Wednesday, September 14, 2011

" But blue is wrong . . . for roses"

Hmm, what would Tennessee have to say about this? They look more lavender to me. What do you think? Will they catch on? Is it a little too much to have a GM flower, or is it not that far a stretch from hybrids?

I'm not sure I want one in my yard, but they are pretty.

Maybe you think like Jim, huh?

JIM: The different people are not like other people, but being different is nothing to be ashamed of. Because other people are not such wonderful people. They’re one hundred times one thousand. You’re one times one! They walk all over the earth. You just stay here. They’re common as—weeds, but—you—well, you’re—Blue Roses!

[Image on screen: Blue Roses.]
[The music changes.]

LAURA: But blue is wrong for—roses. . . .

JIM: It’s right for you! You’re—pretty!

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Happy Birthday Edna

On this day in 1892, Edna Vincent Millay was born in Rockland Maine. Would that she had lived twice as long as her too brief 58 years.

Although perhaps most famous to the general public for her poem First Fig, this poem (obviously, no?) speaks to me.

I read it often a couple of years ago.

Things are so much better now.

I Know The Face Of Falsehood And Her Tongue

I know the face of Falsehood and her Tongue
Honeyed with unction, Plausible with guile,
Are dear to men, whom count me not among,
That owe their daily credit to her smile;
Such have been succoured out of great distress
By her contriving, if accounts be true:
Their deference now above the board, I guess,
Dishcharges what beneath the board is due.
As for myself, I'd liefer lack her aid
Than eat her presence; let this building fall:
But let me never lift my latch, afraid
To hear her simpering accents in the hall,
Nor force an entrance past mephitic airs
Of stale patchoulie hanging on my stairs

How are thing with you?

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I Want To Be Famous . . . . . .

Famous, but only to all of you. It's been so very long since I could find the time, and the will, and the inspiration to write, but mostly, I needed the courage.

Let me explain.

I love Facebook. If it wasn't for Facebook, I wouldn't have reunited with several old friends that I had assumed were out of my life forever, I wouldn't know that my niece was accepted into the Cytogenetics program at UT / MD Anderson
. (Go Mattie! - and yes, I had to look it up to see what the hell that meant.) I wouldn't know about friends new puppys, or jobs, or many other mundane but joyous things. If it wasn't for Facebook, I wouldn't have the lovely Xena to wake up to each morning. So yes, I love Facebook.

So . . . . the problem is, Facebook makes it so damn easy to keep in touch with people, including the great majority of you, that my communication has become one-liners and hitting the Like button. I have forgotten how to sit down, organize my thoughts and turn them into a coherent post.

Believe me, I've tried. You should see the unfinished drafts in my queue. It's not like I haven't had plenty to write about. Writing has just become scary and hard.

So bear with me.

Scold me.

Remind me to go write something more than a poorly punctuated paragraph about how stupid Sarah Palin's admirers are.

When I was a brash young man, I dreamed of being famous. I still want that, but I want a different kind of famous now. Something like this.


by Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.

I want to be famous to you guys again. I really do.