Posts Tagged ‘words’
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged black, black and white, books, letter, letters, library, naive, poems, poetry, reading, retro, sad, Sylvia Plath, vintage book, white, who I am, word, words, writing on March 13, 2013 | 2 Comments »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged black, black and white, book, books, heart, letter, library, love, Love Letter, poems, poetry, reading, retro, story, Sylvia Plath, vintage, white, word, words, writing on March 13, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I’m alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn’t just tow me an inch, no-
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn’t it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter-
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn’t convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn’t fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It’s a gift.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, ‘The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
– Pablo Neruda
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged black, black and white, body, bones, book, books, brain, hate, letters, library, love, poems, poetry, quotes, reading, war, white, words, writing on March 9, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
Early-January of 1964, at which point his third studio album was soon-to-be released, 22-year-old Bob Dylan wrote the following letter to Sis Cunningham and Gordon Friesen — both founding editors of Broadside, a highly influential underground magazine of the period — and spoke of, amongst other things, his recent rise to fame, the money and guilt that came with it, and his love for Suze Rotolo. The letter was published in the magazine’s next issue.
Below is an image of its first page, followed by a full transcript; the original signed letter can be seen its entirety, here.
A LETTER FROM BOB DYLAN
for sis and gordon an all broads of good sizes
let me begin by not beginnin
let me start not by startin but by continuin
it sometimes gets so hard for me –
I am now famous
I am now famous by the rules of public famiousity
it snuck up on me
an pulverized me…
I never knew what was happenin
it is hard for me t walk down the same streets
I did before the same way because now
I truly don’t know
who is waitin for my autograph…
I don’t know if I like givin my autograph
oh yes sometimes I do…
but other times the back of my mind tells me
it is not honest… for I am just fulfillin
a myth t somebody who’d actually treasure my
handwritin more’n his own handwritin…
this gets very complicated for me
an proves t me that I am livin in a contradiction…
t quote mr froyd
I get quite paranoyd
an I know this isn’t right
it is not a useful healthy attitude for one t have
but I truly believe that everybody has their fears
everybody yes everybody…
I do not think it good anymore t overlook them
I think they ought t be admitted…
an I think that all fellings should be admitted…
people ask why do I write the way I do
a question like that hits me…
it makes me think that I’m doin nothin
it makes me think that I’m not being heard
yes above all the mumble jumble an rave praises
an all the records I’ve sold… thru all the packed
houses I play… thru all the communication systems
an rants an bellows an yellin an clappin comes
a statement like “why do you do what you do”
what is this?
some kind of constipated idiot world?
some kind of horseshoe game we’re all playin
responding only when a ringer clangs
no no no
not my world
everybody plays in my world
ain’t nobody first second third or fourth
everybody shoots at the same time
an ringers don’t count
an everybody wins
an nobody loses
cause everybody lives an breathes
an takes up space
an cant be overlooked
an I am a people too
I cannot pretend I’m not
an I feel guilty
god how can I help not feel guilty
I walk down on the bowery and give money away
an still I feel guilty for I know I do not
have enuff money t give away…
an people say “think a yourself, dylan, you’re
gonna need it someday” and I say yeah yeah
an I think maybe about it for a split second
but then the floods of vomit guilt swoop my
drunken head an I spread forth more gut torn
bloody money from the depths of my forsaken
pockets… an I whisper “ah it’s so useless”
man so many people need so many things
an what am I anyway? some kind a messiah walkin
hell no I’m not
an I ask why dont other people with things give
some of it away
an I know the answer without lookin
security security security…
everybody wants security
they want t be secure
they want t be protected
an I say protected?
protected aginst what?
protected against starvin I guess
an power too
an protected against the forces that they know will
get them if they lose their money.
an why does it have t be like that?
man why are these walls built?
who is this god that is so feared?
