Hollow Men.

May 3, 2012

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

      II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

      III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

      IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.

Despite the funky title this book has very little to do with cheerleading. It’s a collection of a sports writer Rick Reilly’s articles that focus on events OUTSIDE the playing fields, with added anecdotes and whatnot. Definitely not my style, and I’m in love with it. I cried multiple times when reading about some of the amazing, inspiring, and heartbreaking people Reilly came across. And not a single column was over 800 words.

I rememeber

December 13, 2011

when I was in California, I wasn’t upset about being too broke to buy food but I cried because I had no books to read. The few times I had money, I found out the BX had a horrible selection of previously used romance and horror novels, and the only bookstores were in town so I had no way to get there. I went almost two months without reading a book. That makes me so sad.

“In fact, the conviction that the world and man is something that had better not have been, is of a kind to fill us with indulgence towards one another. Nay, from this point of view, we might well consider the proper form of address to be, not Monsieur, Sir, mein Herr, but my fellow sufferer, Soci malorum, compagnon de miseres. This may perhaps sound strange, but it is in keeping with the facts; it puts others in a right light; and it reminds us of that which is after all the most nescessary thing in life- the tolerance, patience, regard, and love of neighbor, of which everyone stands in need, and which, therefore, every man owes to his fellows.” -ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER

October 10, 2011

Because anger and hatred, when left unfed, bleed away like air from a punctured tire, over time and days and years.

Boy Toy, by Barry Lyga

Annabel Lee

September 19, 2011

By: Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love –
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me –
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we –
Of many far wiser than we –
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea –
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

BODY TYPE

August 31, 2011

During my last day of senior year, the school librarian [middle aged, kinda dorky, nice lady, librarian stereotype] told me with a little too much enthusiasm in her voice that she was getting her first tattoo soon. Throughout her life she had never felt that a specific picture could represent her well enough to permanently design on herself. However, after initially seeing my “STAY TRUE,” “No Retreat” and “No Regrets” tattoos and asking me about their origins, she reconsidered the idea of tattoos into representing something she had always appreciated- literature. She said she was planning on getting a Walt Whitman tattoo on her foot within a few days. I think that’s cool, I think I’m cool too. Some things cannot be expressed by anything other than words and I think it’s awesome that so late in life people still change their views on body modifications. Maybe there’s hope for my parents after all.

 

 

Viola.

August 16, 2011

I’m starting Death of a Salesman, due to high praise from a friend of mine. Doesn’t seem like my type of story but I quit the last book I was reading so I hope to be pleasantly surprised. I read a small passage and it was intriguing. *shrug* The small number of remaining friends I have are almost all starting college again within two weeks so I really need to find new social outlets. Oddly I am starting to miss shows. A little bit. I still think most of the scene around Erie is gay. But I need a change of pace and I miss live music.

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 skilfully, 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

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
By ee cummings