and now for something completely different
Why yes, I do have a very eclectic taste. XDD
Things Jeanette Winterson writes on her website:
So what is the answer? Is identity a deceit, a make-shift, and should we hurry to make any pattern we can? Or is there coherence, perhaps a beauty, if it were possible to find it? I would like to convince myself about myself but I cannot...
In between freezing and melting. In between love and despair. In between fear and sex, passion is.
What is it that you contain? The dead. Time. Light patterns of millennia opening in your gut. Your first parent was a star...
-- I have just... fallen in love with that woman all over again. Or remembered, with full force, that I love her. Because I really, really do.
(* I started to read her when I was twelve, and I've never stopped. In a way, she raised me. I feel connected with her, I grok whatever she says and I generally love her to pieces. And the horrible thing is that now, after those thirteen years of soaking my brain in her writing, I CANNOT WRITE A POEM THAT WOULD NOT MAKE ME SOUND LIKE SOME KIND OF A "SECOND-SZYMBORSKA"-WANNABE TO SAVE MY LIFE _^_')
THE BALL
As long as nothing can be known for sure
(no signals have been picked up yet),
as long as Earth is still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,
as long as there’s neither hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,
as long as only the local echo
has been known to speak in syllables,
as long as we still haven’t heard the word
of better or worse mozarts,
platos, edisons, elsewhere,
as long as our inhuman crimes
are still committed only between humans,
as long as our kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its imperfection,
as long as our heads packed with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,
as long as the roofs of our mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens -
let’s act like very special guests of honour
at the district firemen’s ball,
dance to the beat of the local oompah band
and pretend that it’s the ball
to end all balls.
I can’t speak for other -
for me this is misery and happiness enough:
just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
unintentionally.
Things Jeanette Winterson writes on her website:
So what is the answer? Is identity a deceit, a make-shift, and should we hurry to make any pattern we can? Or is there coherence, perhaps a beauty, if it were possible to find it? I would like to convince myself about myself but I cannot...
In between freezing and melting. In between love and despair. In between fear and sex, passion is.
What is it that you contain? The dead. Time. Light patterns of millennia opening in your gut. Your first parent was a star...
-- I have just... fallen in love with that woman all over again. Or remembered, with full force, that I love her. Because I really, really do.
(* I started to read her when I was twelve, and I've never stopped. In a way, she raised me. I feel connected with her, I grok whatever she says and I generally love her to pieces. And the horrible thing is that now, after those thirteen years of soaking my brain in her writing, I CANNOT WRITE A POEM THAT WOULD NOT MAKE ME SOUND LIKE SOME KIND OF A "SECOND-SZYMBORSKA"-WANNABE TO SAVE MY LIFE _^_')
THE BALL
As long as nothing can be known for sure
(no signals have been picked up yet),
as long as Earth is still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,
as long as there’s neither hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,
as long as only the local echo
has been known to speak in syllables,
as long as we still haven’t heard the word
of better or worse mozarts,
platos, edisons, elsewhere,
as long as our inhuman crimes
are still committed only between humans,
as long as our kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its imperfection,
as long as our heads packed with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,
as long as the roofs of our mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens -
let’s act like very special guests of honour
at the district firemen’s ball,
dance to the beat of the local oompah band
and pretend that it’s the ball
to end all balls.
I can’t speak for other -
for me this is misery and happiness enough:
just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
unintentionally.