An Extremely Satisfying Spring Weekend
So I had an extremely satisfying weekend! I spent much of it outdoors in the gorgeous warm weather here in LA, which was nice. Also extremely satisfying: unfucking my habitat by cleaning my room and the bathroom.
I spent Saturday at Lake Balboa Park for a birthday party, and while it was kind of uncomfortably warm in the Valley and being in the outside made my nose all sniffly, it was still worth it for the sun and the company. And the cake. Let's not forget the cake. Then I did some grocery shopping, and settled in to catch up on some TV with some takeout sushi and then a couple of glasses of red wine (Apothic Red, in case you're wondering, which is a fruity and not too tannin-heavy blended red I picked from Trader Joe's when I was struck by a sudden desire for red wine), and it was glorious.
I spent most of Saturday at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. I went to a couple of panels, one called "Fight the Power" on the history and historiography of protest movements, and then one on the sex, gender and politics of pop culture. Both were interesting, if not revelatory. I wandered around the USC campus, bought a couple of books, lazed about in the shade reading, and ate some delicious food truck food, and then headed home for more catching up on TV and reading, and wine, cheese, and crackers. SO SATISFYING.
Here is a poem:
"The Pomegranate" by Eavan Boland
The only legend I have ever loved is
the story of a daughter lost in hell.
And found and rescued there.
Love and blackmail are the gist of it.
Ceres and Persephone the names.
And the best thing about the legend is
I can enter it anywhere. And have.
As a child in exile in
a city of fogs and strange consonants,
I read it first and at first I was
an exiled child in the crackling dusk of
the underworld, the stars blighted. Later
I walked out in a summer twilight
searching for my daughter at bed-time.
When she came running I was ready
to make any bargain to keep her.
I carried her back past whitebeams
and wasps and honey-scented buddleias.
But I was Ceres then and I knew
winter was in store for every leaf
on every tree on that road.
Was inescapable for each one we passed.
And for me.
It is winter
and the stars are hidden.
I climb the stairs and stand where I can see
my child asleep beside her teen magazines,
her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.
The pomegranate! How did I forget it?
She could have come home and been safe
and ended the story and all
our heart-broken searching but she reached
out a hand and plucked a pomegranate.
She put out her hand and pulled down
the French sound for apple and
the noise of stone and the proof
that even in the place of death,
at the heart of legend, in the midst
of rocks full of unshed tears
ready to be diamonds by the time
the story was told, a child can be
hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.
The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.
The suburb has cars and cable television.
The veiled stars are above ground.
It is another world. But what else
can a mother give her daughter but such
beautiful rifts in time?
If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.
The legend will be hers as well as mine.
She will enter it. As I have.
She will wake up. She will hold
the papery flushed skin in her hand.
And to her lips. I will say nothing.
I absolutely love that this poem points out my favorite, enduring thing about the myth of Hades, Persephone and Demeter: "And the best thing about the legend is I can enter it anywhere." It is a myth that has given me a lot over the years, each new angle illuminating something new about womanhood, adulthood, agency.
This entry was originally posted at http://yasaman.dreamwidth.org/430824.html, with
comments there.
I spent Saturday at Lake Balboa Park for a birthday party, and while it was kind of uncomfortably warm in the Valley and being in the outside made my nose all sniffly, it was still worth it for the sun and the company. And the cake. Let's not forget the cake. Then I did some grocery shopping, and settled in to catch up on some TV with some takeout sushi and then a couple of glasses of red wine (Apothic Red, in case you're wondering, which is a fruity and not too tannin-heavy blended red I picked from Trader Joe's when I was struck by a sudden desire for red wine), and it was glorious.
I spent most of Saturday at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. I went to a couple of panels, one called "Fight the Power" on the history and historiography of protest movements, and then one on the sex, gender and politics of pop culture. Both were interesting, if not revelatory. I wandered around the USC campus, bought a couple of books, lazed about in the shade reading, and ate some delicious food truck food, and then headed home for more catching up on TV and reading, and wine, cheese, and crackers. SO SATISFYING.
Here is a poem:
"The Pomegranate" by Eavan Boland
The only legend I have ever loved is
the story of a daughter lost in hell.
And found and rescued there.
Love and blackmail are the gist of it.
Ceres and Persephone the names.
And the best thing about the legend is
I can enter it anywhere. And have.
As a child in exile in
a city of fogs and strange consonants,
I read it first and at first I was
an exiled child in the crackling dusk of
the underworld, the stars blighted. Later
I walked out in a summer twilight
searching for my daughter at bed-time.
When she came running I was ready
to make any bargain to keep her.
I carried her back past whitebeams
and wasps and honey-scented buddleias.
But I was Ceres then and I knew
winter was in store for every leaf
on every tree on that road.
Was inescapable for each one we passed.
And for me.
It is winter
and the stars are hidden.
I climb the stairs and stand where I can see
my child asleep beside her teen magazines,
her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.
The pomegranate! How did I forget it?
She could have come home and been safe
and ended the story and all
our heart-broken searching but she reached
out a hand and plucked a pomegranate.
She put out her hand and pulled down
the French sound for apple and
the noise of stone and the proof
that even in the place of death,
at the heart of legend, in the midst
of rocks full of unshed tears
ready to be diamonds by the time
the story was told, a child can be
hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.
The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.
The suburb has cars and cable television.
The veiled stars are above ground.
It is another world. But what else
can a mother give her daughter but such
beautiful rifts in time?
If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.
The legend will be hers as well as mine.
She will enter it. As I have.
She will wake up. She will hold
the papery flushed skin in her hand.
And to her lips. I will say nothing.
I absolutely love that this poem points out my favorite, enduring thing about the myth of Hades, Persephone and Demeter: "And the best thing about the legend is I can enter it anywhere." It is a myth that has given me a lot over the years, each new angle illuminating something new about womanhood, adulthood, agency.
This entry was originally posted at http://yasaman.dreamwidth.org/430824.html, with
comments there.