#they always make me think of that Mary Oliver quote

[whyisntketchupasmoothie]

.

[t1erradelfuego]

[poetrysmackdown]

what makes a poem a poem? does it have to be written in a certain way? is this question a poem if i want it to be?

Fun question! This is just my personal sense as an avid reader and less-avid writer of poetry, but for me it’s useful to distinguish (roughly) between poetry as a genre and poetry as an attitude or philosophy through which language and the world can be understood. And of course these two go hand in hand. I see poetry the genre as essentially a type of literature where we as readers are signaled, somehow, to pay closer attention to language, to rhythm, to sound, to syntax, to images, and to meaning. That attentive posture is the “attitude” of broader poetic thinking, and while it’s most commonly applied to appreciate work that’s been written for that purpose, there’s nothing stopping us from applying that attentiveness elsewhere. Everywhere, even! That’s how you eventually end up writing poetry for yourself, after all. There’s a quote from Mary Ruefle floating around on here that a lot of folks have probably already seen, but it immediately comes to mind with this ask:

“And when you think about it, poets always want us to be moved by something, until in the end, you begin to suspect that a poet is someone who is moved by everything, who just stands in front of the world and weeps and laughs and laughs and weeps.”

Similarly, after adopting the attentive posture of poetics, there’s plenty of things that can feel or sound like a poem, even when they perhaps were not written with that purpose in mind. I’ve seen a couple of these “found poems” on here that are quite fun—this one, for example. The meaning and enjoyment you may derive from the language of a found poem isn’t any less real than that derived from a poem written for explicitly poetic purposes, so I don’t see why it shouldn’t be called poetry.

That said, I do think that if you’re going to go out and start looking for poetry everywhere, it’s still important to have a foundation in the actual language work of it all. Now, this doesn’t mean it has to be “written in a certain way” at all! But it does mean that in order to cultivate the attentiveness that’s vital to poetry, one needs to understand what makes language tick, down at its most basic levels. It will make you better at reading poetry, better at writing it, and better at spotting it out in the wild.

Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook is an extraordinary resource to new writers and readers, and a great read for more experienced folks as well. Mary Oliver’s most popular poems are all to my knowledge in free verse, and yet you might be surprised to find her deep appreciation for metrical verse (patterns of stressed/unstressed syllables), as well as for the most minute devices of sound. In discussing the so-called poetry of the past, she writes,

“Acquaintance with the main body of English poetry is absolutely essential—it is the whole cake, while what has been written in the last hundred years or so, without meter, is no more than an icing. And, indeed, I do not really mean an acquaintanceship—I mean an engrossed and able affinity with metrical verse. To be without this felt sensitivity to a poem as a structure of lines and rhythmic energy and repetitive sound is to be forever less equipped, less deft than the poet who dreams of making a new thing can afford to be.”

In another section, after devoting lots of attention to the sounds at work in Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, she writes,

“Everything transcends from the confines of its initial meaning; it is not only the transcendence in meaning but the sound of the transcendence that enables it to work. With the wrong sounds, it could not have happened.”

I hope all this helps to get across my opinion that what makes a poem a poem is not just about the author's intention, and not just about meaning (intended or attributed), but also about sound and rhythm and language and history, all coalescing into something that rises above the din of a language we would otherwise grow tired of while out in our day-to-day lives.

I'll always have more to say but I'm cutting myself off here! Thanks for the ask

[joezworld]

They re-laid the ballast and sleepers on Sunday, and by mid-day Monday, the last of the temporary rails were bolted together. It was, to quote a workman, a “hack job”, but it could be replaced after the busy winter hols. 

Douglas pulled an inspection train across the newly repaired section shortly after supper, and it was with great jubilation that the Fat Controller deemed the line “fit to re-open.” 

That night, Duck was the first to come back, running the last (and only) train of the day. He was ecstatic to be back in his own shed, and there was much merriment and joy as he shunted Alice and Mirabel into the empty carriage sheds. He whistled gaily to the engines on the small railway, who yelled at him to keep the noise down, didn’t he have any idea how late it was.

Then he turned to the yard, and his gaiety died down significantly. “Wha-what?” He stuttered, staring in confusion and slight horror. “What have you done?”

Bear rolled his eyes, having endured quite enough of Duck’s personality in the last ten minutes. “I needed trucks for the track work.”

“Yes I see that. Did you fetch them with your eyes shut?”

Bear growled. The yard was only a mess if you had been indoctrinated into the Great Western Shunting System - which, in fairness, he had been - but he’d been told that the first train would arrive in the morning, not tonight. “No, the work just finished early, is all. I’m fine, by the way.”

“That’s no excuse!” Duck ploughed on, getting into a proper strop. “You should’ve been cleaning as you went! Single Workings 3:7 clearly states-”

“I know what it says, and I don’t care.” Bear snapped. “If we’re going to get into this, what about Emergencies 12:5, hmmm? Shouting chapter and verse at me isn’t going to make the yard cleaner.”

Duck tripped over his own tongue while Bear smiled spitefully. “Now, I was going to offer to help you clean the yard while my driver is still on shift, but instead I think I’ll let you fix things to your exacting specifications.”

Bear’s driver, who had been performing an inspection on his engine, looked at Bear in surprise, Duck in shock, and decided to reverse Bear into the shed to end the confrontation. In a few minutes, snoring could be heard through the closed doors. 

“Well..!” Duck said, thoroughly surprised. “What got into him?”

“The fact that you haven’t figured it out is, quite frankly, appalling.” boomed a voice from across the goods yard. Duck glared, but the glare quickly turned to surprised suspicion when the trucks didn’t start laughing. They always laughed after someone got a one-liner in. 

Instead, a sea of surly faces stared back at him. “What are you looking at?” he asked, suddenly off-kilter. 

“That wasn’t very nice.” A flatbed scowled, backed up by a wave of agreeing murmurs.

Duck didn’t know whether to scowl or be frightened at the show of unity, and shunted the worryingly quiet trucks until the end of his driver’s shift. 

When he was backed in next to Bear, he thought about saying something, to see if the diesel was still awake, but in the end he went uneasily to sleep. 

-

The next morning, Bear woke up much later than he usually would. Duck was gone, the yard was organized, Oliver was receding into the distance, and there was a long line of trucks sitting by the goods shed. 

His driver came over, train orders in his hand. “Right-o, first we’ve got these to take, then we’ve got passenger trains with Truro for the rest of the day. Excited?” He wasn’t one of Bear’s usual drivers, and he completely missed the smile that hid a scowl. 

The trucks didn’t miss it. As he rolled past the train, the brake van - the SR Queen Mary, finally on his way back to whence he came - eyed him with sympathy. “Keep your guard up, once you’re with him.”

“Back to reality…” the low loader rumbled. 

The Fish Van didn’t say anything, but gave him a look of sombre understanding. 

A long line of hoppers, full of tunnel debris, were somewhat more cheerful. “You’ve got us, remember.” their leader whispered. 

Bear felt somewhat uplifted by this, but, as he waited for his driver to perform a brake test, his spirit began to wane. There was a crowd of passengers on the platform, already waiting for the next train. A large group of them were wearing shirts with the Great Western Railway logo stitched into them. They had cameras, of course, and were taking pictures every which way, except his. 

One pointed a lens his way, and was promptly shoved by several friends. “Don’t waste your film,” they said, “on that box on wheels.”

By the time the signal dropped, Bear felt deeply morose. He set off, leaving the station behind, each turn of his wheels bringing him closer to the big station, and City of Truro. 

-

The train halted at Haultraugh station. The inbound train was Duck’s, and as more passengers flowed in and out of the train, someone made a comment, loud enough to be heard over the hustle and bustle, that “this was straight out of the sixties.”

As the last passengers boarded, someone else replied, “yeah, the 18-60s.”

Bear stared at the GWR branding covering the station. There’s no place for me here.

