The Ides of March, or Ideas short of A…

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I began writing this post about republicanism, Caesar, salads, betrayal, and the mentalité of empire, but I lost that post. Whoops. So let’s go back to what I wanted to do in the beginning. Every month on the 15-17th, I am going to make a post about different things: favourites, not so favourites, and all the things in between. (Apologies that this one is a little late).

This month I have been totally in love with the Body Shop. Bath, shower, cleanliness products are positive triggers. A happy and infectious smell can make your day have a little more bounce, just as we all wish our hair did. Except, I always end up putting my hair up in a bun or out of sight in a braid. Generally, throughout my life, my hair has been quite long. Except, every so often, once every year or so, I get a little distressed at how much work my hair requires, so I have chopped it quite short. I never fret about cutting it short because it grows quite quickly, and I do like being able to let it air dry without turning into an ice burg before it is somewhat dry. My hair is long, at the moment, but because I am tallish, I think it doesn’t seem quite so long as it is. Proportions, baby.

Ear jamz: --or, another of my favourites.

I rarely listen to my iPod anymore because my dog has choking fits, so I have to be able to hear her. On walks, I’ve started to just wear one headphone. I had forgotten how much music feeds my soul. It totally changed my day. I don’t really like watching television, but like most other people, if you put it in front of me, I’ll watch it. Yet, if I have music on, I’m far more likely to be productive and get a lot of things done. Music is motivational; that’s why there is such an ease to decorate our houses at Christmas time &c., when music is part of the cheer. Additionally, I think that decorating for Christmas, whether or not you celebrate it religiously or have the funds to have a fancy party, the lights and pretty colours remind us of springtime and freshness. Although, the air outside might be frightful…spring is so GD delightful.

I can feel my whole mood change as the season shifts. I love spring; summer is problematic because it gets a little too hot for my liking, and A/C is, at times, a little too unnatural. It’s nice to have a shower and sit on the porch as your hair dries on particularly summery days. I remember last summer, in London, I was trying to work on my dissertation at my uni’s library, but it was so hot that my arms kept sticking to all of the surfaces. To make it worse, I had bought coffee to put me in a working mood. You should know, when I overheat I lose my temper quite easily. So, I packed up all of my stuff, walked home, had a cold shower, closed the blinds, put on the fans, and read in the semi-darkness of my room. Heat is okay, but not when you’re trying to write on a machine that produces heat as much as it hates to overheat. Pooh! Pooh! Technology! Pooh! Pooh!

My little munchkin is sleeping so soundly right now. Doggies are so soulful. I hope that, in my life, I am always blessed to have funds, enough, to have a dog. Unfortunately, I know that it won’t always be the case because they really are quite a lot of work, but I give my heart and world to my little beast, and my heart and soul seem to float with ease. My favourite times of the days are when I feed her. She is hand fed because, honestly, she is very fluffy and has a very short snout, so it’s much cleaner just to feed her by hand. We make her food for her, too, so she eats a wet-food diet. In any case, whenever she is being fed, she always has this look that shines through her eyes of pure happiness and love. One cannot fail to be relaxed and at ease. I feel really blessed, and I want to share that with you, reader, because we absorb each other’s happiness and share it at exponential rates. Instead of snowballing into a negative feeling, it snowballs into a feeling akin to rolling in a field full of daisies that erupts into balloons that float infinitely into the sky (each landing in recycle receptacles and not polluting our world further). It’s a happiness that we get from making someone else happy. That happiness cannot be altered because, in those moments, our hearts and minds feel infinite and perfect. That is right.

I’ll leave it here for today. Look forward to monthly Ides posts. And by the middle of next week, I am going to start setting up some Oliver Twist themed posts. Due to job applications and other responsibilities, I’ve been a bit busy, but hopefully I’ll be able to share some successes with you all.

