{ yesterday's tweets. }

• 10:20 Dear TwitterFox, why no worky? #
• 10:21 @leda_speaks !!! Will message you! #
• 10:27 we're experiencing some freaky sky #
• 10:42 @leda_speaks *hugs* we'll make OUR OWN #
• 10:52 HOLY CRAB CAKES, DON DRAPER #
• 12:10 @denzina *hugs* re: the wall, maybe you need to double-plaster like you did at your dad's? #
• 13:09 Wow, Nancy. Way to work your verbal bitchslap #
• 15:43 Oh god, Wendy is so dorky. I LOVE HER #
• 15:53 Ew, Kevin Sorbo :( :( :( #
• 17:37 @denzina Weirdly I think of you as a cross between Wendy and Middleman. Art and creative non-cussing! #
• 20:27 Things I am angry about: EVERYTHING #
• 20:30 Except for The Middleman IN A WETSUIT. Miaow! #
• 20:32 @twincy I LOVED Deb/Lundy. And Deb gets some of the best lines all season #
• 22:40 @leda_speaks Brave the wild! *hugs* #
• 00:00 there are ncis spoilers floating about and I'm CLOSING MY EYES TIGHTLY OMG #
• 00:12 Aie, bedtime #

LoudTwitter, yo.

{ Li-Young Lee: Out of Hiding. }

Out of Hiding
by Li-Young Lee

Someone said my name in the garden.

while I grew smaller
in the spreading shadow of the peonies,

grew larger by my absence to another,
grew older among the ants, ancient

under the opening heads of the flowers,
new to myself, and stranger.

When I heard my name again, it sounded far,
like the name of the child next door,
or a favourite cousin visiting for the summer,

while the quiet seemed my true name,
a near and inaudible singing
born of hidden ground.

Quiet to quiet, I called back.
And the birds declared my whereabouts all morning.

 

{ Eavan Boland: That the Science of Cartography Is Limited. }

That the Science of Cartography Is Limited
by Eavan Boland

—and not simply by the fact that this shading of
forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam,
the gloom of cypresses
is what I wish to prove.

When you and I were first in love we drove
to the borders of Connacht
and entered a wood there.

Look down you said: this was once a famine road.

I looked down at ivy and the scutch grass
rough-cast stone had
disappeared into as you told me
in the second winter of their ordeal, in

1847, when the crop had failed twice,
Relief Committees gave
the starving Irish such roads to build.

Where they died, there the road ended

and ends still and when I take down
the map of this island, it is never so
I can say here is
the masterful, the apt rendering of

the spherical as flat, nor
an ingenious design which persuades a curve
into a plane,
but to tell myself again that

the line which say woodland and cries hunger
and gives out among sweet pine and cypress,
and finds no horizon

will not be there.

 

{ Today I am feeling nonplussed because of a variety of things. With thanks! M xx }

It is raining like a mofo out there. Also: tomorrow I get my hair cut!

Isn't juxtaposition swell?

--

Today has been uneventful. I woke early; The Mother went to her computer class; I started watching Homicide again. And then I baked muffins, but I don't know. Something was not Prime because as okay as they came out, they still weren't great. I think it has a lot to do with (a) not sifting the dry ingredients and (b) the fact that the scales are still broken.

--

I also read the back end of my Norton's poetry anthology. It was very good. No, really. Now I'm listening to my backlog of podcast tracks. So far so good.

--

That's not really juxtaposition.

--

Yesterday I watched Army Wives which threw a lolarious lesbian-shaped curveball and Saving Grace which was Very Tense. I need to write about the last three episodes, all of which have been smashing, but considerably different from the first season. As it turns out, I still have a thing concerning Butch Ada.

--

( real life. )

--

The podcasts are beginning to churn out rubbish. Sigh.