Stingless

Merry Christmas! You get a poem. A poem that's not about Christmas. You're welcome. 


What do you think of a stingless bee?
It's still creepy. Too many legs and
those scary eyes and jaws and
it still looks the same. You definitely
don't want it crawling on you, or even
near you. It just gives you the creeps,
sting or no.
It still makes honey, though
- a sweet service -
and its wings, when you look closer,
are actually kind of beautiful.



Do you think all my poems are the same? It feels like they're all the same. Well???

On the Physicality of Emotions

Wow, I am truly terrible at this "writing-every-week" thing. I apologize sincerely, but I know that is not enough! After all, I did promise. To make up for it, you shall receive at least five posts within the next two weeks, plus guaranteed once-a-week posting for the next year! Even if it is nothing more than a haiku at 11:59 on Sunday, I will write something every single week. Promise.

       Now, my main topic is something I've been thinking about for a while. Several weeks ago, my human development professor brought up a topic that I found very intriguing. He proposed that emotions are wholly the product of a physical body. Supporting this is the fact that nowhere in scripture does it mention any spirits feeling emotion, except in Job, which might possibly be a fictionalization. He also drew on his many years of work in the fields of psychology and behavioral science, noting how much of our emotions are physiological responses to stimuli - fear and its associates, for example, being a product of the sympathetic nervous system, which controls the fight or flight response.

       I had to think about this idea for a pretty long time before I had any idea whether or not I agreed with it. It is true, in my own personal experience, that I am rarely happy when sick or in pain, and rarely sad when physically comfortable. But it is also hard to believe that all joy, grief, and awe depend on my body alone. In the end, I decided I don't believe that is the case. My professor, to illustrate his point, challenged anyone in the class to describe "happiness" without using any reference to their body or physical sensations, as if they were explaining it to a robot. No one raised a hand, of course, but I could have. I would have said that happiness is the state of wanting something to continue, based on love. (It would be extremely hard to argue, in my opinion, that love is a physical phenomenon.) Sadness is wishing something could be different than it is. These are simplified definitions, sure, but that's really only because I'm not so good at describing things. I would be just as bad if I could use the physical aspects.

       However, thinking about the idea has changed my mind a bit. Definitely, bodiless emotions would be different, something I'd never really considered before. Fear, I believe, is a purely physical feeling. It is mostly an instinct to get the physical body out of danger; it really serves no spiritual purpose. However, there might be a cousin to fear that is spiritual, you could call it awe or dread or something like that. But it would be different from what we normally think of as fear. Furthermore, emotions are classified into two types: primary and secondary. Primary, or basic, emotions are those present in very young children, and easily expressed on the face: happiness, sadness, anger, fear, disgust, etc. Secondary emotions are those such as shame, loneliness, friendliness, satisfaction and other feelings that are "learned" from interactions with other humans. The primary emotions are probably more linked to the body and its processes. How different they might be without it I have no idea (obviously). But it is something interesting to think about.


PS. If there is anyone reading this who doesn't take the existence of spirits or souls as a given (unlikely, considering I'm pretty sure my readership is confined to my immediate family), this post was probably pretty nonsensical. I apologize. Just think of it as a thought exercise.

On Friendship

        What is friendship, anyway? What makes a friend? I started thinking about this question when I read the "Friendship" chapter in C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves, a couple months ago. I was pretty sure his definition was wrong, but I realized that I wasn't quite sure what I thought friendship was. I think I've got it now.
         Of course, I can only speak for my friendships, not having great experience with anybody else's. So if this doesn't fit you, I'm sorry write your own definition. Lewis said his definition was only about male friendship (the whole chapter is actually pretty sexist, even for 1960), so maybe mine is for female friendship. And of course it is possible that I am, once again, writing about things I am unqualified to explain.

        Lewis asserts that true friendship occurs only when two people discover something they are both passionate about, and that all real friendship must therefore be "about" something. I was slightly offended; by this definition all my dearest friends to whom I am not actually related are demoted to mere "companions," a lesser relationship than real "friends." My closest friend and I have nothing in common. We are complete opposites: she is popular, outgoing, athletic, on the good side of crazy and loves to party and date. I am none of those things, loving instead books, poetry, and solitude. We do have some things in common - we both like learning, boys, the gospel and chocolate - but we also have them in common with about 95% of the female population at BYU. According to Lewis, such different people can't be friends, and yet we are. His definition must be at least incomplete.

        So what else is there - what is friendship? It's a choice. My friend is my friend because I love her. Why do I love her? Because she's my friend. Circular, yes, but so is friendship. When people choose to love each other, to watch out for and care about and cry with each other, they become friends. Nothing else is necessary, only love.

Simile #1 in POS Major

Note: not its actual title, but I kind of had to, didn't I? Also, more posts on the way soon, because I feel bad about disappearing for so long and not fulfilling my moral obligation.



Like waterfalls
rushing, pouring, giving
watering living
laughing, dancing, surging
flowing
continuing

Like trumpets
bold and brassy
clarion clear
harmonic, lovely, sweet
exhilarating
annunciatory

Like wings
flight
heaven
joy

Per

Hi. Here's your story. Sorry it's so late, I expected to be done with it a week ago. So you better like it because it was hard. And you're not getting another one until at least Christmas. Despite all the work it took, I'm not sure if I like it or not. I suspect this happens because I will insist on writing about things I know almost nothing about. And in ways I'm not very good at. Thoughts?

This was inspired in part by a story by Katherine Mansfield, The Garden Party. And in part by a poem by Susan Elizabeth Howe. But it's not really like either of those.

Per is a Latin word meaning through. I'm not sure why it's the title of this story. It just is.

 __________

A Report

       So, everyone, looks like I'm back at college for the year. I guess that means it's time to report on my summer reading. To my eternal shame, I did not manage to read all of the books on my reading list, despite having a job that just barely qualifies as part-time. I did, however, read most of them, and they will all get read eventually. In fact, I fully expect them all to be read by the beginning of next summer, just in time to start a new reading list. And I did read many many books that weren't on the list, so that should count for something, right?
       Also I wanted to tell you that I am working on a story, and you should have it at least by the beginning of next week. So don't despair. However, if, in the coming two semesters, a week has passed without a blog post, please forgive me. It probably means I procrastinated an important paper; I trust you can sympathize.     

The Ocean

I didn't say so last post, but I feel really, really bad about neglecting this blog so long, especially when I don't even have the excuse of busyness. So to make up for it, I give you two posts in one day. AND, as further apology, I will try very hard to get you a story by next week. That's how sorry I am.



The ocean has always frightened me a little.
Maybe that's why I'm so attracted to it -
a love affair that's less than unrequited,
a fascination I can't quite explain.

Perhaps because it's so mysterious,
unknown, so deep and strange and unexplored.
We know it's very beautiful, a world
as full of life as ours, but we know too
that deeper down is  only terrible darkness.

So powerful, the waves, the tides - a force
unstoppable, inexorable, immense.
The sea is merciless, it's true, and yet
so filled with lovely secrets whispered soft
and only fuzzily caught in shell-like ears.

I splash at the edge, in fun, maybe imagine
a life beneath the water's glittering face,
look longingly out to sea and the setting sun,
and tell myself I'm not afraid at all.

But if I were someday to take the plunge, I would
calm my racing heart, look up, and smile,
open my eyes, and dive.

The Brothers Karamazov

       The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Nine hundred and eighty-five pages. Sixty-six chapters. I-don't-know-how-many characters. Completely wonderful. (I recently realized that I will never review a book I don't recommend. When I dislike a book, either there's not much to say about it, or I'm ashamed to admit I read it.) If my review is a bit confusing because I didn't put in enough stuff about the plot, I apologize, but it really is one of those books that's impossible to summarize. Also, I'll occasionally be comparing it to Crime and Punishment, but if you haven't read that, you can just ignore those parts.

       (Note: I would like to insert some tangential praise of high school English class, which is where I read Crime and Punishment. I know it's easy to bash English ("it just teaches kids to hate books, blah blah blah..."), but I am a huge fan. Crime and Punishment is something I would never have read on my own - esoteric Russian author, lots of pages, unexciting title, etc. But I read it in class - and loved it. In fact, I loved it so much that I sought out another book by the author. One with even more pages and a less exciting title. And I loved it even more. So I owe an debt to English class, if for nothing more than bringing The Brothers Karamazov into my life. And in fact, while reading the latter, I found myself missing the in-depth discussion environment I had while reading the former. Discussing a book with yourself just isn't the same.)

       Anyway. The Brothers Karamazov. Like I said, kind of impossible to summarize, but I'll try. It's about three brothers - Mitya, Ivan, and Alyosha - and their father, Fyodor. And another possibly-brother. When that father is murdered, it seems obvious that the eldest son, Mitya, is the killer. To the astute reader, however, it is even more obvious that nothing is ever that simple.
       The murder doesn't occur till halfway through the book, though. Everything before it, and a great deal after it as well, is dedicated to developing the brothers. We learn of Mitya's and Fyodor's rather disturbing woman troubles, and Alyosha's spiritual journey/issues. Ivan has troubles of his own, of course, and I find him to be the most complex brother. I wish that Dostoyevsky had spent more time inside Ivan's head, because he is also the least discussed. As it is, the "main" character is Alyosha.  Which I am okay with, because I love Alyosha. In fact, I like all of the brothers, even though I'm not quite sure I'm supposed to.
       Alyosha (Aleksey Fyodorovich), the youngest, is the spiritual one, a novice at a monastery and devotee of its resident Elder. He is somewhat of a "holy fool," which is an archetype of Russian literature, and one I wish was more prominent in the Western tradition; I believe it - and Alyosha - really tap into the "as a little child" ideal that is otherwise so hard to explain.
       Mitya (aka Dmitry Fyodorovich) is the one most suspected of the murder because he and his father both love the same woman (eeeew) and he believes his father has cheated him out of his inheritance. Again, I like him, even though he is a "scoundrel" (which has rather different connotations here; it means wicked person more than mischievous rascal). He is blatantly immoral, a drunkard, spendthrift, womanizer, gambler - pretty much everything that is despicable about mankind, he is. And yet he has a rigid honor, and is constantly racked by his own conscience. There is a Promethean quality about him that I like very much - a rebel against the universe, but also great and good, a hero.