Heaps of Love,
Word Play Xx

Readtrack to the Iliad — Sivu’s Better Man Than He

It Crowd / Tumblr


Achilles is sulking. War is raging. Helen is looming. Well, actually, she is working at a loom before she is called before Priam, who tells her that Paris and Menelaus will fight for her in front of and between the Achaean and Trojan armies. Still, Achilles sulks. Dishonoured, he sulks. But a sulk full of rage and sanctioned by Zeus–a divinely manly sulk, if you will. I think one of my favourite descriptive phrases is when Priam recounts Odysseus’s speech. Odysseus seems awkward, bulky, stupid, and taciturn, but when he speaks, Priam says, “[Odysseus’s] words began falling fast like snowflakes in winter, / then no other man on earth could compete with Odysseus.” (3.208-209). How lovely an image. I can just see massive snowflakes that should be graceless caress the wind as they fall, full of wonder, to the earth. Coating the world in splendour and sparkle. Delicious. It calls to mind hearths and warm drinks. It calls to mind standing in a snow fall and somehow becoming one with the falling sky and the receiving earth. Hugged between it all.

There is a fantastic song that I am currently entirely in love with. I am going to share it here, because it is so filling, like Priam’s description of Odysseus. Like snow falling, no one could compete.

Enjoy with this:

And as a fire burns through a boundless forest
on the mountain crests, and from far off the flare can be seen:
Just so did the gleam from the polished bronze of their armor
flash through the whole sky, up to the very heavens.
And as the great flocks on the Asian wetlands—wild geese
or cranes or long-throated swans–by the streams of Cäyster 
wheel this way and that way, glorying in their wings,
and with loud cries keep settling, and the whole marshland resounds:
just so did the troops pour forth from the ships and huts
beneath the feet of the men and the hooves of the horses,
and they stood there massed in Scamander’s flowery meadow
as measureless as the leaves and flowers in their season.
And just as great hordes of flies keep swarming around
a sheepfold in springs, when milk overflows the buckets:
in such vast numbers the Argives stood massed on the plain
against the Trojans, eager to tear them to pieces.
The Iliad (2.438-454)

He said; She will reveal the artist

‘Beautiful things,’ he said, ‘are the only things.’
‘You love the one to your soul he will sing.’
‘Stars in the sky; we stand in the gutter to see.’
‘A book is not good; just written well or poorly.’

These words pulse throughout my soul,
Like the music vibrates throughout my body,
I feel wordless and senseless;
How can I cure my soul by my senses,
If sensuousness seems to drip
like a broken faucet crashing down
one million times broken.

Once it was bacchus’s delight,
But I’ve seem to have lost this fight,
No more does sweet, delicious ambrosia
trickle past rosy lips to quench a thirsty quaff.

A heart breaks.
Does it make a sound?
A mind shatters,
Does it leave shards?

Voiceless.  Senseless.  Absurdity.

Just let the words be felt.
Let them flow like a stream ready to burst.
Burst from me.

Be free.
Fly.
Burst from me.

Away.
Closer.
Burst from me.

I feel the wind rage below.
Which witch?
Burst from me.

I am sticky.
I am fluid.
I am not sheen.
I am not a reflective surface.

I absorb.
I feel.
I AM.

Through pain, I have become.
Sartre says this is true.
As one is stabbed by the pen-knife, blood flows…
Creativity is alike.
As one is stabbed by the pen, ideas flow….

I am.
I feel.
I ABSORB.

I am sticky. I am not sheen.  I am complex.

I am lost.

I need to be found.
Only I can find myself.

I need to search.
I need to choose this adventure wisely.
I have been to Mordor.
I have been to the crux of it all.
I have destroyed the ring.
I have.

Now, it is time to will.
I will.
I am brave.

I am breathing.
I am breathing fire; power; stability.

I have words.
I can hear them rushing forth; ready to be purged.

He once said…the artist hides himself.
I will not hide herself.

This artist will not.

