Once in a blue moon* you find a poem that echoes sound and reflects light into some of the hidden places in your soul. Those poems cause the same effect in our souls that occurs in that scene in Legend, where Screwball and Brown Tom and Gump and Oona contrive to climb up the chimney and bounce a ray of rising sunlight from Darknesses' giant bronze platters, through the oogy kitchen, into the depths of his lair in order to save the Unicorns**. In this case, that is exactly the correct metaphor. One of the hidden (or forgotten) things about this scene is the fact that as those big plates are reflecting light into the convoluted darkness, so is the darkness being reflected out into the misty, sparkling, wooded world above. And that's ok. That world can handle a little darkness, especially if it's been aired out and had all the, well, 'Satan'*** sucked out of it, as it were. It certainly makes it more interesting.
The important thing is that the Unicorns are saved****, that the world understands that darkness exists, and that if we don't reflect a ray of light into that darkness sometimes, things can get pretty scary, and eventually the light will go away for good.
This poem was in my inbox this morning (I do love that Writer's Almanac). This poem is such a "Sam" poem. I can't explain why - whether it's the the rhythm of the words, certain phrases, a feeling that comes from the whole - I'm not sure. It's not one I'd choose to represent me, but it does, whether I like it or not. It definitely reflects a part of me that is, if not hidden, then occluded by a variety of smokescreens. It's a place where I'd worry about any stray Unicorns, that's for sure. But dark as it is, and lousy with goblins, black glitter and tempted, fallen maidens, it's me, and it makes me feel better when the world gets a glimpse and says "Yeah. Me too."
Hurray for good poems, and for crafty fairies - but ESPECIALLY for sunlight.
Snowbanks North of the House
Those great sweeps of snow that stop suddenly six feet
from the house...
Thoughts that go so far.
The boy gets out of high school and reads no more books;
the son stops calling home.
The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no more
bread.
And the wife looks at her husband one night at a party
and loves him no more.
The energy leaves the wine, and the minister falls leaving
the church.
It will not come closer—
the one inside moves back, and the hands touch nothing,
and are safe.
And the father grieves for his son, and will not leave the
room where the coffin stands;
he turns away from his wife, and she sleeps alone.
And the sea lifts and falls all night; the moon goes on
through the unattached heavens alone.
And the toe of the shoe pivots
in the dust...
The man in the black coat turns, and goes back down the
hill. No one knows why he came, or why he turned away, and
did not climb the hill.
***
Poem: "Snowbanks North of the House" by Robert Bly,
from Selected Poems. © Harper Collins. Reprinted with permission.
Writer's Almanac
Much love,
and may you be a mirror.
-s
*luckily, I see a lot of blue moons.
**oh, and Lily too.
***yes, purist-nerdy-movie-nazi-heads, i know he was technically the son of satan, but you know what i mean. besides, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. especially if the tree is HELL.
****oh, and the girl too. *sheesh* dumbass. can't mind her own business, follow simple instructions. hmph. she's lucky there were some unicorns down there too, that's all i got to say.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Today's geekcentric post is stolen from my live journal page (where I am a member of the Geek Patrol group).
Just click here to read it.
And thanks again Mike. I mean it.
much love,
-S
Just click here to read it.
And thanks again Mike. I mean it.
much love,
-S
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
"The Edge... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."
(Warning: this is post about Hunter S. Thompson. There is definitely going to be some unedited bad language and some "radical theories". Please don't read any further if that isn't your cup of tea. You have been warned.)
I figure that you all know the news about Hunter S. Thompson by now. 'Folks who read my page have sent me condolences, knowing that I rely on the wisdom of Duke to support my own attempts at Gonzo journalism from time to time. He will certainly be missed.
A good friend and brave, talented writer commented on his suicide in her blog yesterday. She was writing from her heart, and from her respect for another brave writer, but also from the perspective of someone who recently had a brush with the old "No really, I mean it..." herself.
She wrote:
"Having been in a similar place, I can only regret that there was no one there to stop you. Maybe that's selfish of me. Maybe you're better off now. But we're not. "
I have some pretty specific opinions about the whole issue as well, and I have to say, this time, I'm on Duke's team. I wrote a heartfelt (and hopefully, in some way, comforting as well as realistic) reply to her post. I think I'll let those words, and the re-post of my first Duke-centric blog stand as my own little eulogy to the man. That'll just have to do until I get home to my new, icy 1/2 gallon of gin - and who knows, maybe I'll even fire the PPK in his honor tonight, if the gin doesn't slack on the job.