       The thing I liked most about The Brothers Karamazov is the morality and philosophy contained in the story. The relationships are key - Mitya's with his father and lover(s), Alyosha's with his Elder and his family, and Ivan's with himself (he's a tortured intellectual atheist). In Crime and Punishment, I liked that the reader experienced moral discovery with Raskolnikov. At the beginning, she could be convinced that moral law really is just a convention, and some people are above it; Raskolnikov's choices aren't apparent right from the start. The Brothers Karamazov is the same way, although the morality is a bit more complex. I think, though, that the core of the issue is whether or not a person can love and help others (including his family) when both he and they are imperfect, even evil. Can one sinner redeem another?

       Perhaps because that question is so complicated, the sense of closure at the end is minimal. Sure, all the important thematic issues are resolved, but I would have liked to know what happened to Ivan.  Despite this, I did like the ending a lot, and think it was one of the most powerful parts of an extremely powerful book.

       A few words on some more schematic matters: I read the Penguin Classics edition, which was okay. The translation was pretty good, but not beautiful, and had enough notes for me to tell that the original language really is beautiful. It had helpful footnotes, but for some reason they were all at the back of the book, which was annoying. Also it had a very nice introduction, but if you can, don't read it until you've finished the book. Oh, and protip: Grushenka is the same person as Agrafena Alexandrovna. It took me ages to figure that out.

Ishmael

I recently read a rather interesting book: Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn. It is unusual among other recently read books in that I did not seek it out; my brother bought it because it is required reading for his environmental science class and, well, I'm not one to leave a book unread.

       Ishmael is really more of a philosophical treatise than a novel; it takes the form of a series of discussions between a human pupil and his gorilla mentor, Ishmael. The unnamed narrator responds to a newspaper ad seeking a pupil with "an earnest desire to save the world." To his surprise, the teacher is a telepathic gorilla, and the world is in grave danger from the current human model of civilization. He soon learns how the civilized world has based itself on the myth "the world was made for man" and by so doing endangered its own existence. They have several discussions about agriculture, sustainability, population, and how the world might be saved.

       There are several things I like about this book. For one thing, I appreciate that even though it is idea-driven, it still has characters and a plot (a simple one). That makes it more enjoyable to read, at least, than a 250-page essay. Additionally, it is very well written, and Quinn presents his arguments convincingly. I also do like that these arguments are in the Socratic format of question and answer. If I ever write a philosophy book (unlikely) it will be in that format. I love it because it's just so hard to argue with.
       However, that really only works if the teacher asks questions whose answers are inevitable; that is to say, if he is right. Quinn does have many points that are valid and that the world needs to know and act on: humans must take only what they need, and respect other life on earth, for example. But he also says a great deal that I disagree with. The main point of the book is that the hunter-gatherer societies have it right and the system of more-than-subsistence agriculture we use now is bound to destroy mankind. Now, if your only goal for mankind is continuation of the species, well... yeah, that probably would work the best. But a specific question Ishmael asks his student comes to mind. He asked the student to picture what the world would be like without humans. The narrator replied that it would be a frightening, chaotic jungle (the question was asked to illustrate the point that our culture views the earth as something to be tamed and organized by man). When I considered the same question, I thought, "It's beautiful... but there's no one to appreciate it, no one to discover its secrets and wonders."
       As you may have guessed by the fact that it puts the blame for the destruction of the world on the idea "the world was made for man," Ishmael is a decidedly non-religious book (it isn't quite so militant that I would call it anti-religious). A particularly eyebrow-raising part is when Ishmael explains that the accounts of the Fall and Cain and Abel are actually about the agricultural revolution. However, it is also decidedly non-scientific/technological (again, not quite over the line into anti-). I happen to be quite fond of science, technology and religion, and disinclined to look at them as symptoms of a dying world. Take away religion and science, and what is left of humanity? Only the mind of an animal: appropriate, I suppose, for a book whose main assertion seems to be that man is an animal and ought not to put himself above his fellows.

       Now, just because I happen to disagree with a lot of its arguments doesn't mean that Ishmael isn't a good book or that you shouldn't read it. Would I spend all this time telling you about something I thought was worthless? Really, it was thought-provoking enough to keep me up several hours. It might force you to consider or discover your own opinions. And it does have a lot to say that needs to be said, and heard. Finally, even if you hate the mere mention of environmentalism and think any account of the Earth in trouble is a myth, it does some good to read something you disagree with every once in a while. It could give you, at the very least, some perspective.

FANTASTIC.

       Fantastic, in every sense. That is the only word adequate to describe the movie I will be (sort of) reviewing today. Or rather, it describes my experience of it. Since I am really unable to look at this particular movie critically and rationally, this post is more rant than review. And it discusses everything I have ever wanted to talk about that is remotely related to its main subject. It's like catharsis in blog form. Enjoy.

       Yes, I went to see the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 premier, and yes I dressed up. Yes, I am slightly obsessed, yes, I enjoy it. There was so much excitement surrounding the event, with it being the last, and being able to share it with friends, that my emotions were already raging before I even stepped in the theater. I know this strongly affected my opinions on the movie, but I think even if I were to watch it again, alone, in my own house, I would still consider it a truly excellent movie. Then again, maybe not. All the same, should you go see it? YES.

       Part of what makes me so unsure of my own opinion is the fact that I have disliked all of the other Harry Potter movies, with the exception of 7 part 1, which was quite good although lacking the power of part 2. I have believed it a fact that it is impossible to transport Rowling's singular style, in which the beauty is in the details, to film, a medium that by necessity must neglect details. Actually, I still believe that, but it seems to me that the goal of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 (henceforth referred to as HP7P2) was different from that of the other movies: to supplement rather than to replace the books. Perhaps it seems that way because all the excitement and suspense of the film (and there was an incredible amount of that - most of the time I was literally trembling with excitement) came from the fact that the audience already knew exactly what was going to happen; we expected everything but it was also like experiencing it for the first time. So it took all of the tremendous emotional power that film is capable of, and channeled it in the right direction. All of the HP movies have been steadily increasing in quality (and that power), but until now I believe it was wrongly directed. I am not sure what changed, exactly (as I said, it might have been only my frame of mind), but whatever it was, I came out at the end feeling like I had viewed a masterpiece.

       There were, of course, things I didn't like about HP7P2, mostly: the last spell between Harry and Voldemort, during which the sun most conspicuously did not rise; all the weird Voldemort hugs; and that moment when Harry was standing in King's Cross, all by himself, looking deserted, after the critical line had been said. Sigh. But, as we all know, there has never yet been a perfect movie.

       Now, there is something I must address, because HP7P2 also  marks the culmination of something that had been coming for years: my last finger was pried off my hatred of Snape, although I tried hard to keep my grasp. I'm sure right now you're reacting just like my friends: "What? How could you still hate Snape? He's so awesome, I love Snape, blah blah blah..."
You see, I have hated Snape much, much more than I have ever hated anyone, living or fictional, in my entire life. That kind of thing doesn't just go away. Also, you have to admit, there is something about hatred that makes you want to hold on to it, and since Snape is fictional, I felt free to hate him viciously without consequences. However. There are a few things you cannot do for someone and still continue to hate them, and crying is one of them. So I no longer hate Snape. I still don't like him. But I just can't hate him.

       That's all I have to say for today. But, regardless of how unappealing you find this blog post, or my own experiences and opinions, you really do need to see that movie. I don't think my heartrate will be back to normal for a week.

It's Over!

I am super sorry about no poem yesterday. I was pretty sick, and did not think I could stay up for another hour or so to write anything. I double-promise a totally awesome poem (in heroic couplets!) sometime soon to make up for it.


And now, International Lyssa Poetry Month is over. It was fun, but surprisingly hard to think up something that tried to be beautiful even when I was in the most un-poetic mood. Now you've seen me at my worst, and (I think) my best. I hope I've learned some things, like how to use rhyme and meter without sounding dumb, and how to write when I really don't feel like writing. I hope you enjoyed it too.


Also it's my birthday today. Maybe a comment in celebration? Maybe telling me your favorite poem from this month? Pretty please?

Ivy

This isn't much of a poem, I'm afraid. But tomorrow is the last day of Lyssa Poetry Month and I'll have something really good then, promise.



Constantly it climbs, grows
always it shows itself
to know its creation.
Twining up and down,
into the ground and
up around the trees
and buildings, pulling apart
the mason's art but
the heart of the maker remains.
Ivy thrives in shade
but was made for
light, prayed to and
feared and a crown
of ancient renown, even
cut down and hated.
Evergreen ivy shall engrave
all things save none,
even the grave, its foe,
it covered in life, and forgave.

A Soap-Bubble Song

I think my writing skills are declining. Either that or I'm becoming more self-aware.



