(no subject)
There's a beautiful blowsy fall feeling in the air. I am feeling in love with words and names again. The new moon always brings lists of things I might like to do, greater and more grandiose they grow, spilling onto the page with breathless excitement act dance teach write travel garden design love serve nurture nourish create.
As Ms. Katherine Mansfield says,
"Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth."
And now for some raw sundried-tomato tapenade, raw miso soup, and a great big beet-laden salad.
But first, a poem, found here.
Infidelities
Last night she ran out barefoot over
the wet gravel to call him back
from the street. This morning,
in the tranquillity of bath water,
she wonders when it was she first shivered
with the wish for more than ordinary happiness.
How did she fall in love with poetry
that clear eyed girl she was?
Late at night , by a one-bar heater,
her unpainted lips parted
on the words of dead poets.
She was safer in the dance hall.
'And if you can't love poetry,'
she muses, 'What was there of me
all these years ago, apart from
that life of which it is made?
Only an inhospitable hostess,
a young woman in an old dress.'
--Elaine Feinstein
As Ms. Katherine Mansfield says,
"Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth."
And now for some raw sundried-tomato tapenade, raw miso soup, and a great big beet-laden salad.
But first, a poem, found here.
Infidelities
Last night she ran out barefoot over
the wet gravel to call him back
from the street. This morning,
in the tranquillity of bath water,
she wonders when it was she first shivered
with the wish for more than ordinary happiness.
How did she fall in love with poetry
that clear eyed girl she was?
Late at night , by a one-bar heater,
her unpainted lips parted
on the words of dead poets.
She was safer in the dance hall.
'And if you can't love poetry,'
she muses, 'What was there of me
all these years ago, apart from
that life of which it is made?
Only an inhospitable hostess,
a young woman in an old dress.'
--Elaine Feinstein