"Her Morning Elegance" by Oren Lavie, from the album The Opposite Side of the Sea
I've loved this song from the very first time I heard it. In addition to beautiful instrumental parts, the lyrics are everything that I wish I could write (but apparently can't. My fiction piece for Intro to Creative Writing last year seems to have been heavily influenced by this song, but I miserably failed capture what Israeli national Lavie spells out so simply). Although the video wasn't what I had imagined through all the times I listened to this song on repeat, I think any sane person would have to agree that it's spectacular in every way (after all, it does star a redhead [Shir Shomron], and we all know how I feel about those). I appreciate that they've put two grown people (the man is Lavie) on a bed without once making it sexual, that they've made it whimsical without being silly, and that they've made it voyeuristic without being prying. All of these serve to underscore the song's sense of love for the subject. Very impressive. The video changed my whole day when I stumbled across it this morning, and I hope it does something similar for you.
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Friday, April 3, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Dead birds and then some.
When I first came to Helena, I saw at least three dead birds around town within about a one-month period. It struck me deep down. I don't think I had ever seen that many dead birds before in my life (outside of poultry, of course), but it was more than shock that affected me so deeply. I didn't – and don't – know what to think of it, but I knew it was important. Dead birds to me are perhaps the ultimate contradiction and the utmost tragedy. I once told my mother that a short life as a bird – flying, swooping, free in every way – would be better than a human lifespan filled with drudgery. She rejected this, and I've always regretted what she said a bit. Predators, she mentioned, and danger everywhere. "But they fly," I thought, and still think."But they fly."
My relationship with the night, and subsequently the moon, started out very differently. I can remember the first time I listened to Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World". He sang, "I see skies of blue, clouds of white; the bright blessed day," and I vividly remember expecting him to say something about the "dark, scary night." It is obvious now that I did not know Satchmo very well. Nor the night. "The dark, sacred night," he sang. It was a line that shook my world, and I've been growing to understand it little by little ever since.
.... Which (kinda) leads me to this poem. My Nature Writing professor Murphy let us out on Wednesday to enjoy the sunshine and write poetry, our first poetry assignment. He gave us the line "Atop this hill waiting for a glance" to use as our first line. I wrote no fewer than three different starts of poems with this, none of them satisfactory. I had all but given up until tonight, when, reading an article for some ridiculous assignment, I found that the planets had alligned. In short, I don't know what set me off, but I started scribbling on the back of the article, and this poem, for better or for worse, came into being. It may or may not be good, but at least I won't be empty-handed when Murphy comes to collect my poem.
Dead Birds
Atop this hill, waiting for a glance
a bird lies alone. During the day,
the sun beams down weakly; it tries
to heat the tiny, stagnant heart, sighing
not on my watch, dear God
not on my watch, not again.
From far away, the wind sweeps in
to say its goodbye, caressing every feather
holding each aloft just to watch it fall
again. It remembers them all, and murmurs
goodbye old friend, I understand
goodbye old friend, but we must part.
Then one silver eye glances, then gazes
into the bird’s milky one. The moon
looks silently upon her lover. She pulls
a dark veil over her face and smiles.
But he flew, she laughs.
But he flew.
Although it really deserves its very own post, "Repenti" by French crooner Renan Luce was on repeat the entire time I wrote this poem. Even if you don't understand the lyrics (I tell myself they improve my French, though I don't understand half of them), the video, though not high in quality, says it all. This song has been a favorite of mine from the first time I heard it. The repeated phrase "Repenti; j'ai trahi" means "I repent; I betrayed". I'd have embedded this baby so hard, but someone was a jerk and didn't let me.
My relationship with the night, and subsequently the moon, started out very differently. I can remember the first time I listened to Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World". He sang, "I see skies of blue, clouds of white; the bright blessed day," and I vividly remember expecting him to say something about the "dark, scary night." It is obvious now that I did not know Satchmo very well. Nor the night. "The dark, sacred night," he sang. It was a line that shook my world, and I've been growing to understand it little by little ever since.
