Saturday, January 31, 2004
Writing Prompt 13-What Is Your Favourite Song And Why?
I don't have a a favourite song. I couldn't even list my top 100 favourite
songs. I mean if I did so today, the list would propably be different
tommorow, and would certainly be so the day after- different days,
different times of day (and night), different circumstance, situations,
and moods call for different songs. Sometimes one is sad and wants
to remain sad, to become sadder, to wallow in one's sadness like a
great hippo of unhappiness- then it's time for the blues boys or the
jazz girls, and the crooners : Etta James, Sonnyboy Williamson, Piaf,
Nina Simone Professor Longhair, Sinatra and Tom Waits etc, etc, etc.
Other times, one wants to lifted from one's sadness and be cheered
up. Madonna, the Ramones, the Specials, The Offspring, Sinatra,
Tom Waits. The list goes on and on and changes and changes and
changes
Song -Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Listen: there was a goat's head hanging by ropes in a tree.
All night it hung there and sang. And those who heard it
Felt a hurt in their hearts and thought they were hearing
The song of a night bird. They sat up in their beds, and then
They lay back down again. In the night wind, the goat's head
Swayed back and forth, and from far off it shone faintly
The way the moonlight shone on the train track miles away
Beside which the goat's headless body lay. Some boys
Had hacked its head off. It was harder work than they had imagined.
The goat cried like a man and struggled hard. But they
Finished the job. They hung the bleeding head by the school
And then ran off into the darkness that seems to hide everything.
The head hung in the tree. The body lay by the tracks.
The head called to the body. The body to the head.
They missed each other. The missing grew large between them,
Until it pulled the heart right out of the body, until
The drawn heart flew toward the head, flew as a bird flies
Back to its cage and the familiar perch from which it trills.
Then the heart sang in the head, softly at first and then louder,
Sang long and low until the morning light came up over
The school and over the tree, and then the singing stopped....
The goat had belonged to a small girl. She named
The goat Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry, named it after
The night's bush of stars, because the goat's silky hair
Was dark as well water, because it had eyes like wild fruit.
The girl lived near a high railroad track. At night
She heard the trains passing, the sweet sound of the train's horn
Pouring softly over her bed, and each morning she woke
To give the bleating goat his pail of warm milk. She sang
Him songs about girls with ropes and cooks in boats.
She brushed him with a stiff brush. She dreamed daily
That he grew bigger, and he did. She thought her dreaming
Made it so. But one night the girl didn't hear the train's horn,
And the next morning she woke to an empty yard. The goat
Was gone. Everything looked strange. It was as if a storm
Had passed through while she slept, wind and stones, rain
Stripping the branches of fruit. She knew that someone
Had stolen the goat and that he had come to harm. She called
To him. All morning and into the afternoon, she called
And called. She walked and walked. In her chest a bad feeling
Like the feeling of the stones gouging the soft undersides
Of her bare feet. Then somebody found the goat's body
By the high tracks, the flies already filling their soft bottles
At the goat's torn neck. Then somebody found the head
Hanging in a tree by the school. They hurried to take
These things away so that the girl would not see them.
They hurried to raise money to buy the girl another goat.
They hurried to find the boys who had done this, to hear
Them say it was a joke, a joke, it was nothing but a joke....
But listen: here is the point. The boys thought to have
Their fun and be done with it. It was harder work than they
Had imagined, this silly sacrifice, but they finished the job,
Whistling as they washed their large hands in the dark.
What they didn't know was that the goat's head was already
Singing behind them in the tree. What they didn't know
Was that the goat's head would go on singing, just for them,
Long after the ropes were down, and that they would learn to listen,
Pail after pail, stroke after patient stroke. They would
Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees
Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder. There
Would be a whistle, a hum, a high murmur, and, at last, a song,
The low song a lost boy sings remembering his mother's call.
Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song
Is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness.
Next: Writing Prompt 14- What is the best birthday present you ever received?
songs. I mean if I did so today, the list would propably be different
tommorow, and would certainly be so the day after- different days,
different times of day (and night), different circumstance, situations,
and moods call for different songs. Sometimes one is sad and wants
to remain sad, to become sadder, to wallow in one's sadness like a
great hippo of unhappiness- then it's time for the blues boys or the
jazz girls, and the crooners : Etta James, Sonnyboy Williamson, Piaf,
Nina Simone Professor Longhair, Sinatra and Tom Waits etc, etc, etc.
Other times, one wants to lifted from one's sadness and be cheered
up. Madonna, the Ramones, the Specials, The Offspring, Sinatra,
Tom Waits. The list goes on and on and changes and changes and
changes
Song -Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Listen: there was a goat's head hanging by ropes in a tree.
