By the wayside.
In light of the previous post I believe this blog is going to take a break for awhile. May is out of control…
Anyways. When life settles down I’ll have time to reflect on it.
Just give me a couple weeks.
Archive for April, 2007
Oh Bother.
To do this week:
-Do Laundry (More specifially, wash pretty much every item of clothing I have.)
-Pack and move everything back to Sarnia for the summer. (Figure out how to get that couch back out of this house!)
-Read Paradise Lost (Yes, the whole thing. Well, I read the first 800 lines a couple months ago.)
-Find my passport.
-Go to Hamilton and visit my long lost friends.
-Pack for Cuba.
-Clean the house for my subletters.
-Go to Keith’s convocation.
-Work 23 hours at All about Crepes. (My last four shifts!)
-Go have one last girl’s night with my friends in Waterloo before they all run off and get married on me.
-Read the last 5 chapters in my History of Christianity textbook.
-Write and study for two exams.
-Finish editing a book.
-Sleep (?)
Hmm. This should be interesting.
Upon deeper reflection…
Upon deeper reflection, it has come to my attention that an essay on the canonization of the New Testament and the authority given to those “scriptures” by the Apostolic Fathers may, in fact, be impossible to research and write in the time frame of about 24-hours.
Furthermore, this is a topic that may not be contained in the space of about 2000 words.
Of course, little miss perfectionism has to choose the most controversial and contradictory topic in Christian history for her term paper. (Her darker side, little miss procrastination, has also left it to the very last minute. Of course.)
Oh well. Everyone and their mother has migrated from Waterloo for Easter and I’m all alone. My family has left the country.
This is most likely what actually has to happen before I can concentrate long enough to write this paper. However, it turns out…I’m having fun.
Poetry reminds me of God.
Almost by accident, Keith and I went to a poetry reading at Registry Theatre. It was sponsored by Wilfred Laurier University
But I think I accidentally found myself in a small room with some of the best poets in Canada
Poetry reminds me of God. I’m not really sure why. Probably because it is so incredibly personal. It lets you see right into someone. It’s strange.
For the most part, we live such stupid lives. We want to look good, and we want to feel good, and we run around like gerbils trying to make that happen. Poetry is one thing that lives outside the world of cheap imitation.
Anne Lamott (my favourite person I don’t really know) says that, “Becoming a writer is about becoming conscious. Writing from a place of insight and simplicity and real caring about the truth, you have the ability to throw the light on for your reader.” I think I agree.
When a poem is a clear and critical outpouring of life itself, it’s priceless. Suddenly there is an honesty that makes us feel less alone, less isolated. “Hey, I feel that too.”
And I can’t look into that deep reflection of someone’s struggles and not see God: see the presence of God, or the longing for God, or the pain of God.
I think that’s why.
The last poet to read was Lorna Crozier. We ended up buying her book. This poem will never be the same thing on paper as it was when she read it, but still… I cried when she read it.
The Fear of Snakes
By Lorna Crozier
The snake can separate itself
from its shadow, move on ribbons of light,
taste the air, the morning and the evening,
the darkness at the heart of things. I remember
when my fear of snakes left for good,
it fell behind me like an old skin. In Swift Current
the boys found a huge snake and chased me
down the alleys, Larry Moen carrying it like a green torch,
the others yelling, Drop it down her back, my terror
of it sliding in the runnell of my spine (Larry,
the one who touched the inside of my legs on the swing,
an older boy we knew we shouldn’t get close to
with our little dresses, our soft skin), my brother
saying Let her go, and I crouched behind the caraganas,
watched Larry nail the snake to a telephone pole.
It twisted on twin points of light, unable to crawl
out of its pain, its mouth opening, the red
tongue tasting its own terror, I loved it then,
that snake. The boys standing there with their stupid hands
dangling from their wrists, the beautiful green
mouth opening, a terrible dark O
no one could hear.
Oh Bother.
To do this week:
-Do Laundry (More specifially, wash pretty much every item of clothing I have.)
-Pack and move everything back to Sarnia for the summer. (Figure out how to get that couch back out of this house!)
-Read Paradise Lost (Yes, the whole thing. Well, I read the first 800 lines a couple months ago.)
-Find my passport.
-Go to Hamilton and visit my long lost friends.
-Pack for Cuba.
-Clean the house for my subletters.
-Go to Keith’s convocation.
-Work 23 hours at All about Crepes. (My last four shifts!)
-Go have one last girl’s night with my friends in Waterloo before they all run off and get married on me.
-Read the last 5 chapters in my History of Christianity textbook.
-Write and study for two exams.
-Finish editing a book.
-Sleep (?)
Hmm. This should be interesting.
Upon deeper reflection…
Upon deeper reflection, it has come to my attention that an essay on the canonization of the New Testament and the authority given to those “scriptures” by the Apostolic Fathers may, in fact, be impossible to research and write in the time frame of about 24-hours.
Furthermore, this is a topic that may not be contained in the space of about 2000 words.
Of course, little miss perfectionism has to choose the most controversial and contradictory topic in Christian history for her term paper. (Her darker side, little miss procrastination, has also left it to the very last minute. Of course.)
Oh well. Everyone and their mother has migrated from Waterloo for Easter and I’m all alone. My family has left the country.
This is most likely what actually has to happen before I can concentrate long enough to write this paper. However, it turns out…I’m having fun.
Poetry reminds me of God.
Almost by accident, Keith and I went to a poetry reading at Registry Theatre. It was sponsored by
But I think I accidentally found myself in a small room with some of the best poets in
Poetry reminds me of God. I’m not really sure why. Probably because it is so incredibly personal. It lets you see right into someone. It’s strange.
For the most part, we live such stupid lives. We want to look good, and we want to feel good, and we run around like gerbils trying to make that happen. Poetry is one thing that lives outside the world of cheap imitation.
Anne Lamott (my favourite person I don’t really know) says that, “Becoming a writer is about becoming conscious. Writing from a place of insight and simplicity and real caring about the truth, you have the ability to throw the light on for your reader.” I think I agree.
When a poem is a clear and critical outpouring of life itself, it’s priceless. Suddenly there is an honesty that makes us feel less alone, less isolated. “Hey, I feel that too.”
And I can’t look into that deep reflection of someone’s struggles and not see God: see the presence of God, or the longing for God, or the pain of God.
I think that’s why.
The last poet to read was Lorna Crozier. We ended up buying her book. This poem will never be the same thing on paper as it was when she read it, but still… I cried when she read it.
The Fear of Snakes
By Lorna Crozier
The snake can separate itself
from its shadow, move on ribbons of light,
taste the air, the morning and the evening,
the darkness at the heart of things. I remember
when my fear of snakes left for good,
it fell behind me like an old skin. In Swift Current
the boys found a huge snake and chased me
down the alleys, Larry Moen carrying it like a green torch,
the others yelling, Drop it down her back, my terror
of it sliding in the runnell of my spine (Larry,
the one who touched the inside of my legs on the swing,
an older boy we knew we shouldn’t get close to
with our little dresses, our soft skin), my brother
saying Let her go, and I crouched behind the caraganas,
watched Larry nail the snake to a telephone pole.
It twisted on twin points of light, unable to crawl
out of its pain, its mouth opening, the red
tongue tasting its own terror, I loved it then,
that snake. The boys standing there with their stupid hands
dangling from their wrists, the beautiful green
mouth opening, a terrible dark O
no one could hear.