My heart feels ready to burst
With all the things I feel for you!
Happiness
Brightness
Laughter
Love
All at once explosive and exciting;
I want the world to see it!
And then again, warm and secret
Like a private giggle only I will ever know why for.
Friday, March 09, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Here I Love You
Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh, the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilight.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.
~ Pablo Neruda ~
Here I Love You, 1959
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh, the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilight.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.
~ Pablo Neruda ~
Here I Love You, 1959
Sunday, February 12, 2012
You, Bloody Bus Number Twenty-Two
You!
You came out of the blue.
You, bloody Bus Number 22.
When here I was, content to wait for Number 57.
I thought I knew which way I was going
So sure of the road I wanted to travel
Even if it was only still in theory.
And so I was happy to wait for Number 57.
Then you came by
And showed me what your route might've been.
A tiny, tiny little peek at your sumptuous secrets,
And I wondered about Number 57.
What spirit you inspired,
What dreams you caressed,
What promises of delights you held,
And I wondered about Number 57.
Should I bide?
Should I take the risk?
Tempted was I, to take that step into the new unknown
And to forsake Number 57.
But before your doors even opened,
You pulled away.
And I was left with regrets
Of what never was
Of what might have been
Of, perhaps, my own imagining.
And I stood there,
Cold,
Wondering about you
Bloody Bus Number Twenty-two.
You came out of the blue.
You, bloody Bus Number 22.
When here I was, content to wait for Number 57.
I thought I knew which way I was going
So sure of the road I wanted to travel
Even if it was only still in theory.
And so I was happy to wait for Number 57.
Then you came by
And showed me what your route might've been.
A tiny, tiny little peek at your sumptuous secrets,
And I wondered about Number 57.
What spirit you inspired,
What dreams you caressed,
What promises of delights you held,
And I wondered about Number 57.
Should I bide?
Should I take the risk?
Tempted was I, to take that step into the new unknown
And to forsake Number 57.
But before your doors even opened,
You pulled away.
And I was left with regrets
Of what never was
Of what might have been
Of, perhaps, my own imagining.
And I stood there,
Cold,
Wondering about you
Bloody Bus Number Twenty-two.
Thursday, February 09, 2012
Truth
I wrote something today.
I wrote something wicked.
I wrote something.. true.
But I'm afraid of what the payment for that Truth will be.
You! You were but the briefest flicker in my life,
But a spark that flared bright.
Irresistably bright.
You've inspired me to write again; did you know?
But right now, I'm not sure that is the best of things.
How can it be that I miss you already, when I barely know you?
But I do.
So very much.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
You Should Date a Girl Who Reads
by Rosemarie Urquico
“You should date a girl who reads.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”
Picture of Girl Reading Under A Tree (c. 1920s) courtesy of this site.
“You should date a girl who reads.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”
Picture of Girl Reading Under A Tree (c. 1920s) courtesy of this site.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Melbourne, oh Melbourne
Today, I find myself back in Melbourne. It was just shy of two full years ago that I was last here - for Doggy's wedding, for my first visit to Melbourne, for my first time in Australia, ever.
We, my Darling and I, spent 6 whole days in Melbourne, exploring her (well, minus 1.5 days in the suburbs for wedding stuff). It was meant to be summer, but it was a cool summer that year, methinks, because I remember having to bundle up for most of it. Or perhaps it was just the infamous Melbourne weather - "4 seasons in one week!" is feedback I get from pretty much everyone familiar with Melbs.
Anyhoo, on that trip, we landed, checked-in, washed up and immediately commenced our mad touristing. It was with some regretful retrospection that we realized we had covered pretty much all of the Melbourne grid in 3 days, and were left to "shake leg" for the remainder of the trip.
It was, on that note, that I made the dismissive opinion that Melbourne, whilst a vibrant and GORGEOUS city, isn't really one to come to for a holiday, but would be a fantastic place to live in for a bit. I was of the firm opinion that I didn't think I would EVER come back to Melbourne for a holiday. Never. And if I wouldn't be coming for a holiday, then unless I decided to look for work in Melbourne or married a Melburnian, the likelihood of me ever seeing Melbourne again were next to none.
