so what

• 2012-05-27

  

  ok, i think my trophies look pretty. two weeks playing the NikeFuel game and still excited about it. 

• 2012-05-24

  

  Here

  I am a man now.
  Pass your hand over my brow.
  You can feel the place where the brains grow.

  I am like a tree,
  From my top boughs I can see
  The footprints that led up to me.

  There is blood in my veins
  That has run clear of the stain
  Contracted in so many loins.

  Why, then, are my hands red
  With the blood of so many dead?
  Is this where I was misled?

  Why are my hands this way
  That they will not do as I say?
  Does no God hear when I pray?

  I have no where to go
  The swift satellites show
  The clock of my whole being is slow,

  It is too late to depart
  For destinations not of the heart.
  I must stay here with my hurt.

  @ R. S. Thomas

  (what i find very interesting about this poem: i always re-type poems from poetry books that i buy, and i trust books more than anything online. the last few lines of the poem have a different meaning in the versions online - with a change of a few letters it quotes:

  It is too late to start
  For destinations not of the heart.
  I must stay here with my hurt.

  i prefer the “depart”, my bookish version. it’s never too late to start, but departing can be the case)

• →

  

  before and after: i am a lazy arse. but efficient

• 2012-05-21

  

  Meditation on the A30

  A man on his own in a car
  Is revenging himself on his wife;
  He open the throttle and bubbles with dottle
  and puffs at his pitiful life
  
  She’s losing her looks very fast,
  she loses her temper all day;
  that lorry won’t let me get past,
  this Mini is blocking my way.
  
  “Why can’t you step on it and shift her!
  I can’t go on crawling like this!
  At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead-
  Thank heavens we don’t have to kiss.
  
  “I’d like a nice  blonde on my knee
  And one who won’t argue or nag.
  Who dares to come hooting at me?
  I only give way to a Jag.
  
  “You’re barmy or plastered, I’ll pass you, you bastard-
  I will overtake you. I will!”
  As he clenches his pipe, his moment is ripe
  And the corner’s accepting its kill.

  ©Sir John Betjeman

• →

  that’s what i do tomorrow: going for a day cycling trip with my elder brother to the beautiful forest hours drive from moscow. sometimes - most of the times - i feel i am totally blessed. it’s a total miracle to me how the shittiest winter and early spring of my life with almost losing my eyesight and crying for a month of pain turned to be the most amazing late spring when i feel happiest in my life and most content.

  and i have grown up, i guess, but not completely yet

• 2012-05-03

  

  (every day has at least one great moment of clarity when i know it’s my life, the way i dreamt about it)

• →

  

  i hope that’s just a moment of weakness. i hope i will sleep on it and it will be gone. everything is so fast, happening and dreams are coming true and i feel that all i want is possible and easy. here comes the inevitable “but”: i am tired as hell. two weeks off will mend me but can they be found and squeezed? all i want is to go home. second time this deprivation of all my life seems deeply unfair.

• 2012-04-11

  

  Sonnet

  I can’t sleep in case a few things you said
  no longer apply. The matter’s endless,
  but definitions alter what’s ahead
  and you and words are like a hare and tortoise. 
  Aaaagh there’s no description — each a fractal 
  sectioned by silences, we have our own
  skins to feel through and fall back through — awful
  to make so much of something so unknown.
  But even I — some shower-swift commitments
  are all you’ll get; I mustn’t gauge or give
  more than I take — which is a way to balance
  between misprision and belief in love
  both true and false, because I’m only just
  short of a word to be the first to trust.

  @ Alice Oswald

  (i was eleven, i was five, i wish i still were in that state, sometimes)

  
  

• →

  i can’t remember when i wanted to stay in more than today. no force will take me out of here. let the world disappear please for another few weeks until i am ready to face it.

• 2012-04-09

  

  Hymn to All the Men I’ll Never Love

  My heart, sing praises to the men
  I’ll never love; from whom a night
  away’s just that — a night — and not
  a lifetime in the desert without food
  and water. It’s because of them
  that breakfasts can be eaten, Lord, appointments 
  kept, and letters left to lie 
  where they have fallen; men with whom
  a perfect evening may be nothing more
  than beer and cards outside beneath the lean-to
  where straight-talk and easy gestures leave
  dark nests of sparrows and the scent
  of bonfires in their wake; the sort of men
  whose smiles I can endure without
  surrendering my all to them;
  in whose unswerving disregard,
  let heaven rejoice, let the earth be glad.

  © Julia Copus