While it's true that, like most Vermonters, I mostly eat granola and hug trees, as you know I do like a few aspects of "pop" culture. The one that really makes me seem freakish to most of my community here is that I love sports, and the one that doesn't make me a freak but does force me to drive a ways to find a friend who actually owns a TV is my annual addiction to the best darn TV show in primetime: So You Think You Can Dance (otherwise known to its supremely creative loyal fans at SYTYCD).
I'm not going to say much about the latter except that this week was AMAZING and I highly recommend checking out some YouTube videos* of Wednesday's performances. See, Thursday night is TV Night, in which I and several of my hippie friends gather at RaRo's (aka Friend With Television) house and watch Wednesday's episode on tape before watching the live results show. It's a beautiful tradition that I firmly believe should last forever and ever.
But back to the sports thing, for the few of you far-away friends (and strangers who read my blog? I love finding out that strangers are reading my blog. I hope you enjoy it. Hi, Patti in Seattle!) who actually share this interest. Or maybe I'm just talking to my brother here. Anyway, we are in the thick of sports fun these days, between the Celtics and baseball season and one of the best Euro Cup tournemants in years. Also, the NBA draft just happened, and while I don't actually have the time or interest to follow it in minute detail, the ESPN.com commentary is hilarious.
Today is meandering along, and I'm just counting down until I can skip away from the computer and go on a swimming and picnic outing with the Adventure Man and then head down to what promises to be a ridiculously good dance. TGIF, I'm telling ya.
*Update: the copyright people for the network are trolling YouTube and the links might have been taken down. If you're really motivated you can search YouTube for "Kerrington & Twitch hip-hop", "Chelsea and Mark hip-hop" and "Katee and Joshua samba."
Friday, June 27, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
poetry week, day 6: the end (for now)
I can feel Poetry Week winding itself down, so here's one more to close it out. Of course, that doesn't mean I won't continue to post poems now and then. It just means that posts will have a different title, I guess.
A number of people commented on both the NY Times site and here that "If" is the poem they try to live by. I would not argue at all with the sentiment, but... well, ironic as it may be, I need my mantra poem to be a little less wordy. Luckily there's a perfect one. Thanks go to the Magic Lady in Atlanta for introducing me to this one a while ago. As far as I know it's untitled.
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom
goes on as fruit.
~Dawna Markova
A number of people commented on both the NY Times site and here that "If" is the poem they try to live by. I would not argue at all with the sentiment, but... well, ironic as it may be, I need my mantra poem to be a little less wordy. Luckily there's a perfect one. Thanks go to the Magic Lady in Atlanta for introducing me to this one a while ago. As far as I know it's untitled.
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom
goes on as fruit.
~Dawna Markova
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
poetry week, day 5, plus an explanation of the global economic meltdown, and my feelings about golf
Want to understand the current economic crisis? Here's some major help. I've listened to the podcast twice now and I intend to keep it as long as possible and listen at least once more, just to make sure I actually understand it. Not because it's complicated, but because it's so obscenely simple that I can't wrap my head around how things went so wrong.
Want to know how I feel about golf? Yeah, I'm sure you don't really, but read this anyway. It's funny.
Want to know the best thing that happened yesterday, or maybe in weeks? Someone else did my laundry, not for the first time ever. This poem is for her, with oh-so-much gratitude and love.
Do you know a laundry poem? Post it in the comments. It wasn't so easy to find one.
Sock Eater
by Betsy Rosenthal
On laundry days
my mother says
the dryer is a crook.
It’s all because
a sock is gone—
the one the dryer took.
I tell my mom
she shouldn’t let
the dryer see us eat.
It’s sure to munch
a sock or two
because it craves a treat.
Want to know how I feel about golf? Yeah, I'm sure you don't really, but read this anyway. It's funny.
Want to know the best thing that happened yesterday, or maybe in weeks? Someone else did my laundry, not for the first time ever. This poem is for her, with oh-so-much gratitude and love.
Do you know a laundry poem? Post it in the comments. It wasn't so easy to find one.
Sock Eater
by Betsy Rosenthal
On laundry days
my mother says
the dryer is a crook.
It’s all because
a sock is gone—
the one the dryer took.
I tell my mom
she shouldn’t let
the dryer see us eat.
It’s sure to munch
a sock or two
because it craves a treat.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
poetry week, day 4
I can say this, because the only credit I can take for the success is that I correctly followed a recipe: the maple bourbon sweet potato I made for today's pie potluck kicked total ass. Especially the version with chopped hazelnuts sprinkled under and over the filling (I ended up making two pies - I had too much filling and an extra crust, why the heck not?). And also because maybe I put in a little more bourbon than the recipe called for. And I had Grade C maple syrup from the Adventure Man's sugar bush (forget Grade A Fancy, man... and really forget Mrs. Butterworth; the "cheap" real maple syrup is where it's at). All I can say is, whoever came up with the idea for that pie was having a damn good day.