.... Which (kinda) leads me to this poem. My Nature Writing professor Murphy let us out on Wednesday to enjoy the sunshine and write poetry, our first poetry assignment. He gave us the line "Atop this hill waiting for a glance" to use as our first line. I wrote no fewer than three different starts of poems with this, none of them satisfactory. I had all but given up until tonight, when, reading an article for some ridiculous assignment, I found that the planets had alligned. In short, I don't know what set me off, but I started scribbling on the back of the article, and this poem, for better or for worse, came into being. It may or may not be good, but at least I won't be empty-handed when Murphy comes to collect my poem.
Dead Birds
Atop this hill, waiting for a glance
a bird lies alone. During the day,
the sun beams down weakly; it tries
to heat the tiny, stagnant heart, sighing
not on my watch, dear God
not on my watch, not again.
From far away, the wind sweeps in
to say its goodbye, caressing every feather
holding each aloft just to watch it fall
again. It remembers them all, and murmurs
goodbye old friend, I understand
goodbye old friend, but we must part.
Then one silver eye glances, then gazes
into the bird’s milky one. The moon
looks silently upon her lover. She pulls
a dark veil over her face and smiles.
But he flew, she laughs.
But he flew.
Although it really deserves its very own post, "Repenti" by French crooner Renan Luce was on repeat the entire time I wrote this poem. Even if you don't understand the lyrics (I tell myself they improve my French, though I don't understand half of them), the video, though not high in quality, says it all. This song has been a favorite of mine from the first time I heard it. The repeated phrase "Repenti; j'ai trahi" means "I repent; I betrayed". I'd have embedded this baby so hard, but someone was a jerk and didn't let me.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The walnut tree of Elm Street.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, too sultrily sun-warm for people to be outside, but Bellona is being a jaguar in the walnut tree on the corner. She drapes herself on her branch, trying to lie in just the same way as the big cats from this month’s National Geographic. Wide-mouthed and showing all the gaps in her tiny teeth, she imitates a predator’s jaded yawn, but her eyes give her away. It’s not too long before her little potbelly, the kind exhibited only by those ferocious beasts who feast on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, makes her squirm a little on her perch. She tries to maintain her feline posture, but it is soon apparent that she’s uncomfortable; her joints just don’t bend the right way.
Bellona becomes distracted from her discomfort, though, when the mailman comes into sight down the block. She watches him from above, a silent killer hidden in the cool, leafy recesses of her Elm Street jungle. Trying to mold her soprano voice to a throaty growl, her roar comes out more like a hum, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She stealthily arrays herself for battle as the mailman makes his way towards the patch of sidewalk below; her fingers curl like claws, gripping the branch as she gathers her legs beneath her. Her green eyes but sharp, fierce slits, she wiggles her haunches and waits.
Bellona becomes distracted from her discomfort, though, when the mailman comes into sight down the block. She watches him from above, a silent killer hidden in the cool, leafy recesses of her Elm Street jungle. Trying to mold her soprano voice to a throaty growl, her roar comes out more like a hum, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She stealthily arrays herself for battle as the mailman makes his way towards the patch of sidewalk below; her fingers curl like claws, gripping the branch as she gathers her legs beneath her. Her green eyes but sharp, fierce slits, she wiggles her haunches and waits.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Velcro Shoes and Redhaired Blues.
The blonde middle sister sandwiched between a pair of classic redheads, I was under the impression that I was not quite as special as my siblings. In my mind, redheadedness was a virtue, albeit one from which I was cut off. As such, it was clearly the trait I most favored when selecting for myself a representative Disney princess. Ariel could breathe underwater, had a powerful tail, talked to fish, and, most importantly, had red hair. An obvious choice, I think.
One year, my family somehow managed to get a hold of an Ariel costume - complete with a headress in the shape of red cartoon hair - in my size. Dressed in my Little Mermaid velcro tennis shoes, about 13 layers of warm clothing, a green tail, and a suspiciously conservative torso covering, I awaited the final piece of my costume. As my mother tied the last piece into place around my 5-year-old face, I beamed. I was a redhead at last.
