Cancionella del Primer Beso/ Ditty of First Desire
- Federico Garcia Lorca
In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.
And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.
(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)
In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.
And at the evening's end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.
Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.
31 July 2008
29 July 2008
MoSex Tonight!
That's right folks, it's benefit season! Last week the NYCLU, this week PPNYC!
I'll be at the Museum of Sex tonight. Where there will be an open bar and raffles-a-plenty. Maybe, I'll be lucky one that wins the lunch with Dr. Ruth...
24 July 2008
A New York Vacation
So, because of the many happenings in my life and work, I haven't any time to take an actual vacation. But I've had a great idea: I'm going on a New York vacation!
Bear with me, it's not as lame as it sounds. I realized something yesterday, as I was hit by the fatigue of work-related weekend travel and weeknight obligations: I won't be able to make it to Texas before the summer is out, and can't really afford to go anywhere else. So, instead of wallowing, I've decided to be proactive. Instead of just working through the entire summer, I will take some days off from work (maddness!), detach from my computer and cell phone, and enjoy NYC like it's meant to be enjoyed. Here are some of the things I want to do:
Stock my fridge and cupboards with delightful vacation food so that I can get out of the raisin-bran-for-breakfast-lunch-and-dinner funk I've been in. Fresh fruit, croissants, gourmet coffee... you get the picture.
Spend mornings enjoying said delectables and reading the paper.
Spend afternoons strolling through the summery senic locales of NYC like the parks, piers and promenades that I've been woefully neglecting. Maybe some museums thrown in for good measure.
Spend the late afternoons in out of the way coffee bars and bistros reading and being mysterious.
Spend the evenings going to foreign films, blues clubs and other interesting venues and continue being mysterious.
So, now what do you think?
Clearly, I've given this some thought. You'll notice one very particular element of this plan. There's NOBODY else in it. I might pick the week that Anna's out of town, so that the apartment is quiet and I won't make plans to see any New York friends. It'll be like I'm not here! Like I'm actually on vacation! Not a novel idea for most people, but rather revolutionary for the likes of me.
21 July 2008
Gulabi (Pink) Gang
These women are amazing. And it's no real secret that my favorite color is pink. Seriously, women after my own heart. Enjoy!
16 July 2008
Going to Austin!
I have many thoughts and observations to share. But I'm off once again. This time to A-town. I'll be back though, and then we'll dish. xoxo, E
07 July 2008
Heading out
My dears,
As things get rather frantic in my life, I'm off for the week to a conference/retreat just north of Boston. I'm looking forward to it very much, many of my favorite people in the world will be there. This will be very good for my emotional health. There will be daily morning yoga, which will be good for my physical health. There will be lots of fierce activists. Phew.
I leave you with an updated photo of the city's fireworks. As seen from Brooklyn. Not taken by me but delightful, no? Red, sparkly patriotism. Not particularly my thing, but pretty is pretty. At this point, I'll take it.
More from me, soon.
As things get rather frantic in my life, I'm off for the week to a conference/retreat just north of Boston. I'm looking forward to it very much, many of my favorite people in the world will be there. This will be very good for my emotional health. There will be daily morning yoga, which will be good for my physical health. There will be lots of fierce activists. Phew.
I leave you with an updated photo of the city's fireworks. As seen from Brooklyn. Not taken by me but delightful, no? Red, sparkly patriotism. Not particularly my thing, but pretty is pretty. At this point, I'll take it.
More from me, soon.
03 July 2008
Poetry Thursday: Sad White Dude Edition
Thanatopsis
by William Cullen Bryant
To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world -- with kings,
The powerful of the earth -- the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, -- the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods -- rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. -- Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings -- yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep -- the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest -- and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men--
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn, shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Also, if that wasn't enough:
From XLI Poems (1925)
by e. e. cummings
my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.
by William Cullen Bryant
To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world -- with kings,
The powerful of the earth -- the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, -- the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods -- rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. -- Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings -- yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep -- the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest -- and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men--
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn, shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Also, if that wasn't enough:
From XLI Poems (1925)
by e. e. cummings
my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.
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