Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae

Living alone makes me write in this blog. Oh, I have missed it. Here is a poem, full of longing and despair, which I think is beautiful. How often in life do we try to distract ourselves, but yield hopelessly to the night, which is owner of shadows (both physical and psychological)?

(I am not as I was under the reign of the good Cynara - Horace)

LAST night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine

There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed

Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;

And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,

Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;

Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:

I have been faithful to you, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,

Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,

Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, all the time, because the dance was long;

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,

But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,

Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Ernest Dowson

Normalcy.

I think some people have a harder time embracing their all-encompassing normality (normalcy? normalness?), than embracing their uniqueness.

I know too many people who want to be a martyr for their causes ("You don't understand what I'm going through!") rather than just reach out and ask for help.

How dumb is that.

It's always poetry

Generally speaking, I prefer the written word when it comes to art. I like paintings, sculptures (LOVE that), architecture, and music. But the written word is my favorite.

About a year ago I found a friend in possession of this book. I asked if I could borrow it and proceeded to not return it for 8 months. I found that I just kept coming back to it. Over and over again. Oscar Williams was brilliant - this is my favorite compilation of anything ever.

Now, The Count of Monte Cristo is my favorite book, but I think if I had to pick a book to read for the rest of my life, I might choose this one. It explains more about human emotion than I've ever read. It describes more things than I think I will ever experience.

I read all the poems in this book, and I constantly questioned everything about them. What is the author going through? Why that word? Would I have done something differently? Do men really feel this deeply (I have absolutely zero experience with men, so whenever they write poetry or music, I find my skeptical nature rises to the surface)? What is the story behind this poem? Did he marry this girl? Did she waste in loneliness?

And it's so beautiful how much I learned from this book. Some of the most beautiful poems about stuff I'd never think to write about! Poems about the breeze, aging, truth, stillness, histories, brotherhood, and so many others. It's just a delightful book in every aspect.

And this post is me waxing lyrical.

And now for some levity:

"Advice to my Son"

by Peter Meinke

The trick is, to live your days,

as if each one may be your last

(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives

in strange and unimaginable ways)

but at the same time, plan long range

(for they go slow: if you survive

the shattered windshield and the bursting shell

you will arrive

at our approximation here below

of heaven or hell).

To be specific, between the peony and the rose

plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;

beauty is nectar

and nectar, in a desert, saves -

but the stomach craves stronger sustenance

than the honied vine.

Therefore, marry a pretty girl

after seeing her mother;

show your soul to one man,

work with another,

and always serve bread with your wine.

But , son,

always serve wine.

sometimes....

sometimes... I stay up late and watch movies.

sometimes... I do things I shouldn't, and say things I shouldn't.

sometimes... I indulge in my favorite guilty pleasures: Irish drinking songs and chick flicks.

sometimes... I am flippant when I should be serious.

sometimes... I say mean things in my head.

and

sometimes.... I stay up late and write random posts on my blog.

"The time has come,"

the walrus said,

"to think on other things...."

What a day...

I had a great Turkey Day. It's my second favorite holiday, after 4th of July. But I woke up this morning and was not myself. This poem came to mind, fully formed. So if it's terrible, I blame my subconscious. Here it is, unedited.

I slept in your arms in my dreams last night.

But when I woke, you were gone.

And when I woke, my heart ached.

We laughed in my memories last night.

But when I woke, it was to a drab, grey morning.

And when I woke, it was with a tearing gaze.

We lingered in my fantasies last night.

But when I woke, only dreams and memories comfort me.

And when I woke, only dreams and memories are with me.

For the time is not come for we two to be one.

But like Dowson, I say, Lover! the night is thine!

and like Horace, I say, I am desolate and sick of an old passion.

Waking Life

Is there another word for thesaurus? :)

I am really relating to this song lately. And I love the movie.

"i'm not lost, i'm just looking for my prince....and by the way, you're still on my mind."

And i love fall.

and i love reading. still.

and i love food that is so spicy it makes my nose run.

and i love adventure.

and i love being clever.

and i love my friends.

my family.

my books.

my brain.

which sounds conceited, i know, but i love it just the same.

some things never change

i write something, and i hate it.

i write something again, and i hate it.

i write something else..... surprise, i hate it.

i edit, edit, edit.... and i can't find the words. nothing sounds right. nothing feels right. endlessly feeling out the sentences, the words, the phrases, and the way the words feel in my mouth is just WRONG. ( i just edited that section 3 times. see what i mean?)

not that one shouldn't edit.... but usually it's not this hard for me.

well, usually i'm quoting people so usually editing isn't necessary.

I don't consider myself a gifted writer. I lean more towards the succinct and exact, rather than the emotionally exhaustive. I never make the page limits given in english classes. it drives me nuts that they even give me page limits anyway.

this season is one of waiting. i see a different life approaching quickly, and i am so excited to exit this current one. graduation, jobs, a new location, a new scene, new friends, new sights. not provo. not anymore. it is finally (and happily) time to go.

but as previously discussed, i hate waiting.

sometimes i have real issues with the whole 'Lord's Timetable' thing. i'm so ridiculous, it's ridiculous. maybe sometime soon i'll grow up.