Next to them, Duck was off in his own world. One of the porters had asked him how Truro was doing, and this had led to a lengthy and animated description of how bored and disrespected Truro felt in the yard at the big station. Gordon was the apparent ringleader, finding great fun in pushing Truro’s buttons. Bear’s engine note took on a notably staccato beat, and the trucks began grumbling to each other. The porter paid this no mind, but Duck began looking quizzically across the platform, trying to figure out what, if anything, was the matter. 

Meanwhile, Bear’s driver was looking up and down the platform. “What’s the holdup? Where’s the signal?” He scoffed, climbing out of the cab and knocking on the door of the signal box. 

Inside he found the signalman, looking quite aggrieved and holding a pair of flags. “Signal lever’s jammed. Points are good. Go out and I’ll wave you through.” He kicked the lever for good measure, a resounding clang emanating from the lever frame. “Piece of junk…”

 Bear’s driver exited the box, noting for the first time that anything seemed to be amiss with his engine. “You alright?” 

“Are we going?” Bear’s short, clipped tones could be mistaken for anticipation if you weren’t that bright. 

“Yeah! Yeah, hold your horses.” The driver jumped back into the cab, and set off the instant the annoyed looking signalman waved the green flag. 

Bear set off sluggishly. He didn’t care if he got there, or how long it took.

Behind him, the brake van could sense the disappointment and despair radiating down the brake line, all the way at the end of the train. Slowly, steadily, and stealthily enough to not alert the guard, he began slipping on his own brakes. 

The other trucks in the train felt this, and realized what was happening. Slowly but surely, the train began to get heavier and heavier as Bear kept going. 

-

The train made it halfway up the tunnel before grinding to a halt on the grade. There was no radio reception in the tunnel, and with Bear’s engine belching out more diesel exhaust every second, the driver made a quick determination to back down to Bulgy’s Bridge and try again. 

Slowly, with the brakes mostly released, the train rolled back into the clear air, slowly click-clacking over the new jointed rails as it rolled back towards Bulgy’s Bridge. The tunnel mouth was now a jagged hole in the side of the rock, scarred and pitted in spots where the decorative portal had been chiselled away.   

“So,” Bear addressed the train, taking care to not be heard by his driver. “Does anyone want to explain why we stalled out in the tunnel? Something that hasn’t happened with stone trains that are twice as heavy?”

There was a moment of guilty silence on the brake line, then: 

“We can’t let you go without a fight.”

“You shouldn’t go back to that.”

“We like you too much to subject you to the snake.”

Bear was struck absolutely dumb by that, and felt a warm and fuzzy sensation in his fuel tanks. As his driver brought the train to a halt by the bridge, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly… honored? Was that the correct word? Liked? He pondered on this for some time, and was finally brought back to reality by his driver banging on the control desk in the cab. “Wakey wakey! Time to do some work!” 

Bear chose not to dignify that with a response and instead allowed his engine to rev up to full power, to get the train moving up the hill and through the tunnel at a sufficient speed.

Then, nothing happened. 

Or rather, nothing seemed to happen. Bear was pulling against the train with quite a lot of force, but it just didn’t move. His engine revved, his wheels slipped, and the train went nowhere. 

It did not take a brain surgeon to figure out what was wrong: the trucks were quite serious about not letting Bear go back to Truro, and were doing everything in their power to stop him. 

“We’re not joking…” came a low voice up the brake line. 

Bear didn’t think they were, and was quite willing to sit out here for some time. It was a nice day compared to most of last week - the sun was out, and it was a few degrees above freezing - and if the railway had to send another engine to help him up the hill, then so be it. 

“Ah, for the love of pete!” Unfortunately, Bear’s driver was a dedicated sort, someone who had a lot of interest in doing his job to the best of his ability, and someone who had no interest in being labelled as “the one who stalled in the tunnel”. He was going to get this train to Tidmouth come hell or high water, and so he didn’t let off the throttle, much to Bear’s annoyance. 

“We’re not going anywhere like this. Call for a banker.”

“Absolutely not!” was the retort. What happened instead was that the train was put into reverse, and backed up even more to let the slack in. Bear knew what he was doing, and also knew that it wasn’t going to work. The trucks did too, and there was a bit of light laughter from most of the train. They even let him move the train a bit, rolling well beyond Bulgy’s Bridge without a fight.

The exception was the lead truck, who was looking at the coupling chain with worry. “That’s starting to stretch a little…”

Then, as has happened many times before, there was trouble. 

Bear’s driver released the brakes, set the reverser to “forward”, and then jammed the throttle as far forward as it would go. 

Bear set off with a great cloud of smoke and clag, his engine roaring like a wounded animal. The first five trucks on the train, realizing that something very bad could happen to them if they kept the brakes on, had let up. The slack went out of the train with a quintuple bang! as those trucks were yanked into motion. Then, the coupling to the rest of the train, who were not going to move under any circumstances, was pulled on. 

They did not move, and the train screeched to a halt, Bear’s wheels spun furiously, sparking on the rails. 

Then the coupling chain snapped. 

Bear shot forward, suddenly free of the rest of the train. Fortunately, the vacuum brake hose also separating meant that his brakes came on automatically, and he came to a shuddering and screeching stop less than a hundred feet away, atop Bulgy’s Bridge. 

“Now look at what’s happened!” He barked at his driver. “I told you to stop hammering on the throttle like a neanderthal!”

Then, things got worse.

When the rails had been re-laid after the derailment, the workers had done everything properly… except on Bulgy’s Bridge. The bridge, which still bore its scars from when Bulgy had gotten stuck underneath it almost twenty years ago, was known to be a fragile structure, and couldn’t withstand heavy or sustained vibrations. 

“Heavy or sustained vibrations” is exactly what would happen when a ballast tamper machine was brought over the line. It “tamped” ballast by extending vibrating rods into the gravel and shaking them until the ballast had become smooth and level. This wasn’t possible on Bulgy’s Bridge, and so the workers had smoothed everything down as well as they could by hand before re-opening the line to traffic. And, for the trains that had gone over it so far, it had been fine - mostly because it had been light engines like Duck and Oliver, who moved over it quickly. 

Bear, on the other hand, weighed as much as Duck and Oliver combined, and had just come to an abrupt stop directly on top of the mostly un-leveled ballast.

As Bear began to berate his driver for the problems that he had most certainly caused, the gravel underneath the sleepers began to shudder and shake.

Suddenly, and with distressingly little noise, the gravel on the right side of the line subsided, the sleepers and rails sagged as one, and Bear found himself tilted at an extremely worrying angle on top of Bulgy’s Bridge. 

His driver closed his eyes in horror, and didn’t open them again until everything in the cab had stopped moving. 

Bear, meanwhile, was so utterly overwhelmed with what was happening that he couldn’t even muster up a bit of shock. “Driver, this is your fault.”

-

Having already dealt with a calamitous derailment on the Little Western once this week, the railway was extremely quick in responding to the accident, and both a crane and the Fat Controller were there before lunch. 

“Bear,” he said seriously. “I mean this in as non-insulting a manner as possible, but the fact that this was not your fault astounds me.”

“Don’t worry sir, the others will find a way to blame me for it anyways.”

“I-” The Fat Controller didn’t know how to respond to that, and had to choose his next words carefully. “I see.” He paused again. “I would actually like to mention something, now that you’ve brought that up.”

“Sir?”

“Yes.” Again, he had to choose his words carefully. “Due to… recent circumstances, British Rail has agreed to let us trial City of Truro on his own merits.”

“Sir? Does that mean that I don’t have to run trains with him anymore?” Bear’s tone was suddenly ecstatic, which the Fat Controller unfortunately didn’t understand the full connotations of. 

“Indeed.” he said, eyes twinkling slightly. “Apparently his ability to be “more reliable than a diesel” was quite a point in his favor.” A pause. “Not that it is a mark against you in any way.” 

“Of course sir, thank you sir!” Bear looked like Christmas came early, which did not mesh well with the fact that he was perilously close to falling off of a bridge. 

