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Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
June 27, 2008
45 Mercy Street
Anne Sexton
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I’m walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign –
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant’s teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was…
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger’s seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
sucked up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down –
I don’t care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
May 28, 2008
The near-enemy of love is attachment. Attachment masquerades as love. It says, “I will love you if you will love me back.” It is a kind of “businessman’s” love. So we think, “I will love this person as long as he doesn’t change. I will love that thing if it will be the way I want it.” But this isn’t love at all–it is attachment. There is a big difference between love, which allows and honors and appreciates, and attachment, which grasps and demands and aims to possess. When attachment becomes confused with love, it actually separates us from another person. We feel we need this other person in order to be happy. This quality of attachment also leads us to offer love only toward certain people, excluding others.
–Joseph Goldstein
wordpres is sometimes more a pain than a pleasure
March 8, 2008Then
“at that time: Prices were lower then.”
Than
“used, as after comparative adjectives and adverbs: She’s taller than I am.”
Gah, I am 23 years old and I still use these interchangeably! Now that I wrote them down I feel better.
I am on my mid-winter break from school and I am going a little out of my mind with cabin fever. I got an A in my English 101 class(not a big surprise) but I am failing my math class pretty badly. one up and one down.
I am ignoring everyone, I feel like I have been sitting behind this computer screen all 2008. I guess that is kind of true isn’t it.
One year ago today I started dating Lilyan.
Cute, aye?
I took an extra long nap today after work and woke up at 9:30pm. That did not help my plans for making another painting video or my insomnia!
look at me now