Piano Man

spoken with accompanying music (prelude in e minor) here

The pulsating air could not disguise how the mallet fell,
Resonating notes written in an enchanted, magic spell,
Bewitched by euphonic mysteries that herald love’s promise,
Symphonic paradise that revealed lovers suspended in bliss,

An abeyance of laws and physical worldly realities,
Ethereal movements colliding in fragmented unease,
Touching and caressing, softly or roughly with pain,
Hallowed be thy name; crossed thresholds and profaned,

Like a petal about to fall from security’s hold,
I await the fall from grace into that which is soil’d,
Respite and reanimation is granted during the fleeting interlude,
Incarnate absolution from the transgression to which I allude,

Notes sung on high offer a thunderous conclusion,
Seemingly at an end–

a shocking illusion,

Persisting and prolonging the moment we ache,
For that is the inglorious instant we break.

Awaiting your mouth to wrap around mine,
Anticipating sustained moments of the divine,
Bacchus draining his decanter in a dubious crescendo,
Recognizing the delusion, but loving you even so,

Passing into oblivion as the days come to an end,
Like a river whose path meanders and wends,
Moving in motion with memory’s laps,
Always disappearing, but in form, I am trapped.

~ fin

Stirred; Not Awakened

To hear me read it; click here -> http://picosong.com/e4sf

Ambulating at a pace to conquer the gazelle,
Running away, ne’er to wait for the bell to knell,
Somnambulating to escape the endless days,
Sun setting on an enrapturing consumptive malaise,

The earth pulses through my body; radiating calm,
Soothing a restless mind like a cooling balm,
Not asleep nor fully awake, I furtively slide away,
Catching one last glimpse of the sun’s falling rays,

Moon, your face holds lines of lust and lines of passion,
But when you frown at the sun your complexion ashens,
The ever rising and falling of your mind’s eye,
Reminds me of the clouds swimming in the sky,

Sunshine kisses a cloud, whose shadow shades the day,
Obscuring my mind, greying the things I want to say,
I used to hide, stepping carefully to avoid sullen decay,
Hastening to keep my meditations hidden in the bay,

My heart was cleaved ad infinitum as I wandered alone,
Darkness encroached as I boarded, paying Charon,
But a syncopated song called to me pulling me free,
Like a small dog tugs and wrenches, stubborn on its lead,

One day the cool air tugged my heart-strings open,
I climbed from the warmth of a musty sleep-filled den,
And I ran as far away as a day seems to a bored afternoon,
My wings grew and I flew, no longer cut no longer hewn,

Towards reds, purples, pinks, and blues all speaking in tongues,
I began to hum; vocalize; manifest; sing that which had sprung,
To wake me from sleepless beauty into a thirsting desire,
Consuming life like a dragon appetizingly slurps on a tall glass of fire.

~fin

Musicality of disagreeable words.

If kisses were pearls, I’d give you an ocean full,
If tear drops were sheep, I’d have a herd of wool,
If anguish was topaz, mountain ranges would be blue,
If dreams were a child, they’re something you outgrew.

I dreamt once, longingly shy, that you’d wash away this stain,
Brush the unruly mane that winds sought to tussle and un-tame,
Clear the revelations from my mind in time with this beat,
Close your arms to the hurt when our two minds meet,

Savour the air that bubbles and gurgles–the words we’ve lost
Are marked on our skin in the time and the lines that we’ve crossed:
Grooves and clefts, treble the harmony of woe sung, not cried,
Notes on a page, soaring through time, time long passed us by.

Cradle the night that pulls you towards dawn’s misty eyes,
Alone but not lonely, guided in darkness by Gaia’s earthic sighs,
Unfeeling warmth–fulfilling frigidity; usurped sensuousness observed,
Seeking one truth, desperately; it’s all, certainly, absurd.

If kisses were pears, you’d have an orchard aplenty.
If tear drops were cheap, you’re eyes would be empty,
If anguish was a topiary, green statues would rue,
If dreams were a child, they’re something you outgrew.

~~fin