certainly not in my life this isnt
yes I have my fears but mine are the fears of
the mind. the fears of the head
a lonely person with money is still a lonely person
I have never had much money before
an so it is easy for me I guess t spend it
an overlook it
but I’m sure that many other people could overlook
some of theirs too
I’m not speakin now of the century ridin millionares
but rather of “get theirs and get out” people
I dont understand them
I dont understand them at all
there’s many things I admit I dont understand
I dont understand the blacklist
I dont understand how people aginst it go along
I’m talkin about the full thing
not just a few of us refusin t be on the show
I’m talkin about the poeple that stand up
against it violently an then in some way have something t do with it…
not just the singers mind you
but the managers an agents an buyers an sellers…
they are the dishonest ones
for they are never seen
they play both sides against each other
an expect t be repected by everybody
the heroes of this battle are not me an Joan
an the Kingston Trio nor Peter Paul an Mary
for none of us need t go on that show
none of us really need that kind of dumbness
but there’s some that could use it
for they could use the money
I mean people like Tom Paxton, Barbara Dane,
an Johnny Herald… they are the heroes if
such a word has t be used here
they are the ones that lose materialistically
ah yes but in their own minds they dont
an that is much more important
it means much more
we need more kind a people like that
poeple that cant go against their conscience
no matter what they might gain
an I’ve come to think that that might be the most
important thing in the whole wide world…
not going against your conscience
nor your own natural senses
for I think that that is all the truth there
is… an no more
thru all the gossip, lies, religions, cults
myths, gods, history books, social books,
all books, politics, decrees, rules, laws,
boundarie lines, bibles, legends, an bathroom
writings, there is no guidance at all except
from ones own natural senses
from being born
an it can only be exchanged
it cant be preached
nor even understood…
my mind sometimes runs like a roll of toilet paper
an I hate like hell t see it unravel an unwind
at my empty walls
I’m movin out a here soon
yes the landlord has beaten me it hurts t tell you.
this place I am typin in is so filthy
my clothes cover the floor an once in a while
I pick up somethin an use it for a blanket…
the damn heat goes off at ten
an dont come on til ten…
that’s mornin wise
gushes of warm smelly heat always wake me up
when I sleep here
the plaster falls constantly
an the floor is tiltin an rottin
but somehow there is a beauty to it
columbia records gave me a record player
of the goodness of some keeps on amazin me
an sometimes I play it.
gettin back t the landlord tho
he is really too much
he owns I guess three buildings
I pay him way too high
an I’m gettin screwed an I know it
an he knows it
but I just dont have the time t go down t the
rent control board. I been told they’d get after
him but I’m so lazy. when sue was here he was
gonna jack up the price cause he said I never told
him I had a wife. you really got t see this place
t believe it. I ought a’ve jacked him up a long
time ago an used him for heat. last year he put
in a new window (there was a god damn hole in the
other one) man it was like I asked ‘m for his blood relation
or something. (which he’d probably give away)
anyway the record player’s on now
an I’m listenin t Pete sing Guantanamera for
the billionth time. I dont have many folk music
records (I dont have many records really) but
I do have that one of Pete’s.
god it’s like I go in a trance
he is so human I could cry
he tells me so much
he makes me feel so good
it’s as tho of all the things that’re sold t make
one feel better, aint none of it worth while.
all the cars, an clothes, an trinkets an foods,
an jewels an diamonds an lollypops an gifts of
glad tidings, just dont do nothin for the soul.
I believe I’d rather listen t Pete sing Guantanamera than t
own everything there is t own…
(that’s my own private selfishness shinin thru there)
yes for me he is truly a saint
an I love him
perhaps more than I could show
(as always is the case ha)
I think of love in weird terms.
sometimes I even feel guilty about it
because I know I love sue
but I should love everybody like I love sue
an in all honesty I dont
I just love her that way
an I say what way?
an a voice says “that way”
an I get quite up tite
an I know I have a long way t go
when the day comes when I can love everything
that breathes the way I love sue then
I will truly be a Jesus Christ ha ha
(but I dont wanna be a Jesus Christ ha ha)
an so I am again contradictin myself
away away be gone all you demons
an just let me be me
all kinds of me
saw the last issue of broadside
an especially flipped out over
“talkin Merry Christmas”
I have never met Paul Wolfe but I’d like to
he has an uncanny sense of touch
as for Phil, I just cant keep up with him
an he’s gettin better an better an better
(spoke with someone who was with him in Hazzard
named Hamish Sinclair.. an englishman
of high virtues an common tongue)
I want t get over an see Phil’s baby
I’m told the girl came out yellin about
the bomb. good girl
my novel is going noplace
like it dont even tell a story
it’s about a million scenes long
an takes place on a billion scraps
of paper… certainly I cant make nothin out of
(oh I forgot.
hallelullah t you for puttin Brecht in your
same last issue. he should be as widely known as
Woody an should be as widely read as Mickey Spalline
an as widely listened to as Eisenhower.)
anyway I’m writin a play out of this here so called
novel (navel would be better I guess)
an I’m up to my belly button in it.