It's a non sequitur, really, but I do think that the author of today's poem would enjoy a good maple bourbon sweet potato pie. Here's to him~
The Peace of Wild things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the last sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
-Wendell Berry
It's a non sequitur, really, but I do think that the author of today's poem would enjoy a good maple bourbon sweet potato pie. Here's to him~
The Peace of Wild things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the last sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
-Wendell Berry
Saturday, June 21, 2008
poetry week, day 3
I'm bursting with happiness for some dear friends today. It's a good way to start the weekend.
The agenda is pretty full, as usual - picking strawberries at the farm, Indian food at the farmers market, making a maple bourbon sweet potato pie for the pie potluck at the happy/sad going-away dance tomorrow (for the wonderful people who got married a little while ago), hanging out with A Boy (yes, and that's all I'm going to say for now), going to said Boy's friend's going-away party... and all of that is today! Tomorrow: hiking, going to the happy/sad dance, going to a potluck, and perhaps going to the Brattleboro dance in the evening.
And, um, laundry? I'm hoping it will magically do itself while I'm busy with all these other things.
Oh, how I love summer in Vermont(/western Massachusetts)!
Anyway, Poetry Week continues, so here is another of my very favorites: "Ask For Nothing" by Philip Levine. When I was studying abroad in Ecuador in college, a friend on my program loaned me a slim volume of Philip Levine poetry. It pretty much changed my life. I had read and enjoyed poems before, but never had I devoured poetry, been struck dumb by it, felt wrapped in its warm blanket. When I got back to the U.S., I walked into the Hungry Mind (sigh... R.I.P.), our lovely local bookstore that later went the way of so many locally-owned bookstores (have I mentioned that Brattleboro has at least four that seem to be thriving?), and ordered the book, The Simple Truth. I even stuck with the order when they told me that those 68 pages would cost me $16, a fortune for a college student to devote to a "frivolous" purchase. But I've never regretted it.
Ask For Nothing
Instead walk alone in the evening
heading out of town toward the fields
asleep under a darkening sky;
the dust risen from your steps transforms
itself into a golden rain fallen
earthward as a gift from no known god.
The plane trees along the canal bank,
the few valley poplars, hold their breath
as you cross the wooden bridge that leads
nowhere you haven't been, for this walk
repeats itself once or more a day.
That is why in the distance you see
beyond the first ridge of low hills
where nothing ever grows, men and women
astride mules, on horseback, some even
on foot, all the lost family you
never prayed to see, praying to see you,
chanting and singing to bring the moon
down in to the last of the sunlight.
Behind you the windows of the town
blink on and off, the houses close down;
ahead the voices fade like music
over deep water, and then are gone;
even the sudden, tumbling finches
have fled into smoke, and the one road
whitened in moonlight, leads everywhere.
The agenda is pretty full, as usual - picking strawberries at the farm, Indian food at the farmers market, making a maple bourbon sweet potato pie for the pie potluck at the happy/sad going-away dance tomorrow (for the wonderful people who got married a little while ago), hanging out with A Boy (yes, and that's all I'm going to say for now), going to said Boy's friend's going-away party... and all of that is today! Tomorrow: hiking, going to the happy/sad dance, going to a potluck, and perhaps going to the Brattleboro dance in the evening.
And, um, laundry? I'm hoping it will magically do itself while I'm busy with all these other things.
Oh, how I love summer in Vermont(/western Massachusetts)!
Anyway, Poetry Week continues, so here is another of my very favorites: "Ask For Nothing" by Philip Levine. When I was studying abroad in Ecuador in college, a friend on my program loaned me a slim volume of Philip Levine poetry. It pretty much changed my life. I had read and enjoyed poems before, but never had I devoured poetry, been struck dumb by it, felt wrapped in its warm blanket. When I got back to the U.S., I walked into the Hungry Mind (sigh... R.I.P.), our lovely local bookstore that later went the way of so many locally-owned bookstores (have I mentioned that Brattleboro has at least four that seem to be thriving?), and ordered the book, The Simple Truth. I even stuck with the order when they told me that those 68 pages would cost me $16, a fortune for a college student to devote to a "frivolous" purchase. But I've never regretted it.
Ask For Nothing
Instead walk alone in the evening
heading out of town toward the fields
asleep under a darkening sky;
the dust risen from your steps transforms
itself into a golden rain fallen
earthward as a gift from no known god.
The plane trees along the canal bank,
the few valley poplars, hold their breath
as you cross the wooden bridge that leads
nowhere you haven't been, for this walk
repeats itself once or more a day.
That is why in the distance you see
beyond the first ridge of low hills
where nothing ever grows, men and women
astride mules, on horseback, some even
on foot, all the lost family you
never prayed to see, praying to see you,
chanting and singing to bring the moon
down in to the last of the sunlight.
Behind you the windows of the town
blink on and off, the houses close down;
ahead the voices fade like music
over deep water, and then are gone;
even the sudden, tumbling finches
have fled into smoke, and the one road
whitened in moonlight, leads everywhere.
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