The Store Stump

Monday

Don't surrender your loneliness
so quickly.
Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you
as few human
Or even divine ingrediants can.
- Hafiz

a special treat for you all: a wonderful new EP for the spring growings:

Civil War by The Shepherds

back to the rainy streets and the classes! For all my reluctance, I am actually very excited about this next quarter: John Stuart Mills, Romantic Poets, French, Linguistics...

Missing: drawing, writing, and printing

other sounds: Fleet Foxes

Tuesday

above: spring break

for your souls:

this

to do: Anis Mojgani at Powells at 8pm Monday the 28th!
I would recommend getting there really early because last time Jonathan Franzen was there, I was stuck on the floor beneath the talk in a huge line.

to watch: this

Saturday

the sky was lavender the last few days of class

its bewildering to find myself in fresh air with hours to do things like laundry and dishwashing

and how much i wish the coast weren't so tempestuous these days,

i need a good gust of wind in my hair

and this:

Friday

sounds of today: here
vast skies, ponderings, and solo nights
this semester has been murder

Tuesday

Is it like this

In death's other kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

Lips that would kiss

Form prayers to broken stone

T.S.E.

I'm supposed to be writing a paper - two in fact. But nothing doing. Too much schoolwork and my brain turns off and decides to read T.S.E. instead. My cherished humans, how are we still in January? I find myself longing for sky sky sky, birdsound, and spring growings.
I'm supposedly reading Pound right now, but how can you really enter into him, when the first lines you read are: "say this to the Possum: a bang, not a wimper/with a bang, not a wimper". especially as he goes onto talk politics and Mussolini hanging by his heels....its impossible to find him compelling, with this still echoing in your ears. As very young writer of ten years old, I used to take those words of T.S.E. and hold them in my mouth, shape them, whisper them to myself - all with little idea of their meaning in a fuller sense than the sounds they were. All I could feel is that they were sound with meaning, shade with color, and that they talked. talked wildly! Half my age ago I already knew that to make sound talk was all I could ever want.

pic of Jeff Gun art

shudders of winter's fog, butterflies, and eternity today
to this sound

Saw a train catch the night on FIRE.

its snowing

listening to this

and dreaming about such luxeries as appartments and summer;

summer now means figure drawing, photography, printing and music...everything that keeps me alive...

the one consolation is that we're studying printing rights and typography in 17th century england in ENG 430 this term.

pic from here

Friday

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

- G. M. H.

A close family friend, a figure who stood on the front porch of my childhood memories, forever rolling a cigarette in his hands and laughing with my dad, has passed away this last week. I spent much of my time growing up in his house, curled on the couch watching the adults open bottles of wine, tell stories, and weave the life and faith I would take into my soul and make my own. And now watching him return to the earth, surrounded by candles and singing and tears and so much love, I feel that a bright flickering gift has been placed in my hands; they have wept and hugged me and let me be with them through all of life, the laughter and the death intermingled.

listen