That made me a little sad, for Melbourne is a place of much charm. And awesome food. When I think about Melbourne, the architecture and food immediately come to mind. Flinders St Station. Churros. The GPO. The QV Market. Victoria State Library. Lygon St. *swoon* And to think it would be only just memories, well, made me sad.
As fate would have it, fate whom so fondly loves to throw me a "HAH!" in the face, after a mad flurry of three months with my new employers, found me back in Melbourne; unexpected, and a little bit wild-eyed and in disbelief. As I write this now in the wee hours of the morning from my hotel room in Melbourne itself, I can still scarcely believe I am actually here. The air smells different, so I know we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.. but. Still.
It's still a little unreal to be here. Managing a project which, if it fails, will mean potential trouble for the company I work for, on a very public and national scale. And since I was put solely responsible for managing the logistics & incidentals, if this fails, the blame will lie squarely on me.
Am I pissing in my pants? Hell, YES.
Can I believe all this is happening, and that I AM IN MELBOURNE *RIGHT* NOW MAKING IT HAPPEN?? Hell, errr.. no?
Tomorrow, I will wake up, I will walk out the front door of the hotel, and I will walk through the streets of the city that, for some reason despite finding it a boring holiday destination, has taken hold of my heart. Then, maybe, I will believe I am in Melbourne.
We, my Darling and I, spent 6 whole days in Melbourne, exploring her (well, minus 1.5 days in the suburbs for wedding stuff). It was meant to be summer, but it was a cool summer that year, methinks, because I remember having to bundle up for most of it. Or perhaps it was just the infamous Melbourne weather - "4 seasons in one week!" is feedback I get from pretty much everyone familiar with Melbs.
Anyhoo, on that trip, we landed, checked-in, washed up and immediately commenced our mad touristing. It was with some regretful retrospection that we realized we had covered pretty much all of the Melbourne grid in 3 days, and were left to "shake leg" for the remainder of the trip.
It was, on that note, that I made the dismissive opinion that Melbourne, whilst a vibrant and GORGEOUS city, isn't really one to come to for a holiday, but would be a fantastic place to live in for a bit. I was of the firm opinion that I didn't think I would EVER come back to Melbourne for a holiday. Never. And if I wouldn't be coming for a holiday, then unless I decided to look for work in Melbourne or married a Melburnian, the likelihood of me ever seeing Melbourne again were next to none.
That made me a little sad, for Melbourne is a place of much charm. And awesome food. When I think about Melbourne, the architecture and food immediately come to mind. Flinders St Station. Churros. The GPO. The QV Market. Victoria State Library. Lygon St. *swoon* And to think it would be only just memories, well, made me sad.
As fate would have it, fate whom so fondly loves to throw me a "HAH!" in the face, after a mad flurry of three months with my new employers, found me back in Melbourne; unexpected, and a little bit wild-eyed and in disbelief. As I write this now in the wee hours of the morning from my hotel room in Melbourne itself, I can still scarcely believe I am actually here. The air smells different, so I know we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.. but. Still.
It's still a little unreal to be here. Managing a project which, if it fails, will mean potential trouble for the company I work for, on a very public and national scale. And since I was put solely responsible for managing the logistics & incidentals, if this fails, the blame will lie squarely on me.
Am I pissing in my pants? Hell, YES.
Can I believe all this is happening, and that I AM IN MELBOURNE *RIGHT* NOW MAKING IT HAPPEN?? Hell, errr.. no?
Tomorrow, I will wake up, I will walk out the front door of the hotel, and I will walk through the streets of the city that, for some reason despite finding it a boring holiday destination, has taken hold of my heart. Then, maybe, I will believe I am in Melbourne.
Sunday, September 05, 2010
Of Things That Go Boo in the Night
Of late, the urge to write in the wee hours of the night has returned. Over the last few nights, the urge has been quite insistent; I must comply.
Resistance is futile.
The quiet nights have not been good to me recently. It doesn't help that I am a late sleeper, most awake and lucid in the hours surrounding midnight; a legacy inherited from my father. Too many thoughts I'd rather not have come unbidden, and unwelcomed. Often, they're set off by the smallest and seemingly most insignificant of things.
