another 2 + unsolicited whining
I am trying to relax, even though I'm so stressed, my stomach's upset. I went to bizarre baazar, which was nice, and got super-duper lost. Fuck I-90. Fuck the west side. Next time, I'm taking I-77 and going straight up Detroit. Also, I bought two more pins than I can now locate, which wearies me.
This week, I am trying to write my Statement of Purpose (hereafter, SOP, so don't forget) I did make an outline, but it's difficult. It's difficult to be compelling without fawning. Well-written, without being ice-cold. I have a contact appointment tomorrow, and the same receptionist who tried to dog me last time will be there, I'm sure. I'm just going to give her my best, "Please not today" look.
Juvenilis
"Tap your heritage for poems...but also embellish...."
Marion Zimmer Bradley
"Come back Africa, and freedom within our lifetime."
from Albert Lutuli's Message to the Seventh Provincial Conference
Oh what heritage?
Surely not Yvette, French
charwoman, laboring under the revolutionary
calendar, nine workdays to two days off--
Or the surname usually so true, here
the falsest of friends, its trail into the past
a mobius strip--
a tale with one side.
Finally, what long trawl over the ocean , what
sprawling savannah, what coup, what
famine, what diamond mine, what despot, help me, I
couldn't decide which language to take,
so I took Japanese--
I'm angry and disappointed
in myself. Who says "Come back"
in celebration? Why
are thing happening this way?
This is my heritage with a bit of embellishment
a bit of Edwardian ribbon, trampled in the dust.
North Coast
Ping murmur Ping nothing
-Samuel Beckett, Ping
Already over, winter. We walked on
sidewalk smashed to riprap, light
cold and undifferentiated.
Arbitrary green.
New topology. Scatter the bouquet
if you want. The lake is indifferent.
No sound, neither pulling them down,
nor carrying them away.
And white. As if the sky weren't
already pure white. Everywhere
I look I see the same interchangeable
faces. A man walking his blind dog,
a blind man walking with his dog,
a boy praying or despairing, a girl
either joyful or vengeful, behind us
buildings wending in the fog, new geography.
You mount the same protest
but your there flowers are floating
in the cold brown lake, safe
from the wake and the waves, behind
the break wall. You mouth
a silent protest lost in an noncommital wind. We walk
in the same direction to separate (New geometry?)
even the gray's thinned out, sailed west, broken up.
ETA: Found one of my pins. But not my favorite. :
This week, I am trying to write my Statement of Purpose (hereafter, SOP, so don't forget) I did make an outline, but it's difficult. It's difficult to be compelling without fawning. Well-written, without being ice-cold. I have a contact appointment tomorrow, and the same receptionist who tried to dog me last time will be there, I'm sure. I'm just going to give her my best, "Please not today" look.
Juvenilis
"Tap your heritage for poems...but also embellish...."
Marion Zimmer Bradley
"Come back Africa, and freedom within our lifetime."
from Albert Lutuli's Message to the Seventh Provincial Conference
Oh what heritage?
Surely not Yvette, French
charwoman, laboring under the revolutionary
calendar, nine workdays to two days off--
Or the surname usually so true, here
the falsest of friends, its trail into the past
a mobius strip--
a tale with one side.
Finally, what long trawl over the ocean , what
sprawling savannah, what coup, what
famine, what diamond mine, what despot, help me, I
couldn't decide which language to take,
so I took Japanese--
I'm angry and disappointed
in myself. Who says "Come back"
in celebration? Why
are thing happening this way?
This is my heritage with a bit of embellishment
a bit of Edwardian ribbon, trampled in the dust.
North Coast
Ping murmur Ping nothing
-Samuel Beckett, Ping
Already over, winter. We walked on
sidewalk smashed to riprap, light
cold and undifferentiated.
Arbitrary green.
New topology. Scatter the bouquet
if you want. The lake is indifferent.
No sound, neither pulling them down,
nor carrying them away.
And white. As if the sky weren't
already pure white. Everywhere
I look I see the same interchangeable
faces. A man walking his blind dog,
a blind man walking with his dog,
a boy praying or despairing, a girl
either joyful or vengeful, behind us
buildings wending in the fog, new geography.
You mount the same protest
but your there flowers are floating
in the cold brown lake, safe
from the wake and the waves, behind
the break wall. You mouth
a silent protest lost in an noncommital wind. We walk
in the same direction to separate (New geometry?)
even the gray's thinned out, sailed west, broken up.
ETA: Found one of my pins. But not my favorite. :