“I’m glad you understand.” Charles Hatt smiled warmly. “And one more thing - I have been informed by the foreman that… removing you from this situation will involve damaging your paintwork in some way. Obviously, that cannot stand, and so I will have you sent to the works tomorrow or the day after for a temporary touch up. Once the holidays are over, you will receive a new coat of paint in any color you like. You’ve earned it.”

Bear’s smile was the biggest it had been in almost a month, and it stayed there throughout the cleanup process, even as the lifting chains gouged long silvery stripes all over his paintwork. 

-

It took until well past dinnertime for the tracks to be put right again, and once Bear was checked over by works staff (again), he was immediately put to work with the permanent way gang, who worked throughout the night. Finally, at one in the morning, the work was declared “done!”, to much celebration, and the workers went home to bed. 

Bear still had a job to do, though, and it wasn’t until two-thirty that he arrived at Tidmouth station with his now very contrite goods train, who didn’t say a word as he shunted them into the goods yard. 

The diesel shed was empty, and Bear was asleep before his driver could fully set the brakes. 

-

The next morning was cold but sunny, with still, crisp air soaking up the sun’s weak rays. 

Bear, who had been woken up at seven in the morning after less than five hours of sleep, quite frankly could not bring himself to care about that, and grumbled all the way to the fuel depot, the station, the goods yard, and then most of the way to Haultraugh. He only stopped grumbling once he was awake enough to remember, as he burst into the sunlight at the end of the tunnel, that he was finally free of this wretched branch line and could go to the works soon!

This massively improved his mood, and he almost forgot how tired he was, as he rolled across the temporary speed restriction at Bulgy’s bridge, and through Haultraugh station. As he rolled into Arlesburgh, he was almost smiling. 

“Well well well,” A stern voice immediately quelled any chances of enjoying the morning. “Look who shows his face around here!” Duck, a distinctly upset expression on his face, puffed into view. “You break my branch line, leave me stranded here all day - let’s not even get into what the passengers had to endure - and then just waltz off to the big station without so much as a by-your-leave? What sort of Western work ethic is that?” 

He was really getting into full flow now. “And this is after you leave my yard a complete and utter disaster for more than a week! Whatever do you have to say for yourself?”

Bear was a patient engine, he really was. He could understand Duck’s position, he really could. He was even willing to hear him out, and talk with him like an adult. After all, they were both what people would call “grown-ups”. For goodness’ sake, he was twenty years old - far older and more mature than most of the diesels on the mainland!

But then… he looked behind Duck. 

There, in the shed, was City of fucking Truro’s smug fucking face. He looked thrilled at what was happening. 

And something in Bear went snap.

“Duck.” He said firmly, cutting the steam engine off mid-word. “You can take your Great Western work ethic and you can shove it down your boiler tubes. I do not care any more.”

Duck’s face moved like he was trying to say something, but he seemed unable to process what was happening. 

“Furthermore,” Bear continued. “I didn’t break anything.” He glared daggers at Truro, who blinked in surprise. “The great green disaster over there is responsible for all of that. Unless you think that I shattered my gearbox out of a sense of whimsy.”

“I… I… I…” Duck couldn’t seem to put syllables together. 

“In a similar fashion, I didn’t derail the Siphon wagons - if we’re really going to hand out blame like Christmas presents, it was Donald’s fault for not checking anything before he set off down the line with a bunch of plain-bearing equipped vans like it was the 1930s. Although, to go even further back, it was that one’s fault for moving the Siphons across the yard for no clear reason other than that he felt like it!”

Truro could hear everything, and blinked like he was offended. Good. 

Duck looked like someone had smacked him across the face. 

“Of course, let’s just blame it on me, why don’t we?” Bear could feel the indignation coursing through his systems, and let it flow. “As I can do nothing right, and only bring about confusion and delay! Yes, of course I wanted to almost fall off of Bulgy’s Bridge yesterday; it was part of my larger plan to learn to drive on the roads like an automobile, leaving the rails to wither and die on the vine like Doctor Beeching!” 

“Bear, I-”

“Oh no! Don’t you “Bear” me! For all you know, that’s true! You’ve not taken your eyes off of Truro for a month now! “Truro” this and “Truro” that! If you like him so much, why don’t you give him the branch line and spend the rest of your life licking his buffers like the obsequious toady you seem intent on becoming! I thought you were my friend, but you can’t even notice something going on right in front of you!”

Truro was now glaring. The signalman had left his box, the trucks were silent, and Duck was so confused he was almost in tears. On the platform, the passengers started looking in their direction. 

“Bear-”

“No, no.” He snapped, fire blooming in his eyes. “Use my goddamned number. You don’t have the right to use my name!”

Duck looked horrified. Good.  

Bear pressed on, a month’s worth of frustration and aggravation spilling out uncontrollably. “So you know what, Montague? I’ve had it. That’s what this is. If you and Truro and Oliver want to play pretend in some fantasy recreation of a time that died a long time ago, be my guest! But I will have no part in it.”

The stationmaster appeared out of the station building and began making a beeline across the tracks. 

“You can take your Great Western Railway, and all its idiotic traditions, and you can shove it someplace unpleasant!” He roared, engine growling menacingly. “But I’m done!” “And before I go…” The stationmaster was getting closer, and Bear could tell that he was going to be silenced one way or the other. He tried to think if there was anything else he wanted to say, but all he could see was Truro, looking so unjustly offended on Duck’s behalf. “Oi, you! Domeless wonder! I wish that they’d kept Great Bear, and scrapped you!”

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

Truth Or Dare <3: 🍬🥐🏜️🎨🦴🪐

🍬: post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character

hmmmmm. i don't think wkx was using his tears to tip the scales in his favour.

🥐: name one internet reference that will always make you laugh

"Ein MUFFIN." i remember quoting that quite a lot, esp when my sister made cupcakes! i knowwwwww. most of the initiated will probably favour "SWEET. Ein BAUsparvertrag!" but that never spoke to my secret, silly soul. whereas "Ein MUFFIN" offers unlimited possibilities

🏜️: what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work

any kind of response is welcome as long as it's without malicious intent, but i enjoy it when people are reduced to spontaneous outbursts, followed up by an analysis of what they enjoyed and why! <3 i don't have a lot of ao3 experience so i'm interpreting this question generously

🎨: link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

the kiss (woh wenzhou edition) by pocketmilo. it is so tender and whimsical and loving, and i love the little floral details and wkx's waterfalling white hair, and how vibrant it is

🦴: is there a piece of media that inspires your writing? 

hehehehehehe. word of honor. BUT THAT'S OBVIOUS so. i keep returning to the poetry of mary oliver. i like how she combines everyday mundanities with nature and her own internal landscape, the specific way she talks about her difficulties and her weaknesses. she interweaves these things as if it is all one and the same, or all (inter)connected. that's also how i like to view the world. dogfish in particular is a poem i keep returning to. her storytelling seems to unspool the stories that are locked away in my own chest.

🪐: name three good things going on in your life right now

my relationship to writing is really improving!! i cried about it in your dms a while ago, but now that i'm out of that depression hole i can clearly see that, while it's sometimes still difficult, i can say i fucking enjoy it so much! and it's been like that for a while now! (((: the difficulties i face have mostly changed from The Horrors to inconsequential, harmless things that can be easily solved. i still don't know what i want for the most part, but already a few things have been revealing themselves to me and i'm excited to explore that more.

i love small talk and talking to random strangers, but because of The Horrors i've been in a constant state of terror and dissociation whenever i'm braving the great oudoors and talk to people i don't already trust unconditionally. recently, i realized that a lot of that terror is irrational and outdated; i feel like i can finally start believing that i'm safe.

winter is great so far <3 plsplspls stay that way thank u and goodnight

writers truth or dare (i don't mind answering the same question twice!)

[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

Dropping some more of the Paschal Canon in because I loved your analysis of "Magnify, o my soul, Him Who suffered willingly..." and I think you'll like this as well.

