Love Me Some Victorians

I've been a fan of Jen Corace for awhile. I always loved the covers she would do for the Portland Mercury, but I hadn't checked in on her work for awhile, and I'm so glad I just did because I LOVE her new stuff!







But I'm such a sucker for the Victorian/Edwardians.

And for poetry month, here is a lovely Victorian poet;
If thou must love me... (Sonnet 14)
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say,
"I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry:
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

Listening to Metric.

(Shhh) I Kinda Want a TV Right Now

Jenny Lewis was pretty amazing. I love love love her voice, and to hear it live at a good venue was a delight. I didn't take any pictures, but I did create the above on Polyvore to give a sense of what she was wearing/the vibe she was giving. It felt unique, relaxed, sexy, never trying to hard, with a hint of vintage and a lot of soul. ♥

She gave an anecdote about being on this show, and now I really want to watch it. Sometimes I do secretly wish I had cable.

Completely unrelated, but I CAN watch this, because it's all online. I love this premise. I applaud Amy Poehler et al for supporting girls and taking their activities and dreams seriously in this way. What a wonderful project. It makes me want to find a way to start inspiring positive change...

Jenny Lewis!

→ I'm going to see Jenny Lewis tonight, and I'm very excited. I was also excited to find this drawing, which I think bears a quite funny sentiment I 100% agree with.

found here.

Dig your hands in and see what comes out.

Ack! not dead, just very, very busy. I want to disappear down the rabbit hole, or a good book, or a forest of images. Luckily, there is the work of Su Blackwell to combine all three and at least perk up my senses and imagination again until the waters calm some.






What is it about cut paper and altered books I love so much? I suppose it has something to do with the idea of digging your hands into a text and pulling out phisical images that have thus far only existed in the hazy, intangible transfer between author and reader. Overthinking it? yeah, maybe.

Listening to Camera Obscura.

And for Poetry month, a little something to wake us (me) up:
Beat! Beat! Drums!
by Walt Whitman

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying,
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

"When angry count to ten before you speak..."

"When angry count to ten before you speak.
If very angry, count to one hundred."
-Thomas Jefferson

So I received two pieces of personal news today that made me, well, ANGRY. I'm having a hard time seeing past it to be honest. Right now, I see the world like this:↑I know it's not productive, and I should find a solution rather than get offtrack with fury. There are many wise words on the subject, and this quote really gives me something to think about ↓

"Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back—in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you." –Frederick Buechner.

And of course, for poetry month:
A Poison Tree, William Blake

I was angry with my friend
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

I'm trying to help it, but sometimes you need to just be MAD. I'll get over it tomorrow.
To add fuel to the fire, I'm listening to my favorite angry music (but I won't tell you what it is today). Maybe, if you know me, you can guess.

Bicycle Ambitions

↑
I love bicycles. However, being the somewhat delicate indoor kid that I am, I have to admit I love them more for their aesthetic than for the experience of actually riding them.
I love the idea of riding to the farmers market on a lovely Spring day, filling my basket with fresh flowers and fruit, breeze rustling through my hair, my summer dress lightly billowing around my bare knees.↑↑ I love the idea of racing down city streets, sunlight glinting through the blur of tall buildings. ↑Or of riding down an idyllic country lane on my way to a delicious picnic with friends.↑↑

Unfortunately, reality would be a much less pretty picture: me hot and uncomfortably sweaty and out of breath, frustrated and hungry by the time I reach my destination, opting for little substance in my basket because I'd have to ride the stuff up how many hills on the way home? But what is that saying? No pain, no gain? I'm sure if I worked at it, the few miles to the market would eventually be a breeze. As natural as blinking. I mean, if these guys* could undertake a whole tour complete with musical equipment, I can really manage a jaunt to the farmer's market. Even Audrey did it, and she strikes me, as much as I love her, as having been a bit delicate herself. I really have no excuse.

*(btw, I'm going to see Blind Pilot on Friday--fingers crossed it doesn't sell out before I get my tickets).

For Poetry Month:
Going Down Hill on a Bicycle
by Henry Charles Beeching


A Boy's Song

With lifted feet, hands still,
I am poised, and down the hill
Dart, with heedful mind;
The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift,
Till the heart with a mighty lift
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—
"O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

"Is this, is this your joy?
O bird, then I, though a boy,
For a golden moment share
Your feathery life in air!"

