Yeah, Well…

Posted by Sanjay Sanghvi

There is this, isn’t there. I expect I’ve posted this before as it’s my own personal deadly sin. The sin of SLOTH.

And a belated happy birthday to Jos Heller. A good man, a good writer. One still revered and honored as well he should be.

Joseph Heller’s Birthday was May 1, 1923. He of course wrote Catch 22, a novel much quoted still today, or at least referred to although few know of the origin. An absurd or contradictory choice. (You have to be insane to want to stay in the army. You want to get out, plead insanity. Ha! If you’re insane you wouldn’t want to get out! A catch 22.)

And that’s the way things are, this today, this now.

Doris Lessing

 “Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.” Doris Lessing

And why do we wait to be told? Told anything. As if we need permission to be, to believe, to become. Someone else said, “It is never too late to become what you were meant to be.” (Jung, I believe, tho others are also credited with the quote.)

It’s OK. Be.

So Lisa

Posted by John Grant

Poetic Outlaws

“And no one understands me. I know that life, that love, should change. What my mask is saying about the animal I am alludes painfully to an alliance between words and shadows. From which results a state of terror that rejects the human order.”—Alejandra Pizarnik

And could have been written by Lisa

Lisa at Christmas time, their new home in Harrisburg, PA, 2007

Because Lisa Died

She was a Bosch painting
Of mangled bodies deformed
And perverted into a nightmare
of her own screams
And
The meadows of Spring
Running through tall Indian grass
and daises and daffodils
And
A child of the Ether in skirts
Made of silver spider webs and butterfly wings

She was Hell itself anchored in
Despair and the flames of Demons
Rocked in the cradle of Doubt
Opened by a bloody knife
of her own wounds and scarred the same

She was a Poem of Light
And Smiles of soft shining fireflies,
Curls around an eternal face
Sparkled in diamonds and sunlight

She saved a life and killed a man
Ran full force across the world and
Dove off the cliffs unto the rocks
Unstoppable
Unbreathable
Unbearable

She searched for God
so she could punch Him
in the face,
Tear off His gowns to leave Him
Naked in His own blasphemy
of Creation
He Who created the Minotaur
As well as Theseus
Father of Evil, Tormentor of Souls

She wrote and Sang and Painted
She marched the stairs and
Laughed and cooked and baked
And Created her own music and Love
And
Still kept the unborn in jars
Fermented in the formaldehyde of
Alcohol underneath the floor

Until she became the Nightmare
Itself drowned alone in the vomit of her sins
And in the stream below the rocks her body broken
Where it can at last Sing out…
“So this is it? This is all ‘ya got?”

And she was all things

And she was nothing

And she wore boots so heavy
she could not leave the earth
her moans heard now by only Angels
who cry to God…our pain, her worth

Music

“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.”
~ Plato

it’s [sic]

And my darling mother so loved music. It was sad as she was totally pitch imperfect, though I don’t think she knew it. (Perhaps you can’t know it for if you do you could then adjust to sing in tune!) She would raise her voice loud and proud as we sang hymns in Church. Flat. Off. As a child I was embarrassed. Now I would love to hear her sing.