Having beheld the Resurrection of Christ, let us adore the Holy Lord Jesus, the only sinless One. We venerate Thy Cross, O Christ, and Thy Holy Resurrection we praise and glorify; for Thou art our God, and we know no other than Thee; we call upon Thy name. O come all you faithful, let us venerate Christ's holy Resurrection. For behold, through the Cross joy hath come to all the world. Ever blessing the Lord, let us praise His Resurrection. By enduring the Cross for us He destroyed death by death. 

Yes! More canon analysis hehehe. I’m glad you like my other one :)

This one is longer because my mind is moving a million miles a second today lol.

“Having beheld the Resurrection of Christ” I like to close my eyes and imagine myself into scenes while reading or singing or engaging in any form of liturgy. With this one I immediately feel like I am Mary of Magdala or one of the disciples who saw the recreated/resurrected Jesus. In particular the next line of “let us adore the Holy Lord Jesus, the only sinless One” reminds me of the end of Matthew where the disciples are on, I believe, the Mount of Olives and they worship him before receiving the Great Commission 

“We venerate Thy Cross, O Christ, and Thy Holy Resurrection we praise and glorify” the theme of glory and glorifying is like really important. I actually just got done listening to a podcast episode about a book called “Bearing the Name: Why Sinai still Matters” by an absolutely brilliant and insightful woman Carmen Imes. In her book she talks about the commandment “Y’all shall not carry the name of Yahweh without effect” (I think, nassa hashem lo-YHWH lashav. Don’t quote me I could be wrong). She connects the concept of “carrying the name” to Israel’s role as a “kingdom of priests” and how the high priest bore on his chest plate (“on his heart”) the names of the tribes of Israel, and on his forehead he bore “kodesh lo-Yahweh” “holy belonging to Yahweh”. But the point of that is that as the chosen royal priesthood, Israel has a special role in the the “making holy” of Yahweh’s name by representing him to the nations. So while all humanity is made in the tselem elohim, God’s covenant kingdom-family has a particular role of bearing the name and thus glorifying God in a more pronounced way. But ofc all humanity is called to glorify God by ruling and reigning; subduing non-order and darkness and, creating goodness and beauty and life. 

Ultimately living a life crucified and resurrected in the Spirit is, I think, the supreme way of glorifying God even though in some traditions it’s been thought of primarily of signing. It is so much deeper than that. It is fundamentally about living. The incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus makes God’s name holy and it is thru living like him that I glorify God. Anyway, like I said, I think a lot about glorifying God and the imago dei so

“for Thou art our God, and we know no other than Thee; we call upon Thy name.” There is just something so marvelous about “the name”. Hashem. I was writing about Genesis 3 yesterday and the importance of the divine name Yahweh/Ehyeh (third person/first person). How God’s name is wrapped up in his identity. It’s the reason I use the divine name so much aside from just thinking that ceasing doing so was a mistake: to say “He Will Be” is so important for me. My God will be passionate. My God will be compassionate. My God will be favorable. My God will be etc etc etc just keep going down the Ex 34 list. I do not think it’s a coincidence the divine name is said twice in that paragraph back to back. “Yahweh, Yahweh, a God compassionate and favorable, etc etc”. My God will be what he said he will be. Because he is faithful. And he always will be, because he is eternal. And what did he say he is? Ex 34, 1 John 4. Our God will always be all the things he has said he is. And to call on his name is in itself an act of faith to me. What other god is like ours? 

“O come all you faithful” I refuse to believe that it’s a coincidence that this is the name of a rather famous Christmas song and is being said in this Easter liturgy. The two seasons are so important for such similar reasons: it’s when our God did the unthinkable. 

“O come all you faithful, let us venerate Christ's holy Resurrection.” Again, I am mentally on the Mount of Olives, worshipping Christ our Living Hope. 

“For behold, through the Cross joy hath come to all the world.” And again, the mixture of birth and death (and rebirth) is being played into here, which is my favorite thing ever. In particular this makes me think of the Gospel According to Luke, which atm is my favorite, where joy is just such a big theme. Luke begins his gospel with lots of joy (Zechariah, Elizabeth, baby John, Mary, Shepherds, Anna) and then it just keeps going. The second to last time you hear about joy is right before the triumphant entry (after which Jesus is first crying and then throwing tables. Definitely not joyous) and then you do not see it again for chapters until the last sentence of the book after the resurrection. And then the Jesus Community in the Acts is famous for their great joy. And that silence of joy at the cross is then completely turned around by the resurrection which then turns the cross into a great sign of joy for all who believe! Because through this death and resurrection will come renewal for the entire world. 

“Ever blessing the Lord, let us praise His Resurrection. By enduring the Cross for us He destroyed death by death.” CHRISTUS VICTOR REX!!!!!! Our God is victor and king!!!!! Destroying Death by letting Desth destroy Him!!!! Incredible. Absolutely marvelous ending. 

[be-side-my-self]

Rewatch of ONLY Murders In The Building to prepare for season 4 (V)

<Part I> // <Part II> // <Part III> // <Part IIII>

Block #OMITBRewatch if you don’t want to read notes that will have spoilers up to seasons 3. Just to make it clear, while quoting, I use M, O, C for the main characters.

Also I’m putting this under a read more because it gets long. (also, also this is the fifth part and I finally added "only" to the title.)

S2 E7

Episode of Mabel.

There is Theo and that is a really nice apartment.

M: "Is that me? Did I stab someone? Again?"

Detective Williams baby is so cute! Keith.

Mabel: "Nice accesory." Theo: *Looks down at his ankle* Mabel: "You steal jewelery from dead people, and the state gives you and anklet. Kind of poetic." Theo: *slams the mug, pissed off.*

THEO DIMAS I'm deaf. I write, or use ASL _I catch only 1/3 of what you say,_ through lip-reading.

*insert that video from american psycho about the business cards.

Theo: "When you got off the train, you were in shock so I took you to my place like creep."

Theo is really nice.

Detective Williams is so great.

.... they are so stupid it's amazing... but also that apartment is poorly soundproofed

Talking about a two-men job on the toilet is a really weird thing to say.

M: "Ah, yes. The adventures of a teenage grave robber. Got it."

Theo likes the simple solutions. Nice.

Someone with frustration is playing Whak-a-mole

Crane game... my sister is so good at it. Better than Theo.

So, how did he manage to get the ring in the crane-game? Sleight of hand? He could have put it in there when Mable did not look.

Oliver probably has probably flash-back to the time Will was a baby.

The dads are consulting.

Oh Mabel :(

Of course she is angry, her dad is dying and he can't keep his promises and she does not know.

Uh oh... glitter.

That is such a good scene.

So, the background on Mable's phone... is that her fursona?

Omg... please... I know you need to look at the lips Theo, but please look at the street.

M: "Thank you for stealing my fish."

Oh right! A blackout!

S2 E8

Sith-Avenue Slasher

Something about this was correct...

Also love the fan-made merch. All the tie-die stuff.

You always get Oliver with dips.

Howard! Go for it!!

Psycharatist: "There may be more to life than cats."

... lmao Charles and Oliver bonding over the guy who operated their knees. Besties.

Howard: "Sevenlyn Marie Morris, num num!"

Smooth, Howard!

It's actually nice to see some side-characters in that episode...

Howard and that other guy are a match made in heaven... pity it does not last :/

Also the scene with Nina and the door-man is really good.

Oh... the whole house singing sound of silence. That is such a nice scene.

:(

Mabel takes the dips with her!

lmao everyone getting drunk in the lobby XD

M: "But why are you here? Other than interrogating teenage girls? Detective Kreps: "That's just one part of the job I happen to like."

YIKES YIKES YIKES

The GLITTER!!

S2 E9

Rose Cooper and Leonora Folger are the same person iirc.

Well the alimony is probably partly your fault, Kreps.

Kreps: "And she, or he, if that is your thing, they smile at you, and your whole goddamn universe turns upside down. And that's when shit gets really crazy."

