Tuesday, December 29, 2009
It's My Birthday!
(My sister and me in our authentic Geisha Gear brought home from Japan by my grandparents.)
Today is my 33rd birthday. I'm spending it so far babysitting my newphew, Brady, while my twin sister goes to the doctor. (It's her birthday, too!) I stayed up all night working on a painting, and plan to do more work on it tonight, as well. I don't know what my night has in store otherwise, yet, but I'd like to do some sort of celebrating! I am going to have dinner with my sister, my nephew, and my brother-in-law in a bit. I think it will be Lebanese. MMMMMMM. Happy Birthday to me!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Another Great Poem In The Name Of Worms...
Song Of The Worms
By: Margaret Atwood
We have been underground too long,
we have done our work,
we are many and one,
we remember when we were human
We have lived among roots and stones,
we have sung but no on has listened,
we come into the open air
at night only to love
which disgusts the soles of boots,
their leather strict religion.
We know what a boot looks like
when seen from underneath,
we know the philosophy of boots,
their metaphysic of kicks and ladders.
We are afraid of boots
but contemptuous of the foot that needs them.
Soon we will invade like weeds,
everywhere but slowly;
the captive plants will rebel
with us, fences will topple,
brick walls ripple and fall,
there will be no more boots.
Meanwhile we eat dirt
and sleep; we are waiting
under your feet.
When we say Attack
you will hear nothing
at first.
By: Margaret Atwood
We have been underground too long,
we have done our work,
we are many and one,
we remember when we were human
We have lived among roots and stones,
we have sung but no on has listened,
we come into the open air
at night only to love
which disgusts the soles of boots,
their leather strict religion.
We know what a boot looks like
when seen from underneath,
we know the philosophy of boots,
their metaphysic of kicks and ladders.
We are afraid of boots
but contemptuous of the foot that needs them.
Soon we will invade like weeds,
everywhere but slowly;
the captive plants will rebel
with us, fences will topple,
brick walls ripple and fall,
there will be no more boots.
Meanwhile we eat dirt
and sleep; we are waiting
under your feet.
When we say Attack
you will hear nothing
at first.
Labels:
illustration,
Margaret Atwood,
poem,
poetry,
worms
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