Monday, 19 September 2011
Transatlantic, 3:00 a.m.
Transatlantic, 3:00 AM
Not awakened by fear or the infant’s hunger,
the tables and systems, the compounding debt,
the spasm in the leg or the headache that follows you,
nor by the formula split open, the long-sought insight,
the forgotten lover glimpsed in the alchemy of the dream,
the dear friend called back,
the rich seam the miner chances upon like a fate,
but only by this trick of the hours.
Isn’t this why you’ve come?
To take your share of the loneliness
of those whose occupation it is to wait,
the clerk and night warden, the thief and orderly,
the beggar and miser, the card counter
conning his livelihood from the dull sequence?
Later, you will lash yourself to the rigging of sleep,
and the day will rise like a sullen continent
where noon is weighted like a crate of fruit
and every monument carefully restored.
But here your mind tries the sheer face
of the future and finds no fingerhold.
Falling, you are free from the flowers and statutes,
the wheels and notations, the tools shaped like weapons,
the come-on and the affront of strangers looking away.
Greg Vargo
The Gettysburg Review
Autumn 2011
via (nsfw)
Most of the poem doesn't completely grab me, but these lines grab me by the throat.
"Later, you will lash yourself to the rigging of sleep,
and the day will rise like a sullen continent
where noon is weighted like a crate of fruit
and every monument carefully restored.
But here your mind tries the sheer face
of the future and finds no fingerhold."
Not awakened by fear or the infant’s hunger,
the tables and systems, the compounding debt,
the spasm in the leg or the headache that follows you,
nor by the formula split open, the long-sought insight,
the forgotten lover glimpsed in the alchemy of the dream,
the dear friend called back,
the rich seam the miner chances upon like a fate,
but only by this trick of the hours.
Isn’t this why you’ve come?
To take your share of the loneliness
of those whose occupation it is to wait,
the clerk and night warden, the thief and orderly,
the beggar and miser, the card counter
conning his livelihood from the dull sequence?
Later, you will lash yourself to the rigging of sleep,
and the day will rise like a sullen continent
where noon is weighted like a crate of fruit
and every monument carefully restored.
But here your mind tries the sheer face
of the future and finds no fingerhold.
Falling, you are free from the flowers and statutes,
the wheels and notations, the tools shaped like weapons,
the come-on and the affront of strangers looking away.
Greg Vargo
The Gettysburg Review
Autumn 2011
via (nsfw)
Most of the poem doesn't completely grab me, but these lines grab me by the throat.
"Later, you will lash yourself to the rigging of sleep,
and the day will rise like a sullen continent
where noon is weighted like a crate of fruit
and every monument carefully restored.
But here your mind tries the sheer face
of the future and finds no fingerhold."
Ikea, Australia, I Love You.
I wonder how many of us men are Ikea phobic?
Now, I appreciate a lot of what Ikea does, yes, I confess, I could live in a totally Ikea-equipped home, quite happily. And I'm a design-freak, I like good design, and I know a lot of people hate Ikea's style. But the stores?
They are hell to a shopophobe.
I hate shopping.
I really do. (Unless it's for tools. I can shop for tools for hours).
So, Ikea=Hell to me. It's full of women dragging shell-shocked men around. And screaming kids. Hell. Hell. Hell.
But Ikea in Sydney, Australia, came up with the idea of a man-creche.
Ladies, dump your man at the man-creche, and go off to get the things you desire without him dragging along and muttering darkly "taupe, hah! aubergine... avocado, agh, looks like cat-sick...."
You get a timer that buzzes after half an hour (yes, I thought that too, 'half an hour?' in Ikea? ), and reminds you to pick him up before you leave.
All I've got against this experimental concept is that they seem to think all men are interested in sports, (I'm not), and it doesn't look as if you can get a pint of beer. Pint of beer, sofa, lego, I'd be happy.
Now, I know, ladies, that you'll think it's a cop-out, and that he should do his share of selecting furniture. But think about it. You ask his opinion, and he hasn't a clue, you're trying to colour-plan, and he likes the dull-green one... You've chosen the absolutely right one for the corner by the window, but he wants the one that will clash with your grandmother's quilt......
Just make life easier for yourself, spend as long as you want over the floormats or bath-towels, with no whining or grumbling to distract you.
Oh. And don't be tempted to go home without him, Ikea will send him to the pound, his ear-tag will be scanned, and you'll get a fine.
Now, I appreciate a lot of what Ikea does, yes, I confess, I could live in a totally Ikea-equipped home, quite happily. And I'm a design-freak, I like good design, and I know a lot of people hate Ikea's style. But the stores?
They are hell to a shopophobe.
I hate shopping.
I really do. (Unless it's for tools. I can shop for tools for hours).
So, Ikea=Hell to me. It's full of women dragging shell-shocked men around. And screaming kids. Hell. Hell. Hell.
But Ikea in Sydney, Australia, came up with the idea of a man-creche.
Ladies, dump your man at the man-creche, and go off to get the things you desire without him dragging along and muttering darkly "taupe, hah! aubergine... avocado, agh, looks like cat-sick...."
You get a timer that buzzes after half an hour (yes, I thought that too, 'half an hour?' in Ikea? ), and reminds you to pick him up before you leave.
All I've got against this experimental concept is that they seem to think all men are interested in sports, (I'm not), and it doesn't look as if you can get a pint of beer. Pint of beer, sofa, lego, I'd be happy.
Now, I know, ladies, that you'll think it's a cop-out, and that he should do his share of selecting furniture. But think about it. You ask his opinion, and he hasn't a clue, you're trying to colour-plan, and he likes the dull-green one... You've chosen the absolutely right one for the corner by the window, but he wants the one that will clash with your grandmother's quilt......
Just make life easier for yourself, spend as long as you want over the floormats or bath-towels, with no whining or grumbling to distract you.
Oh. And don't be tempted to go home without him, Ikea will send him to the pound, his ear-tag will be scanned, and you'll get a fine.