Echoes in a Hollow Space

Random quote of the day:

“Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys
Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;
Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet
Clear of the grave.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Hamatreya”



Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Bert and Ernie, Celine Dion, or the Band of the Coldstream Guards. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

The daffodils have
finally woken, dancing
along the garden
wall, dreaming faces turned to
the sun after long, dark sleep.

 

 

*For a definition of what constitutes haiku, tanka, and cinquains, and for an explanation of this poetry project, go here.

*To see all the poems in one place go here.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

Random quote of the day: 

“The potflower on the windowsill says to me
In words that are green-edged red leaves:
Flower  flower  flower flower
Today for the sake of all the dead
Burst in to flower”

—Muriel Rukeyser, “The Power of Suicide”

 

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

 

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

Random quote of the day:

“Flowers are words even a baby can understand.”

—attributed to Quentin Crisp

 

Disclaimer:  The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

 

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

There were three poems I considered posting today. One was elegiac, one about existential angst, and another mildly bawdy one.

I had a great time at the gallery show Saturday. I hope to write that up sometime this week. Sunday, however, was something of an elegiac day. I scanned some more old pictures from slides and the particular randomly selected box I picked them out of held pictures of two dead people and three dead cats, all of them loved ones. I thought I'd had enough of elegies and angst. So I decided to go with the slightly bawdy and hopefully humorous one.

I've put this poem behind a cut in case anyone is offended by the use of the P-word.

( From the notebooks, April 1998: )

Random quote of the day:


"Flowers are both knowing and innocent, with experienced mouths but childlike eyes. They bend the two poles of life into a divinely closed circle."

—Malcom de Chazal, Sens-Plastique, tr. Irving Weiss



( Illustrated version. )

I am a Morning Glory What Flower Are You?

ETA: So out of it today I didn't realize the legend hadn't copied. I took it, pasted it again, but it still didn't copy, so here it is:

"Dedicated is one word for you. You have a tendency to overwhelm other people occasionally with your enthusiasm for life."

What's new in the yard: The planter of amaryllis is in full bloom, but the first blooming flowers have started to fade. The pink and yellow lantana has been popping for awhile now. The Mexican poppies--a papery, pale lavender--have sprung up here and there throughout the yard. And the pink and white geranium has been joined by a maroon and pink one.

Writing talk of the day: A real good session yesterday. The final fight is well underway. A fairly good session today. I continued the fight, then spent a certain amount of time staring at the wall. But it was good staring at the wall, thinking about "If A happens, then B could happen, and lead to C..." I blocked out important elements of the rest of the fight and hope that means I can work steadily towards the conclusion now.

This late in the game I find myself second-guessing some of my decisions and that's slowed things down quite a bit. But I have to let go of the idea that everything will hang together perfectly at this point. First draft I keep repeating to myself.

A funny thing happened on the way to writing this book: I wrote two books. Two books, with a household move thrown in for good measure. I do not wish to repeat the experience.

And if Lois McMasters Bujold cannot sell a 200k ms. as one book, I haven't got a prayer because I am sooooooo not Ms. Bujold. I am not quite at 200k (SMF) yet, but so close it's not worth mentioning. When all is done, done, done, the epic will probably have to be taken apart and rearranged, and broken in two. And somewhere in there a third book will have to be written.

But not now. God no, not now.

Quote of the day:

"Great art is as irrational as great music. It is mad with its own loveliness."

—George Jean Nathan


I can verify from personal experience that [un-]great art is mad with its own [perceived] loveliness.


Writing talk of the day: And speaking of low-brow art, I had one of those nice surprises today that keeps me in this godawful game. I've had this gnarly plot point, see, right at the end of the story that's bothered me for ever-so-long. I had no idea how I was going to fix the bastard, but I kept writing towards it hoping some idea would come to me. Last week I started the chapter where I was pretty sure that plot point was going to come into play (because, like, I'm running out of things to write, so yanno). I still had no idea how to fix it, so I just let go of it and said, "I'll have to fix it in the rewrites."

Then today, out of the blue, as these things often hit me, I suddenly knew how to fix it. Ha. I love it when that happens.

What's up in the yard of the day:

The daffodils are still a presence. Though the earliest of them have faded, more have popped up. The purple iris are coming on strong, and one bright yellow one. A lovely mauve-peach gladiola has struggled up beside the lush, thick crimson leaves of the bougainvillea. The periwinkle and that other ground cover that I don't know the name of with the small, pink flower globes, are going ape squanto. The tea tree and Scotch broom that we put into the ground are very happy, as are the herbs out back. And, of course, the calla lilies are in bloom again. (Impossible to say that without doing the Katherine Hepburn imitation, although she never actually said that except in Warners Brothers cartoons.) We have white and rose-tipped calla lilies scattered here and there throughout the front and back yards. The stephanotis also remains happy.

On the drive home, one house has planted scores of multi-colored runuculas around the bases of the trees planted by the city on the grass beside the curb.

"You need a hobby," my friend said. "Get you outside your own head more."

"Besides my hobby of writing?"

"That's too important to you to be a hobby. You need to do something just for the hell of it. You used to do stuff."

"I didn't have room in my apartment to do artwork."

"You have access to a garage now."

"It's full of boxes."

"You're creative. You'll think of something."

I unpacked my wood carving tools the other day, but I haven't found the bone pieces I was working on before the move.

I've always wanted to do one of those David Hockney photo assemblages, ever since I saw an exhibit at the gallery, L.A. Louver. But I never wanted to "waste" a roll of film like that. Now, thanks to the digital camera, I can waste shots and...nuthin's really wasted.

Here's my homage to Hockney, plus some plant pix.

( Pix. )