Monday, November 24, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
In other news, I am low enough on time that I anticipate not blogging for at least another two weeks. Priorities...
Happy Thanksgiving, at any rate!
Monday, November 10, 2008
(sweeping away the colors,call me. Don't sit in silence,
absorbing all the light,
stilling the quick movements)
gritting your teeth, gripping your pen,when the depression sweeps your words away
scraping its point across the paper.
You hold the pen in a clenched fist,
Don't sit in the cold silence
as the people pass in and out,Don't be the only still stone
and never speak your name.
in a world of leaves flying on the windwhen the depression comes
(They start to fall, but they never really land)
Don't let it sweep over you.
I know, it comes like the cold tide of a grey ocean.sweeping around your bare ankles, swirling the gritty sand.
I know, it comes faster than you could ever expect,
But don't just stand there,
when the depression comes (cold)don't stand there (shivering and soaked)--Move, climb:
and the wind sweeps in (chilling),
There is a solid place where you can sit,
and watch the world change:
the falling leaves, the inexorable oceanbut you'll be on dry ground
and the wind will roar around you
When the depression comes: call me.
I will sweep the falling leaves
[I wrote this during my free-writing class. But it was always for you.]
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Four hours of sleep and statistics homework still undone is not what I think of as good time management. What am I doing with my life? All the things that are most important. . . So it must be good time management. . .
Is it selfish of me to want more sleep?
Sunday, November 2, 2008
We passed through the realm of the trees, who stood in patient crowds upon the rolling hills. The ones by the wayside stared as we passed by, but said nothing--or if they whispered, I did not hear. In the distance, some trees were dancing.
Gold and russet and tawny and scarlet populated the landscape. Barren birches stretch the thinnest white fingers skyward. Perhaps their yearning for verticality drained their color, their substance: they poured their strength into stretching up and up, and could not spare any for other directions and dimensions.
Beside them, less emaciated trees flickered like garnet-red flames. Each leaf blazed with its own fire. The red trees seemed to smile at the world, like girls watching, laughing, tossing their red hair. The birches were austere, serious; these trees were joyous.
As far as the eye could see spread crowd upon crowd of trees, holding their land, watching over it, reaching for the sky. They stand together day after day, each beside the same neighbors season after season, as their branches begin to intertwine, and they drop leaves on each other's feet. Their society must be flourishing, I think, when arboreal cities can cover so many hillsides.
They outnumbered us--the flame trees, the white birches, the golden maples, the stubbornly green pines. We stuck to the road, and tried not to stare too hard as we went by. We didn't speak to any of the citizens there, and they watched us from a distance.
Someday I would like to go back to that kingdom, and see what the life of a tree is like.