The Island of Misfit Drunks, Part 2
Member
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Los Angeles, California
Posts: 8,326
Oh, I don't want revenge, it doesn't apply to me. I think they are living in their own special hell without my assistance and I take no joy. I'll just try to be as useful as I can while I'm here. wth, might as well. Edna St Vincent Millay "and one of us be happy, there's few enough as is."
I went to a funeral, the departed had a special affinity for hummingbirds. I never knew that. But the family had plenty of pictures of her flowers, her little arrangements for the hummies. And pics of the little birds too.
People are interesting in some surprising ways sometimes. And the, what's the word? We've been talking about those birds. Synchron-- what is it?
Oh well. Night night.
Love from Lenina. Who lives still
I went to a funeral, the departed had a special affinity for hummingbirds. I never knew that. But the family had plenty of pictures of her flowers, her little arrangements for the hummies. And pics of the little birds too.
People are interesting in some surprising ways sometimes. And the, what's the word? We've been talking about those birds. Synchron-- what is it?
Oh well. Night night.
Love from Lenina. Who lives still
Member
Join Date: Oct 2013
Posts: 11,412
Just read some backstory on Wendy O thanks to this thread
Quite an amazing woman.
Interesting fact was that she was active in animal rights most of her life.
Was vegetarian, volunteered at Animal Rescues, fed wildlife in her area.
Did a lot of good in the world from what I can see.
That's what to remember, not the duct tape on the ****.
I guess I'm kind of a "combo" between Cow and Lenina.
Don't feel enough to want revenge, but wouldn't want it anyway.
I was rough and tumble in early days too with the lifestyle and courting
danger and harm and all that via drugs, alcohol, and going unsafe places
to do unsafe things.
Now, I don't want it, don't miss it, but admit learned some stuff I apply now
in a more pastoral setting.
Life is a fulcrum for my soul in some way I can't explain but I think that's why
I'm here and I have to see it out to the best of my ability.
I still respond to beauty, and that's something.
Quite an amazing woman.
Interesting fact was that she was active in animal rights most of her life.
Was vegetarian, volunteered at Animal Rescues, fed wildlife in her area.
Did a lot of good in the world from what I can see.
That's what to remember, not the duct tape on the ****.
I guess I'm kind of a "combo" between Cow and Lenina.
Don't feel enough to want revenge, but wouldn't want it anyway.
I was rough and tumble in early days too with the lifestyle and courting
danger and harm and all that via drugs, alcohol, and going unsafe places
to do unsafe things.
Now, I don't want it, don't miss it, but admit learned some stuff I apply now
in a more pastoral setting.
Life is a fulcrum for my soul in some way I can't explain but I think that's why
I'm here and I have to see it out to the best of my ability.
I still respond to beauty, and that's something.
p***enger
Join Date: Nov 2012
Location: NYC
Posts: 19,021
Re moving on to other topics, I'm ok not to dwell here on death. I think it was important to have it out here that many of us, even with years of sobriety, think about suicide all the time. And don't do it, one day at a time.
I may very well have posted this elsewhere & may post it elsewhere again today, but here it is for you, Sleepie.
I may very well have posted this elsewhere & may post it elsewhere again today, but here it is for you, Sleepie.
The Planet On The Table
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
--Wallace Stevens
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
--Wallace Stevens
Member
Join Date: Oct 2013
Posts: 11,412
Don't get me going on Wally Stevie courage--OK, just the one that fits our theme*:
[Skip to stanza V, if you want the abridged version of the theme. . . .]
Sunday Morning
Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955
I
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
II
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.
III
Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
IV
She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
As April’s green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.
V
She says, “But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.”
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
VI
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
VII
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.
VIII
She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
[Skip to stanza V, if you want the abridged version of the theme. . . .]
Sunday Morning
Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955
I
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
II
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.
III
Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
IV
She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
As April’s green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.
V
She says, “But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.”
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
VI
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
VII
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.
