Showing posts from October, 2017

Between the Pages of Letters to A Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke VI

But when you notice that it is vast, you should be happy; for what (you should ask yourself) would a solitude be that was not vast; there is only  one  solitude, and it is vast, heavy, difficult to bear, and almost everyone has hours when he would gladly exchange it for any kind of sociability, however trivial or cheap, for the tiniest outward agreement with the first person who comes along, the most unworthy. . . But perhaps these are the very hours during which solitude grows; for its growing is painful as the growing of boys and sad as the beginning of spring. But that must not confuse you. What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours––that is what you must be able to attain. (Rainer Maria Rilke.  Letters to a Young Poet . Trans. Stephen Mitchell. NY: Modern Library, 2001, p. 53-54). In the sixth chapter of  Letters to a Young Poet , Rilke writes the above words to Kappus from Rome, on December

Theory: The Cost of Good Living

Let’s say life is the evolution of an individual energy in time, where time translates to the period that accommodates said energy in corporeal form, thus the period we term ‘alive’ opposed to that which is prior to formation; or that which is open to deformation and decease. Energy here is the self through the lens of physical, mental and emotional health. To this live body, what is a good life? Let’s say a good life is an existence in which an energy exists as it ought to. Let's call this energy human and let’s say a good life is the practice of living as a conscious donor and receptor of love, flowing in and out of diverse outlets––in terms we tend to deem good or bad, fair or unfair, but perhaps ought to be simply deemed varieties in ungraspable love––and the practice of accepting this love with grace and gratitude, i.e. not taking anything for granted. Here, the question might be, what does one deserves? Let’s place this theory on the foundation that there is no such thin

Analysis of Edna St. Vincent Millay's Second Fig

Second Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand! --- There has been a little conversation between myself and Edna St. Vincent Millay’s speaker in “Second Fig” for months now. Sometimes I would forget to think or talk to her for days or even weeks, then run into her riding the shades of a slow afternoon or merging with the shadows of an eerie night. Most recently, though, I have been finding her lisping within conversations shared with others and reading her on pages here and there. The thing is, often, in polite society, we speak only of our minor headaches in such ways that arouse neither genuine pity nor concern for our wellbeing but shine a dim light on our shared struggles in the search of infinite satiation. And this is why the lines of “Second Fig” are irritating––they are shamelessly honest. They can even be called coarse in that they seem to mock and brag simultaneously withou

Postcards From Within: Blue-inked, Pinked-blu

Blue-inked, Pinked-blu  by Jane A. Odartey nothing's   old,  yes. dearest dearest, Sir, nothing's new.  yes? Your heart bLINK  our suffeRING.  our surrendeRING. We loved before eyes stung. love still in  blur. I am not without you true. not you without  me through.  We breathe sinking We breathe singing slurping wordlessly what isn't    yet     iz . cell in cell as hand in hand as  space ≠ space. thus think-feel-sense  mine, yOURs, same. --- JAO

Personal Style: Lots of Prints in Lots of Sun

How is it with you? Noticed I am here just on Mondays now? It's the new blog schedule. I am working on doing less with more presence, pleasure and patience. Count the p's. Lately I've start to catch myself shooting my index fingers in the air and hopping about. Do try it. And is it just me or did this September feel looO_Ooong? Mother had the Dashiki caftan made for me about two years ago on a trip to Ghana. I've altered it. The jacket too was once hers. The thing is, it is a pleasure wearing articles that hold connection to that which I am conscious of loving. The pair of pants is old. The brooch is my handiwork.  Mate, accept this wish: a brilliant Oct-OOO-ber! an OC-to-BE-Rilliance! octOBER-in-Brilli-brilLi!  Xx Jane