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the big show is inside my head
Created on 2002-03-27 15:08:06 (#508410), last updated 2009-02-16
6,556 comments received, 7,208 comments posted
Plus Account [Gift]
1,345 Journal Entries, 6 Tags, 357 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 14 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | carissa |
|---|---|
| Website: | old poems |
BioFor what is life but reaching for an answer?
And what is death, but the refusal to grow?
-Mary Oliver
'I hate solitude, but i'm afraid of intimacy. The substance of my life is a private conversation with myself which to turn into a dialogue would be equivalent to self-destruction. The company which I need is the company which a pub or a cafe will provide. I have never wanted a communion of souls. It's already hard enough to tell the truth to oneself.'
Exerpt from 'Under the Net' by Iris Murdoch
The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
—Ellen Bass
m.space
r.m.m.
me
p.s.
paste
librarything
salinger
And what is death, but the refusal to grow?
-Mary Oliver
'I hate solitude, but i'm afraid of intimacy. The substance of my life is a private conversation with myself which to turn into a dialogue would be equivalent to self-destruction. The company which I need is the company which a pub or a cafe will provide. I have never wanted a communion of souls. It's already hard enough to tell the truth to oneself.'
Exerpt from 'Under the Net' by Iris Murdoch
The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
—Ellen Bass
m.space
r.m.m.
me
p.s.
paste
librarything
salinger
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all these fickle hearts, charles bukowski, coffee & pie, fists full of epiphanies, freckled shoulders, inclusive clubs, jim carrey in esotsm, letting go of this, mehmet's heart-shifting stories, my brother's voice, my quarter life crisis, never never land, re-defining who i am, the antics of miss.tenenbaum, timothy.hutton in ordinary.people
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