A toadstool hatched a fairy child
A seedling hatched a flower mild
The Sun, he hatched an eagle wild
On all of them the mountains smiled.

The fairy flew to the moon and back
The flower made the earth to crack
The eagle brewed a plan of attack
And the world was taken quite aback.

She gave to me a rainbow dress
It gave one perfumed breath (or less)
He gave me a look of constant stress
And now I'm set for life, I guess.

X(Chi)

This didn't turn out as good as I thought it would. I might try to rewrite it later.



It may not be a real loss, not forever,
     But still it may be the hardest thing you have ever done.
            Impossible, maybe, heartbreaking, but you do it
                   Because it will be worth it
                          To sacrifice, and because
                                 One
                          Who sacrificed
                   Thought you were worth it
            And did the impossible, broke his heart for you
      And with the two hardest things in the universe
You come out the real winner in the end (and forever).

Psyche

It's terza rima, yay! The Italian form is one of my favorites, but it's pretty hard to write in because English doesn't have as many rhymes as Italian. So if the poem below seems fake/forced/any other sort of bad, that's my excuse.
Cupid and Psyche is my absolute favorite Greek myth. In Greek, Psyche means soul, or butterfly.



Fair Psyche lies beside her husband-god
Afraid to be so close to one so great
She lights her torch, her higher self forgot.

Celestial Cupid lies, her loving mate,
His open eyes all full of wounded trust
He leaves her to be torn and tried by fate.

Good Psyche weeps, her lovely spirit crushed
By her own doubt, and her lost god. She knows
Not how to find him, only that she must.

A lifetime passes; the girl's heart bleeds, but does
The thousand heavy tasks required by Love
She mourns her lot, but walks the path she chose.

Her trials complete, her virtue proven above
Mere mortal women, Psyche finally kisses
Her Cupid again, he leads her to taste of

Sweet nectar and ambrosia, and she is
Immortal and eternal, like the stars-
Her love forever hers, she always his.

Nocturne

The sun is gone, all colors turned to grey,
the last of twilight's fireflies
have slipped away.

The shadows lurk with darkness' languid ease,
they dance like blackened skeletons
around the trees.

Don't look around, look upward to the skies
of sweet and deathless stars
and close your eyes -

The crickets' song, and silvery air of night
keep live a world of music
Live and bright.

Tragedy

Words can be very beautiful.
Paint too, and clay, metal, cloth.
Music is a glorious thing.
But the awful tragedy that is
The heart of all human art is:
None can truly capture
The aching beauty of wind and sun
Or the heady difference of
Air that trees have breathed.

Alliterative Verse

So yesterday I read a very nice translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. In the introduction there was something I didn't know: English poetry has rhyme because that was what the Romance languages (like French) used, because the accents were mostly on the last syllable. However, Germanic languages (like English before French got mixed in) had the accent on the first syllable, so they used alliteration to highlight that!  Isn't that cool? So all the old English poems, like Sir Gawain and Beowulf, were in alliterative verse! In my ignorance I have been neglecting a full half or more of my linguistic/poetic heritage! This must be remedied at once!



The legacy left me to listen and learn from
Is all held in the murky myth-cloud of Middle English.
Almost apparent but always elusive,
The reticent words will refuse to be read
Shrinking away from me like Sherwood in shadows,
A cross-eyed impression of fair Camelot
Too darkened by distance to dance in the twilight
Never quite near enough to drop into focus.
Trying to see through the ground to the tree-roots -
Just barely an almost and always will be.



Sorry it's kinda short. Also while I was reading the Green Knight, I had to cover up the page that had the original text on it, because I kept trying to see how close the translation got, and it was too frustrating.

Libraries

Sorry, I didn't spend much time on this one. Books to read, you know.



Information
And stories
And information that is stories
Stories that may not be information but are still true
All pressing down on exposed minds like
An approaching thunderstorm on exposed skin
(huge heavy slightly threatening and glorious).
They say
It would take ten thousand lifetimes to
Read through the Library of Alexandria
But I'm betting
I could cut that time in half.

Midsummer Night

Okay, I like this one. 


Midsummer night with the moon and the mist
mingled with smoke from the watchfires round
Ringing the island with mythos and wyrd from the
sea and the sky and the sun and the ground.

Midsummer night and the giants are dancing
Dancing with stones and the fairies unseen
The sea and the trees and the stars are all singing
Singing to the dance of the island in green.

Midsummer night and the island is weeping
Mourning the loss of the world gathered here
Sheltering those that the rest cannot understand
Driv'n from a world that was driven by fear.

Fireflies

Sorry about yesterday's post. I hope you didn't read it. This one is better.



Do you really expect me to
take such a thing in stride?
Low-flying miracles
under the trees.
Tiny blink-dancing stars
Now to flash, now to hide
No other purpose than
humans to tease.
How can I live with this sight?
Easy to explain but impossible to understand
Magical beings of light
Wide-eyed reflections of wonder and joy
Just like the rest of this world.

The Discovery of Joy and Sorrow

Ugh. This one was going to be in terza rima, but then I read a very beautiful poem for inspiration, and it turned out to be very depressing because I realized I will never be that good, and as a consequence I gave up a little bit temporarily and this poem is no good at all. I had to post it out of moral obligation, but do yourself a favor and please don't read it. Seriously. Please?



"Do you know joy?"
"Joy? of all the creatures of the world
I have never met one by that name."
"Are you happy here?"
"I do not know what you mean."
"What about sadness? Or anger? Hate?
You have not truly lived if you have never hated.

Wait! Stay... wouldn't you like to know how it feels
to be afraid?"
"No."
"What about virtuous, perhaps?"

"What does that word mean? It sounds very beautiful."
"Oh, it is... but you won't find your answers
here. And wouldn't you like to know
what it means to be brave and good?"

"I cannot understand your words. But
yes, I want to know."



:( By reading this you have made me sad. Thanks a lot. :(

Happy Fathers' Day!

By the time anyone will be reading this, it will be the Day of the Dad. I wanted to write a poem to celebrate my dad, but then I realized I'm not a good enough poet for that yet, so here's a poem by Robert Hayden:


"Those Winter Sundays"

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

But that is totally cheating. So here's another, completely unrelated, poem I wrote. Not today, a long time ago. Because two half cheats make a whole cheat, or something.


Steady hands
conducting a power stronger
and truer than electricity
A stream of sparks
brighter than electrons
coursing through the copper wire of my hair
into my deepest being.


Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

Rhythm

It's a villanelle! Yay! (pronounced vee-an-el, just fyi.) The villanelle is probably the strictest verse form ever, allowing only two rhymes, and two lines must be repeated throughout the poem. And there are more rules, too. It is very difficult. But, some of my very favorite poems are villanelles and I love the form. And while my villanelle isn't anywhere near as beautiful and amazing as, say, Theodore Roethke's, I'm still pretty dang proud of myself for writing one that kind of makes sense.
Also, on the subject matter of my poem, it is not a cliche. It's an archetype, thank you very much.



When winter comes to shroud the world in grey
It only lasts a time, so do not fear:
There will be spring again, as sure as day.

The earth is veiled in tears, and they
Are hopeless, frozen frosted, never clear
When winter comes to shroud the world in grey.

But foolish to expect one thing to stay.
No silence lasts, no real things disappear;
There will be spring again, as sure as day.

Even when the flowers are iced away,
The sun, the golden seed of summer, still shines here
When winter comes to shroud the world in grey.

And though the sky itself will crack, it may
Be hatched like a robin's egg, no more a sphere,
But songful spring again, as pure as day.

Do not despise the winter, only pray
And laugh with snow and flower, all the year:
Though winter comes to shroud the world in grey,
Green spring will come again, as sure as day.

Sorry:(

It's a haiku. I promised myself I would not do a haiku, because I am bad at them, and it seems like mega-cheating to use a form which is technically easy but actually very difficult (and in which I am unable to distinguish good poetry from bad). So I have absolutely no right whatsoever to pretend to write a haiku, but it's already quite late and I have to get up early tomorrow. Sorry. I promise some terza rima or a villanelle tomorrow to make up for it.



Light from the heavens:
for an instant, it is day
before the sky shatters.

Bumblebee

If you want a poem every day, you are going to have to put up with poems I write when I have been looking at cat pictures all day.



He hums to himself as he wanders the halls
bumbling through all the doors and the windowsills
humbly exploring the halls and the passageways
stumped sometimes by an int'resting mystery
like the
rumble of stairs and the murmur of paintings, all
jumbled perspective for the pleasure of curious folks
never a grumble at stumbling blocks, but a grin,
secretly smiling as he cheerfully hums to himself.



Actually, I kinda like this now that I've written it.
Bonus nerd points for perceptive types.

OULIPO!

So I was looking up random poetic forms for inspiration when I came across another totally weird and never-used one. I was overwhelmed with the need to try it at once. This is oulipo, which is an acronym for something in French. It's basically "think of a crazy number-based rule and write a poem adhering to it strictly." There are several variations
The first one is a snowball, in which every line must be one word longer than the previous line, and every word one letter longer than the previous word. It was much harder than it looks. The second is N+7, in which you take an already-written poem and replace every noun with the noun 7 entries after it in the dictionary. Poems of this sort are (I presume) not intended to make any sort of sense. For my base poem, I used William Carlos Williams' "Red Wheelbarrow," because I figured my version of it would be about as interesting and meaningful.



