This story. I just...I am so in love with this story!
Vienna Introduces New, Same-Sex Themed Crosswalk Signals
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Monday, May 11, 2015
Poetry Corner Monday
The Great American Poem
Billy Collins
If this were a novel,
it would begin with a character,
a man alone on a southbound train
or a young girl on a swing by a farmhouse.
And as the pages turned, you would be told
that it was morning or the dead of night,
and I, the narrator, would describe
for you the miscellaneous clouds over the farmhouse
and what the man was wearing on the train
right down to his red tartan scarf,
and the hat he tossed onto the rack above his head,
as well as the cows sliding past his window.
Eventually--one can only read so fast--
you would learn either that the train was bearing
the man back to the place of his birth
or that he was headed into the vast unknown,
and you might just tolerate all of this
as you waited patiently for shots to ring out
in a ravine where the man was hiding
or for a tall, raven-haired woman to appear in a doorway.
But this is a poem,
and the only characters here are you and I,
alone in an imaginary room
which will disappear after a few more lines,
leaving us no time to point guns at one another
or toss all our clothes into a roaring fireplace.
I ask you: who needs the man on the train
and who cares what his black valise contains?
We have something better than all this turbulence
lurching toward some ruinous conclusion.
I mean the sound that we will hear
as soon as I stop writing and put down this pen.
I once heard someone compare it
to the sound of crickets in a field of wheat
or, more faintly, just the wind
over that field stirring things that we will never see.
Billy Collins
If this were a novel,it would begin with a character,
a man alone on a southbound train
or a young girl on a swing by a farmhouse.
And as the pages turned, you would be told
that it was morning or the dead of night,
and I, the narrator, would describe
for you the miscellaneous clouds over the farmhouse
and what the man was wearing on the train
right down to his red tartan scarf,
and the hat he tossed onto the rack above his head,
as well as the cows sliding past his window.
Eventually--one can only read so fast--
you would learn either that the train was bearing
the man back to the place of his birth
or that he was headed into the vast unknown,
and you might just tolerate all of this
as you waited patiently for shots to ring out
in a ravine where the man was hiding
or for a tall, raven-haired woman to appear in a doorway.
But this is a poem,
and the only characters here are you and I,
alone in an imaginary room
which will disappear after a few more lines,
leaving us no time to point guns at one another
or toss all our clothes into a roaring fireplace.
I ask you: who needs the man on the train
and who cares what his black valise contains?
We have something better than all this turbulence
lurching toward some ruinous conclusion.
I mean the sound that we will hear
as soon as I stop writing and put down this pen.
I once heard someone compare it
to the sound of crickets in a field of wheat
or, more faintly, just the wind
over that field stirring things that we will never see.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
Poetry Corner Monday
Splitting an Order
Ted Kooser
I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onions, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he asked the server to bring,
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
while she slowly unrolls her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife, and her fork in their proper places,
then smooths the starched white napkin over her knees
and meets his eyes and holds out both old hands to him.
A Meeting after Many Years
Ted Kooser
Our words were a few colorful leaves
afloat on a very old silence,
the kind with a terrifying undertow,
and we stood right at its edge,
wrapping ourselves in our own arms
because of the chill, and with old voices
called back and forth across all those years
until we could bear it no longer,
and turned from each other,
and walked away into our countries.
Ted Kooser
I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onions, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he asked the server to bring,
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
while she slowly unrolls her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife, and her fork in their proper places,
then smooths the starched white napkin over her knees
and meets his eyes and holds out both old hands to him.
A Meeting after Many Years
Ted Kooser
Our words were a few colorful leaves
afloat on a very old silence,
the kind with a terrifying undertow,
and we stood right at its edge,
wrapping ourselves in our own arms
because of the chill, and with old voices
called back and forth across all those years
until we could bear it no longer,
and turned from each other,
and walked away into our countries.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Hello, Future
A few years ago I wrote a post about some of the most glorious job postings I found while searching the bowels of the internet for employment. Back by popular demand (by which I mean I'm the majority of my own readership and I demanded it), here is an updated list. It should be noted that while only some of these are writing-related, all of them were found under the search terms "writer" and "writing."
Paleo Writer for Holistic Acne Blog
I have no clue what this means, but I find it imperative to hold this position!
Hose Crimper
I accidentally closed out of the tab right after I saw the posting, and since I didn't remember the exact title of the job I had to start a new search with the word "hose." And this wasn't even the first one.
Cannabis and Basketball site needs writers
I just love that this is one site.