I read something on the Internet one day. Something completely geeky and inane, but humourous enough for me to immediately want to share it with somebody. The only person I knew who would've understood and laughed with me was him. Unfortunately, calling him is no longer an option.
The thing I wanted to share with him has long since been forgotten. I can't even remember the gist of it. But the yearning to share things with him again remains.
I miss him still. Sometimes. Often. Mostly when there's something I want to share. Often, it's something so exceedingly geeky or nonsensical, nobody else I know would really get it. He used to thoroughly indulge me my whimsical side. I loved him endlessly for that. I loved him for a lot of things.
I had a really nice day today. I had dinner & coffee with my girls like we hadn't had in a long, long time. It was... it was love.
But much as I enjoyed myself, and much as I love my girls, it didn't help fill this hole in my heart.
I missed him today. I took the long way home from dinner, a long drive around town, one full of memories. I missed him so much.
But I can't help but wonder if it is just having someone to share things with that I really miss, and not the person itself? Some days, that seems so clear. Other days, the two are one and the same.
I wonder if he misses me this way too sometimes. I try not to think about it though, because whether he does or not at all, it still hurts a little too much.
Resistance is futile.
The quiet nights have not been good to me recently. It doesn't help that I am a late sleeper, most awake and lucid in the hours surrounding midnight; a legacy inherited from my father. Too many thoughts I'd rather not have come unbidden, and unwelcomed. Often, they're set off by the smallest and seemingly most insignificant of things.
I read something on the Internet one day. Something completely geeky and inane, but humourous enough for me to immediately want to share it with somebody. The only person I knew who would've understood and laughed with me was him. Unfortunately, calling him is no longer an option.
The thing I wanted to share with him has long since been forgotten. I can't even remember the gist of it. But the yearning to share things with him again remains.
I miss him still. Sometimes. Often. Mostly when there's something I want to share. Often, it's something so exceedingly geeky or nonsensical, nobody else I know would really get it. He used to thoroughly indulge me my whimsical side. I loved him endlessly for that. I loved him for a lot of things.
I had a really nice day today. I had dinner & coffee with my girls like we hadn't had in a long, long time. It was... it was love.
But much as I enjoyed myself, and much as I love my girls, it didn't help fill this hole in my heart.
I missed him today. I took the long way home from dinner, a long drive around town, one full of memories. I missed him so much.
But I can't help but wonder if it is just having someone to share things with that I really miss, and not the person itself? Some days, that seems so clear. Other days, the two are one and the same.
I wonder if he misses me this way too sometimes. I try not to think about it though, because whether he does or not at all, it still hurts a little too much.
Monday, November 23, 2009
When Best Just Isn't Good Enough
There are times when you feel like such a complete incompetent, and it doesn't matter that people tell you it's okay, because the job was just way over your head anyway, so you shouldn't feel bad about it.
Well, it doesn't feel okay.
It makes you feel such a failure when other people have to be called in to help you do what you were supposed to do.
It makes you wonder if you know what the hell you're doing.
It makes you start to wonder and doubt if you'll be able to live up to even your own expectations, nevermind your boss'.
It makes you feel like you're an idiot moron.
Well, it doesn't feel okay.
It makes you feel such a failure when other people have to be called in to help you do what you were supposed to do.
It makes you wonder if you know what the hell you're doing.
It makes you start to wonder and doubt if you'll be able to live up to even your own expectations, nevermind your boss'.
It makes you feel like you're an idiot moron.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Feeling LUSH-ious!
Have I mentioned my love affair with LUSH? Look at what the BFF brought back for meeeeeeee!!!
*swoon*
The booty:
Fever Massage Bar
Herbalism Facial Cleanser
Heavenly Bodies Buttercream
Flying Fox Shower Gel
Rub Rub Shower Scrub
Mask of Magnaminty
Shimmy Shimmy Sparkle Massage Bar
Free Toner Samplers
Guess who jumped straight into a LUSH-ious shower, nevermind that it was 2am?
Bliss!
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Contentment
Contentment is having to be at work up to 10 hours a day, but being happy to hear your boss' voice because it's just soooo mellifluous: rich, smooth and comforting, like the creamiest peanut butter on Earth.
Mmmmmmm....
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