Levertov / Dust

A Gift

Just when you seem to yourself
nothing but a flimsy web
of questions, you are given
the questions of others to hold
in the emptiness of your hands,
songbird eggs that can still hatch
if you keep them warm,
butterflies opening and closing themselves
in your cupped palms, trusting you not to injure
their scintillant fur, their dust.
You are given the questions of others
as if they were answers
to all you ask. Yes, perhaps
the gift is your answer.

–Denise Levertov
Advertisements

^folk, (o)=e

excerpt from my journal:

———————
“I think there’s really something magical about folk music. I’m sitting in Connemara in a pub and there’s these 3 guys just chillin’ with a few traditional instruments (staples. guitar, accordion, folk guitar, mandolin i think…?). Every time I listen to this stuff I get swept away to another world and time, where people performed to share and to keep things alive — when stories were told instead of written… when stories were sung and danced instead of told. Why does this idea hold so much power for me?
Perhaps because I am a writer. I write stories down. I want folklore to be squeezed into 2D, but no one can quite seem to manage it — there’s an element of human flesh and blood and experience in it deeper than anything that can be nailed down on a page in black and unmoving white. The whole give-response mechanism is truly different. Utterly different. It cannot be flattened — it IS music. It flies through the air and buries itself in people’s hearts, and people’s hearts give back… The nature of this creating is continual and communal. An holistic expression of Heidegger’s ‘Being’… ha! I love it.
Joy.”

c. Mary Kathryn Gough, spring 2006, clifden, connemara

Hilariously Flippant Lecture Quotes !!!

Sometimes looking back at your class notes from University is really enlightening… other times… it goes like this:

don’t blame Catherine, Henry…we’ll get you some fertility counselling” (on Henry VIII)

wife #4 was just butt ugly, you know, being Dutch” (on Anne of Cleves (@ a Dutch Uni))

stronger the orthodoxy, stronger the proof” (on Fresian gin)

gold is worth s****!” (on colonization in Virginia)

these guys can’t organize lunch!” (on colonists)

you don’t love me – you’ve never charged me before” (on America toward England)

he can’t even commit suicide, he’s such a schmoe” (on Archie Jones in White Teeth)

shut up, boy, I know better” (to student)

I know how you feel, whatever your name is…” (to same student)

you’re just being cynical, ____ – I’m shocked” (dead pan)

there are some that disagree with me, but you know, they’re stupid”

never has my inner woman been more pleased” (pub-quote)

so piracy…like pirates?” (student)

So many belly laughs… maybe it helps to have been there. But still…

 

Today

I cannot write. Cannot write, cannot write cannotwritecannotwrite.
There is nothing to say, it’s all been read,saidanddone. I cannot write
right: my idealism won’t countenance these mongrel awkwardnesses, won’t
afford them the space, award them the effort, free them for flight —
the gut-dropping, nose-first dive I know it will inevitably be. I cannot write
for that. Not for that. Never. for. that. clipped and terrifying journey.
Each work in turn too small, too frail, too crippled, too pained, too
unfinished… unacclaimed.

But is this the true root of the issue? That I am simply downtrodden
by rejection, by anonymity, by the bruises and blisters, the loss of
braincells resulting from my headfirst dashes at the thick, glass ceiling
above, between me and — who knows what?
Maybe the real problem is that I don’t believe in anything upon anything
else anymore, not after the candle burned out, after the fire died, its smokey
tail lifted away and up to a place I cannot reach or imagine: dissipation.

Now all I can imagine is what I can’t have: the end of the line, that bright and
beckoning finish line, that warm and fulfilling completion that, all said and
done, stops Be-ing, stops weaving, jumping, meaning, feeling, sharing,
hoping: a stagnant place of immobility and grey, building block of infinity
brought to naught, all the curves removed, the shapes nothing without
motion, motive, destination,and the forge fires of Hope.

Death, of a strange kind, is what I seek now, all un-beknownst to
my lackluster soul.

Local Photography on Canvas

Merry Christmas Everybody!!! I’m excited to announce that a selection of my local photography has been accepted for sale at the tourist centre in Llandudno, North Wales!

There are three images of the Mad Hatter on North Shore, three black and whites of West Shore, and another three of the area around the Swan lake. They’d make fantastic gifts for friends or family, if you’re still on the hunt…

These 9 beauties are :

  • printed on canvas
  • measure 20″x20″ each
  • only £14.99 a piece

If you’d like to own one – or see them in person – just run ’round to the tourist information shop in the Victoria Centre on Mostyn Street any day of the week!

Find their faceboook page by searching Canolfannau Croeso Conwy & Llandudno Tourist Information Centres, or  @llandudno.tic.9

Thanks for your support!

Always,
Kate