I've been a terrible blogger, but hello all, and welcome to 2012. I'm currently in London now, after having flown through Barcelona, Rome, Florence, Venice, and Paris (and then when I got to London, Stonehenge and Bath, and later Cambridge). I'll be blogging pictures, itinerary suggestions, general thoughts. Our trip was really quite affordable for something of this length- museums in Europe are OBSCENELY affordable for the quality/ quantity of art that you see; the only constraint is TIME!! I need to go back to Paris if only to revisit the d'Orsay. Because we are cheapos and only did free things, and Bennett and Gerald spent ages culling through potential accommodation.
London is very refreshing, because I am finally alone. I think that being away for so long has given me much practice in being alone, and I have discovered that I miss it when I am not. So for today, my first day in Europe alone- hello Old Palace Quarter tour, the Tate Modern after (and/ or the National Galleries), and then Korean with Cat for dinner. I'm excited :)
It seems a little strange, but sometimes I do feel like in the hassle of living I lose myself all too quickly. But this poem is quite life-affirming indeed:
How to Tell a Story
There is a way of telling stories. A red pen. A teacher to move it.
Instead you have hands, and a Light inside you, and Bones.
Instead you have ideas, which ricochet, and an anger that won’t sit still,
and dogs from outside which come to die in the quiet spots inside of you.
And, deliberately, you have noise.
You have rape, and cities, the noise of the dumb, and of the very rape of the
earth, an ache, a strangeness like swallowing feathers, a bitterness, you have.
There is a way of telling stories. They tell you it is not like this.
So you remove your arms, that way no hands can find anything.
You reject the light to please the darkness.
You and I, we become just bones, moving with the stiffness of the dead, caught
in the riot of the rotting, and producing similar sounds.
A page opens before you like a new day
and this is where you find your story.
The earth sings with a thousand ways to tell it.
Lose your tongue.
Don’t be confused by shadow, and when you hit water, tread.
Find God, ask questions, don’t leave till you’ve tasted the tea.
You don’t need to multiply. Never divide.
Carry the one on your back if you have to.
When you meet the devil, don’t spit at him, but don’t make love to him either.
When you meet me, take my blooming, bloody palm.
You’ll know where to find me, I’ll be in every page held by greasy fingers.
I will be the bread that sustains you. If you remember your hunger,
I will remember you.
And when they tell you life is not like this, life is never like this,
life will never be like this, insist that the sun
has always found a time and a place, the moon too knows when and where to enter,
and you too have your stories,
and you too have your place.