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Poetry Arrived In Search Of Me
Y fue a esa edad...Llego la poesia a buscarme. -Pablo Neruda

Just keep quiet and nobody will notice

Friday, December 16, 2005
A Drink With Something In It

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth--
I think that perhaps it's the gin.

-Ogden Nash

I attended a thrilling, five and a half hour alcohol class for my job the other day. Truly the highlight of my week, especially when my fellow classmates (who obviously have no one to talk to in their real lives) took up hours relating pointless stories that managed to prolong the agony of this truly awful experience.

I started off with a bad attitude, I must admit. I thought that nothing worthwhile could come of me listening to things I already knew while paying the State of Oregon to do it. How very wrong I was. We were actually provided with this handy dandy chart (almost identical to the chart at right), used in aiding us in identifying "visibly intoxicated people."

As I skimmed the list, I found something quite disconcerting. "Loud speech." Hmm. "Bravado." "Overly animated or entertaining." Umm..."Boisterous." "Overly friendly." It seemed that the very first five signs described yours truly on a day to day basis. Upon further examination, it seems that of the fifty signs, I show no less than 26 every. single. day. Things like, "inappropriate comments," "clumsy, uncoordinated" and "mussed hair" are some of my most defining characteristics. And according to my instructor, anyone showing more than a couple of these signs is clearly inebriated.

Evidently, my clumsiness and overbearing personality are not character flaws! It seems that I am drunk on a continual basis. Now, I'm not quite sure how this has been happening, since lately I have been somewhat modest in my habits, but I am not ruling out the possibility that I might be the second coming of the lord, and have been changing my water and diet cokes to wine inadvertently.

It's somewhat eye opening to realize that your worst suspicions about yourself are true. We've all had those nights where, due to some sweet, potent nectar, we say too much, knock something large over or stick our massive, wide feet in our mouths. Now I want you to imagine doing that on a continual basis, and you might have an inkling of what my life is like. At least I know that I would be a fantastic alcoholic. No one would notice any difference.

Good times.



12:29 AM :: 3 comments ::

Kasey :: permalink


Night Music

Friday, December 02, 2005
Love Songs in Age

She kept her songs, they kept so little space,
The covers pleased her:
One bleached from lying in a sunny place,
One marked in circles by a vase of water,
One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her,

And coloured, by her daughter -
So they had waited, till, in widowhood
She found them, looking for something else, and stood

Relearning how each frank submissive chord
Had ushered in
Word after sprawling hyphenated word,
And the unfailing sense of being young
Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein
That hidden freshness sung,
That certainty of time laid up in store
As when she played them first. But, even more,

The glare of that much-mentionned brilliance, love,
Broke out, to show
Its bright incipience sailing above,
Still promising to solve, and satisfy,
And set unchangeably in order. So
To pile them back, to cry,
Was hard, without lamely admitting how
It had not done so then, and could not now.


-Philip Larkin

I will never be the hipster music snob that I so aspired to be in high school. I will never be the one you go to for the newest, indie-est bands and sounds. I will never be the one who the cool music store guys nod conspiratorially at, knowing that you two belong to a secret society that others can only gawk and wonder at. I, unlike all of those kids, would always eschew Radiohead for REM, will wax nostalgic at Indigo Girls songs, and have to hide my mopey emo albums when friends come by.

After many years of wrestling with my musical taste shortcomings, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I am an emotional ninny when it comes to music. It's almost as if means too much to me to care about the musical competency of whoever is behind it. The combination of a unique voice and a poetic turn of phrase will get me every time.

I am such a boy about most things in life; only my closest friends know when something has upset me, and sometimes I don't even confide in them. Yet something about The Magnetic Fields' "The Book of Love" brings tears to my eyes up every time I hear it. I will also spend hours listening to one song over and over like a love-sick twelve year old, and it's usually something that I've already loved for years. My reaction to music is completely visceral and one of the only facets in my life where I don't feel I have to edit my emotions. Anything that has the power to make me foget to intellectualize every feeling is powerful stuff indeed.

Philip Larkin has been one of my favorite poets for years now, and when I found this, it blew me away. It
s one of those small miracles that we read poetry for. I would love to go into all the subtleties that he offers up, or how I think music and love are really two sides of the same coin, but that's boring and not nearly as nice as reading this poem over a fifth time. By the way, one of my favorite phrases of all time, "stubbly with goodness" comes from Mr. Larkin. Yay for him, and yay for Damien Rice's "Cold Water" which has been playing on repeat for longer than is humanly possible.
11:45 PM :: 0 comments ::

Kasey :: permalink