READ--LOOK--WRITE! 11

READ

I left no ring with her: what means this lady?Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!She made good view of me; indeed, so much,That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,For she did speak in starts distractedly.She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passionInvites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.I am the man: if it be so, as 'tis,Poor lady, she were better love a dream.Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper-falseIn women's waxen hearts to set their forms!Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!For such as we are made of, such we be.How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly; And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.What will become of this? As I am man,My state is desperate for my master's love;As I am woman,.now alas the day!. What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!O time! thou must untangle this, not I;It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

-- William Shakespeare, from Twelfth Night

LOOK
Its been a tiresome few weeks for me.  I've been battling an especially sticky cold, my family may have to move, and I can't seem to digest gluten (an otherwise choice-ingredient for coping).  When a friend posted this on FB, I just had to share.  Its so light and funny and well-done.  Thank goodness for the minds of our everyday kids!  I don't know what I would do without the comic relief of my brood!  Enjoy!  When kids write scripts for grown-ups.




WRITE!


Where the dry grasses 
come down to the bank, 
and the stream widens, 
there you can find 
animal tracks. 
Remain open 
and true. 
The clear stream
enters the woods, 
and becomes untraceable,
Only to emerge again, 
Into the open,
anew. 

READ--LOOK--WRITE! 10

READ



Happiness


It is morning. I think
Soon they will waken.
On the bedside table is a vase
of lilies; sunlight
pools in their throats.
I watch him turn to her
as though to speak her name
but silently, deep in her mouth--
At the window ledge,
once, twice,
a bird calls.
And then she stirs; her body
fills with his breath.
I open my eyes; you are watching me.
Almost over this room
the sun is gliding.
Look at your face, you say,
holding your own close to me
to make a mirror.
How calm you are. And the burning wheel
passes gently over us.
I open my eyes; you are watching me.
Almost over this room
the sun is gliding.
Look at your face, you say,
holding your own close to me
to make a mirror.
How calm you are. And the burning wheel
passes gently over us.


--Louise Gluck

LOOK

well, its a video this week.  Sometimes you just need someone to lighten the load, to take yourself out of yourself in a intelligent, call-it-like-it-is, shameless way, and well, this is one of the things/people that does it for me.  When I've had a long, brutal day, if I can just sit down in front of my computer and watch a few of this brilliant man's sketches, you can call me 'happy'.  Enjoy!

Louise CK- gays 

WRITE!

I had a funny feeling
When the last shiny
Thing I kept
From the old country
slipped off,
And fell into a dark, silent
Hole in the great earth.
I didn't hear a thing.
Just somewhere, easing away
Into the white sky,

Because my thoughts were elsewhere;
The feeling of my skin turning inside out, and the dark landing over the land with

the ticklings of love-

Distracting.

Strange pressure is built in
To the things that are missing,
taken away, done so well, unlike this disorganized room that we live in,
so long and so tenderly.

The song birds start to sing at night
And there is a flurry of wings
Up In the trees.
This feels Right to me
This feels home. 

READ--LOOK--WRITE! 09

READ

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; 
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink 
And rise and sink and rise and sink again; 
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, 
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; 
Yet many a man is making friends with death 
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. 
It well may be that in a difficult hour, 
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, 
Or nagged by want past resolution's power, 
I might be driven to sell your love for peace, 
Or trade the memory of this night for food. 
It well may be. I do not think I would. 



---- Edna St. Vincent Millay




LOOK

A random selection this week of things that I think are oddities, or cool.  TheMilkstone.





WRITE!


Something has eaten this building, it's clear;
Little holes in the rooms that I still love.
Have become a monument of my fear;
Darkened hallways, dust, and the cooing dove.
But I still retain this place as my home;
Meadows and groves, hallowed pine trees, the sky;
Shown only to friends who long now do roam.
And known to the western light, by and by. 
In the many years that have passed us now
Windows fretted with boards, and vulgar cracks, 
It is hard for us to remember how
Those sweet yearning years used to break our backs.  
Oh pitter-patter, oh pitter-patter, 
Muscovy duck and a bottle of wine
Oh pitter-patter, my pitter-patter, 
Your heart still scampers on the roof with mine. 

READ--LOOK--WRITE! 08

READ

"I am very old indeed.  It is so silly of people- I don't mean you, for you are such a tiny, and couldn't know better- but it is so silly of people to fancy that old age means crookedness and witheredness and feebleness and sticks and spectacles and rheumatism and forgetfulness!  It is so silly!  Old age has nothing whatever to do with all that.  The right old age means strength and beauty and mirth and courage and clear eyes and strong painless limbs.  I am older that you are able to think and-'

'And look at you Grandmother!' cried Irene, jumping up and flinging her arms about her neck.  'I won't be so silly again.  I promise you.  At least- I am rather afraid to promise- but if I am, I promise to be sorry for it- I do.  I wish I were as old as you, Grandmother.  I don't think you are ever afraid of anything."

--The Princess and the Goblin, by George MacDonald




LOOK
I like to think about movement in broader terms than dance, and I like dance that captures some element of movement that evokes emotions about daily life.  I like dance that isn't necessarily about the esthetic of a body, but how somebody moves, and expresses them self.  Here are a few pictures on my Milkstone Pinterest board that I thought were rather interesting.  check them out!






WRITE!


I want to go to bed like a fallow summer,
after I begin to swell.
When my dance falls out of the sun.

I think of a long, thin strand of light
passing in front of the clouds.

Imaging you, in tow on the horizon
makes my heart pitter-patter
with the feeling of lost blood-
An eddying mixture
of empathy and pain.

In China, old men wait for the return of the swallows
to plant their rice.
I feel like that.

I have a little swallow
that always returns to a nest in my heart.