I
am not
from above heaven:
desire's ravening eagerness devastates
allegorical heartstrings, foreshadowing misinterpreted bittersweetness.



so much depends
upon
a red wheelhorse
barrulet
glazed with raindrop
watkins
beside the white
chickpea.

Come Paint the Sky with Me

I'm pretty sure this is the first love poem I have ever written (read: "sad little first try"). It's inspired by Robert Frost's "A Line-Storm Song," which is one of my favorites of all time, and my absolute number one poem for someone to sing to me at my window. 
However, "A Line-Storm Song" : this :: Mt. Everest : an Appalachian mountain.



Come fly away with me, my love
Come paint the sky with me.
Its echoing vaults were made for us
Who love so endlessly.

Our rainbow stair is slick and steep,
But our clasped hands are strong.
Our love makes the path seem broad and fair,
We laugh as we go along.

You use yellow and I use blue
And we paint till the sky is green;
I sketch horses and you add some cows
For an empyrean landscape scene.

The weather today is drips of paint
From kaleidoscopic clouds
And light from your eyes and breeze from your sighs -
Too perfect to be allowed.

And when the night's dark water comes
To wash away all our work there,
You pluck a star from its rippling face
And tuck it in my hair.

Earthlife

Oops. Late again and I don't even have a good excuse. I am very sorry.
I seem to be stuck in iambic pentameter and quatrains. Maybe tomorrow I'll mix it up a little.



Sometimes the world is joyfully alive
A song in scarlet, blue and leaping green.
It's then I want to run and sing and dance
And, with the breathing world around me, thrive.

Sometimes the world (though no less lovely) sings
In muted hues of purple, grey and white.
I hum a softer melody and think
It's not quite meant for truly living things.

I love both songs, each one the sweetest sigh
Of beauty, freedom, joy; in each I see
Some facet of myself. And yet the world
That's softer often draws a tear to eye.
I don't know why.

After Rain

It rained today. And I'm in an abstract sort of mood. I guess this is the poetic equivalent of a canvas with some grey splotches and maybe a little spatterpaint titled "Moody Thunderstorm No. 1."



                       raining and
                       rainbows
                 the roar/sigh of
 underwater ears
                           ssssssssshhhhhhhs
                                           circling greyness
                                                   and coiled wind
                                          with eyesclosed it looks like
                            the deep of the ocean
                                  with less salt and
                                  more raindrops.

Parentheses

If you have read more than one post on this blog, you probably know that I overuse parentheses (and also that I start sentences with conjunctions). So I figured I might as well do something mildly amusing with it. This was fun because I just took the idea and ran with it; after a few parentheses I couldn't even control it any more.


It's all about getting one (well, maybe not just one)
more idea (or it doesn't have to be an idea (such a narrow word),
it could be a contrasting argument (just for kicks! or maybe (if you have an open mind)
you want your audience to consider both sides (and not just agree with you blindly))
or maybe a qualifier (when you aren't sure if you're completely correct
(because it might be embarrassing if someone (maybe someone
you like and respect (and you want him to like and respect you))
reads what you wrote and it's wrong (but there's no parentheses saying you know that it might be):
he might laugh and never take you seriously again (and that would be awful
(because you had something you wanted to discuss with him tomorrow
(maybe an article about neuroscience you read yesterday (you know he's interested in neuroscience))
but now he knows about your mistake he might think you're just posing
(not really knowledgeable, just pretending to be (maybe just to kiss up to him!
(because he is attractive and he knows it. (oh, how you want him
to like and respect you...)))))))))
in.

Angel Wings

I'm not surprised we give our angels wings:
It's not just flight we're after - after all,
Man can fly now, more swift than any bird
And higher too, past earth and clouds and sky,
But still the search for wings continues on.
In jetpacks, parachutes, gliders, kites,
Da Vinci's ornithopter, still is sought
The means to mount on high through man's own strength.
For what's the sky but empty blue expanse?
It's feathered wings we covet, not mere flight:
The sound of wings - all rushing like a falls,
Their look - so fierce and soft, like driving snow,
Their intricate design and perfect form -
How can we help but want a thing so sweet?
They give us more than sky, if not quite heaven,
It's power to move to choose, it's power to be!
The denizens of heaven may not be winged,
But even so, it's good enough for me.

Outdated

This was my (first and, I'm afraid, only) attempt at humorous poetry. Unfortunately, I seem to have been born without a funny bone. I think I can promise you a villanelle by next week, though.


The dragons of that country having all been vanquished
or chased into hiding (he could never find them)
or tamed into small, portable flame-throwers,
the knight
polished his sword a little brighter
and took up fighting shadows.

There's No Such Thing as Darkness

First week of poetry month! Yay!


There's no such thing as darkness,
really, just a stubborn insistence
on ignoring the vast majority of
light in the universe.
There are no dark places anywhere
just places we're not equipped to see
and even what we think we see
have more and more dimensions of light
(which our eyes can't see at present, of course,
but even now we're getting there - imperfect but audacious
scanners and lenses and metal eyes)
and not a deepest abyss of Earth there is
that isn't lighted.
So please, no more of this nonsense about
"the dark and empty reaches of space" -
Ha! - as if
those weren't the fullest
and brightest places of all.

You call it foolish but I call it real

Today's poem is a guest post by the very famous poet e.e. cummings!
Just kidding, he's dead. It's by me. But it is inspired by him. And it was so terrifically fun to write that I might be adopting this as my permanent style.



You call it foolish but I call it real
it's funny how some who grow up and around
folks have forgotten to learn how to feel
(the nearer the sky is the nearer the ground)

here lie the people forgotten by dance
slowly stopped motion in tombs made of glass
they might still alive but they leave that to chance
a hiss and a murmur and life whirls past

We who remember the life before life
and after and during but   are   right now
we are the ones who sing fiddle and fife
maybe   look   why   wow

dreamers children flowers and me
up and inside us for light to reach far
a purpose in living is more than to be
(the brighter the heart is the brighter the star)

How Beautiful

I am usually quite verbose. If you see a short, free verse poem, it means I'm pretty much out of ideas for the day.  Yep. Sorry.


Feet: they are ugly.
Toenails veins calluses
All dirt and grime
And a weird sort of shape too.
Feet are simply not attractive.
But the feet of someone you love
The feet of someone who has given you something
unimaginably precious:
They are beautiful
How beautiful.



I bet you no longer recognize "feet" as a real word. feet feet feet feet feet feet feet feet feet feet feet.

Tears

Day four of Epic Lyssa Poetry Month. This writing-something-every-day thing is actually much harder than I'd anticipated.
This is a "pleiades," a seven-line form in which every line begins with the same letter. It was invented in 1999 by Craig Tigerman, and it sounded so delightful that I had to try it (making me probably the first person since Craig Tigerman to do so).


The enemy of makeup and all
That is false, streaking down a face in
Times of anguish or
Triumph; joy, darkness; shining
Through the dull and placid everyday
To reveal the extraordinary by their perfect
Transparent light.

To the Tree-Climbers

Ugh, late and it's only the third day. Sorry everyone. I promise I tried really, really hard. But I also rushed. And structured poems take much more effort than just an idea with words on (aka free verse).Thus, the technical term for the quality of this poem would be "craptacular."
Anyway, I'm going to try out as many different poetic forms as I can think of this month (except perhaps sestina, because those are really hard and I don't even like them that much). First, I present to you: the humble sonnet.



I've never had a chance to seize the world
Or soar above the sunset and be free.
On mountains, it was never my flag that unfurled
Except just once, in the arms of a living tree.
How greenly and how sweet those branches sighed
A world apart, for whose like man still hunts.
Its trunk was firm, but swayed in the open sky
I was sheltered and exalted all at once.
Now lately it's been hard to climb my tree;
I don't fit like I did when I was small,
But, now I reach high limbs more easily
And for all this, it's never let me fall.
So I still climb my tree, because it seems
No matter what, you're never too old for dreams.



*Fun Fact: about half this poem was actually written in a tree.

East

With one long alabaster spiral
Facing towards the East
Blinding white and graceful
Softly lit like a beacon
Like a star on his hill.

Perhaps one day on your journeys you'll notice
A sound like tiny clarion bells, or
A smell like the clearest of water.
I hope you'll turn and see him,
One day, with his face to the eastern sky
Perhaps waiting patiently
But more likely, I think, 
Running.




I really like unicorns. I doubt this is the last you'll see of them this month.
I'll have some good structured verse for you soon, I promise, but I keep forgetting about this project until the last minute and so don't have time for anything that really takes a lot of thought. Still, I kind of like this one. Do you?

Lyssa-tional Poetry Month

This is overdue in two ways.
First, April was National Poetry Month, and I told myself I was definitely going to do something exciting for that. But, since I didn't actually know which month was National Poetry Month until May, I did not, in fact, do anything remotely exciting. Also, I was challenged way back in February to write a poem every day for a month and see if it didn't make me a better writer. So I will. And because I am a glutton for embarrassment and because I literally only have two readers, I will post them here on the internet. You two will be the grateful recipients of exactly one poem a day, every day, starting today, for a month. They will be up by midnight. EVERY SINGLE DAY.
That being said, you are in for some craptacular poems. My goal is for you to enjoy at least one of them.



On Heroes

There are certain people I've always wanted to meet
someday, just so I could bow to them
(or shake hands or something, as I guess bowing
would probably make most of them uncomfortable)
because they were such heroes,
and I could never imagine being that kind of heroic,
or even, really
any kind at all.
But that's okay, I think,
because I'm more of a continuer anyway
and heroes tend to live short lives
(short amazing beautiful lives)
and on the day after the heroes,
the world would be a pretty sad place if
there was no one left who wanted,
in some deep but sizable portion of her soul,
to in her actions bow to them.



