Thursday, October 31, 2013

A Halloween poem


A poem by Emily Dickinson
LXIX

ONE need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
  
Far safer, of a midnight meeting        5
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.
  
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,        10
Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter
In lonesome place.
  
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,        15
Be horror’s least.
  
The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O’erlooking a superior spectre
More near.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

This is yarn bombing

Artists. They do the wackiest things, and I just wish I was them.


This is yarn bombing. This is the article in the NYTimes about Jessie Hemmons, the notorious yarn bomber, which is apparently, a thing:
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/19/fashion/creating-graffiti-with-yarn.html?_r=0

This is her website, where you can see other overnight masterpieces that can be attributed to her needles and hooks:
http://www.ishknits.com/

You go weird artists, you go.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Time is passing

Do you ever feel like time is passing, and you are standing still?


Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 19
I have these moments while I'm walking down the bike path or sitting in my kitchen, and I realize that time has passed, has slipped away. I suddenly remember the last time I was drinking hot cider or the first time I wore this teal shirt, and my brain grasps, for a moment only, that days and weeks and months have passed and I am older. Older and closer to death. Older and farther from birth. Older and growing ever weaker. If I could sit and watch my life in five minutes, if I could watch myself age in five minutes, would it seem more real to me? More tangible? Different in any way, or is that what we are actually doing here? Do we have no purpose but to rot and replace?