28 May 2016

what's past is prologue.

Once upon a time I had a blog. I shan't link to it, as it's very old and not of particular interest. For several reasons, though, I've come to think that now is a suitable time in my life to start a new one. There are, delightfully, three reasons—or, at least, my reasons fit in three sets.

First: I've been doing a lot of cleaning lately. I'm home for the summer and my room has closet space which my parents need for storage. The archaeology involved has left me a little appalled with how little of high school I seem to remember clearly. In some ways this is for the best. It's certainly understandable: I was coping with depression for much of this time, which can do strange things to your memory. I'm working on not beating myself up for all this, but the experience has left me with a desire to keep better records of my reading and my thoughts so as to preserve more memories to the future. After all, I'm a writer; writers, whatever else we may be, are abnormally afraid of death. I'd prefer not to cease to be before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.

Second: It's summer break. I'm a born academic, and I have historically a great deal of trouble transitioning to break after a term. The instinctual sense that I'm failing to see to something very important continues to plague me for quite a while. Giving myself projects and assignments to work on gives me a structure the lack of which would distress me extremely and make me rather dire and aimless. I haven't got a fainting-couch, so I need work to do. Besides which I could use something to make me practice my writing over break when I'm not doing academic essays. Also, summer break means being apart from most people I know (hi Jen); might as well try and stay in touch.

Third: I have writing and photos which want somewhere to go—scraps of essays that I only need the final excuse to finish, ideas that'll drive me mad(der) if they've got nothing to do but work their way around my head, pictures—like the one at the top of the post—that I'm unreasonably proud of but haven't shown to many people at all. Finishing and polishing for blog purposes could also, ideally, help me to work through my anxiety-related hang-ups about sharing my writing and other creative work.

Et voilĂ . I've called it "notes towards a definition," though what I'm defining is purposely ambiguous. Myself? Not sure I'm prepared to admit to that. Perhaps all I mean is an attempt towards definition itself in the sense of clarity. In that case this is, like all other writing, an attempt at turning darkness into light. We'll see.

I intend to post weekly at the least. I do hope you'll join me.

"Why does anybody tell a story? It does indeed have something to do with faith—faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose to say or do matters; matters cosmically." — Madeleine L'Engle. (I’ve yet to find a proper source for this quotation, and of course I’ll update the post the very minute anyone provides me one. normally I wouldn’t post without—but it sounds like her. besides that I looked it up after I’d been watching Call the Midwife with my mother, & when I saw it I immediately heard it in my head in Vanessa Redgrave’s voice, which means it must be very wise indeed.)

26 May 2016


o dark dark dark. they all go into the dark,
the vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
the captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
the generous patrons of art, the statesmen & the rulers, 
distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees, 
industrial lords & petty contractors, all go into the dark,
& dark the sun & moon, & the almanach de gotha, 
& the stock exchange gazette, the directory of directors, 
& cold the sense & lost the motive of action. 
& we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.
i said to my soul, be still, & let the dark come upon you,
which shall be the darkness of God. 

♥ ♥ ♥

i am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
so it is, & so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
into the darkness they go, the wise & the lovely. crowned
with lilies & with laurel they go: but i am not resigned.

♥ ♥ ♥

& for all this, nature is never spent;
there lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
& though the last lights off the black west went
oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
because the Holy Ghost over the bent
world broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.