All night it hung there and sang. And those who heard it
Felt a hurt in their hearts and thought they were hearing
The song of a night bird. They sat up in their beds, and then
They lay back down again. In the night wind, the goat's head
Swayed back and forth, and from far off it shone faintly
The way the moonlight shone on the train track miles away
Beside which the goat's headless body lay. Some boys
Had hacked its head off. It was harder work than they had imagined.
The goat cried like a man and struggled hard. But they
Finished the job. They hung the bleeding head by the school
And then ran off into the darkness that seems to hide everything.
The head hung in the tree. The body lay by the tracks.
The head called to the body. The body to the head.
They missed each other. The missing grew large between them,
Until it pulled the heart right out of the body, until
The drawn heart flew toward the head, flew as a bird flies
Back to its cage and the familiar perch from which it trills.
Then the heart sang in the head, softly at first and then louder,
Sang long and low until the morning light came up over
The school and over the tree, and then the singing stopped....
The goat had belonged to a small girl. She named
The goat Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry, named it after
The night's bush of stars, because the goat's silky hair
Was dark as well water, because it had eyes like wild fruit.
The girl lived near a high railroad track. At night
She heard the trains passing, the sweet sound of the train's horn
Pouring softly over her bed, and each morning she woke
To give the bleating goat his pail of warm milk. She sang
Him songs about girls with ropes and cooks in boats.
She brushed him with a stiff brush. She dreamed daily
That he grew bigger, and he did. She thought her dreaming
Made it so. But one night the girl didn't hear the train's horn,
And the next morning she woke to an empty yard. The goat
Was gone. Everything looked strange. It was as if a storm
Had passed through while she slept, wind and stones, rain
Stripping the branches of fruit. She knew that someone
Had stolen the goat and that he had come to harm. She called
To him. All morning and into the afternoon, she called
And called. She walked and walked. In her chest a bad feeling
Like the feeling of the stones gouging the soft undersides
Of her bare feet. Then somebody found the goat's body
By the high tracks, the flies already filling their soft bottles
At the goat's torn neck. Then somebody found the head
Hanging in a tree by the school. They hurried to take
These things away so that the girl would not see them.
They hurried to raise money to buy the girl another goat.
They hurried to find the boys who had done this, to hear
Them say it was a joke, a joke, it was nothing but a joke....
But listen: here is the point. The boys thought to have
Their fun and be done with it. It was harder work than they
Had imagined, this silly sacrifice, but they finished the job,
Whistling as they washed their large hands in the dark.
What they didn't know was that the goat's head was already
Singing behind them in the tree. What they didn't know
Was that the goat's head would go on singing, just for them,
Long after the ropes were down, and that they would learn to listen,
Pail after pail, stroke after patient stroke. They would
Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees
Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder. There
Would be a whistle, a hum, a high murmur, and, at last, a song,
The low song a lost boy sings remembering his mother's call.
Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song
Is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness.
Next: Writing Prompt 14- What is the best birthday present you ever received?
Friday, January 30, 2004
Writing Prompt 12: What Is The Meaning Of "He Laughs Best Who Laughs Last"?
"He Laughs Best Who Laughs Last" refers to the great satisfaction that you
feel after finally prevailing over a person who, heretofore, has been ridiculing
you. Or, conversely, the embarrassment you feel when it is you who has been
the ridiculer.
It is the moral of Aesop's fable,
The Heifer and the Ox
I suppose that I should relate this proverb to my own life and then, by
extension, to life in general; finally, making some poignant point that
will touch your heart, open, your mind, and stroke the very essence of
your soul.
But, alas, I can't think of anything. So, I'll leave you with the Wilfred Owen
poem that follows.
The Last Laugh--- Wilfred Owen
'O Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped - 'In vain! vain! vain!'
Machine-guns chuckled, 'Tut-tut! Tut-tut!'
And the Big Gun guffawed.
Another sighed, - 'O Mother, Mother! Dad!'
Then smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured, - 'Fool!'
And the falling splinters tittered.
'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;
Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
And the Gas hissed.
Next: Writing Prompt 13-What is your favourite song and why?
feel after finally prevailing over a person who, heretofore, has been ridiculing
you. Or, conversely, the embarrassment you feel when it is you who has been
the ridiculer.
It is the moral of Aesop's fable,
The Heifer and the Ox
I suppose that I should relate this proverb to my own life and then, by
extension, to life in general; finally, making some poignant point that
will touch your heart, open, your mind, and stroke the very essence of
your soul.
But, alas, I can't think of anything. So, I'll leave you with the Wilfred Owen
poem that follows.