Here's my reply to Andi's post:
February 22, 2005
"It may be a little comfort to think about the (VERY) probable fact that, as much as the Duke loved being alive and kicking life's ass at every possible opportunity, he would have had to have been looking down the barrel of something truly horrible in order to choose such a terminal option. If it were any thing less than the prospect of complete loss of mental and/or physical faculties (say, alzheimers - though I could see how he might even make the most of THAT), unbearable and unending pain, or lingering death and the weakness, dependency and vulnerability that that brings on, I think he would have just taken, well... Whatever mystical, magical combination of fun things that might get him through the bad patch. He was a young(ish) man - there were still a lot of things left to shoot. hell, he and a friend had just invented "shotgun golf" apparently, and were anxious to teach it to bill Murray...
I feel pretty damned certain that for a badass motherfucker like Mr. T., it'd take more than just a hitch-in-the-road - even a bad one - to leave this particular play before the end of the third act. My perspective on this comes from the fact that this is ABSOLUTELY the option I'll take (though I doubt I'd be brave enough to choose a ballistic route) if I ever get to that point, and if anybody is selfish enough to hold it against me, then they can kiss my dead ass. I have promised everyone I know - for decades now - that I wouldn't even seriously talk about, much less ATTEMPT something like this unless I felt it was absolutely necessary. I feel that Hunter S. Thompson more than likely felt the same way. I'd rather be living in a world without him than in a world where his strange, loud, outstanding, stupendous life was reduced to nothing but pain, suffering, loss of all those hard-earned memories, tube-feeding and diapers. Let's remember the Duke the way he wanted to be remembered - raging, roaring, smirking, smoking, raising hell, and raising his 350, ready for the next adventure."
And here's my orginal post:
Thursday, July 31, 2003
"I'm reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". Never read it before, but of course, I loved the movie. Johnny Depp, Benecio Del Toro*, Terry Gilliam, big fat special effects budget how could it be anything other than excellent. Of course, I didn't know until recently how unerringly true it is to not only the text, but the spirit of the book. I like Thompson's simple, blunt writing style. I prefer him to Ginsberg and Kerouac (though I do have to say that ole Jack was a nice-looking man AND he wrote "whee"** from time to time.) "Fear and Loathing" (in fact, all of his work) is a diary/commentary, basically. His Gonzo Journalism was all about experiencing his life to the edge - and over, if he could get there (and I think he did, quite often sometimes) and then writing about it, so that other people could have a sense of what he felt - without having to be so "unsafe". Without having to take the dangerous, insane, very visceral route that he did. He likes to live, to experience things to the nth degree, and he likes to share his opinions and feelings. (And he'd probably puke if he read this sappy girlie, bloody-hearted sounding description of him, too. But it's true, and if he promises not to bring his gun, I'll fight him over it!)
What I was thinking as I was reading last night was "Y'know - maybe that's what I am - a Gonzo Journalist!" but then I realized that I'm probably more of a Fozzie... Yeah. There's more tender humor to my reporting, more sentimentality, and a LOT less drugs. Whoa. I tend to not see lizards unless they're running into the cracks in my steps (and they are definitely real, unless Luna is hallucinating, too). And I just don't have the desire to randomly shoot things with giant guns. (I'd MUCH rather hit them with big sticks.) Plus, my jokes are usually really, really bad. Nonetheless, there's a bit of Gonzo in me. I feel it surging in my head when I try to get to sleep, when I wake up with my jaw clenched and my fists tight. I think that's the part of me that longs to strike out and walk the railroad tracks until they end and then find a dim bar, have a few drinks, listen to something sad on the jukebox and clobber somebody. It's the part of me that wants to find out what the dark side of China and the bright side of New York is really about. It's the part that wants to rant at intersections, tell my boss (and the government and my mother and preachers and teachers and Men...) to !@#$ OFF, the part that wishes I'd been with my brother and the Tuareg for that 400+ mile camel trek from Bamako to Tombouctou***...