Well, not too bad considering I forgot my self-imposed deadline until an hour before it hit. However, this is a prime example of how I am physically incapable of deciding whether I want to be serious or not. Expect this indecision to plague you for the rest of the month.
*Side note: this occasionally happens to me with respect to fictional characters as well. It is a source of deep and everlasting frustration. Sigh.

Hamlet(s)!!!

Ok, I should just admit defeat and rename this "The Shakespeare Movie Review Blog." I hope you admire my dedication, though: my obsession has led me to spend over ten hours in the library watching every film adaptation of Hamlet I could get my nerdy little hands on. It was fantastic. And now, for your reading and viewing pleasure, I will tell you the merits of all five/six of them, and which one or ones you should watch! You're welcome.
ps. I'm really sorry I haven't posted in so long. First I procrastinated, then blogger locked me out for like a week. Sorry. And as long as I'm apologizing, this post is going to be super long. Sorry.
UPDATE: THIS POST WAS REVISED 3/9/12 FOR ACCURACY AFTER REWATCHING THE DAVID TENNANT VERSION WITH FULL APPRECIATION OF HIS GENIUS.


        First, the easiest one to review: the BBC version. As you may know, BBC has made versions of every Shakespeare play ever. I'm guessing they're all pretty boring. This Hamlet is literally a filmed play. On a stage. With no scenery (very little, at least). It's full-length, so over four hours. And it felt like they were reading their lines. Very, very boring. Don't watch it. Directed by Rodney Bennet, starring Derek Jacobi.
Scene of Hamlet's "to be or not to be" soliloquy: the stage. Duh.

       The oldest version I watched was the classic 1948 Laurence Olivier adaptation (directed by and starring him). It has a very distinct style, all tortured and suspenseful. It was cut pretty heavily to only two and a half hours; there's no Rosencrantz/Guildenstern or Fortinbras at all, so it's pretty much a purely psychological interpretation. Sometimes you can tell where it was cut, it's not as seamless as some of the others. Also this was the only version I watched where they changed the language of the play, as far as I noticed. So if you wanted to comment on a hasty plan, you could sound all educated and sophisticated by quoting Hamlet: "that would be scanned." But if you had only watched this version, you would say "that would be thought on" instead, and then your nerd friends would probably laugh at you. Also it's in black and white. I know that bothers some people. And the actress playing Gertrude is 11 years younger than Olivier. It gets pretty oedipal. The acting is very good, but it feels old-fashioned. Olivier is a very intense, emotional Hamlet. Also, Jean Simmons wins the prize for best Ophelia.
Location of Hamlet's soliloquy: on top of a tower, above the crashing waves. I like it. It makes it sort of more urgent.

        Next, the 1990 version, directed by Franco Zeffirelli and starring Mel Gibson, with Alan Bates as Claudius. Mel Gibson fans might like this one, but I personally am not a huge fan of his style; to quote Hamlet, it has a bit of the "out-Herods Herod" feel to it. This version is the only one I watched that is set in the original medieval period (Olivier's could be, but it was more open-ended in terms of setting). It also has more action than any of the others. It's cut to three hours, but you can't really tell. All the cinematography is very well done; the scenery especially is excellent. However, I have a pretty major problem with it. The Olivier version included the oedipal aspects of the play, this one practically focuses on them, to the extent of portraying the scene in Gertrude's bedroom (where Hamlet kills Polonius) as a huge makeout session. It's actually really distracting from what I think are the main themes of the play. No Fortinbras in this one either, and I think the ending was my least favorite.
Scene of Hamlet's soliloquy: a tomb. Meh, cliche.

        Next, Kenneth Branaugh's 1996 version! After watching just two of his Shakespeare adaptations, I'm already kind of a fangirl. First, he wins the prize for most attractive Hamlet. And I really love his acting. This version is completely uncut, making it just over four hours, but I was on the edge of my seat the entire time. It never felt like it was dragging or boring. It helped that there were occasional flashbacks that aren't in Shakespeare's text. For example, the actual murder of old Hamlet was shown (a couple times), and Hamlet's previous relations with Ophelia (which are pretty PG13 level, but if your small child is mature enough to want to sit through four hours of Hamlet, he/she probably knows the facts of life already). This version also wins the prize for best set and best costumes. It's set in Victorian era, and I just love looking at those costumes. And the castle is all full of secret passageways and mirrors and secret mirror-passageways. So perfect. I really love this one, guys. The ending was amazing. It was much more triumphant than any of the others, and perhaps more so than it really merits, but I still liked it a lot. It probably came the closest to making me cry (a good thing). If I'd watched it at night instead of in the middle of the day in a crowded, well-lit library, it probably would have. On a more negative note, the ghost scene is kind of corny. And the music was good, but it needed more of it. Despite that, you should watch this movie. It is a masterpiece.
"To be or not to be" location: in front of a mirror, from behind which Claudius and Polonius are watching. Solid, resounding stamp of approval. That scene made me very happy.

        The most recent Hamlet is a 2010 PBS version by the Royal Shakespeare Company, directed by Greg Doran and starring David Tennant (of Doctor Who fame), and Patrick Stewart as Claudius. This one was also really great, a fantastic modern interpretation. You can watch it for free online here. The acting is very good, as is the set, etc. It was very intense, and had a lot to do with mirrors, especially broken ones. Approve. I really like this movie overall. IT IS THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD OMIGOSH DAVID TENNANT SO FANTASTIC If you can't find Kenneth Branaugh's, or don't have the patience for a four-hour movie (this one's only three hours) or have a very strong preference for modern clothes, NO MATTER WHAT watch this one. Better yet, watch both of them. You could watch this one right this very second if you wanted! Just click on the link! DO IT NOW. DAVID TENNANT WINS ALL THE PRIZES.
Location of Hamlet's famous soliloquy: just in a regular hall. What makes it special is the lighting on his face.

        Finally is the 2000 version directed by Michael Almereyda and starring Ethan Hawke. I didn't actually watch this one because it was rated R, but since it's a major adaptation I thought I'd mention it anyway. It also has a modern setting, but Hamlet isn't even a prince, he's the son of a CEO. No castles are involved. It sounds like it would be pretty weird. Also, according to the internet, it's terrible. If anyone reading this has seen it, let me know what you thought.
Scene of soliloquy: in a video store. Adds a sort of surreal element.


Aaaaaaaaand the Grand Prize Ultimate Number One Winner is................ The Lion King! Because who needs that emo "tragedy" stuff anyway? DAVID TENNANT BECAUSE TRAGEDY IS BEAUTIFUL.

Transience

It has recently come to my attention that I am a rambler. You, gentle reader, will not be surprised by this, having suffered through my long and boring posts. It is a habit that I, unfortunately, cannot afford to suppress, since it comes in very handy where essays are involved. However, since I am interested in poetry, I must learn when to make use of my gift for gabble, and when to be concise. Hence, an exercise in brevity:


The brief tragic beauty of a flower:
A romantic thought in the minds of dreamers
Who may write lingering elegies to its grace
But only a short while
Before it, too,
withers and dies.

Pathfinder

        Salutations, friends! Today I will be reviewing Orson Scott Card's most recent book, Pathfinder. It stars a 13-year-old and is marketed to teens, but really it is not a YA novel at all, and definitely not a children's book. It's pretty complicated and heavy in both plot and themes, not to mention it's over 600 pages. Not that a teenager wouldn't like it, of course - I think many would. But teen lit it is not.
        It is the first of a series, but it stands alone very well - by the end, the story is resolved enough that you don't feel like you need to have the next one right now immediately this very second or you will scratch your eyeballs out. (Speaking of which, what is OSC doing writing a new series when Master Alvin is still unwritten??? I swear I will kidnap him and chain him to a computer.)

         Anyways. Pathfinder centers around the story of those who have the power to change the past. Following the death of his father, the young protagonist, Rigg, and his friends set out to find his long-lost mother and sister, a quest which leads to startling revelations about his heritage, his powers, and his future. He finds that he is the center of a political upheaval, and factions on every side want to force his hand, or kill him. He must go on the run with the people he cares about, and each of their special gifts will determine their survival - and what they discover about the world they live in.

        Pathfinder is science fiction and not fantasy, but, as in many of Card's books, the line between the two genres is slightly blurred. I don't mean his science is faulty (though I would hardly know if it was), but that he uses thematic and genre elements that are characteristic of both. It is set in a quasi-medieval world, complete with scheming queen and not-as-helpless-as-she-seems princess, and the time-manipulation talents possessed by the characters function, on the surface, as magic. However, the science fiction aspect and many of the novel's most important themes are revealed in the segments that take place several thousand years before the main plot, on board a space ship. (Protip: don't read these ahead, no matter how interesting they are. It works much better if you get the new information at its proper place.) Oh, and I guess there's some scifi right at the end of the main plot, too, if we're going to be picky. Together they weave a complete and compelling narrative. In my opinion, Orson Scott Card is very, very good at fusing genres; Pathfinder is a book that would appeal to both the adamant fantasist and the hardcore scifi nerd.

        A note on time travel: there's lots of it. And it's confusing. The book centers around the concept, but even if you read tons of time travel lit, you'll still be confused. OSC says it himself: the book is "in deliberate defiance of the consensus rules of science fictional time travel" (from the acknowledgments). What does that mean? If you're a logician, you'd better not read this book. Still, don't let that stand in the way of your enjoyment of the book. As a highly reputable and trusted source once said, "time travel is never non-confusing, and if you make it non-confusing, it's cause you're ignoring stuff."

