this is what works for me: borders, poetry section. frost, yeats, cummings and some war poetry from the likes of owen and housman. pablo neruda's poems which melt in your mouth and the amusing exchanges between graves, sassoon and owen.

apple strudel muffins

i find myself getting down nowadays, flying into bad moods and saying things i don't mean and regret afterwards. volatile and mercurial, that seems to be me nowadays. very weird un-mel behaviour you'd think. i cheapen my words and .. ah. the abuse of language. sigh.

dad's surprise party didn't go as planned, but i got a nice surprise. a really good mudcake from cel and mandy. five days early. the sweetness of people.

vultus crucis p&w tomorrow. asked terence to go. had a good talk with him about church on sunday. but i wonder if i will end up going ... church still makes me feel weird, and i know it's partly my fault, but i seem to be completely socially inept.

sometimes things happen in the world and i can't help but get caught up in them so much and 'think too much' as a certain someone would like to say - but it angers me so much when i read news of attacks and war and chaos and i'm filled with ... anger. and for a while i just disappear and feel so strongly about events over which i have no control.

i'm tired. here's a little something by ee cummings:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

+ posted by M @ 11:44 PM