HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Saturday, May 19, 2007 this has been one of the happiest weeks of my life. ive met old friends, talked to people, sent out one certain email, received a very heartfelt email (you write beautifully too), read two (lovely, clever) poems, wrote a song, talked to a teacher i never talked to because i always thought he looked down on me, attended the beautiful launch of math paper press, seen two crazy and passionate people sit in a shop and sew 300 books, cooked for a table of 8, had breakfast with someone wheelchair bound, learnt so much from everyone in different ways. it's wonderful, for once in a long time, i'm by myself, but not alone. my thoughts are mine, and i like myself. i'm super annoyed with the way i used to live - the triviality of all that angst, the way my world was small and claustrophobic, how my writing suffered because i had stopped looking outwards. today i went swimming with my dad, i got scared cos there were a lot of obnoxious australians in the pool and asked my dad to swim with me. last night cyril was talking about his encounter with the (old, short) derrida (here is deconstruction for you: "the old, short, derrida"), before he and eric began talking about their st pat's days, before they became excited and nostalgic. me and wilson were listening, slightly envious. the past binds us, as well as shuts others out, it functions the same way as a secret, the relation between the yesterday, you, and me. and time is what bars others from entering into our secret, it is the gatekeeper of the house. i could tell someone else, "oh yes, we did this, we did that". but he will always be an other, sitting and watching, one skinny poet conjuring young boys and magic out of the air, another poet laughing in unison. the reader stands outside the periphery of that shared imagination, trying to enter. posted by dawn # 2:46 AM Comments: Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel . [other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc [me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca. [yesterday] When Tracy cut my hair, she would stand very strai... i would look at all of you The adventures of Julie and a bright blue button SQ21 someone is playing a jazz trumpet in the quadrangl... michael corleoni and king edward (the prelude to t... when one has lived alone for a long time, the quie... little earthquakes The Wish as i threw down the trash down the chute today, i ... [archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Saturday, May 19, 2007

this has been one of the happiest weeks of my life. ive met old friends, talked to people, sent out one certain email, received a very heartfelt email (you write beautifully too), read two (lovely, clever) poems, wrote a song, talked to a teacher i never talked to because i always thought he looked down on me, attended the beautiful launch of math paper press, seen two crazy and passionate people sit in a shop and sew 300 books, cooked for a table of 8, had breakfast with someone wheelchair bound, learnt so much from everyone in different ways. it's wonderful, for once in a long time, i'm by myself, but not alone. my thoughts are mine, and i like myself. i'm super annoyed with the way i used to live - the triviality of all that angst, the way my world was small and claustrophobic, how my writing suffered because i had stopped looking outwards. today i went swimming with my dad, i got scared cos there were a lot of obnoxious australians in the pool and asked my dad to swim with me. last night cyril was talking about his encounter with the (old, short) derrida (here is deconstruction for you: "the old, short, derrida"), before he and eric began talking about their st pat's days, before they became excited and nostalgic. me and wilson were listening, slightly envious. the past binds us, as well as shuts others out, it functions the same way as a secret, the relation between the yesterday, you, and me. and time is what bars others from entering into our secret, it is the gatekeeper of the house. i could tell someone else, "oh yes, we did this, we did that". but he will always be an other, sitting and watching, one skinny poet conjuring young boys and magic out of the air, another poet laughing in unison. the reader stands outside the periphery of that shared imagination, trying to enter.

posted by dawn # 2:46 AM

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