Stories and poems

"The metaphoric image of 'orphan lines' is a contrivance of the detached onlooker to whom the verbal art of continuous correspondences remains aesthetically alien. Orphan lines in poetry of pervasive parallels are a contradiction in terms, since whatever the status of a line, all its structure and functions are indissolubly interlaced with the near and distant verbal environment, and the task of linguistic analysis is to disclose the levels of this coaction. When seen from the inside of the parallelistic system, the supposed orphanhood, like any other componential status, turns into a network of multifarious compelling affinities.'
Roman JAKOBSON, "Grammatical Parallelism and its Russian Facet", Language, 42/2, 1966, pp. 399-429, p. 428-429

Monday, June 25, 2012

The Green-eyed Monster

Out of a relationship, I'm thinking about what I want from one and how I am when I am in one. I'm also thinking about if I have to be in one, or even if I want to be in one. It is a good distraction from finishing my thesis.  I'm thinking about jealousy, and just read an interesting article by Emma Goodman on the Green-eyed Monster. 

So I'm also thinking about anarchy and polyamory and reading about what other people want or at least what they want to call themselves. I don't really want to call myself anything, and I feel rather veil-like in the face of all these opinions, an observer or a phantom. Not in society, outside, not in anything.  

I've restarted writing again, or started again rewriting, but I'm also taking care of very practical things. Good procrastination too? Summer, singing, and seeing friends, the solstice came around again, the world is breathing out now. Here I go too. 

I wonder if I have a poem about the Green-eyed Monster. Actually, it sounds like me, the green-eyed monster, born on a Wednesday, a child full of woe, with green eyes. I'm knitting myself a halter top with wool I spun. My hair is long, and perhaps, at the bottom of the lake, it would go green with algea, and the wool would turn to green and my skin too, I'd be a mermaid. A green-eyed monster mermaid. 

I know I don't want to tell people what they should do, or how they should be. And I know I don't have any answers. But I'm learning, I'm looking inside, which is good to do now and then. 

I've been jealous before. But I haven't always been. I think I've thrown away all my poems about jealousy. Feelings of betrayal, as Emma says, do not lead to beauty. But I still believe in fidelity, so I'm practicing fidelity on myself these days, summer days of getting things done.

Fidelity as Freedom

Fidelity first is freedom,

the promises we made.
Once we lived in Eden,
pushing against the glade.

Fidelity is memory,

the ivy on the vine.
At least we will have known it
when it comes the time.

Freedom is fidelity,

each one has the key;
though we may not choose to turn it
though we may prefer to burn it
or simply throw it in the sea.

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