Works of Love--Love Builds Up

There is nothing, nothing at all, that cannot be done or said in such a way that it becomes upbuilding, but whatever it is, if it is upbuilding, then love is present. Thus the admonition, just where love itself admits the difficulty of giving a specific rule, says, "Do everything for upbuilding," It could just as well have said, "do everything in love," and it would have said the very same thing. One person can do exactly the opposite of what another person does, but if each one does the opposite--in love--the opposite becomes upbuilding. There is no word in the language that in itself is upbuilding, and there is no word in the language that cannot be said in an upbuilding way and become upbuilding if love is present. Thus it is so very far from being the case that the upbuilding would be something that is an excellence of a few gifted individuals, similar to brains, literary talent, beauty, and the like (alas, this is just an unloving and divisive error!) that on the contrary is the very opposite--every human being by his life, by his conduct, by his behavior in everyday affairs, by his associate with his peers, by his words, his remarks, should and could build up and would do it if love were really present in him. Kierkegaard, 212

Just earlier today, I asked myself if there were any new ways to describe sunsets. Yes, I really asked myself this question. I know, I know. Too much poetry.

So now I'm reading Christian Wiman, (who is coming to the SPU residency in March! hooray!) and I find this, which is so good, and fresh, and exactly what I could not make my little brain do while looking out my window:

I remember that. And I remember seeing,
Past Abilene, the sun come plunging down
In front of us and spatter back in the sky.
It was like no sunset we'd ever seen.
Thick light dripped and puddled on the far
Horizon, yellow smeared and flecked with red
Like a broken yolk that had begun
To grow. There was a moment when the sky,
Ground, and the air between were all one color,
My family's faces, too, glowing, fading...
Then everything was gone and we were driving
In the darkness toward whatever edge the day
Had fallen from, whtaever space it now
Was falling into. - The Long Home

some notes on music

Over The Rhine played the El Rey this Sunday! So good.

During the show, Linford gave quite a bit of background on the songs. Not just what inspired them, but exactly how they developed. It was encouraging to hear their process: certain songs took years to complete, while others came in just a few minutes.

Well, I don't know if encouraging is the right word there...I don't know the word. It's such a mystery why some songs/poems just tug at your sleeve, asking to be recorded, while others ramble around inside you for years, always too ornery to be captured with words and written down. I guess it's good to know that's a universal issue for writers; it gives a feeling of solidarity.

Anyway, this is one of my favorite Over the Rhine songs, and this one, according the Linford, "wrote itself," so to speak. Have a listen:

Latter Days (oh please don't watch the video, it's so silly. Just listen.)

P.S. Oh! Oh! The Milk Carton Kids opened the show. How to describe them...Um, if a movie was to be made about my life, I would choose them for the credits/exit music. If that does not entice you, then you should also know that their music is ALL FREE off their website, and they sound like Simon & Garfunkel, if those guys had been listening to Bon Iver while they were writing stuff. Do with that what you will...

and feel a moment's space

Aye, while your common men
Lay telegraphs, gauge railroads, reign, reap, dine
And dust the faulty carpets of the world
For kings to walk on, or our president,
The poet suddenly will catch them up
With his voice like a thunder,--'This is soul,
This is life, this word is being said in heaven,
Here's God down on us! what are you about?'
How all those workers start amid their work,
Look round, look up, and feel, a moment's space
That carpet-dusting, though a pretty trade,
Is not the imperative labor after all.

E.B.B., Aurora Leigh

It's been a weird day so far, writing-wise. I'm exhausted from a long weekend: two shifts at Jones, two back-to-back princess parties. (I was Rapunzel this time, and we had some very skeptical four-year-olds...one even made an attempt to expose me as a fraud by yanking forcefully at my blond braid, and yelling, "it's a wig!" requiring me to think on me feet and remind her that the lock of brown hair she'd exposed was the piece the witch cut right before kidnapping me. I put a little scratch of sob into my voice and sighed, "oh, I don't like to talk about it." That left her awed and saddened. Or at the very least, it shut her up.)

All that to say, I slept in this morning, and now I'm trying to get going, and I got an email from a fellow student suggesting doing writing imitations. One of the poets suggested was Plath, not surprisingly. And so I decided to try reading some poems online, when I came across this comment stream. Plath didn't even write this poem, I think it's Christina Rossetti...but the two top comments made me laugh so hard.

Here's the phenomenon--I'm just truckin' along, feeling pretty confident in my ability to compose a two-page paper, when I pause to re-read and realize I've unwittingly used the words "inspired" and "facets" about 5 times each. Ugh. Ugugugh.

digging

sometimes my shovel nudges old bone
brittle remnant, probably just
some unmourned chicken.
I dust it off,

sing a short hymn
for the long-departed, and keep digging.

we'll break through around noon,
I announce to Dad, who is planting inpatients
in the far corner of the garden,
he coughs in approval.

to keep my strength up,
I picture orchid gardens,
fresh chapattis, rainstorms.
things I know I'll find

I practice the clattering way
my grandfather slides sound
slick of his tongue
in the kitchen after dinner.
(I hardly hear words in it, to me
just a broken necklace of seed beads
bouncing off floorboards).

I've learned one line.
I try it out, tossing
tu kasa aahe?
across the garden.

but Dad's stubborn English
boomerangs back:
fine, thank you.

when I ask if should maybe
angle a little to the left, he grins,
but doesn't answer.
He walks over
snaps the brittle wishbone
with his mud-crusted thumbs,
explains again:

Los Angeles used to be ranchland.

I know all about where we are now.
that is not why I am digging.