Things That Make Me Me
Writing and art photos & computers
These are the things that make me me
I have found that certain requirements
Must be met for me to be able to see
What I can do or think or produce , good or bad.
It’s quiet time and the lack of rules that
Keep me sane, creative and mentally churning away
Using my sense of humor like wearing my hat each day.
It requires a sliver of time. a quiet one
Sometimes not long but no one to interfere
A sliver of time into which I can slip where I can’t be found
Right until there are no more words to hear
Paint, inhaling that wonderful smell of turpentine and oil
Pffft, on that soothsayers who live in chemical warfare
Worrying about masks and paint smears
they drive me crazy I swear
Listening to music makes me want to dance
Or the ballads I love that make me cry
Trying to remember to live
Trying not to die.
(c) g.abbey 2013
“Thomas Stearns Eliot OM (26 September 1888 – 4 January 1965) was an essayist, publisher, playwright, literary and social critic and “one of the twentieth century’s major poets.” Born in St. Louis, Missouri in the United States, he moved to the United Kingdom in 1914 (at age 25) and was naturalised as a British subject in 1927 at age 39.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._S._Eliot
One of his poems is my favorite. It is very long, so I’ll only post the part of it that i like so very much. Like the photo, somethings mean so very much more than they appear to on the face of what you see. This is one of them:
“Let us go then you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo….”
I close my eyes & see your face
As you dance to the music of the band
You look so happy, so full of life-
This magic moment in time
Shall be etched on my mind
Unfaded by life, untarnished by light
I close my eyes & see your face
As you gaze down now into my eyes
Still happy, still full of life –
Yet different now – content somehow
Eyes of love, eyes of caring
Pierce through my fear, embrace my my heart
I close my eyes and see your face
Bathed in the moonlight – at peace.
Quiet now, life’s ebb winds down
Tender hands now still
Vulnerable, trusting, heart exposed
A simple, honest man.
© g.abbey circa 90’s
The three walls of waterfalls in Venezuela, preferably while there is still a suspension walking bridge that allows you to hover one the center of all three. What a rush that would be.
Being carried by my grandmother from the bedroom I shared with my sister. I was not allowed to walk. Enough said about that, other than to say I was one of the lucky ones.
Impossible to pick one. How about a trio. Art, Poetry, and Music. Although I could argue that none are inanimate. In that case, would have to the the triad of my computers my camera, and my paints w/ accessories. 🙂
INTERESTING POEM, QUOTED IN WHAT MOVIE^?
One bright day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight,
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other,
One was blind and the other couldn’t, see
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout “hooray!”
A paralyzed donkey passing by,
Kicked the blind man in the eye,
Knocked him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all,
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
And came to arrest the two dead boys,
If you don’t believe this story’s true,
Ask the blind man he saw it too!
Ladies and jelly spoons, hobos and tramps,
Cross-eyed mosquitoes and bow-legged ants,
I stand before you to sit behind you
To tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
There’s a Mother’s Day meeting for fathers only.
Wear your best clothes if you haven’t any.
Please come if you can’t; if you can, stay at home.
Admission is free, pay at the door.
Pull up a chair and sit on the floor.
It makes no difference where you sit,
The man in the gallery’s sure to spit.
The show is over, but before you go,
Let me tell you a story I don’t really know.
* original author unknown, several versions, folktale
In one form or another the modern version of Two Dead Boys, including many of the orphan pieces found below, has been collected from children in playgrounds since the middle of the 19th century. A detailed study with examples collected throughout the British Isles since the turn of the 20th century can be found in Iona and Peter Opie’s The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren [1959, Oxford. Oxford University Press, pp. 24-29].
Answer to Question:
^ Haunting in Connecticut