One year, my family somehow managed to get a hold of an Ariel costume - complete with a headress in the shape of red cartoon hair - in my size. Dressed in my Little Mermaid velcro tennis shoes, about 13 layers of warm clothing, a green tail, and a suspiciously conservative torso covering, I awaited the final piece of my costume. As my mother tied the last piece into place around my 5-year-old face, I beamed. I was a redhead at last.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Del Olor de Elotes, O, En Que La Vida Me Transforma.
The post will be in English for all you English-speaking imaginary readers.
In the spring of my senior year of high school, I went on a mission trip to Chihuahua, Mexico. Before I continue, allow me to say that this was no kind of proselytizing mission; my companions and I went merely to help fellow members of the same denomination. The matter of my distaste for evangelicals is best saved for another (or several other) post(s). Chihuahua City (Ciudad de Chihuahua), where we stayed and from whence we traveled daily to the mountain mining town of Aquiles Serdan (Santa Eulalia), was a bustling Place of Interest.
The stores within a mere three blocks of our downtown hotel ranged from street vendors of every kind to flea markets hawking fake Pumas to Pizza Huts and Subways; each socio-economic class (i.e., the very rich and the very poor) had its own set of shopping places. For the Rich, a wide, tree-lined walking mall edged with store after store of expensive, Americanized goods; it was a task to find a shirt with Spanish instead of English writing. The Poor made but small forays into this area: small herds of tiny Indian girls and a legless man begged, a woman sold small bags of pumpkin seeds, and an ancient guitarist strummed tunelessly for coinage. The Rich cared little. As I watched, a well-dressed woman snatched a handful of seeds from the destitute street vendor. She could easily have paid the few pesos asked, but she unabashedly took from the other woman's livelihood. I've rarely been more disgusted.
My favorite place within the Ciudad was, and is, the dirty, scum-covered area inhabited by swarming masses of buyers and sellers and lookers-on. Colors, smells, and sounds filled the air, and the sidewalks and streets are crowded with people moving in every direction.
Those in automobiles for once have to bow to the whim of those on foot.
If you don't want to be near people who are of a different class than you, you should to stay out.
Want something high class, flashy? Good luck.
If you're hungry for something other than Elotes, you can go somewhere else.
There is no avoiding your fellow man here. I find that some people hate that.
In the spring of my senior year of high school, I went on a mission trip to Chihuahua, Mexico. Before I continue, allow me to say that this was no kind of proselytizing mission; my companions and I went merely to help fellow members of the same denomination. The matter of my distaste for evangelicals is best saved for another (or several other) post(s). Chihuahua City (Ciudad de Chihuahua), where we stayed and from whence we traveled daily to the mountain mining town of Aquiles Serdan (Santa Eulalia), was a bustling Place of Interest.
The stores within a mere three blocks of our downtown hotel ranged from street vendors of every kind to flea markets hawking fake Pumas to Pizza Huts and Subways; each socio-economic class (i.e., the very rich and the very poor) had its own set of shopping places. For the Rich, a wide, tree-lined walking mall edged with store after store of expensive, Americanized goods; it was a task to find a shirt with Spanish instead of English writing. The Poor made but small forays into this area: small herds of tiny Indian girls and a legless man begged, a woman sold small bags of pumpkin seeds, and an ancient guitarist strummed tunelessly for coinage. The Rich cared little. As I watched, a well-dressed woman snatched a handful of seeds from the destitute street vendor. She could easily have paid the few pesos asked, but she unabashedly took from the other woman's livelihood. I've rarely been more disgusted.
My favorite place within the Ciudad was, and is, the dirty, scum-covered area inhabited by swarming masses of buyers and sellers and lookers-on. Colors, smells, and sounds filled the air, and the sidewalks and streets are crowded with people moving in every direction.
Those in automobiles for once have to bow to the whim of those on foot.
If you don't want to be near people who are of a different class than you, you should to stay out.