The Last Laugh--- Wilfred Owen
'O Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped - 'In vain! vain! vain!'
Machine-guns chuckled, 'Tut-tut! Tut-tut!'
And the Big Gun guffawed.
Another sighed, - 'O Mother, Mother! Dad!'
Then smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured, - 'Fool!'
And the falling splinters tittered.
'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;
Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
And the Gas hissed.
Next: Writing Prompt 13-What is your favourite song and why?
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Writing Prompt 11: What Is Your Most Indispensable Possession And Why?
I'm going to take this to mean: what is something that I most can't
dispense with, get rid of, do without.
I can't think of a single 'most dispensable' thing. The only things that
I can think of, off the top of my head, are my townhouse (which is
half my sisters and is actually still, technically, owned by the lending
/mortgage company ) and my record collection.
But even these two things (house and records) are not, strictly
speaking, indispensable. When it comes to the house, I much
prefer to live in a house that I (will) own, even if its a part
ownership- than to pay rent. And I quite like my house.
However, no matter how much I like, how much I love it, how
much I consider it home. I could (and probably would) dispense
with it for a better house in a better locale (something cozy and
comfortable and beautiful in a tropical paradise, for example.)
As for my records, I could probably find most of the music
on them on CD or the internet. But the actual records
would would be much harder to replace; some of them would be
irreplaceable.
I started buying records when I was 12 years old and stopped round
about the time CD's came out. I buy CD/s now but nowhere
near the frequency I used to buy records. I used to buy at least
one record a week from the ages of 15 to 22. So, there's a lot of
memories and sentimentality behind my records AND I love the sound
of stylus over vinyl - especially when it comes to punk and jazz-and,
again, there's the 'irreplaceability aspect- but, no, they are
dispensable- under certain circumstances and for the right price ,
I would dispense with any and all of them. Yep.
Self-Portrait -Adam Zagajewski
Translated by Clare Cavanagh
Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter
half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.
I live in strange cities and sometimes talk
with strangers about matters strange to me.
I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain.
The fourth has no name.
I read poets, living and dead, who teach me
tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand
the great philosophers--but usually catch just
scraps of their precious thoughts.
I like to take long walks on Paris streets
and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy,
anger, desire; to trace a silver coin
passing from hand to hand as it slowly
loses its round shape (the emperor's profile is erased).
Beside me trees expressing nothing
but a green, indifferent perfection.
Black birds pace the fields,
waiting patiently like Spanish widows.
I'm no longer young, but someone else is always older.
I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist,
and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses
dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.
Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me
and irony suddenly vanishes.
I love gazing at my wife's face.
Every Sunday I call my father.
Every other week I meet with friends,
thus proving my fidelity.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don't know.
I'm truly not a child of the ocean,
as Antonio Machado wrote about himself,
but a child of air, mint and cello
and not all the ways of the high world
cross paths with the life that--so far--
belongs to me.
Next Writing Prompt 12: What is the meaning of "He laughs best who laughs last"?
dispense with, get rid of, do without.
I can't think of a single 'most dispensable' thing. The only things that
I can think of, off the top of my head, are my townhouse (which is
half my sisters and is actually still, technically, owned by the lending
/mortgage company ) and my record collection.
But even these two things (house and records) are not, strictly
speaking, indispensable. When it comes to the house, I much
prefer to live in a house that I (will) own, even if its a part
ownership- than to pay rent. And I quite like my house.
However, no matter how much I like, how much I love it, how
much I consider it home. I could (and probably would) dispense
with it for a better house in a better locale (something cozy and
comfortable and beautiful in a tropical paradise, for example.)
As for my records, I could probably find most of the music
on them on CD or the internet. But the actual records
would would be much harder to replace; some of them would be
irreplaceable.
I started buying records when I was 12 years old and stopped round
about the time CD's came out. I buy CD/s now but nowhere
near the frequency I used to buy records. I used to buy at least
one record a week from the ages of 15 to 22. So, there's a lot of
memories and sentimentality behind my records AND I love the sound
of stylus over vinyl - especially when it comes to punk and jazz-and,
again, there's the 'irreplaceability aspect- but, no, they are
dispensable- under certain circumstances and for the right price ,
I would dispense with any and all of them. Yep.
Self-Portrait -Adam Zagajewski
Translated by Clare Cavanagh
Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter
half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.
I live in strange cities and sometimes talk
with strangers about matters strange to me.
I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain.
The fourth has no name.
I read poets, living and dead, who teach me
tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand
the great philosophers--but usually catch just
scraps of their precious thoughts.
I like to take long walks on Paris streets
and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy,
anger, desire; to trace a silver coin
passing from hand to hand as it slowly
loses its round shape (the emperor's profile is erased).