M: "That is ASL for glitter." C: "Oh, that is kind of fun."

Congrats Oliver! You are the father!

O: "There's no real difference. All the European countries are esentially the same."

... boy.

Hey, Alice!

As I said, I did not like Alice but this is really tragic. It would have been nice for Mabel to have an artist as a girlfriend.

Oh lol... Rose just acted like she was Leonora.

And... now I think I remember that Oliver is lying about being greek... but it's a white lie?

25 Willow Dr Lake Placid New York

"Excessive Force Fighting Gym" ... that sounds fun and not serious at all. But gosh the upcoming scene is so good.

Hey, Teddy!

Lmao... Oliver just going for Teddy's throat.

O: "You're my son's father, you piece of shit!"

Kreps: "If I'm so stupid, how come I was able to land the smartes woman on the planet?"

It they weren't murderers their story would have been kinda cute.

Teddy: "Ow!" O: "Can I get you something!? Coffee? Water? A swift kick in the dick?" Teddy: "Look, Oliver, let me explain--" O: "Oh no, no, no. You know you don't have to. I was up all night talking to Roberta. She told me what happened." Teddy: "Did she tell you it only happened once?" O: "She said twice." Teddy: "One night, two times." O: "Well, now you're just bragging."

Mabel figures it out but comes to the wrong conclusion... I mean I would too.

Teddy's whole family was a bunch of crooks.

Teddy: "Aren't we square at this point? You send me to jail, I fuck your wife?"

Well, shit.

S2 E10

I remember that I really enjoyed the episode.

Poppy really had a shitty life.

The Mayor... yikes, yikes, yikes...

Cinda is such a bitch.

O: "Torture? Can we torture her? Charles, get your concertina and whatever you consider your 10 most intersting stories." C *rubbing his nose with his middle finger*: "Hm, let me just muse on that, uh, for a second." O *smirks*: "Mm."

No, Oliver it does not feel like a finale yet... but at least we got to see Poppy's background story.

M: "Oliver, what did we agree on?" O: "You and Charles do the talking."

I know people who are disgusted by the inside of the tomatoe but also someone who gets an allergic reaction when eating unprocessed tomatoes. I on the other hand can eat a tomatoe like an apple. And I enjoy it.

Liverwurst? Yum. Marmelade? Yum. Togther? ... nonono

Uma is great.

Lester's (Doorman) story is hardcore.

Oliver is so fast with giving away Charles' money.

O: "The sexual energy between you two was obvious. I'd say more, but this is a family murder podcast."

Charles and Oliver doing slow motion is so hilarious.

Don't waste food.

... love how Mabel ist using the ego of Poppy to confess.

Holy shit what a scene.

I remember the first time I saw that I was so freaked out.

And the fact that Cinda is now complimenting Mabel...

Again... if they weren't murderers, I would have wished Krebs and Poppy all the best.

C: "Hallelujah! It's a miracle cure!" Lucy: "Nice. you got de-dementia'd."

LMAO... How Charles tries his best to ask out Joy and luckily she understands his grunts.

Pity, that the mural is painted over.

Also it seems like Mabel and Alice stayed friends at least. Maybe dated some longer, who knows?

Awww... Will and Oliver having a moment.

I screamed when I saw Paul Rudd in that role.

But like what kind of ass do you have to be to get on the bad side of Charles?

*dramatic yodeling*

[septembersghost]

maybe it's because i'm melancholic, maybe it's because i'm a Romantic romantic, maybe it's some innate jewishness latched onto the DNA of remembrance, but noting "lasts" to me is valuable, even if there's a sorrow in it, in the finality. the wisp of fear and grief. it makes me think a bit of that mary oliver quote (and i know i'm giving it different meaning in saying this) - someone i loved once gave me a box full of darkness. it took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. it makes me think of why, in death, we say: may their memory be a blessing. it's the hope that we keep and lift up the flame. moments are precious because they end.

the thing about a last is no one ever knows when they're having one until long after the fact, and if you're here to recognize it, then it becomes a treasure. if someone isn't here to understand, then we hold it for them. you can only see it looking back at it. almost no one knows when the very last is going to be, but there are so many other little pearls of them before that. they stopped making something that was your favorite, but you had it one last time. lovers parting not knowing they've had a last kiss. a friendship that drifts apart and they didn't realize they were sharing a last laugh. a writer unwittingly penning their last word. a singer doesn't know when they've given an audience their last song.

except. someone new takes a hand, reads the passage, puts on the last song decades later and sways in their room, and then it's neverending. i think that's why i hold onto dates, look back at memories, even final ones, sad ones. it's not closing the door forever, it's reverent. they may take on a gloom or an iridescence, depending on the view, but if we don't remember they were the last, it steals something. tight hugs, hand-written letters, tail wags, cups of tea, sunrises, melodies. these are the ephemeral things that make up a life, and the more we think they don't linger forever is the more they actually do. there are things which are lasts, and there are things which last. for always. sometimes they're the same.

[steelycunt]

love the sirius talk he really is just so all over the place in fact I think one of the reasons I like r/s as much as I do is because of the fact that genuinely no body else knows sirius as well as remus does no one else knows exactly how kind and cruel he can be and through it all remus is still obsessed with him. even when he doesn’t know if he’s a good person or even when he thinks he’s a terrible one and same honestly he’s got me wrapped around his finger even if I wish he didn’t. and I’m always thinking about that scene in POA when he’s talking to harry about the ministry administering the dementors kiss and he doesn’t want sirius to get the kiss even though he doesn’t know he’s innocent yet, or just how emotional and jumpy he was whenever sirius was brought up at all.. and then how completely cold he was to peter when he learnt the truth. even though he loved him once like family and spent 12 years mourning him he’s completely unattached and cold to peter but he’s spent 12 years hating sirius and still couldn’t detach himself from him. he had 12 years to move on and he just! couldn’t! he’s obsessed!! i love the way that they didn’t have the kind of relationship that could withstand anything cause they’re barely able to keep themselves together let alone a relationship and they were just always in the worst circumstances but no matter what they always came back to each other. it’s like the complete opposite of destined lovers or whatever it’s called it’s like they weren’t supposed to be together but there was nothing the universe could throw at them that would make remus not be completely consumed by sirius no matter how much he might hate him or how long they were apart he could never move on. it reads like such a Tragedy, reminds me of that post on here that���s like the love was there even if it couldn’t save the day or didn’t make a difference in the grand scheme it was there and that’s what’s important. he was nothing short of devoted to sirius truly the Best sirius is the one through remus’ eyes cause he could look at this insufferable posh asshole and know the hurt he could evoke better then anyone and be in a constant loosing fight against fucking fate itself and still go ‘yeah he’s worth it’

hii yes especially love ur point about remus' varying responses to peter and sirius when he thinks they're each the traitor!! insane!! and such a testament to how inescapable his feelings for sirius are like. that's it that's the whole thing he could never manage to rid himself of it...twelve whole years and he couldn't cut it out of himself they're just SO. yeah. they don't by any means fix each other but they need each other anyway because honestly the alternative is just as bad. they are just as useless without each other. remus went without him for twelve years and that still did no good. i don't like the term soulmates nor do i necessarily believe in higher powers/the kind of predestination that might be implied by the term fated, but i don't know what else to call them they're just stuck with each other. and there comes a point where they are sooo tangled up in each other's lives--that mary oliver quote about not knowing where to drop the knife of separation--that everything will inevitably come back to each other. time and the course of their lives ensures that they remain the only two people who could possibly understand each other, and in that way they're sort of fashioned into soulmates. not in the sense that they were predestined but that they had little control over how absolutely their relationship consumed them both, past the point of choosing to love each other when they were fucking. sixteen or something.