        In terms of literary mechanics, Card is superlative as usual. His characters are likable and realistic, if perhaps not quite as personable as in some of his previous books. The plot is gripping, especially when you don't try to skip to the end and find out what's really the deal with this planet. The magic system (I mean, the science system) is very original and convincing. I always like his systems. Style and themes are a given; the man's a genius, he probably writes meaningful, relevant, beautiful prose in his sleep. Pathfinder is certainly a thinking book; if it doesn't make you wonder about a few things you're probably not paying attention. And of course Card has something profound to say about the human condition. He always does, you know.

        In conclusion, read it. If you like fantasy, if you like scifi, if you're a Card fanatic like me, if you've never heard of him before, teen, adult, whatever, just read Pathfinder. If you are a small child, have an easily explodable head, are a slacker who can't read more than 500 pages at a time, or hate all genre books, it probably is not for you. But the rest of you awesome people out there, read it.

Summer Reading List

       I am terribly sorry about the long time between posts. Finals, you know. But now I am free! Summer lies ahead, during which I can catch up on my reading. So here is a non-comprehensive list of what I intend to read over the summer, in no specific order. If you have any you recommend adding to the list, or if there are any here that you would especially like me to review, please comment!

-The Apocrypha, the Koran, and the Vedas; possibly also the Talmud, the I Ching and the Mahabharata. It's about time I got to know some other religions' scripture.
-L'Morte D'Arthur, by Thomas Malory. I checked this one out but had to return it before I read more than a couple pages. It was very sad.
-The Children of Hurin, by JRR Tolkien. It's been in my house for over a year now and I still haven't read it!! I'm also going to read The Lays of Beleriand, which I have OWNED for almost a year and haven't read. Shocking.
-Hood, Scarlet, and Tuck by Stephen Lawhead. I have an intense Robin Hood obsession and these sound really good.
-Everything by Jane Austen.
-Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott. Also anything else by him that looks good.
-A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. I started it but didn't have time to finish, and apparently it is amazing. More Dickens if I have time.
-The Brothers Karamazov, by Fydor Dostoyevski. I loved Crime and Punishment, and I've heard that this one is even better.
-The Kite Runner and its sequel, by Khaled Hosseini.
-Moby Dick, by Herman Melville.
-An Acceptable Time, by Madeleine L'Engle.  The fifth book in what I thought was the Time Quartet (beginning with A Wrinkle in Time). I started this one weeks ago but was interrupted by an attractive male about ten pages in. Then, when I went back to it, someone had checked it out! The nerve. Also I am going to read everything else by Madeleine L'Engle I can find because I love her with enormous amounts of love.
-The Gemma Doyle Trilogy, by Libba Bray. I dunno. It looks good.
-Mockingjay, by Suzanne Collins. I have to keep up my reputation as a connoisseur of teen lit.
-More poetry. I need to find a good anthology or something. I love poetry.
-Saints, by Orson Scott Card.
-Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke.
-The Four Loves and The Pilgrim's Regress, by C.S. Lewis. Something by Lewis I haven't read??? Unbelievable!
-Something famous by Faulkner or Joyce or someone. Because I feel like I should.
-Shakespeare.
-The Hunchback of Notre Dame, by Victor Hugo. Because I like him.
-Various examples of mediocre teen lit and fantasy that my brothers bring home, and which I will enjoy immensely. Scifi paperbacks from my dad's bookshelf. Probably a terrible mystery named after a food or holiday. Newspapers, poetry, internet articles, back copies of National Geographic, the Ensign, and Reader's Digest, blogs, more poetry, graffiti, cereal boxes, and street signs.

       That ought to keep me occupied for a couple months, since I'll have a job and responsibilities and everything, like a real person. And if it doesn't, well, I'll probably be updating it for a few weeks as I remember things I've been meaning to read. If you have a favorite I don't know about, please, let me know! And a very happy summer to you all.

On C.S. Lewis, On Fan Fiction, and then A Little Bit of Both

      As you may have noticed, this post is slightly on the long side – it is, in fact, the surprise big thing I'm sure you have been eagerly awaiting. And really, it's more like three and a half posts rolled into one. I apologize. If you do not read it, I will not be offended. I am sure you have better things to do with your time. Also, if you have not read The Last Battle recently, or at least remember the basic premise of the last couple chapters, this post will not make an iota of sense. (Go on, reread it, I'll wait.) However, if you are feeling exceptionally bored, brave, or in a C.S. Lewis sort of mood, read on.

      I love C.S. Lewis. I adore C.S. Lewis. Sometimes if I haven't read anything of his in a while, I go into C.S. Lewis withdrawal. He is clever and imaginative in plots and perspectives, he knows far more than any Anglican really has a right to know, and he writes beautifully. In fact, my own writing style has been irreversibly altered by his. Not to mention everything he ever wrote (except his poetry. Please never try to find his poetry. There's a very good reason no one knows he wrote any) is marvelously fun to read.

       That being said, I have one major problem with C.S. Lewis. Actually, I have two, but the other one is a bit personal and is probably best left off the internet. The problem I am addressing here has to do with Susan. I think it is terribly, terribly unfair what he did to Susan in the last Narnia book. (Note: if you have not read Narnia, you have no business reading this blog when you have far better things to be reading. While you're at it, read Till We Have Faces and the Space Trilogy too.) He let her down just because she was not the Innocent or the Repentant or the High King. She was just Susan. And it's not right.

       Now, I hope you'll bear with me while I talk a little about fan fiction. I used to hate fan fiction. HATE. It was what the devil would write if he had any creative inclinations. I even had a strong distrust of open worlds, where an author lets other writers publish things set in his/her own created world – good examples of these are Star Wars and Dragonlance. I thought people who wrote fan fiction were even lower down on the scale of creativity and worth than rappers (no offense to any rappers out there. I mean a lot lower down.). What changed my mind? I started writing.

       Once I was (somewhat) seriously writing fiction of my own, I realized that sometimes there really is more than one way a story could go, and it's equally good. But the author can only choose one. I realized that there are going to be things left out, and sometimes it's okay to explore them. Now, my acceptance of fan fiction has a few caveats. I still am rather wary of it, and haven't actually found much that was good enough to read (though I have been known to guiltily enjoy some of the Star Wars stuff). And of course I still abhor the monstrosity known as “slashfic,” which is basically just porn with some famous characters' names stuck on. With regards to that, I maintain my position that it is written by Satan himself. And also I'm pretty sure that every Harry Potter fanfic ever is a abomination. But I have decided that on some rare occasions, fan fiction can be done tastefully and in a way that enhances the original, or at least doesn't degrade it. And I certainly hope so, because I'm about to write some.

       Back to Susan. As I said, it was horrifically unfair of Lewis to drop her like that for the sake of an unnecessary example. In my personal opinion, characters are people too and they deserve to be treated with respect. Not that everything has to turn out perfect (or even well), but they at least ought to be treated like people and not symbols. Enter my fanfic. I'm not interfering with the story itself, of course – I still despise that. And I could never hope to reproduce Lewis' style – so I didn't try, and anyway it wouldn't really have fit. But I hope I've been true to Susan's character and the world of the story, and that this is a faithful representation of what might be. For Susan, as you know, has not quite begun her story yet. And if that's so, well – there's still time to make a few changes to the title page.

_____

Susan's Broken Heart

       “I believe he's looking at you, Susan.”

       “What, Tom?” said Susan. She glanced over to the corner, where a gangly young man was indeed gawking at the two girls. “Please, Judith, I certainly hope I can do better than Tom.”

       “No, not Tom,” Judith hissed. “Over there – careful, he really is looking now.” Susan tilted her head slightly so as to look behind her. She caught the eye of a tall, handsome man sitting by himself, and gave him a very small smile with her eyes half-closed before turning back to her conversational partner.

       “Oh,” she said, “now that is a different matter.”

       “That's Hugh Wood! He's one of the most successful businessmen in London! And only twenty-two. Honestly, I was surprised he accepted my invitation at all. Usually he goes to much better parties.”

       “Well then, he could hardly have an interest in me,” said Susan, but she smirked as she said it.

       “Don't be ridiculous, Susan. There's hardly a man anywhere who could see you and not 'have an interest'.” Judith's eyebrows went down a bit, then lifted to halfway up her forehead. “He'll ask you to dance, I'm sure of it!”

       “No, he won't. He hasn't danced with anyone all evening.”

       “Ah! You've been watching him!” said Judith. Susan looked pleased with herself and a bit embarrassed.

       “Hmm,” she said. “Do you think he would dance at a party of mine?”

       “Ooh, are you giving one? It would be your first!”

       “I have been thinking about it, actually. Mother and Father will be back from Bristol next week, and they could help me plan for it.”

       “Oh yes, do! And you must invite Hugh. And do let me help you with the guest list. I know lots of young men who would love to come. Oh, Susan you must! But don't you worry your little brother and sister will get in the way?”

       “Not at all,” said Susan. “They're away as often as not, visiting some boring old professor. Lucy's not at all interested in parties and things. Probably not even Peter would come.”

       “Hm, too bad,” said Judith.

       “Oh, stop it!” laughed Susan. But Judith suddenly let out a muffled squeak.

