it unfurls in loops and hoops of black ink
It's funny to me sometimes how segmented fandom is. Like, I just saw a comment saying that nobody was complaining about the fail in last night's SPN episode, while my flist was pretty full of posts pointing it out (my own included). I also have to laugh sometimes because look, clearly I have a very complicated and probably unhealthy relationship with the show, and it makes me rageful and teary and happy, often all at the same time, but the one thing I've always been pretty honest about is that even though I do have a lot of love for it, despite all the gender and race issues, I think it is frequently not a very well written show. The pacing is often poor, the plotting is shoddy, and the dialogue often falls short of whatever the writers are aiming for. Where it succeeds, when it's working, is in the family dynamics and most especially in portraying the sibling relationship between Sam and Dean and how that has/hasn't/needs to change now that they're adults. And when that's working, I don't usually care about the other stuff. When it's not... *hands*
All of which is nothing new, but sometimes yeah, when I read posts or comments off my flist, and the focus is so different or someone says "no one is talking about" and I'm like, I could easily name ten people who are, or "everyone is talking about" and I'm like, "huh, I haven't seen that in my internet travels," it just reminds me that for all the small incestuous feel of fandom, it's pretty decentralized, especially SPN fandom.
***
My dad's 75th birthday is tomorrow, so we're taking him out. Should be fun.
Today is Shakespeare's mumblety-hundredth birthday but I didn't feel like posting any Shakespeare today (even if Shakespeare got to get paid, son!). I don't know. I'm contrary like that. Have this one instead:
The Poet's Call to Worship
If a gold finch perches on your
sill, crooks his head,
and spots the world in your window
like Marco Polo on the Silk Road
to China and you guess
what this bird is thinking
If you are on a first name
basis with all the houses on your
block: the aqua house, the house
with the rock and the stripe, and
the 3 planter-geranium-house,
and you know the owner planted
her orange-red flowers like May
baskets just to divvy up with you
If each morning you tip-toe
into your garden and peer over
the embryos of beans, like the faces
of children and your heart sings,
Wake up little darlin's
and they do, with beans
green as Henry David
If a mutt, black as soil under
the curly ferns, makes you cry
like the old man in the wheel chair
who walks
each morning with his pooch
tied on by a rope or
if you are that man
And if you shiver in a slip
of June breeze under the 9am sun
because for a moment you see
the altar
of your life, whether it unfurls
in loops and hoops
of black ink or as unspoken
banners in your heart
Then you are a poet,
called to worship.
~Amy Genova
***
Meh. I am so over this whole being super busy at work thing. Can I have naptime now?
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/160192.html.
people have commented there.
All of which is nothing new, but sometimes yeah, when I read posts or comments off my flist, and the focus is so different or someone says "no one is talking about" and I'm like, I could easily name ten people who are, or "everyone is talking about" and I'm like, "huh, I haven't seen that in my internet travels," it just reminds me that for all the small incestuous feel of fandom, it's pretty decentralized, especially SPN fandom.
***
My dad's 75th birthday is tomorrow, so we're taking him out. Should be fun.
Today is Shakespeare's mumblety-hundredth birthday but I didn't feel like posting any Shakespeare today (even if Shakespeare got to get paid, son!). I don't know. I'm contrary like that. Have this one instead:
The Poet's Call to Worship
If a gold finch perches on your
sill, crooks his head,
and spots the world in your window
like Marco Polo on the Silk Road
to China and you guess
what this bird is thinking
If you are on a first name
basis with all the houses on your
block: the aqua house, the house
with the rock and the stripe, and
the 3 planter-geranium-house,
and you know the owner planted
her orange-red flowers like May
baskets just to divvy up with you
If each morning you tip-toe
into your garden and peer over
the embryos of beans, like the faces
of children and your heart sings,
Wake up little darlin's
and they do, with beans
green as Henry David
If a mutt, black as soil under
the curly ferns, makes you cry
like the old man in the wheel chair
who walks
each morning with his pooch
tied on by a rope or
if you are that man
And if you shiver in a slip
of June breeze under the 9am sun
because for a moment you see
the altar
of your life, whether it unfurls
in loops and hoops
of black ink or as unspoken
banners in your heart
Then you are a poet,
called to worship.
~Amy Genova
***
Meh. I am so over this whole being super busy at work thing. Can I have naptime now?
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/160192.html.
people have commented there.