[catilinas]

Any poems you like that are about fire? (Better even if it’s fire and travelling or going home or rebirth) I’m looking for ones and you always have good taste in poetry :)

would it be bad if i said like. the aeneid. the pharsalia. stoic ekpyrosis counts as Being About Fire, right??? but seriously thinking abt this question made me realise how much of the poetry i enjoy is more focused on water. whoops.

anyway:

vergil, aeneid books 2&4 :-)

also the third stanza of catullus 51 :-)

rosanna warren, bonfires (Roman epic is painted / in black fire on black ground. / When the rhythm holds, anything burns on those canted / lines: oxen, swine, the stunned // still bleeding human victims, hands tied / behind their backs. The hero's / head aches, his lungs sear as he stands aside / and greasy smoke billows. // fire by now has consumed an entire day.)

andrea gibson, tonight (offer your body as a burning building / without fire escapes)

mary oliver, the fire (then over my head the red timbers floated, / my feet were slippers of fire, my voice / crashed at the truth, my fists / smashed at the flames to find the door—/ wicked and sad, mortal and bearable, / it fell open forever as i burned.) (this one is probably closest to what you're looking for but. the home is perhaps a little bit On fire)

jay bernard, surge (the entire book. it contains a long sequence of poems abt the new cross fire in 1981 and is one of the best poetry books i've read in the past few years. here is a review that is better than what i can say! the emphasis on archives / how to remember/memorialise small details / decontextualisation and forgetting makes it feel weird to quote (and so decontextualise) like. one good stanza About Fire but extremely check this book out bcs it's amazing)

[roseforthethorns]

“Wild Geese”

For the end of 007 Fest 2022 Nights are the hardest.

For James Bond, the nightmares never really bothered him. He simply accepted them as his due, a reward for being MI6’s best spy. He’d been everywhere, seen everything, done everything and (most) everyone. He had a list of kills longer than most in the business, and not all of them had been dispatched with a bullet. Sometimes, Bond would wake, body alert and mind racing, convinced he’d felt hands around his throat again, or the crushing weight of water, or his shoulder exploding in pain. Other times he would wake and have to check that he wasn’t still holding his gun.

When Bond and Vesper had been together, he’d still been so green as an agent; there had been some trauma, but nothing some Scotch and a good fuck couldn’t handle. Her death still hurt, but the dull ache of an old scar, and the nightmare of her drowning almost never happened anymore.

But when he started sleeping with Q? When the lanky boffin with a sharp tongue and a voice that always brought Bond home had found his way into Bond’s bed? When Bond had to finally begin to acknowledge to himself that he did, indeed, care for Q and was finding it harder and harder to understand what Q saw in him? 

One particularly sleepless night found Bond standing near one of the windows in his flat, wrapped in his dressing gown. Snow was falling softly outside, blanketing the streets and muffling the sounds of a sleeping London. Bond took another mouthful of Scotch, the liquor burning with a pleasant familiarity as it went down. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Q walked up softly beside him, though not quite with the cat-like tread of a double-oh.

Bond glanced at him and then back out the window. “You should be sleeping.”

“As should you.” Q’s lips twitched slightly. “There, now we’ve both said something incredibly obvious.” He reached out and gently laid his hand on Bond’s shoulder. “You got up a while ago.”

“I thought you were sleeping,” Bond replied, taking another sip.

Q shrugged. “The bed’s colder alone.” They stood in silence for a moment, before Q spoke again. “But really, James, why are you up?” 

The silence stretched for a long time before Bond finally sighed. “Why are you here, Q? Why are you here- with me?” He didn’t look at Q, just continued to stare out the window and sip his drink.

Squeezing Bond’s arm gently, Q said, “Because I want to be.”

Bond chuckled darkly. “You make it sound so simple, like it’s easy for you to be around someone like me.”

“You mean a spy?” Q asked.

“I mean a killer, Q.” The words hang in the air for a moment, finally said, and Bond drains his glass.

Q is silent for a moment, and if Bond had looked at his face, he’d have seen Q thinking. But when Q speaks, it’s not at all the response Bond expects.

“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.”

Squeezing Bond’s arm gently again, Q presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I didn’t write that, but I meant every word. I chose this, James, and I still choose to be here. No matter your past, I’m here. Now, come back to bed.”

The nightmares don’t ever end for a double-oh, but finding someone to share the burden with makes them easier to endure.

Author’s note: the poem quoted in the story is “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver (hence the title)

[derangedrhythms]

hello, do you happen to have any quotes on being foolish in love (thinking of Joyce's "and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood")?

thank you! your blog is such a nice place, I've gotten some lovely reading material from here ✨

I’m so happy to hear that! Thank you 🖤

"Friend, I am lost. She can do what she likes with me."

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, from ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther’ tr. David Constantine

"…for when I glance at you even an instant, I can no longer utter a word: my tongue thickens to a lump, and beneath my skin breaks out a subtle fire: my eyes are blind, my ears filled with humming, and sweat streams down my body, I am seized by a sudden shuddering; I turn greener than grass, and in a moment more, I feel I shall die."

— Sappho, quoted in ‘A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments’ by Roland Barthes, tr. Richard Howard

"This morning, I must get off an “important” letter right away—one on which the success of a certain undertaking depends; but instead I write a love letter—which I do not send. I gladly abandon dreary tasks, rational scruples, reactive undertakings imposed by the world, for the sake of a useless task deriving from a dazzling Duty: the lover’s Duty. I perform, discreetly, lunatic chores; I am the sole witness of my lunacy."

"What is stupider than a lover?"

— Roland Barthes, from ‘A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments’, tr. Richard Howard

"I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed / And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. / (I think I made you up inside my head.)"

— Sylvia Plath, “Mad Girl’s Love Song”

"I have become an idiot like Gertrude Stein. That’s what love does to intelligent women."

— Anaïs Nin, A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller 1932-1953

"…I have missed you greatly and I have been thinking of you at moments when, God help me, no sane, normal man ought to…"

— Henry Miller, quoted in 'Henry and June' by Anaïs Nin

"Falling in love, it seems, dislocates your view of what is significant. Aberrant behavior ensues. Rules of decorum go by the wayside. This is the common experience (pathos) of lovers, Sokrates says, to which men give the name Eros."

"As soon as eros enters his life, the lover is lost, for he goes mad. But where is the point of entry? When does desire begin? That is a very difficult moment to find, until it is too late. When you are falling in love it is always already too late: dēute, as the poets say."

— Anne Carson, from 'Eros the Bittersweet: An Essay'

"…it is folly to be sunk in love, / And madness plain to make the matter known,"

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, XIX from ‘Fatal Interview’

"I stared, I blushed, I paled, beholding him; / A sudden turmoil set my mind aswim; / My eyes no longer saw, my lips were dumb; / My body burned, and yet was cold and numb."

— Jean Racine, from 'Phaedra', tr. Richard Wilbur

"Here is my heart, raving mad and in love!"

— Rumi, Love Is My Savior: The Arabic Poems of Rumi; from ‘Have Mercy!, tr. Nesreen Akhtarkhavari & Anthony A. Lee

"Like a gale smiting an oak / On mountainous terrain, / Eros, with a stroke, / Shattered my brain."

— Sappho, Stung with Love: Poems and Fragments, tr. Aaron Poochigian

"My head is magnificently empty, / my heart dangerously full;"

— Marina Tsvetaeva, from Bride of Ice; from 'Girlfriend, tr. Elaine Feinstein

"Not anyone who says, “I’m going to be / careful and smart in matters of love,” / who says, “I’m going to choose slowly,” / but only those lovers who didn’t choose at all / but were, as it were, chosen / by something invisible / and powerful and uncontrollable / and beautiful and possibly even / unsuitable — / only those know what I’m talking about / in this talking about love."

— Mary Oliver, Felicity; 'Not Anyone Who Says'

"If I chase after you madly, implore you to listen, stand outside your door and wait for you, it is not that I am trying to humiliate myself. There is no humiliation for me in this struggle to keep you. This is only the proof that I am intensely aware, intensely alert, eager, profoundly eager and desperate to make you realize that my great love for you is a terribly real and beautiful thing."