       “Oh! He's getting up! He's coming this way, Susan!” her voice had sunk to a breathless whisper. But Hugh was stopped by another man in a gray suit, who seemed very intent on saying something to him. Susan quickly pulled out her lipstick and applied another coat to her already deep red lips.

       “Do I look all right?” she asked Judith.

       “Your dress is a little crooked – there.” Susan adjusted her dress and glanced back again. Hugh was still talking to the suited man. “Here's another song starting up, I'm sure he'll ask you!” said Judith.

       Susan felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up coyly, but, to her disappointment, it was only a maid. “A telephone call for you in the parlor, Miss Pevensie.”

       “Oh,” said Susan distractedly, looking back at the handsome businessman. “Take a message.”

       “Susan,” said the maid, and for no reason at all Susan's heart suddenly felt cold as ice. “You should take it, Miss.” Susan noticed the girl's hands were trembling. She rose, walked slowly through a room which seemed to have fallen utterly silent, and picked up the phone.

       The cab pulled up in front of the Pevensie house. Susan stared at its dark windows.

       “You be all right, Miss?” asked the cabbie. “Cause I got an aspirin here, if you're not feelin well.”

       “No, I mean, yes, I'm fine,” said Susan.

       “Only you look so pale,” said the cabbie, but Susan was already getting out.

       “Miss, your purse,” he called after her. She retrieved the bag and hurried to the door. Her mind was empty. She had already forgotten the party, forgotten the hurt look on Judith's face when she had rushed out without explanation; forgotten, it seemed, all she had ever known, except for one thing.

       The dark sky seemed unbearably vast and she so exposed under it. She fumbled in her purse for the house key. Quickly – quickly, where is it – ? In her haste she let go of one side, and the contents of the pursed tumbled out; her mirror to smash on the concrete, her lipstick to roll away into the bushes. Her contacts book flopped weakly to the ground like a wounded bird. She heard the key fall too, with a metallic jangle. It was too much. Susan sunk to the ground, gasping and sobbing tearlessly. It was too much, it was all too much. How could she do anything, how could she even open that door? How could she ever stand again? Her shoulders shook and heaved.

       When she finally picked up the key and turned it in the lock, her face was dry and very, very pale.

       Inside, she let the key drop to the floor; it was too much effort to keep it in her hand. She took one step, then another, walking down the hall that led to her bedroom. She walked past the table full of photographs. There was one of her parents' wedding. There was Peter at his graduation, and there was her. There was one of Peter and Edmund and Lucy and Susan –

       She took another step. There was a painting, done a few years before. Lucy wasn't a bad artist, but she would insist on drawing these silly –

       Susan slammed the frame face-down onto the table, but she could still feel the two great eyes, staring  with more intensity than paint could give. She remembered one more thing.

       She turned and fled to her room. She stumbled inside. Then Susan collapsed, with her head and arms on her bed, and wept like her heart was broken.

      Behind her, the light from the hall carved a broad golden pathway in through her open door.

To a Friend I've Forgotten

A bit of late-night musing. It's more like a thought chopped up into lines than an actual poem. It also pretty much appeared fully formed and that's why you're getting another post so soon, you lucky reader.

 ___

O my friend
How could I have forgotten your face
I guess I chose it,
didn't I

Maybe you forgot me too
and we'll meet someday and not know it
Or maybe we will

O my friend
Did you hug me, say
Don't worry, you'll love it,
you'll do fine,
be back before you know it.
All true, probably
But I wish I didn't have to forget you

Are you waiting
(impatiently, perhaps)
for the day I remember you again
My friend
my dear friend

The Moon's Lament

It is a well-known scientific fact that the moon has low self-esteem.
Also this is a very crappy poem but I'm putting it up anyway because of my moral obligation, and because your surprise big thing isn't ready yet.
___

Every night
Earth looks up at me and says:
Look! How bright,
How beautiful.
How she shines in the darkness.

No! I want to shout.
I am not. I'm just a hunk of rock.
A dull, pitted, lifeless hunk of rock.
I cannot shine -
not one photon.

All this light is the Sun's. Not mine - I can only reflect
And I'm not very good
even at that.
He gives me enough to light a hundred thousand cities, a million worlds,
I give you back enough
to light maybe one pair of eyes,
If you're lucky.

Sometimes, even
I don't reflect at all
Inconstant, changing
A tiny scrap of borrowed light
In an infinitely black sky.

On Blogs

A very happy belated Pi Day to you all! This post exists because I felt bad for not having posted anything in a long while, and I had promised my loyal readers once a week postings. It is not very exciting, so if you like, you can just skip it, but know that I have not forgotten you.

The reason I have not written anything in a very long while, and probably won't get anything else written for a couple weeks either, is a really dumb research paper. I absolutely hate those. With a fervent, burning passion. Yeah, I know, I'm an English major, I'm supposed to like writing. And I do. I love writing. It's just the research I hate. And coming up with a topic that has enough books written about it, but is original enough to write ten pages on. Blech. But I like the actual writing part. In fact, I love writing so much I'm applying to be a writing fellow, which is another reason I have neglected/am neglecting this sad little blog - the paper and the application happen to be due the same weekend. A writing fellow is like a peer editor, but it sounds much cooler, doesn't it? I'm in a fellowship! I'm a fellow at a college! It makes me feel like C.S. Lewis and Frodo all at once (okay, maybe just Pippin). Anyway, that paragraph has nothing to do with the actual content of this post, it was just explaining why this blog is going to be lame for a while.

The rest is about how much I love blogs, specifically this one! The first reason is that is makes me write. I already mentioned that I felt guilty for not writing anything for it in a while. I promised you weekly posts, I now have a moral obligation to give you weekly posts, and so you are going to get weekly posts (most of the time). That means I am writing a lot more than I would otherwise. I love to write, but for some reason I need a motive to do it. This is odd because I don't need a motive to do other things I enjoy - like read, sleep, and surf the internet. In fact, I usually need an excuse. But the fact remains that this blog helps me do more of what I love.
The second reason is that nobody in the world actually reads it. I'm pretty sure not even my dad does anymore (although I do have an unconfirmed report on my blog stats that someone from Spain looked at it last week). Therefore I can put whatever I want up, even the crappiest poetry and lamest monologues (such as this) without fear of being embarrassed. And the great thing is, even though no one reads it, I still feel a moral obligation to you lovely non-existent readers! It's the best of all possible worlds. (5000 English major points to you if you know what that's from)
The End. Have a marvelous day.

Newspaper Poetry

Howdy, y'all! I hope you're ready for another fabulous post! (Because you're getting one anyway.)

I saw this concept on the internet somewhere and decided to give it a try. However, I'm not very good at this, so these don't make a terrible amount of sense and don't say much of anything. Also, they might be kind of hard to read. The general rule is top to bottom, and as left to right as possible. For some of them it doesn't really matter how you read them, they make equal amounts of sense in any direction! But they were fun to do, and I thought you might enjoy looking at some pictures for once. I made them by finding articles that looked like they might have interesting words, then isolating the words I liked and blacking out the rest. These all came from articles on the first few pages of an old New York Times that I stole out of a recycling bin. 

Sorry for the poor image quality; I don't have a scanner and I'm not much of a photographer.

John Donne: Selected Poetry and Prose

Hi there! I'm currently working on something big, just for you! But I don't want you to get bored and think I'm not posting anything ever again. So in the meantime, here's a rant about one of my very favorite poets.

Really, this is going to be more of a rant than an actual review, because I'm pretty biased. In case you haven't heard, John Donne was a sixteenth/seventeenth-century English poet. He had a rather wild and troubled youth, then converted to Anglicism and became a priest. He married the love of his life (under opposition from her family) and they had 10 children. His family wanted him to be a politician but, fortunately for us, he persisted in writing and became one of the greatest poets of his age (ever).
About the book itself: it includes all his "Songs and Sonnets," most of his elegies, his two marriage poems, a couple satires, most of his religious poems, including the holy sonnets, as well as his "Devotions" and extracts from a few of his sermons. It's edited by T.W. and R.J Craik, in case you want to find this particular book, which I think is a nice, not too long selection of Donne's work.
John Donne has something for everybody. He has funny poems ("The Flea" and "Go and Catch a Falling Star" come to mind) sexy poems (really. He wrote lots of those. They're good for seducing people.), romantic poems ("Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" might be the absolute most beautiful, romantic poem in the English language. "The Sun Rising" is a close second.), and plenty of religious poems.Wild youth, priestly adulthood, remember? I truly love his religious poems. They are (sometimes excruciatingly) beautiful and always ring true. My personal favorite is "A Hymn to my God, in my Sickness," but all of them are good. Much of his later poetry was influenced by the death of his beloved wife, and his own chronic sickness. Certainly his Devotions and sermons are. Devotion #17 is actually the origin of both the common phrases "ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee" and "no man is an island." Probably didn't know those were about the same thing, did you?
Since Donne wrote a long time ago, and is most famous for using complicated metaphysical analogies, his poetry can be hard to read. To a student of literature, or even someone who reads the Bible a lot, the language shouldn't be a problem. For those others of you, most volumes of his poetry include some sort of note system with modernizations and explanations. The edition I read did, and for the most part they were helpful, but occasionally I would get one that was debatable, or just wrong. So if you do happen to read the very same book, use the notes, but do keep a few grains of salt handy.

In conclusion, John Donne is awesome, and you should definitely read his writings. You don't necessarily have to get a book to read them, though; just google "John Donne poems" and you will find plenty of beautiful, romantic, old-timey goodness.