Want something high class, flashy? Good luck.
If you're hungry for something other than Elotes, you can go somewhere else.
There is no avoiding your fellow man here. I find that some people hate that.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
SR 159.
Cars, close and blurry, whizzed by the lovers standing at the roadside. The sun's last rays cast blushes on the pair as they leaned against the fender of his prize ride, enraptured, embracing. Her long hair lifted gently with the pine-scented wind, and he whispered her name between kisses- "LaDonna, LaDonna...." She smiled shyly, and, reaching into her acid-wash pockets, pulled out a pair of cigarrettes. Her hands crawled slowly upward, coyly brushing long, red nails against his wife-beater-covered belly and combing his sparse hairs over the yawning hairless gap of the top of his head. Finally placing and lighting the unfiltered right where he always set it, in the crevice between his spotted front teeth, she took a puff of her own and sighed a smokey haze. "Le's git, Bobby Joe. Price Iz Right oughtta be on by now."
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Terra incognita.
August is here now. My bare feet make quieter crunches on the gravel in August, though I go shoeless to take out the garbage all year round. My mom has always hated that; feet should be in shoes. Someday I'll walk barefoot across broken glass and hot coals and I'll be glad for all the summer evenings I walked barefoot on the chip-seal avenue in front of my house, the times I braved the hot deck out back, and my endless adventures scuttling up the walnut tree to my customary branch to play the watchful jaguar above everyone's heads, without anyone's knowledge.
August has a different feel. Everything is fluid, like the rocks beneath you have shifted and left your velocity in a constant state of change and your position at any moment more uncertain than Heisenberg could even begin to guess. Before you're fully awake, it's almost bedtime, and you vaguely remember having planned to "do something with yourself" that day. There's a nebulous idea in your mind that now is your last chance to prove that you exist, that tomorrow will never be today, that School or Life or Something Really Big is coming on fast and that it won't slow down to avoid tipping you over in your little canoe adrift in the middle of your Pacific-sized ocean of aspirations. You're in trouble, you think. Maybe.
My sister and I used to catch pet grasshoppers in the tall, unmowed parts of our back lawn. Their tobacco juice stains would mix with the smears of garnet red that the soft gem raspberries had left on our hands. We would expertly catch and release our quarry after christening the larger specimens "Hopper" and their smaller companions "Hopper, Jr." Yesterday we had the world our way.
Today, though, things have changed – shifted again before I could grab hold of anything solid. A split second and the world has transubstantiated from something sheltering and womb-like to just an illusion of the same. The colors blur now. A head-on collision steals a 20-year-old college student from her parents' rearview mirror; it was a one-way trip to the funeral home, not the dorm. As I pet my cat, I know that she has eaten more today than some people. The people who should be by my side are for some reason somewhere else.
I want to climb into the green, cool foliage of my tree again and pretend that I am the neighborhood's Benevolent Jaguar Guardian. I want to taste an unwashed raspberry, to stumble across the hidden antidote that will assuage the pain of knowing. But the Secret August Worlds are merely an eyelid away from the world outside, and nothing will erase the truth. Yet the Secret Worlds of August live on. Grasshoppers are attainable if you are quick and willing to squat in the tall grass. Calloused feet will get you far if you remember to hide your winces from your mother. School won't start until later. Welcome to your August evening. Live it well.
August has a different feel. Everything is fluid, like the rocks beneath you have shifted and left your velocity in a constant state of change and your position at any moment more uncertain than Heisenberg could even begin to guess. Before you're fully awake, it's almost bedtime, and you vaguely remember having planned to "do something with yourself" that day. There's a nebulous idea in your mind that now is your last chance to prove that you exist, that tomorrow will never be today, that School or Life or Something Really Big is coming on fast and that it won't slow down to avoid tipping you over in your little canoe adrift in the middle of your Pacific-sized ocean of aspirations. You're in trouble, you think. Maybe.