VIII
She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
Member
Join Date: Jul 2008
Location: Los Angeles, California
Posts: 8,326
Thanks for those, Bunny and Hawk! Very nice.
I was told by a counselor in rehab that I'd probably self-medicated with the alcohol and that kept me from suicide. I think that's right. Not that suicide or continued alcohol were the most sensible choices. LOL.
But I do find relief in helping others where and how I can. I enjoy my field work, wouldn't want to do it for a living. It does keep me focused on the outside and others rather than too much self-examination. I think we need to walk a path of peace with ourselves. Letting go of my mother, the "dry teat" because she just didn't have the nourishment I needed was a big deal. Seeing she wasn't with-holding from me, it just wasn't there. I still have flares of anger for what happened to my sibs, they got real screwed up. But I try not to blame. Is there evil in nature? Not so much. Sometimes stuff just is. I need to continue not stay stuck.
If that makes any sense. And not try to send out any more ripples of ugly into the Universe.
Love from Lenina
I was told by a counselor in rehab that I'd probably self-medicated with the alcohol and that kept me from suicide. I think that's right. Not that suicide or continued alcohol were the most sensible choices. LOL.
But I do find relief in helping others where and how I can. I enjoy my field work, wouldn't want to do it for a living. It does keep me focused on the outside and others rather than too much self-examination. I think we need to walk a path of peace with ourselves. Letting go of my mother, the "dry teat" because she just didn't have the nourishment I needed was a big deal. Seeing she wasn't with-holding from me, it just wasn't there. I still have flares of anger for what happened to my sibs, they got real screwed up. But I try not to blame. Is there evil in nature? Not so much. Sometimes stuff just is. I need to continue not stay stuck.
If that makes any sense. And not try to send out any more ripples of ugly into the Universe.
Love from Lenina
Member
Join Date: Apr 2010
Posts: 8,614
That's a nice poem, never heard of that guy. Haven't been to curious about much for awhile now. Wish I could be but not for awhile. Very flat for some time. Today is 90 days no benzos or drink, unless I've miscounted on my calendar. I am pretty sure I've got it though. Meh.
I seriously can't feel good or care about it. It's just not there.
I love your new avatar jsbodhi it's so pretty
.
Another day spent indoors and making little creatures on canvases.
What sparked the Wendy O kick? Never cared for her but I do like her interviews as she seemed rather down to earth. Many of my friends liked her though.
I always loved the less conventional looking punk gals like Alice Bag and Polly Styrene, ok by "less conventional" I mean "ethnic" 'cause... I can relate. I mean you don't see a whole lot of it, not back then so much anyway.
There was a pretty significant Chicano punk scene in my city in the 90's.
Hi Hawkeye
I seriously can't feel good or care about it. It's just not there.
I love your new avatar jsbodhi it's so pretty
.Another day spent indoors and making little creatures on canvases.
What sparked the Wendy O kick? Never cared for her but I do like her interviews as she seemed rather down to earth. Many of my friends liked her though.
I always loved the less conventional looking punk gals like Alice Bag and Polly Styrene, ok by "less conventional" I mean "ethnic" 'cause... I can relate. I mean you don't see a whole lot of it, not back then so much anyway.
There was a pretty significant Chicano punk scene in my city in the 90's.
Hi Hawkeye
Member
Join Date: Oct 2013
Posts: 11,412
Hi sleepie
Congrats on the 90--I understand that flat feeling.
I just passed four months on St. Paddy's Day and totally forgot.
I think you have excellent taste in music, by the way. . . .
On an interesting side note, the poet, Wallace Stevens, had to sell life insurance for a living.
Talk about a job removed from art--now he's considered one of the greats.
Congrats on the 90--I understand that flat feeling.
I just passed four months on St. Paddy's Day and totally forgot.
I think you have excellent taste in music, by the way. . . .
On an interesting side note, the poet, Wallace Stevens, had to sell life insurance for a living.