The Oak Tree

This is an example of my early writing. I wrote it several years ago, and worked very hard on it too, but only a few people ever saw it. Now it comes to the light.
As I said, this is from a while ago, and I am aware that it is not the best piece of writing ever in the world. Therefore, comments on how to improve (my character development, for example) would be vastly appreciated.
Enjoy.




        “Look, Micheal, I found an acorn.” Susie held up the small brown nut. “Isn't that weird? Usually the squirrels eat them all up before spring.” She considered the acorn. “It's so pretty, don't you think?” He did. Micheal thought the acorn looked luminous, as if the bright light of new growth and potential were shining through that thin, smooth shell. Plant me, it seemed to say. I would that I could grow tall and strong; I would that I could reach the sky. He looked up from Susie's hand and saw a reflection of the acorn in her eyes. They were the same color, he noticed. “I know,” said Susie decisively. “We'll plant it!”
        “Okay,” said Micheal. He always agreed with Susie's ideas, something that often got him teased by the other members of their fourth-grade class.
         “I'll get a pot!” said Susie, and scrambled into her father's garden shed. She came out with a bag of soil and the biggest flowerpot Micheal had ever seen. He stared at it. “Because it'll be a tree,” Susie explained. “It's got to have a big pot.” She filled it with soil, spilling some on her hands and clothes. Then Susie sat back, the acorn clutched in her hand, the other hand absentmindedly tracing patterns in the spilled dirt. It seemed momentous, this planting of the seed of an oak tree. Like turning a great page in an enormous book, or taking the first step down a strange new road. She looked at the vibrantly brown seed one more time, then carefully poked it into the soil filling the huge flowerpot. “There,” she said, with a satisfied smile that seemed as bright as the sun.

         The weeks and the months and the years went by, some dragging their feet and some skipping along. Time swirled past in a beautiful blend of colors and changes, some happy, some sad, some joy, and some pain. One June morning in the very midst of this glorious swirl, Susie sat on her front porch reading Pride and Prejudice, with the young oak tree in its pot beside her. The small acorn had grown into a fine sapling half as tall as her, proudly waving its few small leaves. Susie sighed, wishing she had somewhere to sit in the shade. Although it was not yet summer, the sun shone fiercely, making her copper hair hot to the touch. She glanced over the pages of her book at Micheal, who was mowing his lawn next door. He had taken his shirt off. Susie sighed again, turning her gaze to the young tree beside her. “We're not serious,” she told it, firmly. They had gone out a few times, but... “I mean, we're friends. We were friends in kindergarten!” The oak seemed to be laughing at her. It was obviously paying no attention to her plight. “Insolent thing,” she muttered, looking back at her book, but not really paying any attention to the words. Moments later, Susie looked up again at the approaching roar of Micheal's lawnmower. He smiled and waved to her, and she could not keep her face from melting into a warm smile. It felt altogether too gooey and sweet to her. As soon as he had passed, she glared at the oak tree as if it were the cause of her confused feelings. “What're you looking at?” she demanded. The tree only laughed.

          Time passed, and the little oak was a silent witness to many things, there from its vantage point on Susie's front porch. Awkward greetings and hurried farewells, fights and kisses, and long hours of just sitting, alone or with another- all were watched by the young tree. Micheal and Susie went away from their houses and the oak tree, for college, for work, for other things. The tree could not watch them during those years, but only wait patiently for them to return. And they did.
         Susie took a final glance around her childhood home. It was good to be back, even for a little while, she thought. After years of living in dorms and shared apartments, Susie was moving into her a house of her own. She had finished loading her things into the trailer hooked to her car when she remembered the oak tree. “Can't leave you behind, can I?” she said, and placed it carefully on the floor next to her seat. It was much bigger and taller than she remembered, its highest leaves gently brushing the roof. They made a whispering sound that seemed to be telling of things yet to come. “What's your secret, hmm?” Susie inquired as she slid in beside it.
         As Susie drove, she thought. Not about the new step she was taking in her life, but about Micheal. She no longer pretended she did not love him, but she was afraid to speak of it, afraid of ridicule for still clinging to a childhood crush. Susie remained immersed in her silent thoughts as she transferred her few possessions to her new home, until another car pulling up behind hers shattered her thoughts like a rock thrown into a pond. It was Micheal. “Hey,” he said. “I heard you were moving in here and though you could use some help.” He smiled nervously. She smiled back. She never could stop smiling when Micheal was. There was just something about his wide grin that made her feel lighter than air, like she could jump for joy and never fall back down.
        “Thanks,” replied Susie, brushing her hair away from her face, “but I'm almost done.” It was true. The only thing remaining was the oak tree, looking absurdly like it was trying to sprout right out of the car. Micheal lifted it out for her.
        “Remember when we planted this thing?” His smile was brighter than ever as he considered it fondly. “It looks like it needs planting again. The roots are almost spilling out of the pot.”
        “Okay,” said Susie. “Let's plant it again.” They carefully lifted the tree out of its pot and buried its roots in Susie's new front yard. By the end of it they were both laughing and as covered in dirt as they had been all those years ago. Susie stood up, still laughing, but Micheal remained conspicuously kneeling. He took a small box out of his pocket. Susie's laughter stopped.
        “While I'm on my knees,” said Micheal. He took a breath, his smile still resolutely sticking to his face. He opened the box. It was a ring. “Susanna May Wilder, will you marry me?” Susie's heart stopped. Her mind froze. What? Marry him? She thought. What should I say? Her breathing was panicked but her mind was surprisingly clear. Yes, sung her heart, fluttering with joy. Yes, plead Micheal's eyes, brighter and bluer than the sky. Yes, sighed the oak tree, its roots already sinking into the new earth.
        “Yes!” cried Susie, and fell into his arms.

         The oak tree grew. It stretched higher, it waxed stronger, its roots became deeper and ever more unshakable. Every year its leaves withered and fell, and every year they sprouted anew. There were storms and winds and hail. There were times when it was thought the still-young tree would fall, because it could no longer be taken into the shelter of a house, when the wind began to blow. But it never did- the oak stood fast in the storms, and was stronger for it.
        Micheal and Susie sat under the oak tree, watching their two small children. They leaned against each other, his arm around her waist, and her head resting on his shoulder. Neither spoke, but there was a feeling of joy and love that hung around them like motes of dust in the sunshine. Rebekah ran up to them, clutching something in her small hand.
        “Look, Mommy, a rock with a hat!” she giggled, thrusting it out for her to see. Susie laughed.
        “That's not a rock, it's an acorn, from this tree.” She gestured at the overspread branches.
        “Yeah,” said Micheal, “if you put it in the ground it will turn into a big tree.” Rebekah thoughtfully absorbed this new knowledge and looked at the acorn again.
        “Oh,” she said, only her bright eyes speaking of the wonder of such a small thing becoming something so great. Then she ran to show her new treasure to her brother John, who immediately put it in his mouth. As Susie ran to save John from death by dirt, Micheal leaned against the tree and laughed softly.
        “What great kids,” he said. The oak's leaves murmured in agreement. Micheal looked lovingly at his family, laughing and rolling on the ground, and smiled.

         Nothing ever stays the same for long, and, as often happens, things changed. Some changes were slow, barely recognizable until they were complete. Some were fast, some were violently sudden. Sometimes the changes were for good, sometimes they were for bad, and sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Time passed, life went on – things changed.
        One autumn evening, years later, Micheal walked out to the oak tree. His gray head was bowed and his steps were slow and listless. When he finally reached the tree, he looked up and put his hand on its trunk. He imagined he felt a heartbeat through its rough bark, a steady pulse that spoke of life and growth. Micheal sighed, his eyes downcast. This tree was always where he felt Susie, not by a lifeless stone. He had spent almost two years without her, but his heart still ached like it was only a day. He turned his gaze upward, to the waving branches of the old oak. The light of the setting sun filtering through its shifting red leaves was so beautiful he could not keep a single tear from escaping his eye. How many hours we have spent together under this tree! Micheal thought. How much of our lives have been shared with it. He thought about how his and Susie's lives had always seemed so entwined with the oak tree, and how much they still were. Micheal stepped away from the tree and looked at it directly. “Some things never change, I guess,” he told it. Then Micheal turned and walked back, his head a little higher than before.

        Years went by, beat out in the rhythm of the passing seasons and the oak tree's changing leaves. Green, red, brown, green, red, brown. Birth, life, death, birth, life, death. Two links in this unceasing cycle, a man and a woman, stood by the old oak tree, contemplating the house behind it. “Thanks for helping me sort through all that stuff, John,” said Rebekah. “I don't think I could have handled it by myself.”
        “Yeah,” replied John. “I know how awful you've been feeling lately. Especially now... I don't know how you're making it.”
        “It's not that bad.” she said. “It's just... with Zanna off at college... and with Peter away.... and now Dad...” She broke off, visibly shaking with the effort of holding back the raw emotion that threatened to tear its way out of her throat.
        “It's okay,” said John, not knowing what else to say. “It's okay.” They looked at the oak, which was standing watchfully over them. Rebekah leaned on it, letting its calmness sink into her.
        “I don't know what we're going to do with the house,” she said, long-suppressed exhaustion creeping into her voice. “I don't know if I can stand to leave this old tree.”
        “I know what you mean,” said John. “We always did everything around it when we were kids. It's just always been there.” Rebekah sighed.
        “You know, I can't even imagine this tree not being here. Like – it's always going to be here – forever.” The oak tree sighed, its leaves' joyful whispers echoing all around them.

         “Yeah... forever.”