My sister and I used to catch pet grasshoppers in the tall, unmowed parts of our back lawn. Their tobacco juice stains would mix with the smears of garnet red that the soft gem raspberries had left on our hands. We would expertly catch and release our quarry after christening the larger specimens "Hopper" and their smaller companions "Hopper, Jr." Yesterday we had the world our way.
Today, though, things have changed – shifted again before I could grab hold of anything solid. A split second and the world has transubstantiated from something sheltering and womb-like to just an illusion of the same. The colors blur now. A head-on collision steals a 20-year-old college student from her parents' rearview mirror; it was a one-way trip to the funeral home, not the dorm. As I pet my cat, I know that she has eaten more today than some people. The people who should be by my side are for some reason somewhere else.
I want to climb into the green, cool foliage of my tree again and pretend that I am the neighborhood's Benevolent Jaguar Guardian. I want to taste an unwashed raspberry, to stumble across the hidden antidote that will assuage the pain of knowing. But the Secret August Worlds are merely an eyelid away from the world outside, and nothing will erase the truth. Yet the Secret Worlds of August live on. Grasshoppers are attainable if you are quick and willing to squat in the tall grass. Calloused feet will get you far if you remember to hide your winces from your mother. School won't start until later. Welcome to your August evening. Live it well.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
There's Beauty In The Breakdown.
It was still daylight out when I escorted Ophelia to her room to put her to bed. As we entered, I glanced at the photograph posted outside her door to identify the room's occupant. It was a picture of two very different Ophelias: the current, eroded Ophelia standing before a portrait of her thirty-something self. Even her own likeness towered over her, its paint-daubed eyes gleaming with a fierceness that had long been gone from the eyes of the model that inspired them. A laminated sign bearing Ophelia's name was stapled to the wall to guide her to her dwelling, but for Ophelia, there was to be no finding her way back from the wilderness that had swallowed her lucidity.
My plan was to get her changed, toileted and into bed as quickly as possible, but she managed somehow to point her walker toward the living room lined with modern art paintings and classical records. Old people are quicker than you might think. I frustratedly followed her, as there was little chance in stopping her now that she had entered the room- it would simply take too long to explain to her why I wanted her to go to the bedroom.
As she spoke, though, seated in her blue rocking chair, her eyes glittered with a new light. Tonight there was a spark there that I had never seen in her. I tried to put her to bed, plying her with an occasional "Aren't you tired yet, Ophelia?", but my impudent interruptions became fewer as the tales of her life cast their spell on me. Years or moments transpired as she spoke- disjointedly, as dementia patients do, but with a wisdom and spirit that demands respect. I glanced up at the portrait of the young Ophelia hanging on the wall. The dusky, dust-soaked rays of day's last light fell on the painting, highlighting the sharp young woman peering back at me. I turned my attention back to the flesh-and-blood woman before me and though the walker stood a mere few feet away from her trembling, wrinkled figure, she suddenly was not a day older than her portrait.
I decided then that bedtime could wait.
My plan was to get her changed, toileted and into bed as quickly as possible, but she managed somehow to point her walker toward the living room lined with modern art paintings and classical records. Old people are quicker than you might think. I frustratedly followed her, as there was little chance in stopping her now that she had entered the room- it would simply take too long to explain to her why I wanted her to go to the bedroom.
As she spoke, though, seated in her blue rocking chair, her eyes glittered with a new light. Tonight there was a spark there that I had never seen in her. I tried to put her to bed, plying her with an occasional "Aren't you tired yet, Ophelia?", but my impudent interruptions became fewer as the tales of her life cast their spell on me. Years or moments transpired as she spoke- disjointedly, as dementia patients do, but with a wisdom and spirit that demands respect. I glanced up at the portrait of the young Ophelia hanging on the wall. The dusky, dust-soaked rays of day's last light fell on the painting, highlighting the sharp young woman peering back at me. I turned my attention back to the flesh-and-blood woman before me and though the walker stood a mere few feet away from her trembling, wrinkled figure, she suddenly was not a day older than her portrait.
I decided then that bedtime could wait.
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