“The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne." –Chaucer
‘Morning…. This is a writer friend I’ve recently found, and think you might enjoy her work, too.
Nine days ago, a new couple moved into the apartment next door to mine. I should just let you all know right off the bat that i’m nosy. Actually, i prefer to refer to myself as naturally curious. I love to know what’s going on around me as much as i can. It’s not that […]
This is so well said, but the imagery of the failure pill was what grabbed me.
So don’t.
Take the pill of failure upon your tongue, roll it around until the flavor fills your mouth and penetrates your senses and mind, but never, ever swallow it whole. Let the taste flow through your consciousness, store the memory for days to come and spit it out when you’ve taken what you need.
Never let failure enter your system fully or it will be with you forever. Let the sensation return when you need it most, when the days grow dark and cold, and when you feel the icy, numbing touch of personal crisis around your throat. Use your failure to fuel your hunger for success. Let it be your companion all of your days, but refuse to let it take root in your center, lest it consume you.
And yes, I carry luggage for a living – and…
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“There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed,
Some forever, not for better,
Some have gone and some remain.”
50 years ago today, the Beatles held the #1-#5 ranked singles in the country, something that no one has ever done before, or since.
Recorded and released in 1965, “In My Life” is one of my top 3 favorite Beatles song, the Beatles at their best.
Great lyrics, sappy but realistic and a song that changes meanings as we grow older…yet always remains the same.
Watching it right now, as a matter of fact. I liked West Wing, and like HoC, although the darker, cynical spirit of it does go make me want to get a drink.
Been working on this Think Piece-y essay for awhile. I got a late start watching Season 2 of House of Cards, but after watching it and mulling it over, I think the similarities with West Wing are more striking than many people realize.
Also, thanks to the Twitter-er who pointed out that this needs a SPOILER ALERT for HoC.
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House of Cards has already earned its place in history. Even if the series itself were an artistic disaster, the fact that it’s Netflix’s first original series, available for streaming and binging on the viewer’s own terms, signals an important shift in the way we watch and analyze TV. But what’s not new about the show is the way it creates a hermetically sealed D.C. Fantasyland for viewers to lose themselves in. Everything about the show furthers the impression that you’ve stepped into a different universe. The show is heavily…
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Original image via Lucy Downey from Flickr Creative Commons
The world around us is always pushing this notion of “perfection” and, I don’t know about you, but sometimes I wonder what “reality” looks like. All the models are tall and thin and young with poofy lips (and men have their own variety of the super model stereotype). They have fabulous clothes and new cars and go on expensive vacations.
Even our homes! When I look around my house that’s littered with toys, my sink full of dishes and two baskets full of laundry (even though I just DID laundry) I wonder what a real home is supposed to look like? Where do I fit? Sure NOT on Pinterest.
Granted, there are areas I KNOW I am slacking (*cough* Christmas tree is STILL standing) and let’s not talk about the state of my drawers and closets. But, I generally (when the…
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I love this woman!
Forever’s journey.
Serious problems with rain and flooding in the UK, but I also love this art. Defiant and joyful at the same time.
Rain – bringer and sustainer of life,
The glory of nature’s full extent,
Slams loudly on my window
So that I know creation’s strife.
Barely can I see the scene before
As rain comes heavy like a shroud
Over the beauty that lies unseen
From my hilltop room, on my upper floor.
But others are not so blessed
As down in the valleys they fight the floods
That have them in a place of sorrow
And grief that gives them little rest.
How long O Lord, how long must they endure
The stress of heaven’s outpourings on their homes
Whilst I look on and share their pain
From distant safety and survival sure.
theartistpoet
Here in the UK we have suffered heavy, frequent rain since before Christmas. As a result the ground is saturated and there have been extensive floods in low-lying ground and near swollen rivers for weeks. Also…
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“Tell me again how this all happened,” Tim insisted because he always had been the thickest of the bunch.
The others laughed and gathered around closer. There was a dozen of us, we were all in a good mood (though Tim was a little lost), and we didn’t mind that anyone else within earshot knew about it.
“I keep telling you, it’s all Mary’s fault,” I yelled to be heard over the din of my friends enjoying themselves. “She’s the one who kept insisting I face my fears.”
“I never thought you’d actually listen,” Mary snapped back.
Everyone laughed. Even Tim.
“Why today, after all this time, did you finally decide to do it?” Larry shouted to be heard and then patted me on the back to let me know he was cool with my decision, but just curious about the details.
I shrugged. I honestly didn’t have a definitive…
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Oh, yes. This.
A note. I post a mixture of things from other blogs and sources, and while this is kind of raw, it is a poignant account.
