and life staggers home to the body
You guys are AWESOME. There were 19 songs on that list, and within eight hours of posting, I had them all. You RAWK. Thank you again.
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So I finally watched Ocean's 13 this afternoon, and OMG RUSTY AND DANNY ARE SO MARRIED in this movie! You know at the end they are going to meet up and live in some island villa and donate funds to charity and watch Oprah. I can't even... ♥ ♥ ♥ And it was so nice not to have Tess around souring everything up the way she did in O12.
Tomorrow I will throw together the overview. I am still working on the Tyra story. The end is fighting me. gah. I know where it has to end up, but getting it there is like pulling teeth. Stupid writing.
Have a poem:
The Throat's Memory of Happiness
She takes the first empty seat,
smoothes her skirt
because that's a place
to put her hands.
She looks out the window,
into grief,
but she is humming
to herself, distracted,
no recognizable tune,
clumsy sound crafted in the breath,
habit. She
may return to herself
and find it made, waiting,
like the return of libido
after a long hospital stay,
pain and the daily
hand-to-mouth---
then out, past the threat,
and life staggers
home to the body.
This is more important
then her sorrow:
small runs and trills
just under the voice,
pattern stumbling
to a pause, starting,
searching out the rhythm,
needful
and particular
music.
~James Owens
***
***
So I finally watched Ocean's 13 this afternoon, and OMG RUSTY AND DANNY ARE SO MARRIED in this movie! You know at the end they are going to meet up and live in some island villa and donate funds to charity and watch Oprah. I can't even... ♥ ♥ ♥ And it was so nice not to have Tess around souring everything up the way she did in O12.
Tomorrow I will throw together the overview. I am still working on the Tyra story. The end is fighting me. gah. I know where it has to end up, but getting it there is like pulling teeth. Stupid writing.
Have a poem:
The Throat's Memory of Happiness
She takes the first empty seat,
smoothes her skirt
because that's a place
to put her hands.
She looks out the window,
into grief,
but she is humming
to herself, distracted,
no recognizable tune,
clumsy sound crafted in the breath,
habit. She
may return to herself
and find it made, waiting,
like the return of libido
after a long hospital stay,
pain and the daily
hand-to-mouth---
then out, past the threat,
and life staggers
home to the body.
This is more important
then her sorrow:
small runs and trills
just under the voice,
pattern stumbling
to a pause, starting,
searching out the rhythm,
needful
and particular
music.
~James Owens
***