I love being a woman, all my special powers mean a lot to me, but I rail and rage against the fact that I don't have the power and safety that a man has... if I were a man, I'd be a LOT more Gonzo and a lot less Fozzie! It'ss hard to live alone, work alone, drink alone, travel alone, be left alone. Maybe in my next lifetime...
For now, I'm dealing with the semi-Gonzo realization that it's simply easier for me to love something when I know that I'm going to lose it - and all the other realizations that come with that. The why's, how's, and what-the-hell's of it all. I hope I live long enough to understand me a little better. That would be so nice.
More about that, later. I promise.
And Ellie and Joe. I would love y'all both, no matter what (I think y'all know that by now), but I want you to know that you are more dear to me than either of you will ever know.
Much love,
-Sam"
*not to mention, Tobey Maguire, Ellen Barkin, Gary Busey, Christina Ricci, Mark Harmon, Cameron Diaz, Katherine Helmond, Michael Jeter, Penn Jillette, Lyle Lovette, Flea, Harry Dean Stanton and Laraine Newman.
**"Oh, man,' said Dean to me as we stood in front of a bar, 'dig the street of life, the Chinamen that cut by in Chicago. What a weird town--wow, and that woman in that window up there, just looking down with her big breasts hanging from her nightgown, big wide eyes. Whee. Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there."
***I can't believe you got rid of that axe, Joe! I would love to have had that! : ) I'm just happy I got to SEE it!
Sam - 31.7.03
***********************************************************
I'll leave you all with some of Mr. T's own extremely succinct words. This is something to maybe remember when you're having your own "No really, I mean it" internal debates:
"Call on God, but row away from the rocks. "
A-men.
-s
(Warning: this is post about Hunter S. Thompson. There is definitely going to be some unedited bad language and some "radical theories". Please don't read any further if that isn't your cup of tea. You have been warned.)
I figure that you all know the news about Hunter S. Thompson by now. 'Folks who read my page have sent me condolences, knowing that I rely on the wisdom of Duke to support my own attempts at Gonzo journalism from time to time. He will certainly be missed.
A good friend and brave, talented writer commented on his suicide in her blog yesterday. She was writing from her heart, and from her respect for another brave writer, but also from the perspective of someone who recently had a brush with the old "No really, I mean it..." herself.
She wrote:
"Having been in a similar place, I can only regret that there was no one there to stop you. Maybe that's selfish of me. Maybe you're better off now. But we're not. "
I have some pretty specific opinions about the whole issue as well, and I have to say, this time, I'm on Duke's team. I wrote a heartfelt (and hopefully, in some way, comforting as well as realistic) reply to her post. I think I'll let those words, and the re-post of my first Duke-centric blog stand as my own little eulogy to the man. That'll just have to do until I get home to my new, icy 1/2 gallon of gin - and who knows, maybe I'll even fire the PPK in his honor tonight, if the gin doesn't slack on the job.
Here's my reply to Andi's post:
February 22, 2005
"It may be a little comfort to think about the (VERY) probable fact that, as much as the Duke loved being alive and kicking life's ass at every possible opportunity, he would have had to have been looking down the barrel of something truly horrible in order to choose such a terminal option. If it were any thing less than the prospect of complete loss of mental and/or physical faculties (say, alzheimers - though I could see how he might even make the most of THAT), unbearable and unending pain, or lingering death and the weakness, dependency and vulnerability that that brings on, I think he would have just taken, well... Whatever mystical, magical combination of fun things that might get him through the bad patch. He was a young(ish) man - there were still a lot of things left to shoot. hell, he and a friend had just invented "shotgun golf" apparently, and were anxious to teach it to bill Murray...
I feel pretty damned certain that for a badass motherfucker like Mr. T., it'd take more than just a hitch-in-the-road - even a bad one - to leave this particular play before the end of the third act. My perspective on this comes from the fact that this is ABSOLUTELY the option I'll take (though I doubt I'd be brave enough to choose a ballistic route) if I ever get to that point, and if anybody is selfish enough to hold it against me, then they can kiss my dead ass. I have promised everyone I know - for decades now - that I wouldn't even seriously talk about, much less ATTEMPT something like this unless I felt it was absolutely necessary. I feel that Hunter S. Thompson more than likely felt the same way. I'd rather be living in a world without him than in a world where his strange, loud, outstanding, stupendous life was reduced to nothing but pain, suffering, loss of all those hard-earned memories, tube-feeding and diapers. Let's remember the Duke the way he wanted to be remembered - raging, roaring, smirking, smoking, raising hell, and raising his 350, ready for the next adventure."