Recreational Budtender at Grass
How much would you give to be able to say, "Yes, I tend bud recreationally."
Senior Program Officer, Enteric & Diarrheal Diseases Job
I'll take the part before the comma.
Merchandiser at Specialty Store Services
This one included the following: "[Job] requires tearing covers from magazines and throwing the body of the magazines into the proper trash/recycle receptacle."
Journeyman Plumber
I smell a children's book.
Summer nanny in Sammamish
I have taken the liberty of bolding my favorite parts of this job description: "Christian family looking for energetic nanny to keep 10 & 12 y.o. kids active outdoors over summer...Both children have food allergies (gluten, dairy, egg, oranges, pineapple, sunshine)...Ability to teach skateboarding and break-dancing a bonus but not required...Prefer someone interested in outdoors, nature, bugs, salamanders, frogs, hiking, biking, etc." Additional note (from me): I definitely think the thing to do with children who are allergic to sunshine is to force them to stay outside for the entire summer.
That's all I've got for now. I'll keep (both of) you posted on which of the above jobs I choose as my future career. Fingers crossed for Diarrhea Officer.
Paleo Writer for Holistic Acne Blog
I have no clue what this means, but I find it imperative to hold this position!
Hose Crimper
I accidentally closed out of the tab right after I saw the posting, and since I didn't remember the exact title of the job I had to start a new search with the word "hose." And this wasn't even the first one.
Cannabis and Basketball site needs writers
I just love that this is one site.
Recreational Budtender at Grass
How much would you give to be able to say, "Yes, I tend bud recreationally."
Senior Program Officer, Enteric & Diarrheal Diseases Job
I'll take the part before the comma.
Merchandiser at Specialty Store Services
This one included the following: "[Job] requires tearing covers from magazines and throwing the body of the magazines into the proper trash/recycle receptacle."
Journeyman Plumber
I smell a children's book.
Summer nanny in Sammamish
I have taken the liberty of bolding my favorite parts of this job description: "Christian family looking for energetic nanny to keep 10 & 12 y.o. kids active outdoors over summer...Both children have food allergies (gluten, dairy, egg, oranges, pineapple, sunshine)...Ability to teach skateboarding and break-dancing a bonus but not required...Prefer someone interested in outdoors, nature, bugs, salamanders, frogs, hiking, biking, etc." Additional note (from me): I definitely think the thing to do with children who are allergic to sunshine is to force them to stay outside for the entire summer.
That's all I've got for now. I'll keep (both of) you posted on which of the above jobs I choose as my future career. Fingers crossed for Diarrhea Officer.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Poetry Corner Whenever-I-Feel-Like-It
Happy National Poetry Month, everybody!
Awakening
Robert Bly
We are approaching sleep: the chestnut blossoms in the mind
Mingle with thoughts of pain
And the long roots of barley, bitterness
As of the oak roots staining the water dark
In Louisiana, the wet streets soaked with rain
And sodden blossoms; out of this
We have come, a tunnel softly hurtling into darkness.
The storm is coming. The small farmhouse in Minnesota
Is hardly strong enough for the wind.
Darkness, darkness in grass, darkness in trees.
Even the water in wells trembles.
Bodies give off darkness, and chrysanthemums
Are dark, and horses, who are bearing great loads of hay
To the deep barns where the dark air is moving from corners.
Lincoln's statue, and the traffic. From the long past
Into the long present
A bird, forgotten in these troubles, warbling,
As the great wheel turns around, grinding
The living in water.
Washing, continual washing, in water now stained
With blossoms and rotting logs,
Cries, half-muffled, from beneath the earth, the living awakened
at last like the dead.
Awakening
Robert Bly
We are approaching sleep: the chestnut blossoms in the mind
Mingle with thoughts of pain
And the long roots of barley, bitterness
As of the oak roots staining the water dark
In Louisiana, the wet streets soaked with rain
And sodden blossoms; out of this
We have come, a tunnel softly hurtling into darkness.
The storm is coming. The small farmhouse in Minnesota
Is hardly strong enough for the wind.
Darkness, darkness in grass, darkness in trees.
Even the water in wells trembles.
Bodies give off darkness, and chrysanthemums
Are dark, and horses, who are bearing great loads of hay
To the deep barns where the dark air is moving from corners.
Lincoln's statue, and the traffic. From the long past
Into the long present
A bird, forgotten in these troubles, warbling,
As the great wheel turns around, grinding
The living in water.
Washing, continual washing, in water now stained
With blossoms and rotting logs,
Cries, half-muffled, from beneath the earth, the living awakened
at last like the dead.
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