— Henry Miller, from 'A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller 1932-1953'

[swordheld]

hi my dear ,

idk if u have anything on like looking through someone else’s lit window at night? and the peace and the connection? hopefully u have it somewhere in ur library of vibes! i’m looking for a good poem to memorise u see

oh to take a piece of art and decide to keep it with you always is such a wonderful thing! i am truly wishing you all my best in your process of memorization! for your ease, i’m going to try and keep to shorter recommendations, and throw in a fun one if you’re feeling brave! 

during the impossible age of everyone by ada limón, is one i have personally memorized and i love finding pieces of it everywhere i go. it feels near-magic, like a prompt i can recite softly to come back to the world. “i want to be terrific, even for an hour,” and ”your shoes are piled up with mine, and the heat comes on, makes a simple noise, a dog-yawn.  people have done this before, but not us.” are both lines constantly bouncing around my head like a dvd player screensaver.

meditations in an emergency by cameron awkward-rich, because i will always repeat to myself this piece in its’ entirety whenever i hear the words “hand on my heart,” i will go to say “hand on my stupid heart,” because it feels like the final puzzle piece, slotting perfectly into place. 

dogfish by mary oliver, which is a longer piece, but even if you just aim for pieces of it, i think you’ll find yourself coming back to it again and again, until you have the whole of it in your head like a wrapped gift. “i wanted to hurry into the work of my life; i wanted to know, whoever i was, i was alive for a little while,” as well as the popular line of “mostly, i want to be kind,” are well-worn and well-loved for good reasons.

wild geese by mary oliver for good measure as well, because there is nothing like that poem. it’s one that was made to be tucked neat and kind in your pocket, warn soft by your hands. “you do not have to be good,” and “tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine,” as well as “whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting  -  over and over announcing your place in the family of things.” the whole of it feels like seeing a light on in the distance and knowing you are not the only thing that is alive, here, and the wonder of that.

the conditional by ada limón, because there is nothing like this poem in the middle of the night. not only is it lovely like a lighthouse on the sea’s horizon, it’s also incredibly fun to speak aloud: “say we never get to see it: bright future, stuck like a bum star, never coming close, never dazzling. say we never meet her. never him. say we spend our last moments staring at each other, hands knotted together, clutching the dog, watching the sky burn. say, it doesn't matter. say, that would be enough. say you'd still want this: us alive, right here, feeling lucky.” that is truly already half of the poem itself, right here, but there isn’t a sentence i don’t love; it all just flows so perfectly together, each to the next, as if it was written to be kept with you, in the dark of night.

and for a bonus fun round, some quotes ! 

“you have to love. you have to feel. it is the reason you are here on earth. you are here to risk your heart.” (louise erdrich)

“are you still alone in bed? is it morning yet where you are? the smoke turns to rain as usual. listen, my love. this year is just a visitor & next year’s ghost. take care of it because yes — yes, you do deserve flowers for once in your life. you will be the only one left. so hold my hand & call me tomorrow. we are all here.” (michael wasson) 

“you must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall.” (rainer maria rilke)

“i am out with lanterns, looking for myself.” (emily dickinson) 

“not that i want to be a god or a hero. just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.” (czesław miłosz)

let me know how your endeavour goes, love! very excited to see what wonders await you when you keep a bit of light behind your ear and in your pocket. 💚

[antigonick]

do you have any quotes on loneliness you particularly like?

Oh, boy... I do. Let’s see.

───────────────

This night is now half-gone; youth goes; I am

in bed alone

Sappho, trans. by Mary Barnard in Fragments

───────────────

We’re each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?

Ursula K. Le Guin, from “Nine Lives”

───────────────

My brother once showed me a piece of quartz that contained, he said, some trapped water older than all the seas in our world. He held it up to my ear. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘life and no escape.’

Anne Carson, in “The Anthropology of Water”, from Plainwater

───────────────

Heaven be praised for solitude that has removed the pressure of the eye, the solicitation of the body, and all need of lies and phrases.

Virginia Woolf, The Waves

───────────────

I could live there all alone, she thought, slowing the car to look down the winding garden path to the small blue front door with, perfectly, a white cat on the step. No one would ever find me there, either, behind all those roses, and just to make sure I would plant oleanders by the road. I will light a fire in the cool evenings and toast apples at my own hearth. I will raise white cats and sew white curtains for the windows and sometimes come out of my door to go to the store to buy cinnamon and tea and thread.

Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

───────────────

And no one else remembers       Except the moon and I.

Roland Leighton, in “Clair de Lune”, quoted in Testament of Youth

───────────────

I have come home in love with loneliness.

L. M. Montgomery, in Anne of Avonlea

───────────────

and I was downstairs reading the part in Wuthering Heights where Heathcliff clings at the lattice in the storm sobbing Come in! Come in! to the ghost of his heart’s darling, I fell on my knees on the rug and sobbed too.

Anne Carson, from “Three”,  in The Glass Essay

───────────────

Thomas Alexander, Solitude

───────────────

—the way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.

Mary Oliver, from “We Should Be Well Prepared”, in Red Bird

───────────────

I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all?

Christina Rossetti, from “Who Shall Deliver Me?”, in Poems and Prose

───────────────

I know you want me to tell you that hunger and silence can lead you to God, so I will say it, but I awoke. As the nail is parted from the flesh, I awoke and I was alone.

Anne Carson, in “The Anthropology of Water”, from Plainwater

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Ce n’est pas par hasard que tu n’as jamais été aimée… Désirer échapper à la solitude est une lâcheté. / It is no coincidence that you have never been loved… Wanting to escape loneliness is cowardice.

Simone Weil, La Pesanteur et la Grâce (Gravity and Grace)

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So. What are you seeking? The image you’ve each created of the other? The people you think you love don’t exist. Not really. And that’s a very lonely place to be.

Jonathan Sims, in The Magnus Archives [MAG 159]

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aber immer wieder weggedreht, wenn du meinst, sie endlich zu erfassen. / 

over and over always turning away just as you think you have grasped it at last.

Rainer Maria Rilke, excerpt of “Sonnet 23 (Part II)”, trans. by Martyn Crucefix in Sonnets to Orpheus

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Think of this—that the writer wrote alone, and the reader read alone, and that they were alone with each other.

A. S. Byatt, Possession

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Child of our time— haven’t you found the right shell for your soul?

Before I die I shall

Edith Södergran, excerpt of “Hope”, trans. by Herbert Lomas in Contemporary Finnish Poetry

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When they made love Geryon liked to touch in slow succession each of the bones on Herakles’ back as it arched away from him into who knows what dark dream of its own—

Anne Carson, excerpt of Autobiography of Red

[erstwhilesparrow]

a list of thoughts i am having, stated with no regard for their truth value outside of my head, under a cut for length:

i used to have icarus. and before that i had whoever was wearing glasses in a given cast. i had robots and dogs and the very clever black cats they like to have in fairy tales. i... don't anymore? it's like i've skipped out past the end of the lines that were written for me and now i look at myself and find [ERROR UNDEFINED]. i'm not, like, doing anything that i feel could meaningfully define me, and it's hard to tell where i end when i don't bump into people very much anymore. i don't really understand what people are getting out of their lives that makes them find death so unthinkable.

minecraft is really good for... symbols. big, sweeping gestures. it operates on the level of the operatic, the mythological. it suits c!emerald duo really well, i think. they suit their environment. i think a lot about the fact that 'waving' at someone in minecraft is a punch, really. violence is embedded / implied / implicated in even their body language. i'm thinking about how if you want to protect someone in this game, the most obvious way to do it is to put your whole body between them and danger. phil decides things are true about people, and then gets surprised-frustrated-unsettled when they are not that way. techno makes sense of his world through myth. in a fairy tale, you are only ever one thing. that quote about how in a story like that, form is function and function is form.