And here's my orginal post:
Thursday, July 31, 2003
"I'm reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". Never read it before, but of course, I loved the movie. Johnny Depp, Benecio Del Toro*, Terry Gilliam, big fat special effects budget how could it be anything other than excellent. Of course, I didn't know until recently how unerringly true it is to not only the text, but the spirit of the book. I like Thompson's simple, blunt writing style. I prefer him to Ginsberg and Kerouac (though I do have to say that ole Jack was a nice-looking man AND he wrote "whee"** from time to time.) "Fear and Loathing" (in fact, all of his work) is a diary/commentary, basically. His Gonzo Journalism was all about experiencing his life to the edge - and over, if he could get there (and I think he did, quite often sometimes) and then writing about it, so that other people could have a sense of what he felt - without having to be so "unsafe". Without having to take the dangerous, insane, very visceral route that he did. He likes to live, to experience things to the nth degree, and he likes to share his opinions and feelings. (And he'd probably puke if he read this sappy girlie, bloody-hearted sounding description of him, too. But it's true, and if he promises not to bring his gun, I'll fight him over it!)
What I was thinking as I was reading last night was "Y'know - maybe that's what I am - a Gonzo Journalist!" but then I realized that I'm probably more of a Fozzie... Yeah. There's more tender humor to my reporting, more sentimentality, and a LOT less drugs. Whoa. I tend to not see lizards unless they're running into the cracks in my steps (and they are definitely real, unless Luna is hallucinating, too). And I just don't have the desire to randomly shoot things with giant guns. (I'd MUCH rather hit them with big sticks.) Plus, my jokes are usually really, really bad. Nonetheless, there's a bit of Gonzo in me. I feel it surging in my head when I try to get to sleep, when I wake up with my jaw clenched and my fists tight. I think that's the part of me that longs to strike out and walk the railroad tracks until they end and then find a dim bar, have a few drinks, listen to something sad on the jukebox and clobber somebody. It's the part of me that wants to find out what the dark side of China and the bright side of New York is really about. It's the part that wants to rant at intersections, tell my boss (and the government and my mother and preachers and teachers and Men...) to !@#$ OFF, the part that wishes I'd been with my brother and the Tuareg for that 400+ mile camel trek from Bamako to Tombouctou***...
I love being a woman, all my special powers mean a lot to me, but I rail and rage against the fact that I don't have the power and safety that a man has... if I were a man, I'd be a LOT more Gonzo and a lot less Fozzie! It'ss hard to live alone, work alone, drink alone, travel alone, be left alone. Maybe in my next lifetime...
For now, I'm dealing with the semi-Gonzo realization that it's simply easier for me to love something when I know that I'm going to lose it - and all the other realizations that come with that. The why's, how's, and what-the-hell's of it all. I hope I live long enough to understand me a little better. That would be so nice.
More about that, later. I promise.
And Ellie and Joe. I would love y'all both, no matter what (I think y'all know that by now), but I want you to know that you are more dear to me than either of you will ever know.
Much love,
-Sam"
*not to mention, Tobey Maguire, Ellen Barkin, Gary Busey, Christina Ricci, Mark Harmon, Cameron Diaz, Katherine Helmond, Michael Jeter, Penn Jillette, Lyle Lovette, Flea, Harry Dean Stanton and Laraine Newman.
**"Oh, man,' said Dean to me as we stood in front of a bar, 'dig the street of life, the Chinamen that cut by in Chicago. What a weird town--wow, and that woman in that window up there, just looking down with her big breasts hanging from her nightgown, big wide eyes. Whee. Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there."
***I can't believe you got rid of that axe, Joe! I would love to have had that! : ) I'm just happy I got to SEE it!
Sam - 31.7.03
***********************************************************
I'll leave you all with some of Mr. T's own extremely succinct words. This is something to maybe remember when you're having your own "No really, I mean it" internal debates:
"Call on God, but row away from the rocks. "
A-men.
-s
