On Voting for the First Time

I had this stupid grin on my face the entire time. It was raining, Mapquest screwed me over on the way to the polling station, and, to top things off, my pants started to fall down as I scurried over to the ballot box. So there I was, wet and tired and with my butt practically hanging out for all the retirees to see, but nevertheless immensely pleased for myself.

The after-party hangover was cured by Rumsfeld’s resignation.

Keep on rocking in the free world indeed.

Men Who Write About Prostitution Tend to Piss Me Off

… Probably because they’re men, and, in some way, my prejudice tells me that they will never see women who sell their bodies as human beings. Particularly if the men involved are priviledged Americans and the prostitutes are from “the wrong side of the Iron Curtain.”

Nevertheless, I liked this latest offering on Common Ties.

As a feminist, I am not sure what to think about it. But I know, as surely as I know myself, that it’s going to stay with me for a long time…

…

… Well, at the very least, it will stay with me until I see another preview for the new 007 film (Mr. Craig is turning me into a convert, extremely late in the game…).

Monday Night Poetry Club

I’m in a golden, autumnal mood. Hot cider, warm boots, warm puppy, and now this.

Spring & Fall

to a young child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By & by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep & know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

–Gerard Manley Hopkins

This poem is often considered “overused.” But I don’t think you can “overuse” truly fabulous poetry.

Just Like Honey

I’ve been having these chocolate-covered, mint-flavoured, sand-splattered Daniel Craig fantasies. I can’t concentrate on anything.

We also went to the beach: barrier islands, North Carolina like I hardly know it.

On the phone, my mother was saying that she saw three corpses on the side of the road in barbaric Ukraine after a car crash, so “quiet” under the rain. Her word choice left me unnerved – a “quiet” corpse? I certainly hope it was quiet.

After May, I really want to leave here and go some-where, even never-where, and I think Khaled agrees. It’s like we’re stuck inside a less pretty version of “Lost In Translation,” or so it seems.