This morning I drove through a small rainbow.

Ah, the wonders of being young. I was always aware of death, including my own; but somehow I felt exempt. Sometimes I still do. My instinct and my mind are in a constant battle with each other. There is ultimately no winner, of course. The idea is to maintain some kind of solidity for my fragile mask of sanity whilst trudging about the weathered waking and sleeping worlds.

I like masks. I loathe masks.

Random.

I love how everyone is so scared and annoyed by the snow. The only thing that annoys me is how annoyed everyone else gets. I think snow is great. Especially the kind that fucks up the day and melts a few hours later like as if it never happened. Today I get to stay home because the boss said so. He told me that I'm in no condition to go out in this weather and he didn't even know if he and his partner would be at work today. Also, today won't count as a sick day or anything of the like. Which is good, considering I missed the ENTIRE work week last week.

From strep to extremely bad tonsillitis to really bad cramping and PMS. Blood and more pain to come. I'm such a lucky girl. Yes, yes. It could always be worse. By the way - this is the first time since July 2008 that my period has finally regulated. I can only hope it stays this way.

Also, I love Cefuroxime Axetil.

Love is a tricky thing. What's trickier is trying to accept things about someone else that absolutely tear you apart inside. It doesn't matter if I'm damaged or not. I am who I am and I'm trying, I guess.

J is going snowboarding with his friend on Sunday. I am so jealous (for many reasons - some of which I will not share here). I want to go because I only got to go once this season and really want to learn more but I also don't want to go because J should have a day out with his friend and not have to worry about me being on the bunny slopes still learning. I hope next year will be different.

I have not gotten to go to any Islanders games this season, plus the Isles are doing so poorly. However, I'm loyal and enjoy watching anyway. J on a whim got a bundle package for three games last night. It includes: Two seats for three games of our choice (they give a list though to choose from). A $25 or $50 Visa Gift Card (he's taking the $25 one and I don't blame him). Vouchers for two hot dogs and sodas for each game and you end up saving almost 50% on prices in total. We are going to the Islanders Rangers game on Thursday (big rival crazy game it will be for those of you who do not know). The Isles Devils game on Saturday (another rival - dirty Jersey and J is a Devils fan so that should be fun!) and an Isles Flyers game on 4/11 (we chose a much later in the season game to give us something to look forward to doing hahaha). The seats are Mezzanine level though so that could mean we end up in really good seats or really shitty ones. Always a catch. I wonder if I could get the vendors to give me something other than a hot dog and soda though. Haha. I am very grateful but I'm also picky. Is that awful of me?

When I was sicker, I was telling myself that I'd rather be at work but I think what I was really telling myself is that I wish I was well enough to theoretically be ABLE to go to work, because now that I know I'm returning to work tomorrow, I'm not so happy about it and I really would rather just keep organizing my music on my computer (25,553 songs as of right now - I had to delete a lot), watch stupid shows on TLC and randomly lay down. That was some run on sentence, eh?

I wish I could be something great.

Four days of sweat
Sensitive ears hear
7 AM birds

They've laid eggs at the top of my throat
It's warm enough for spring, in there
maybe even for summer

And through micro seasons in my mouth
I've realized I will contain no more reliance
on anything other than absolutely nothing

The root will and has been argued, but that doesn't matter. This pain is so dense and this time it will not explode. It will implode and I have yet to experience the entirety of it. All I do know is that it is extremely, well, painful.

Pain. Surprise surprise!
I wish I could just laugh my life away.

This doesn't come close to conveying how I feel.

Skin stretched,
encases this calamity.

All is paradoxical,
until I am dead.

Bereft of space while breathing.
Lacking luck while in the loam.
A catch twenty two.

And yet I own a tiny strength
in the form of living melody,
until instinct sings a louder song of unfair mercy.

There is only one version
and it will drown everything else out.

So, for now:
Notes nourish contortions.