This past weekend we took a little family vacation and went dog sledding with our son, Wyatt. We had a great time and it is a family memory we will have forever. As we create new family memories with our son, we do so without the fourth member of our family. Olivia, our beautiful daughter, is an angel in Heaven. She is forever 20 months and 3 days old.
As we experience life with Wyatt we know that these new memories don’t include his twin sister. She is always in our hearts and our thoughts but it’s not the same. As we were pulled through the trail by the pack of beautiful dogs I kept thinking we are missing one. Olivia would absolutely love this! She would have thought it was hysterical to see the dogs playing and how excited they were. She would have thought the cold was funny…
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Sorry, Phillip. I had to gun the engine to get through you and your teammates this morning.
I can’t believe I’m writing this! If I’m aware it means I am alive and that can mean only one thing…I’m going to fall to earth today!
This is all so new to me, and yet, I feel like I’ve been a snowflake forever, just waiting to get the call, and my chance to be part of creating a Winter Wonderland. Can’t wait! ****
I think I should have a name. Don’t all things have one? I’m going to call myself Phillip. I have no idea why. It was the first thing that popped into my head. Do I even have a head? I’m not even sure how I’m forming words and ideas. Must be the Magic of Winter that I seem to know so much about. ****
It really is crowded inside this cloud. I can barely move, but I’m eager to explore and talk to the other snowflakes. …
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Do women dream differently than men? Researchers from the University of Montreal plunged into the gendered unconscious in a new study forthcoming from the journal Sleep. Their focus: nightmares, defined as dreams intense and disturbing enough to wake you up. (An unpleasant reverie that doesn’t rouse you is simply a bad dream.) The study uncovered a trove of captivating facts about nightmares in general—that they prove “more bizarre” and “less rational” than regular dreams, that they don’t necessarily provoke fear. (About one-third of these nocturnal ordeals instead breed sadness, confusion, guilt, or disgust.) But of special interest to me was the discovery that nightmare themes often vary by gender.
I emerge from enveloping shadow and hear
my feet slap the pavement, feel my breathing
deep and even. Brownstones whiz by
my fluttering eyes and I recall the last time
I whizzed this effortlessly was forty years ago.
A rumbling regiment of cavalry cuts off my route
at Lark Street. Smart in their dark blue uniforms
trimmed in gold, black hats sit jauntily upon their heads
just as the riders perch with élan upon cantering steeds
that match their headwear. The echo of this mounted
all-baritone chorus out of a John Ford western
follows me north. That’s when I see him again,
standing on the corner, at the corner of my eye,
and spy him through the open doors of a UPS truck.
Turning west toward our old place, I sense his back
quickly turned toward mine. A bus grumbles by
and I catch a new aroma, its exhaust like coffee
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From Canadian photographer Corrie White, some ineffably beautiful images for your Monday enjoyment.
This suggests some science-fictiony story possibilities. Anyone want to take a shot?
Artist Lucy Glendinning’s “Feather Child” series explores “the allure and dangers of artificially propelling human evolution”:
Inspired by the Greek myth of Icarus, she imagines future humans treating our DNA as a medium of expression and wish-fulfillment; in the poem accompanying the sculpture, she envisions feathers like “A decoration applied with / a gene, not a needle.”
The Art Circus Review adds:
Covered from head to toe, the feathers may act as a camouflage, keeping the children hidden or they may enable them with a unique ability to survive whatever landscape they now populate They may also just be tired freaks, taking refuge in art galleries. Glendinning’s tactile sculptures are beautifully crafted, showing a very sensitive and vulnerable side to her bizarre subjects, leaving the viewer uncertain whether to take the mutant child into their care or throw them into the fire.
More photographs of Glendinning’s sculptures here.
(Photo…
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No frickin’ idea. But it’s fun to guess.
You have until noon on Tuesday to guess it. City and/or state first, then country. Please put the location in the subject heading, along with any description within the email. If no one guesses the exact location, proximity counts. Be sure to email entries to contest@andrewsullivan.com. Winner gets a free The View From Your Window book or two free gift subscriptions to the Dish. Have at it.
No – Please
don’t worry
don’t bother with me.
You see,
it only hurts,
when I breathe.
It only hurts
when I
open my eyes
no wait,
that’s a lie
it hurts when I close them too.
It hurts
whenever
I think of you.
Hell,
don’t you see
you have hurt me.
Or,
perhaps, that’s the plan.
Well then,
you’ve done well,
you are the man!
But
no – please,
don’t worry about me,
it only hurts
when I breathe.
“The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne." --Chaucer
Poetry, Photography, haiku, Life, word play, puns, free verse
In happiness my words I lack, in grief they overflow.
Audrey Dawn
Creative Nonfiction & Poetry
by Kelly L
THE DRIVELLINGS OF TWATTERSLEY FROMAGE
HemmingPlay 
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