not even the rain

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence;
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

That's e.e. cummings.

Dognose

Had we but world enough, and time...

All these poems are running through my mind today, mostly ones that can be found in my Norton Anthology of 16th Century Verse ... how erudite I feel. In fact these are poems I studied year after year in various literature classes, though my knowledge of them remains at the opening lines and, occasionally, the poet (him)self.

Neil just said, "No pun intended," but I'm fairly certain he intended the pun in question.

We are drinking champagne -- cava, actually, in celebration of seemingly getting away with not having actually done anything wrong. It's a long story.

These two ocean photos, above and below, make me think of the poem I read at Laura's funeral. It's by Henry Van Dyke and is called "Gone From My Sight":

I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white
sails to the morning breeze and starts
for the blue ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until at length
she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea
and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says,
"There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is
just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side and
she is just as able to bear her living
freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment when someone
at my side says, "There, she is gone!"
There are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout,
"Here she comes!"

Starlight

In horrible news, Heath Ledger died today. I'm feeling this death in an oddly visceral way -- a punched-in-the-gut, absolute woe sort of way. Of course there are obvious explanations for this -- the basic human tragedy, the shock factor, the searingly romantic vulgarity of "living fast, dying young, and having a beautiful corpse." A rich and talented -- and so, so beautiful -- life snuffed out miles ahead of its time. It so happens that I've had a personal encounter with this man, but please, who's to say how much "more" this makes me feel; I've been accused of taking every seemingly tangential death too seriously, which is largely because I can't see any death, or life, as "tangential." We are. All of us.

A couple of months ago, Neil took part in a musical tribute to Bob Dylan at the Beacon. The evening coincided (roughly) with the release of I'm Not There, and featured a roster of musicians who play on the soundtrack. Heath Ledger, who is one of a hodgepodge of actors playing Dylan in the movie, was the unofficial host of the whole thing, and was absolutely gracious and lovely from everything I witnessed and heard. We arrived at the theater at the same time he did; he came in right behind us carrying a stack of Lombardis pizzas -- the kind of nice-and-down-to-earth-guy behavior that is the stuff of eulogies. He was backstage with us the whole time, chatting with everyone and appreciating the music, completely unobtrusive. And damn he was cute.

I missed the after-party, but Neil had occasion to hang out with him there. They shared a cigarette and talked for a couple of minutes and -- though it sounds like mere fodder for the obit -- Heath was warm and friendly and a genuinely good person.

Ugh. My deep condolences to his family, his lady, whatever their status was, his daughter and friends. May you find your strength.

I don't know anymore to what degree tragedy lies in the fact that the dead no longer get to enjoy time on earth. I deeply long to believe that they are in a better place; I've not yet really begun to contemplate what that place might look like. But I think the tragedy is most definitely in the "living" -- the survivors. How it pierces and burns to miss someone who's died -- how you can drown on tears you haven't yet cried. I didn't mean for that to rhyme.

Rest in peace, you beautiful being.

I'll be writing more tonight, I think.

Happy 2008

And here I am. January 2, 2008. I attempted to encapsulate my 2007 earlier in an email to someone I hadn't caught up with in a few years. A lot of things defined it -- Neil, traveling, music, good food, some work accomplishments. New friends, reconnecting with old friends (that means you, Cheech), reconnecting with much-more-decent parts of myself ... all good stuff. I am, of course, not mentioning the not-so-good moments, but in general, this year yielded more promise than despair. And that's something.

It's late at night (actually early in the morning) and I've had a glass or five of wine, so yes, I am going to get schmaltzier than I'd intended to this early on in this forum: I love my boyfriend. He has helped me this year in so many more ways than he probably realizes, and as he's new to technology and hasn't yet caught on to bookmarks, he isn't likely to stumble upon these words anytime soon. I'm getting kind of teary now (that would be the wine, the pms, and the time of year. And the tendency to get teary), and I want to go on sort-of-record as saying that he has improved my life immeasurably over the past year -- more than even I yet realize. He is a kind, patient, sensitive, brilliant, talented, sweet, funny and comforting man. And that just skims the surface.

My KPSBTSFC-man threw me a birthday party, a 37th birthday party. And although I was pissy the next day over one aspect of the evening, this is resolved and pales in comparison to the warmth that filled my home that night. Friends I've known for 25 years and ones I've known for just a few months joined my oddball little family (accordion player, shiba inu, crazy chick) to celebrate, and we ate, drank, and were merry. Oh, and someone brought someone who puked in my bathroom, but it was with a warm heart and a head full of good memories that I cleaned it up the next day.

I did get that camera for Christmas, and I largely neglected to capture the evening on film -- too preoccupied playing hostess -- but here are a couple of random photos. So many people missing from them.

Handsome Dan
Two Five Year Olds

Smokin' Di with Cameos (Mario, Katy, Bruce, Kim, Alyssa, another Bruce)


The Lovely Dindi

Birthday Girl


George & Me, End of the Night

That lovely drawing in the background on my bedroom door was my homemade card from little miss Rachel Rodriguez, to her titi Laura.

Much more to come. New Year's reflections, that sort of thing. But now I must attempt sleep.