My body curves.
My lips curl.

What kind of vessel am I?
Am I really even a valid vessel of any kind?

Validity is subjective.

I sway this skin any which way.
I moisten this mouth of mine for tonal messages.

Grey matter links - tongue, teeth, throat
with a sound that comes from the Invisible.

This tune - is a sweet, maniacal cosmic trap.
This tune - is a sweet, decrepit landscape.
This tune - is a sweet, decrepit spacescape.

I am said to be a best breed - a living grand machine.
But there is no grander machine - than the ever so, immortal Music.

The Graveyard by the Sea (Le cimetière marin)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Shk1BYOIDDc



This is beyond beautiful.

The poem is being read by Elizabeth Fraser of the Cocteau twins in the video. She's translating it from French to English - sort of. I've actually read the translation myself and it differs from what she says. I think Elizabeth's translation is most likely some kind of mishmash of languages (mostly English) and words (a 'portmanteaux') since she is multilingual and likes to do that within her own lyrics as well (even with words she doesn't know because she loves most lingual sounds in general without definite meaning - if that makes sense). Anyway, I love her translation and her addicting angelic voice.

Any input is more than welcome as far as my curiosity regarding the translation/language subject goes.

The music in the background is from Cocteau Twins as well - cuts from a song called 'Lazy Calm' which is purely gorgeous.

Here is the English translation (again, different from what she reads) and followed by this is the French version. I really like all of the versions a lot. I just prefer Liz's. =)



The Graveyard By The Sea by Paul Valéry
Translated by C. Day Lewis


This quiet roof, where dove-sails saunter by,
Between the pines, the tombs, throbs visibly.
Impartial noon patterns the sea in flame --
That sea forever starting and re-starting.
When thought has had its hour, oh how rewarding
Are the long vistas of celestial calm!

What grace of light, what pure toil goes to form
The manifold diamond of the elusive foam!
What peace I feel begotten at that source!
When sunlight rests upon a profound sea,
Time's air is sparkling, dream is certainty --
Pure artifice both of an eternal Cause.

Sure treasure, simple shrine to intelligence,
Palpable calm, visible reticence,
Proud-lidded water, Eye wherein there wells
Under a film of fire such depth of sleep --
O silence! . . . Mansion in my soul, you slope
Of gold, roof of a myriad golden tiles.

Temple of time, within a brief sigh bounded,
To this rare height inured I climb, surrounded
By the horizons of a sea-girt eye.
And, like my supreme offering to the gods,
That peaceful coruscation only breeds
A loftier indifference on the sky.

Even as a fruit's absorbed in the enjoying,
Even as within the mouth its body dying
Changes into delight through dissolution,
So to my melted soul the heavens declare
All bounds transfigured into a boundless air,
And I breathe now my future's emanation.

Beautiful heaven, true heaven, look how I change!
After such arrogance, after so much strange
Idleness -- strange, yet full of potency --
I am all open to these shining spaces;
Over the homes of the dead my shadow passes,
Ghosting along -- a ghost subduing me.

My soul laid bare to your midsummer fire,
O just, impartial light whom I admire,
Whose arms are merciless, you have I stayed
And give back, pure, to your original place.
Look at yourself . . . But to give light implies
No less a somber moiety of shade.

Oh, for myself alone, mine, deep within
At the heart's quick, the poem's fount, between
The void and its pure issue, I beseech
The intimations of my secret power.
O bitter, dark, and echoing reservoir
Speaking of depths always beyond my reach.

But know you -- feigning prisoner of the boughs,
Gulf which cats up their slender prison-bars,
Secret which dazzles though mine eyes are closed --
What body drags me to its lingering end,
What mind draws it to this bone-peopled ground?
A star broods there on all that I have lost.

Closed, hallowed, full of insubstantial fire,
Morsel of earth to heaven's light given o'er --
This plot, ruled by its flambeaux, pleases me --
A place all gold, stone, and dark wood, where shudders
So much marble above so many shadows:
And on my tombs, asleep, the faithful sea.