Talk about a job removed from art--now he's considered one of the greats.
Member
Join Date: Apr 2010
Posts: 8,614
Oh geez, speaking back to courage's "the thing we're not supposed to talk about"... I did attempt some years back after realizing I was living with ld. It was after quite a lot of build up,many years of a very difficult life and that was just the final straw. I didn't see much in life for someone like me and this fueled a lot of drinking too. This is kind of why I don't feel like being sober is much of anything for a person like me.
I live with an untreatable, life affecting condition. That isn't even recognized in the DSM- it's just slightly invalidating ya think? Even though therapists and well in my case a neuropsychologist said "Yep it's a thing and you have it". So that's pretty difficult to live with . I mean I feel like I have this huge problem that I am just on my own with. Just "Have fun with that, sleepie lol!" said "life". So I don't think I can get on board with celebrating suicides cause well I just kind of have this stubborn sort of "Eff you right back" kinda core because of all that, and more.
Even if it's just to withdraw from life only to draw and paint in my safe little space.
Anyway hope I haven't upset anyone here.
I live with an untreatable, life affecting condition. That isn't even recognized in the DSM- it's just slightly invalidating ya think? Even though therapists and well in my case a neuropsychologist said "Yep it's a thing and you have it". So that's pretty difficult to live with . I mean I feel like I have this huge problem that I am just on my own with. Just "Have fun with that, sleepie lol!" said "life". So I don't think I can get on board with celebrating suicides cause well I just kind of have this stubborn sort of "Eff you right back" kinda core because of all that, and more.
Even if it's just to withdraw from life only to draw and paint in my safe little space.
Anyway hope I haven't upset anyone here.
Member
Join Date: Apr 2010
Posts: 8,614
Thanks guys, Hi SW
Oh Hawk I love music, of course everyone does right lol? But yes I do love those punk gals of the early days. And for gritty female activist/spoken word/ rockers I have to recommend also to courage Lydia Lunch.
I love the writer/poet with a low wage gig. I mean you have to be to do anything, suck but that's the truth. I mean to really give most of your self to a thing because well you have to live it.
Oh hey courage also I recommend "Karen Finley" a performance artist- her book "Living it Up"- I read it years ago and laughed quite a bit- she has a bit about throwing your own funeral party and it is dark yet humorous, maybe give her a try.
Oh Hawk I love music, of course everyone does right lol? But yes I do love those punk gals of the early days. And for gritty female activist/spoken word/ rockers I have to recommend also to courage Lydia Lunch.
I love the writer/poet with a low wage gig. I mean you have to be to do anything, suck but that's the truth. I mean to really give most of your self to a thing because well you have to live it.
Oh hey courage also I recommend "Karen Finley" a performance artist- her book "Living it Up"- I read it years ago and laughed quite a bit- she has a bit about throwing your own funeral party and it is dark yet humorous, maybe give her a try.
p***enger
Join Date: Nov 2012
Location: NYC
Posts: 19,021
I'm not celebrating suicides, sleepie. I just understand, and note that it's a choice that can be made with grace, for some few. I'm glad you're not one of them, though. You've triumphed over a lot & I find much to admire in you. Congratulations on 90!
On other notes, top bitch is Siouxsie & always will be Yes, Karen Finley is pretty funny -- she put chocolate all over herself and dared the audience to lick it off, or something like that, right? I don't take her very seriously but I'm glad she's out there, you know?
Wallace Stevens was executive management. One of my favorite poet's livings is Matthew Arnold, who had the dismal profession of being an inspector of schools!
On other notes, top bitch is Siouxsie & always will be
Yes, Karen Finley is pretty funny -- she put chocolate all over herself and dared the audience to lick it off, or something like that, right? I don't take her very seriously but I'm glad she's out there, you know?Wallace Stevens was executive management. One of my favorite poet's livings is Matthew Arnold, who had the dismal profession of being an inspector of schools!
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