little sister is engaged: kudos and congrats in order!
my nephew is adorable. he thinks i'm great 'cause i push him on the swing and play choo-choos with him.
one of my jobs is in a gift shop at a rehab center. they sell these little stuffed bears that say "get well soon."
today i'll fix the fence, give the girls a riding lesson, learn some more gillian welch, and hopefully see my goddaughter.
please keep me mum in your prayers. she's been on bed rest for almost a month with a slipped disk.

chinatown

*dance me to the children who are asking to be born*

*she closed herself up like a fan*

*love is not love*which alters when it alteration finds*

*i've got a man in every state*some are good and some are great*

(madeline peyroux*kathryn roberts*shakespeare*uncle earl)

a good recipe for tilapia:
sautee 1 clove crushed garlic and some tarragon in butter
add 4 filets tilapia and capers to taste; cook
flip to 2nd side; drizzle lime juice over fish
cook 'till fish flakes

homeward bound

it has finally happened. i am actually home! my sister brought her son and her boyfriend down to pick me up. niko, my arbitrary nick-name for my nephew dominic, and i had a blast: we went for a walk (run, really) down the block, played with thomas trains, our feet, and every time i left the car he yelled loudly for me to come back and sit down next to him. life is great. the final days in VA ended with:

*spending lots of time with more awesome old friends*singing loudly to spamalot*riding bareback up a mountain with a beer can (a strange occurance; normally i find beer about as appealing as, oh, used motor oil. this story will be expanded later.)*one last High Mass in d.c. with fr. pope, one of the most amazing priests ever, who also blessed a rosary that an awesome friend made for me*watching mighty wind and eating lots of ice cream*having glorious discussions on artistic ethics and the inevitable grotesque end of aestheticism*dinner with an old professor who 1) is a gourmet cook 2) is delighted i am going to grad school and so 3) is going to make me send in my papers to him before i turn them in for class so i have to actually be disciplined and apply myself!!!*

right now i am relaxing at my brother and sister-in-law's with their dog, otto. last summer, otto and i had a disagreement which ended with him trying to remove my thumb from its rightful place. i have a nice looking scar, but we are good friends now.

bertolini art

silvana posted an awesome painting on her blog. i will be meeting up with her in italy to bum around rome and then gravagna (see earlier post for photos).

the wanderer (again)

no, not the off-the-wall publication, but something worth reading:

You wander through the failing light
Where shadows dance and fade
'Round the hollow where courage once was laid.
Yet in this night of frailty
Though your soul cries out alone,
May you turn from haunted memories

To see the world you've never known
Through roads that wither thin
you must challenge the fate that you have seen
You're in your house of painted glass
Where you're sheltered but alone
As you wait for night that does not pass

Wanderer. You've strayed alone; you've lost your way

'Gainst the night you bear the chill
As solace withers down
You have silenced the truth that you have found.
Wasted by the wake of years
Of a life that stands alone.
You've crossed the chains that bind you here.

Wanderer ...

by my friend ann, who is a very good writer. she made it into a song, because she is also a very good musician.

c'est la vie?

so i went up to michigan on sunday, great trip up; started my new jobs this past week, getting ready for my horses to come today ... HAHA just kidding!!!!!! ... started driving up on sunday when the transmission in my folks' van said "no" and so it is in maryland supposedly getting fixed. meanwhile, i'm back in FroRo, but if things had gone as planned, i would not have:

*bummed around with awesome old friends in maryland*gotten a last blessing from fr. o'kielty*said goodbye to francis mcfall, an 84-year-old business man in downtown fro'ro'*seen more awesome old friends and their really cute 2 month old son*gone climbing one last time in GW national forest and ridden up the shenandoah river with yet another awesome friend*been able to load my ponies on the trailer this morning*and who knows what else is still to come????

God and i do not so much always have the same sense of humour, and i'm not quite sure what He wants from me this time, although i am getting lots more practice being a gipsy. good thing, too; i was getting a little rusty.

Fate Promises

Wait for the substance of what is unseen
To replace what this moment will bring;
Feet tap in time for the beat to begin,
To be lost in the rhythm of expert oblivion;
Conscious velleity sways the menagerie:

Despite best intentions, desire persists
And insists on its carnival whirl;
Paper wings will transport you on present desire;
Outside, all is quiet in vain expectation,
No breeze to disturb the tranquility; waiting
For the night’s picaresque to begin

Wafting and sinking in absent arms
Perceiving absinthine electric desire.
Reality shatters, gradations of blue
Reflected in translucent shadows of memory.
Welcome deceptions, illusion’s creations,
Intenser passions than this sterile world:
Who are we to dictate what should not exist?

For only this moment, the world is assenting—
Believe fabrication, ignoring the jester
Who waits for the innocent,
One unsuspecting,
To create his finale in front of the king.
The senseless illusion he has allowed
Is the substance of our entertainment;
The crowded sky waits for the farce to begin.