Keep off the idolaters, bright watch-dog, while --
A solitary with the shepherd's smile --
I pasture long my sheep, my mysteries,
My snow-white flock of undisturbed graves!
Drive far away from here the careful doves,
The vain daydreams, the angels' questioning eyes!

Now present here, the future takes its time.
The brittle insect scrapes at the dry loam;
All is burnt up, used up, drawn up in air
To some ineffably rarefied solution . . .
Life is enlarged, drunk with annihilation,
And bitterness is sweet, and the spirit clear.

The dead lie easy, hidden in earth where they
Are warmed and have their mysteries burnt away.
Motionless noon, noon aloft in the blue
Broods on itself -- a self-sufficient theme.
O rounded dome and perfect diadem,
I am what's changing secretly in you.

I am the only medium for your fears.
My penitence, my doubts, my baulked desires --
These are the flaw within your diamond pride . . .
But in their heavy night, cumbered with marble,
Under the roots of trees a shadow people
Has slowly now come over to your side.

To an impervious nothingness they're thinned,
For the red clay has swallowed the white kind;
Into the flowers that gift of life has passed.
Where are the dead? -- their homely turns of speech,
The personal grace, the soul informing each?
Grubs thread their way where tears were once composed.

The bird-sharp cries of girls whom love is teasing,
The eyes, the teeth, the eyelids moistly closing,
The pretty breast that gambles with the flame,
The crimson blood shining when lips are yielded,
The last gift, and the fingers that would shield it --
All go to earth, go back into the game.

And you, great soul, is there yet hope in you
To find some dream without the lying hue
That gold or wave offers to fleshly eyes?
Will you be singing still when you're thin air?
All perishes. A thing of flesh and pore
Am I. Divine impatience also dies.

Lean immortality, all crêpe and gold,
Laurelled consoler frightening to behold,
Death is a womb, a mother's breast, you feign
The fine illusion, oh the pious trick!
Who does not know them, and is not made sick
That empty skull, that everlasting grin?

Ancestors deep down there, O derelict heads
Whom such a weight of spaded earth o'erspreads,
Who are the earth, in whom our steps are lost,
The real flesh-eater, worm unanswerable
Is not for you that sleep under the table:
Life is his meat, and I am still his host.

'Love,' shall we call him? 'Hatred of self,' maybe?
His secret tooth is so intimate with me
That any name would suit him well enough,
Enough that he can see, will, daydream, touch --
My flesh delights him, even upon my couch
I live but as a morsel of his life.

Zeno, Zeno, cruel philosopher Zeno,
Have you then pierced me with your feathered arrow
That hums and flies, yet does not fly! The sounding
Shaft gives me life, the arrow kills. Oh, sun! --
Oh, what a tortoise-shadow to outrun
My soul, Achilles' giant stride left standing!

No, no! Arise! The future years unfold.
Shatter, O body, meditation's mould!
And, O my breast, drink in the wind's reviving!
A freshness, exhalation of the sea,
Restores my soul . . . Salt-breathing potency!
Let's run at the waves and be hurled back to living!

Yes, mighty sea with such wild frenzies gifted
(The panther skin and the rent chlamys), sifted
All over with sun-images that glisten,
Creature supreme, drunk on your own blue flesh,
Who in a tumult like the deepest hush
Bite at your sequin-glittering tail -- yes, listen!

The wind is rising! . . . We must try to live!
The huge air opens and shuts my book: the wave
Dares to explode out of the rocks in reeking
Spray. Fly away, my sun-bewildered pages!
Break, waves! Break up with your rejoicing surges
This quiet roof where sails like doves were pecking.




Le cimetière marin
Paul Valéry


Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,
Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes;
Midi le juste y compose de feux
La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee
O récompense après une pensée
Qu'un long regard sur le calme des dieux!

Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume
Maint diamant d'imperceptible écume,
Et quelle paix semble se concevoir!
Quand sur l'abîme un soleil se repose,
Ouvrages purs d'une éternelle cause,
Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir.

Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme,
O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l'ame,
Mais comble d'or aux mille tuiles, Toit!

Temple du Temps, qu'un seul soupir résume,
À ce point pur je monte et m'accoutume,
Tout entouré de mon regard marin;
Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême,
La scintillation sereine sème
Sur l'altitude un dédain souverain.

Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance,
Comme en délice il change son absence
Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt,
Je hume ici ma future fumée,
Et le ciel chante à l'âme consumée
Le changement des rives en rumeur.

Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!
Après tant d'orgueil, après tant d'étrange
Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir,
Je m'abandonne à ce brillant espace,
Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe
Qui m'apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir.

L'âme exposée aux torches du solstice,
Je te soutiens, admirable justice
De la lumière aux armes sans pitié!
Je te tends pure à ta place première,
Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière
Suppose d'ombre une morne moitié.

O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,
Auprès d'un coeur, aux sources du poème,
Entre le vide et l'événement pur,
J'attends l'écho de ma grandeur interne,
Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne,
Sonnant dans l'âme un creux toujours futur!

Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages,
Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages,
Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants,
Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse,
Quel front l'attire à cette terre osseuse?
Une étincelle y pense à mes absents.

Fermé, sacré, plein d'un feu sans matière,
Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière,
Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux,
Composé d'or, de pierre et d'arbres sombres,
Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d'ombres;
La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux!

Chienne splendide, écarte l'idolâtre!
Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre,
Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux,
Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes,
Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes,
Les songes vains, les anges curieux!

Ici venu, l'avenir est paresse.
L'insecte net gratte la sécheresse;
Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l'air
A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . .
La vie est vaste, étant ivre d'absence,
Et l'amertume est douce, et l'esprit clair.

Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre
Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère.
Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement
En soi se pense et convient à soi-même
Tête complète et parfait diadème,
Je suis en toi le secret changement.

Tu n'as que moi pour contenir tes craintes!
Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes
Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . .
Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres,
Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres
A pris déjà ton parti lentement.

Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse,
L'argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce,
Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs!
Où sont des morts les phrases familières,
L'art personnel, les âmes singulières?
La larve file où se formaient les pleurs.

Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées,
Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées,
Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu,
Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent,
Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent,
Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu!

Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe
Qui n'aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge
Qu'aux yeux de chair l'onde et l'or font ici?
Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse?
Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse,
La sainte impatience meurt aussi!

Maigre immortalité noire et dorée,
Consolatrice affreusement laurée,
Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel,
Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse!
Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse,
Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel!

Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées,
Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées,
Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas,
Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable
N'est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table,
Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas!

Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?
Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine
Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir!
Qu'importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!
Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche,
À ce vivant je vis d'appartenir!

Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d'Êlée!
M'as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée
Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas!
Le son m'enfante et la flèche me tue!
Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue
Pour l'âme, Achille immobile à grands pas!

Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l'ère successive!
Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive!
Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent!
Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée,
Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée!
Courons à l'onde en rejaillir vivant.

Oui! grande mer de delires douée,
Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée,
De mille et mille idoles du soleil,
Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue,
Qui te remords l'étincelante queue
Dans un tumulte au silence pareil

Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!
L'air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d'eaux rejouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!

It is taking all the strength I have in me

to not kill.

What is this,
"human experience"?
This human experience is
a mishmash of mouths and eyes,
noses, necks and such;
shoulders, shins and other names for parts.

This,
is the disoriented plan of
"awareness"
and temporary happiness.
It's slightly convincing
and sadly worthwhile - despite the distance.

I am two different people.

I wonder if crying way more than the average person throughout my life has any correlation to me still having 20/20 vision at the age of 28.

Probably not.