Beside me trees expressing nothing
but a green, indifferent perfection.
Black birds pace the fields,
waiting patiently like Spanish widows.
I'm no longer young, but someone else is always older.
I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist,
and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses
dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.
Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me
and irony suddenly vanishes.
I love gazing at my wife's face.
Every Sunday I call my father.
Every other week I meet with friends,
thus proving my fidelity.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don't know.
I'm truly not a child of the ocean,
as Antonio Machado wrote about himself,
but a child of air, mint and cello
and not all the ways of the high world
cross paths with the life that--so far--
belongs to me.
Next Writing Prompt 12: What is the meaning of "He laughs best who laughs last"?
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Writing Prompt 10: What Is Something You Are Pessimistic About?
To tell you the truth, there's nothing that I am pessimistic about
at the moment. Well, actually, there is something
but I can't, for legal reasons, talk about it, which is all I can say.
But, apart from that, I can say that I have passed beyond the
putrid pools of pessimism and now I swim in the opulent oceans
of optimism.
It feels strange to feel optimistic after all these years of feeling
pessimistic. I suppose that I should question my good fortune.
Oops! I mean I should NOT question my good fortune. I guess
my old pessimistic self is trying to reemerge!
IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
--Rudyard Kipling
Next: Writing Prompt 11: What is your most indispensable possession and why?
at the moment. Well, actually, there is something
but I can't, for legal reasons, talk about it, which is all I can say.
But, apart from that, I can say that I have passed beyond the
putrid pools of pessimism and now I swim in the opulent oceans
of optimism.
It feels strange to feel optimistic after all these years of feeling
pessimistic. I suppose that I should question my good fortune.
Oops! I mean I should NOT question my good fortune. I guess
my old pessimistic self is trying to reemerge!
IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
--Rudyard Kipling
Next: Writing Prompt 11: What is your most indispensable possession and why?
Monday, January 26, 2004
Writing Prompt 9:What Is Something You Are Optimistic About?
I feel optimistic about my writing and I’m especially
optimistic about my novel. But overall, in general,
I am optimistic that 2004 will be a good year for me.
I just have this good feeling in my bones about it.
I feel that in terms of work, rest, and play things
will become more balanced for me. I say this, not
just because of some vague afore-mentioned good
feeling, but because I have been working hard for
the past few years this-and I sense that 2004 will
be the year that the fruits of my labours will come
to fruition – or at least begin to.
Life is Fine - Langston Hughes
I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.
I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.
But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!
I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.
I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.
But it was High up there! It was high!
So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born
Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.
Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
Next: Writing Prompt 10 What is something you are pessimistic about?
optimistic about my novel. But overall, in general,
I am optimistic that 2004 will be a good year for me.
I just have this good feeling in my bones about it.
I feel that in terms of work, rest, and play things
will become more balanced for me. I say this, not
just because of some vague afore-mentioned good
feeling, but because I have been working hard for
the past few years this-and I sense that 2004 will
be the year that the fruits of my labours will come
to fruition – or at least begin to.
Life is Fine - Langston Hughes
I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.
I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.
But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!
I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.
I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.
But it was High up there! It was high!
So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born
Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.
Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
Next: Writing Prompt 10 What is something you are pessimistic about?
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Writing Prompt 8: What is the best way to treat meddlesome people?
Kill them.
No, that's a little too harsh. And it would worsen
your problems. Sure, you'd be rid of the people
who were originally meddling in your life.
But then all other sorts of meddlers would come to
take their place: police officers, lawyers, pyschiatricts,
other mental health care workers, social workers, a judge,
and, finally, three guys called Papa Bubba, Mamma Bubba , and
Bubba Junior would come into your cell and "meddle" with you
all night long.
So, killing the meddlers isn't the solution. Perhaps you
could ask them to stop meddling. But if that isn't possible
or it doesn't work, then try something else.
If that something else works write and tell me about it.
Next: Writing Prompt9 - What is something you are optimistic about?
No, that's a little too harsh. And it would worsen
your problems. Sure, you'd be rid of the people
who were originally meddling in your life.
But then all other sorts of meddlers would come to
take their place: police officers, lawyers, pyschiatricts,
other mental health care workers, social workers, a judge,
and, finally, three guys called Papa Bubba, Mamma Bubba , and
Bubba Junior would come into your cell and "meddle" with you
all night long.
So, killing the meddlers isn't the solution. Perhaps you
could ask them to stop meddling. But if that isn't possible
or it doesn't work, then try something else.
If that something else works write and tell me about it.
Next: Writing Prompt9 - What is something you are optimistic about?
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