>>>>Jane Through The Seasons

The idea/theory of success is one of those abstractions that I seem to lack the ability to grasp——every time I think I have got it I come around to the realization that I do not get it. Certain people label me as successful while others label me as its opposite. The thing is I believe myself to be simultaneously successful and unsuccessful. This state of opposites renders that I am neither successful nor unsuccessful. However, when I hear and read about how some others perceive success it often translates as an extension of the want disease. The case of going on in the dark, pretending all is visible. So I have come up with my own success theory. A theory because I know now that I may wake up tomorrow and see things differently. Under this theory, success is the state reached where one is not burdened with either the desire to succeed nor the fear of failing. A state where one is not afraid of making mistakes nor anxious about making something brilliant. Where mistakes are necess

what is what? one says what is what? one feels what is what? one occupies what is what? is what -- j

O Galatea, You are whiter than the snowy buds upon the privet hedge; the blossoming of meadows cannot match your blossoming; you are more slender than the alder, brighter than clear crystal, and more playful than a young goat, smoother than the seashells polished by the unceasing waves, more welcome than the sun in winter or than shade in summer, more majestic than the tall plane-tree, more clear and radiant than ice, more sweet than ripened grapes, more soft than feathers of the swan or curdled milk; and if you did not flee from me, you would be lovelier than a well-watered garden. Yet you––the selfsame Galatea––are more nasty than an untamed ox, more tough than aged oak; you are more treacherous than waves, more slippery than willow or white bryony, more difficult to budge than are these boulders, more tumultuous than torrents, prouder than a praised peacock, more fierce than fire, sharper than the thorns, more savage than a she-bear shielding cubs, and de

closing octOber 30th -- Jane

The sound of my feet on new pavement, on old pavement. The sound I see in the movement of fountaingrasses and dancing reeds; of yellowing leaves swimming through the air, still married to their branches. The people about me with their thoughts winking through their eyes, through the way they walk, swing arms, hold on, tightly, to bags, run fingers through hair. Clouds move softly above spelling: F R E E.   My feet on the stairs to home, on the stairs to work, on the stairs to do groceries, on the stairs for a walk, on the stairs, just on those familiarly unfamiliar gray stairs. Mother opening the door, her tired feet thudding the kitchen floor. That hymn the moon serenades my eyes with. The whispers of love steaming from hearts. And the sun’s ongoing exhibition entitled “All is Good : Good is All.” The man who walked through the door, looked back and tried to come back to open it for me. I hear beauty entangled with love;  their caresses making songs

Sirvin, my six year old MacBook Pro, is a dear dear friend. We have gone through loads together. For about a little over a year now, Sirvin’s T, Y, U, I, Os have not been functioning. Now, it is not Sirvin’s fault. Having accidentally poured a few cups of tea over the keyboard a number of times, it is only right that a day came when Sirvin’s keys could no longer respond to my touch. In conversation with a friend, I learned that I could just buy any old keyboard and type with it. I mentioned this to my best friend and she sent me this ugly PC keyboard. >:) Sirvin really dislikes this keyboard but you know what they say, “if wishes were horses...” The Apple Store having now arrived in my neighborhood––only ten minutes walk from our apartment––and  having a little bit more money these days––zero tuition + new job––I took Sirvin over for a little overdue check-up. We met Robert. A very friendly overweight hispanic dude. He did not really give us much of his attention. He p

Making Poetry "You have to inhabit poetry if you want to make it." And what's "to inhabit"? To be in the habit of, to wear words, sitting in the plainest light, in the silk of morning, in the shoe of night; a feeling bare and frondish in surprising air;  familiar...rare. And what's "to make"? To be and to become words' passing weather; to serve a girl on terrible terms, embark on voyages over voices, evade the ego-hill, the misery-well, the siren hiss of  publish, success, publish, success, success, success, success .  And why inhabit, make, inherit poetry? Oh, it's the shared comedy of the worst blessed: the sound leading the hand; a wordlife running from mind to mind through the washed rooms of the simple senses; one of those haunted, undefendable, unpoetic crosses we have to find. - Anne Stevenson

is conversation  had in looks, words or touch? a mixture of all, surely? - j

- j