there's this podcast i listen to where a bunch of poets get together and discuss a poem like once a week, and i'm kind of delighted by the way they like to say a poem astonished them. the way they say it, it sounds so lovely. not a shock, or a scandal, but something warmly unexpected, something that disrupts your expectations and makes you glad of it. they have a way of looking at poetry, and perhaps the whole world, that feels (and now i'm quoting a news article about mary oliver) "tender without being soft". on one hand, i can imagine the infrastructure necessary to get to where they are at is not always accessible. on the other... i am not above wanting that for myself and for others. i am not above wanting to see the world with that much consistent tenderness.

actually, i'm thinking about that first bullet point again and this is fucking weird. nearly everything i think is true about myself is information from, like, three years ago. it feels like i haven't... updated since then? not really sure what to do with that, and odds are i won't be doing anything with that, i'm just suddenly struck by how much of my understanding of myself is based on outdated information. i... okay? for once, this isn't performance art. you'll just have to take my word for it here.

i think people get freaked out when you are very, very quiet. certainly, people were uncomfortable enough with silence when i was a kid that they would fill those spaces for me, going so far as to playfully narrate how silly i must have thought they were being, since i wasn't saying anything. the upside of this is that i am well-trained in the art of doing one (1) cool thing and then going radio-silent. this is extremely useful for convincing people that i am cool. it's also really funny, on reflection, though i'm not doing it on purpose. i've had people call me scary. something about perceived competence. i kind of like that, but i don't like making threats i can't back up. i have a suspicion that this is part of my interest in ropes. i would like to have the skills to back up that projection of competence, and being able to tie people up well / interestingly strikes me as very much a skill that cool and competent people have.

okay, i don't think there's anything else i can say that is going to feel like a genuine thought i am having right now, as opposed to a thought i've had enough times in the past that its expression has been engraved in my brain. but this was fun! i have no idea who this is directed at. i have a friend who told me i should write as though everything i produce is going to be read by my smartest friend. so i suppose that's what this is too. i am trusting your understanding here, if not of my thoughts directly, then of the fact that this is not a carefully drafted and revised post by any stretch of the imagination. (and this i know is because i'm in a funny mood, but maybe i love you. maybe this is one of those nights where i am heart-struck to be alive, and i love you.)

wait no one more thought: i should get to have pointy teeth and flappy ear-bits. for fun. ideal form should include bonus ways to express emotion, if desired. i am already jittery-nervous-snippy so much of the time; i should also get to have the cool aesthetic perks of being a weird bite-y little prey animal.

[sweetesthaaze]

24 Days of TVWLM // Day 2

March 2nd: Chapter 1

Note: It feels like there's going to be something every single day of March! I was talking to @viscountesskatesharma and @sassynach yesterday and this morning about how they will not let us rest with the abundance of content we've gotten just over the last 2 days (and the controversies that come with it). Wonder what we're going to get tomorrow. Okay on to chapter 2! This is a long one guys. I have so many favorite quotes, I honestly will not hold it against you if you don't read all of it! My inbox is always open for your thoughts!

Thoughts:

One thing I absolutely love about this chapter is how well it sets up Kate and Edwina. Right off the bat you can see their bond as sisters is super strong, even with there being 4 years between them. I relate so much since my sister is my best friend and also 4 years older than me. I feel like JQ got their relationship down pat! The way Kate is fiercely protective of Edwina and how Edwina values her sisters opinion (and protectiveness) so much, and their banter!

Something new I noticed is the reason Kate is so protective of Edwina, is because that's exactly how Mary was toward Kate when she first married Kate's father and I love it so much (the quote will be in the fav quotes section below). The Sharma family dynamic has always been one of the highlights of the book for me.

I love the little tidbit we got at the end too, with the ABC brothers. I always loved those scenes because there's always this hint of chaos (sometimes it's way bigger than a hint, ie in Eloise's book) surrounding them when they all get together. And the fact that Anthony literally listed the attributes he wanted in a partner and reasonably thought he could get all that without falling in love?? Literally clown behavior!

But that's also what makes his adamancy in NOT marrying Kate so great, because he KNEW even from the moment he met her (even if he didn't realize it) that he could fall in love with her. Ugh, this is why I love them so much, the angst!!

Show scenes:

I wonder if they're going to introduce the Smythe-Smith concerts this season. We never get to see the scene in the book, but I would love to see Edwina standing up and announcing for the entire ton to hear that if anyone wants to marry her, they have to impress Kate first. The ruckus it would cause! (Though I've been thinking a bit on how this must have affected Kate a lot more than we realize. She already states multiple times that she thinks she's not as pretty as Edwina or that any suitors that come to the house would be for Edwina and not her. I know Edwina did not have malicious intentions at all, but it must have sucked to have so many suitors coming up to you and trying to impress you, just so they could get to your sister).

I NEED to see the scene of Benedict falling off the chair and then Colin choking on an olive after Anthony tells them he's going to look for a wife. That would be hilarious!

Favorite parts/scenes:

I loved hearing Kate talk about rakes and mistresses and Mary being all scandalized. It was such a good mother daughter moment! And how Edwina was insinuating that Kate was already interested in the Viscount because she wants to read the newest LW column about him. I love the sisterly teasing coming from both of them!

Edwina being loyal and not wearing white because Kate isn't either, is just something so special to me.

It was so sweet how Kate, despite their financial troubles, made sure Edwina knew that Edwina didn't have to marry anyone she didn't like, even if it was a tad bit unrealistic or unhelpful since I think no matter what Edwina felt that pressure to marry rich (not that Kate would EVER make or encourage Edwina to marry someone she didn't like just because he was rich). And then telling her that if she doesn't find anyone, they'll just go back home and basically be spinsters together. Again, I love them!

Favorite quotes:

"But Kate grinned. There was little she liked better than teasing her sister." - I'm going to need all the big sister teasing in the show please, this is so cute!

"'When I married your father,' she'd said, "I vowed to love you and bring you up with all the care and affection I'd give to a child of my own blood.' ... 'I have a responsibility to your poor mother, God rest her soul, and part of that responsibility is to see you married off happily and securely.'" - Mary is such a good mother!

"Edwina's eyes ... glinted devilishly. 'You're awfully interested in the viscount, Kate. Is there something you're not telling us?'" - Edwina is a psychic! Or she saw the viscount from afar and just knew Kate and Anthony would argue and then fall in love. Her and that bee are the captain of our ship.

"'Isn't that dog supposed to stay outside?' Mary asked. Then she yelped, 'Kate!' as the dog angled over to her feet and panted as if waiting for a kiss." - Mary being slightly frightened of Newton, when all he wants is to love her is so funny to me!

"'Am I so difficult to impress, then?' The two sisters looked at each other, then answered in unison, 'Yes.'" - It's quotes like this that made me remember why the prospect of a love triangle between Kate, Edwina and Anthony made me so mad. These sisters would NEVER.

"Since the day he left Oxford and headed west to London, he'd not been without a mistress. Sometimes, he thought wryly, he's not been without two." - RAKE WITH A CAPITAL R!

"Anthony actually smiled a bit as he thought of his large and often boisterous family. His son would not need a father to be well loved." - This was actually very sweet. Anthony loves his family so much.

"...when Anthony had asked if she thought the weather was going to turn inclement, she'd replied, 'I'm sure I don't know. I've never been to Clement.'" - Anthony talking about how he couldn't have a "stupid" wife was kind of annoying, but this made me laugh.

"To actually achieve more than Edmund had - in any way - that was nothing short of impossible." - Whenever Anthony thinks like this, it always just makes me so sad.

"'Spit it out,' Benedict said... 'I won't offer you a penny for your thoughts, since I know they can't possibly be worth that much, but what are you thinking about?'" - Benedict is the funniest of the ABC brothers and I stand by that. Luke T would say this line PERFECTLY!

I can't wait to get to the chapter where Kate and Anthony finally meet and just argue their way into bed together.

What did y'all think about chapter 1?? Don't forget to use the tag or tag me in your posts. Or again, just go to my inbox and let me know your thoughts there!

T-minus 23 more days until season 2!!