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Showing posts from November, 2015

Poetry: This Living Hand by John Keats

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This Living Hand by John Keats This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold and in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, and thou be conscience-calm'd––see here it is–– I hold it towards you–– ---

Photography: Nasozi's Work Studio

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I went to Brooklyn the other day to check out my friend's work studio. Always curious about individual spaces and how we put them together, I was eager to see what Nasozi had done with her new one.  I loved the way she exhibited her materials and the intimate ways in which tools and decor combined to generate warmth.  So I took a few pictures to share with you. - Jane

General Update: Solitude

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within a place myself finds now to then is i . a palm feeling with needs to speak   ess to listen  ore. exotic, placed, shadows tremble to shhh shshhh tramp-o-line shhhh shhhhh . place; unlike, tease not, to calm wallpaper  with a cheshire cat for playmate. --- Jane

Grad School Diary: Ask and Ye Might Receive

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The other day in class, on the topic of Chaucer's Parliement of Fowls , my professor went into one of his interesting monologues about a reward system which often appears unfair. Although he applied his theory to the artist, it is, of course, applicable to other roles and situations in life. It is the opinion that one may do a certain amount of work and think it worth a certain reward, only to receive a reward that disappoints their expectation. In other words, what one thinks is due them may not necessary be what is actually rewarded them. I thought I understood what he meant but felt it had very little to do with the Paliament of Fowls. Until re-reading the poem gave me another perspective of the female eagle's dismissal of the love proposals of the three male eagles; whom, each, wanted for a sweetheart. Despite their display of great affections, their humiliating quarrels amongst themselves which upset the other birds, as well as, their passionate pleading with the female

Poetry: Fever 103° by Sylvia Plath

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Fever 103° by Sylvia Plath Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable Of licking clean The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin. The tinder cries. The indelible smell Of a snuffed candle! Love, love, the low smokes roll From me like Isadora’s scarves, I’m in a fright One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel. Such yellow sullen smokes Make their own element. They will not rise, But trundle round the globe Choking the aged and the meek, The weak Hothouse baby in its crib, The ghastly orchid Hanging its hanging garden in the air, Devilish leopard! Radiation turned it white And killed it in an hour. Greasing the bodies of adulterers Like Hiroshima ash and eating in. The sin. The sin. Darling, all night I have been flickering, off, on, off, on. The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss. Three days. Three nights. Lemon water, chicken Water, water make

Photography: At the Farmer's Market

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- Jane

Grad School Diary: Summoning Thoughts

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Remember when I said the state of my imagination can best be described as in constant haywire? Good. I think a good education requires a healthy imagination and curiosity about that which cannot be watered down into language; that which can only be truly appreciated in sensing and feeling in its undiluted form. I have this not so new theory that we can reach one another through our thoughts. Not that we can read each other's mind (though I would not be surprised if it was possible. Snape was pretty good at it), but that we can somehow connect with others through, for lack of a better phrasing, our thinking. Not mere uninterested thoughts, something more electric. And by electric I mean a thought produced by genuine desire. The issue with talking about these things is that not many people can participate without a deaf ear to everything and an acute interest in diagnosing the mental health of the speaker. But I am not afraid of appearing mad. In fact, I have arrived at the thinki

Poetry: From The House of Fame by Geoffrey Chaucer

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From The House of Fame by Geoffrey Chaucer Lo, how a woman goes amiss In loving him that unknown is, For, by Christ, lo, thus it fares: All is not gold that glitters there. For, as I hope to keep my head, There may under charm instead Be hidden many a rotten vice; Therefore let none be so nice As to judge a love by how he appear Or by speech, or by friendly manner; For this shall every woman find: That some men are of that kind That show outwardly their fairest, Till they have got what they miss. And then they will reasons find Swearing how she is unkind, Or false, or secret lover has. All this say I of Aeneas And Dido, so soon obsessed, Who loved too swiftly her guest; Therefore I will quote a proverb, That ‘he who fully knows the herb May safely set it to his eye’; Certainly, that is no lie. --- Listen to my reading of this poem below:

Photography: The Falling

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The Falling  dying saw eye in falling beauty-soaked death sucked of greens ecstatically   to brittle  to crisp  to dried  crumbly red browns yellow oranges  demise mocking a mourning eye imagined  of lethal white frozen greed drawing warmth and moisture  is fear veiled to   awe of breath -- Jane Odartey

My Grandmother's Best Friend

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If you have noticed, I do not write at the end of months, and sometimes too at their beginnings. I like to break routine. It is very easy to take things for granted in robotic rituals. Well, happy November! ^_^  Time, seemingly a wallpaper is yet again the center of our attention. 2015 has almost expired. Of course, I panicked, not a lot, and started going over my resolution list. I did not accomplish some of the things I wanted to, but I did accomplish my biggest resolution of the year and that means PARTY! And party means a nice bowl of yogurt with all my favorite fruits and my own homemade coconut-honey granola...and if I can afford it, I will see an off-broadway play or something.  I am delaying the partying until my looking forward to it is no longer enjoyable. Ah, but you must wonder about my Nana's best friend. It is, after all, the title of this post. Paafio is dead. Paafio, was what he responded to. The name translates to little father, but means uncle––one's fathe