Say, heart, is there aught like this
In a world that is full of bliss?
'Tis more than skating, bound
Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float
Awhile in my airy boat;
Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,
My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill
Must end in a vale; but still,
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,
Shall find wings waiting there.

Ode to Conciseness

News Item, Dorothy Parker
Men seldom make passes
At girls who wear glasses.


In a Station of the Metro, Ezra Pound
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

↑

Listening to Women.

To Russia With Love.

↑
I know, I know, another doll post, but a friend of mine and I were discussing Russia this morning and our joint desire to visit, and that led me to think about my Russian nesting doll (or matryoshka) collection I had when I was young. (I had a lot of odd collections, including, but not limited to: rocks, perfume bottles, shells, doll house furniture, tea cups and vintage hats).
↑
↑
↑

I'm also happy to discover that you can buy kits and make them yourself. There are a lot of creative ways to put your own stamp on them.

↑ These make me laugh.
↑
↑ These make me smile.
↑

They can be so colorful and jolly. They are even beautiful when they are old. ↑

And with that, I'll sign off with another nod to Poetry Month and one of my favorite Russian poets.
The souls of those I love are on high stars. Anna Akhmatova

The souls of those I love are on high stars.
How good that there’s no-one left to lose
and one can weep. All created in order
to sing songs, this air of Tsarskoye Selo’s.

The river bank’s silver willow
touches the bright September stream.
Rising from the past, my shadow
is running in silence to meet me.

So many lyres hung on branches here,
but it seems there’s room for mine too.
And this shower, sun-drenched, rare,
brings me consolation, good news.


Listening to White Rabbits.

Photos and Poems

Ah, my cameras came today! I'm so happy. I can't wait to get out with them.




"I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking." -Chistopher Isherwood, Goodbye to Berlin.

"Photograph: a picture painted by the sun without instruction in art." -Ambrose Bierce

"While there is perhaps a province in which the photograph can tell us nothing more than what we see with our own eyes, there is another in which it proves to us how little our eyes permit us to see." -Dorothea Lange

"A good snapshot stops a moment from running away." -Eudora Welty

"I hate cameras. They are so much more sure than I am about everything." -John Steinbeck

"You don't take a photograph, you make it." -Ansel Adams

"If I could tell the story in words, I wouldn't need to lug around a camera." -Lewis Hine

That said, let's continue with a "story in words" in honor of Poetry month:
A Table in the Wilderness
by Li-Young Lee


I draw a window
and a man sitting inside it.

I draw a bird in flight above the lintel.

That's my picture of thinking.

If I put a woman there instead
of the man, it's a picture of speaking.

If I draw a second bird
in the woman's lap, it’s ministering.

A third flying below her feet.
Now it's singing.

Or erase the birds
make ivy branching
around the woman's ankles, clinging
to her knees, and it becomes remembering.

You'll have to find your own
pictures, whoever you are,
whatever your need.

As for me, many small hands
issuing from a waterfall
means silence
mothered me.

The hours hung like fruit in night's tree
means when I close my eyes
and look inside me,

a thousand open eyes
span the moment of my waking.

Meanwhile, the clock
adding a grain to a grain
and not getting bigger,

subtracting a day from a day
and never having less, means the honey

lies awake all night
inside the honeycomb
wondering who its parents are.

And even my death isn't my death
unless it's the unfathomed brow
of a nameless face.

Even my name isn't my name
except the bees assemble

a table to grant a stranger
light and moment in a wilderness
of Who? Where?

National Poetry Month Begins!

Ah, April 1, the day where nothing is quite as it seems.

I'm not really a fan. But it is also the first day of National Poetry Month, which I am a big fan of, so in honor here's one of my favorite poems:


At sixteen I believed the moonlight
could change me if it would.
I moved my head
on the pillow, even moved my bed
as the moon slowly
crossed the open lattice.

↑


I wanted beauty, a dangerous
gleam of steel, my body thinner,
my pale face paler.
I moonbathed
diligently, as others sunbathe.
But the moon's unsmiling stare
kept me awake. Mornings,
I was flushed and cross.
↑↑
↑

↑↑ ↑


It was on dark nights of deep sleep
that I dreamed the most, sunk in the well,
and woke rested, and if not beautiful,
filled with some other power.
↑↑
↑

↑

The Well, Denise Levertov

Listening to Eux Autres.