quite involved yes
I’ve discovered what the power of playwriting means
as opposed t song writing means
altho both are equal, I’m wrapped in playwriting
for the minute, my songs tell only about me an how
I feel but in the play all the characters tell how
they feel. I realize that his might be more confusin
for some but in the total reality of things it might
be much better for some too. I think at best you could
say that the characters will tell in an hour
what would take me, alone, two weeks t sing about
I shall get up t see you one of these days
just cause I haven’t in a while please dont think
I’m not with you. I am with you more’n ever.
yours perhaps is the only paper that I am on the
side of every single song you print
an I am with with with you
my nite is closin again now
an I shall drift off in dreams
an climb velvet carpets up t the stars
with newsweek magazines burnin an disappointin
people smoulderin and disgustin tongues blazin
an jealous mongrel dogs walkin on hot coals
before my smilin unharmful eyes
(oh such nitemares)
an I shall wake in the mornin an try t start
I got a letter from Pete an he closed by sayin
“take it easy but take it” I thought about that
for an hour or more when I reached my conclusion
of what it really meant I either cried or laughed
(I cant remember which) I will repeat the same an
add “give it easy but give it” an I’ll think about
that for an hour an at the end either cry or laugh
(I’ll write you another letter an tell you which
one it is)
all right then
shaloom an vamoose
I’m off agian
off t the hazzards an lost angels an minneapoilcemen
an boss towns an burnin hams an everything else
combined an combustioned for me…
tryin t remain sane at all times
love t agnes
she is one of the true talents of the universe
I’ve always thought that an would like t see her
again some time
love t everybody in your house
softly an sleepy
but ready an waitin
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged black, black and white, book, books, death, die, father, husband, kids, letter, life, live, love, mother, photographs, reading, retro, smile, stars, story, vintage, war, white, wife, word, words, writing on March 4, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
On May 1st of 2003, just weeks after being deployed to Iraq, Army Pfc. Jesse A. Givens, of Springfield, Missouri was killed when his tank fell into the Euphrates river. He was 34-years-old. Shortly after his death, the following farewell letter was delivered to his bereaved wife, Melissa, and his 6-year-old stepson, Dakota (“Toad”).
Melissa and Jesse’s unborn child, Carson (“Bean”), entered the world on the 29th of May, a few weeks after his father’s death.
Please only read if I don’t come home. Please put it away and hopefully you will never have to read it.
I never thought I would be writing a letter like this, I really don’t know where to start. I’ve been getting bad feelings though and well if you are reading this….
I am forever in debt to you, Dakota, and the Bean. I searched all my life for a dream and I found it in you. I would like to think that I made a positive difference in your lives. I will never be able to make up for the bad. I am so sorry. The happiest moments in my life all deal with my little family. I will always have with me the small moments we all shared. The moments when you quit taking life so serious and smiled. The sounds of a beautiful boy’s laughter or the simple nudge of a baby unborn. You will never know how complete you have made me. Each one of you. You saved me from loneliness and taught me how to think beyond myself. You taught me how to live and to love. You opened my eyes to a world I never dreamed existed. I am proud of you. Stay on the path you chose. Never lose sight of what is important again, you and our babies.
Dakota, you are more son than I could ever ask for. I can only hope I was half the dad. I used to be your “danny” but no matter what, it makes me proud that you chose me. You taught me how to care until it hurts, you taught me how to smile again. You taught me that life isn’t so serious and sometimes you have to play. You have a big, beautiful heart. Through life you need to keep it open and follow it. Never be afraid to be yourself. I will always be there in our park when you dream so we can still play. I hope someday you will have a son like mine. Make them smile and shine just like you. I love you Toad. I hope someday you will understand why I didn’t come home. Please be proud of me. Please don’t stop loving life. Take in every breath like it’s your first. I love you Toad. I will always be there with you. I’ll be in the sun, shadows, dreams, and joys of your life.
Bean, I never got to see you but I know in my heart you are beautiful. I know you will be strong and big-hearted just like your mom and brother. I will always have with me the feel of the soft nudges on your mom’s belly, and the joy I felt when we found out you were on your way. I dream of you every night, I will always. Don’t ever think that since I wasn’t around that I didn’t love you. You were conceived of love and I came to this terrible place for love. I love you as I do your mom and brother with all my heart and soul. Please understand that I had to be gone so that I could take care of my family. I love you Bean.
I have never been so blessed as the day I met Melissa Dawn Benfield. You are my angel, soulmate, wife, lover, and best friend. I am so sorry. I did not want to have to write this letter. There is so much more I need to say, so much more I need to share. A lifetime’s worth. I married you for a million lifetimes. That’s how long I will be with you. Please keep our babies safe. Please find it in your heart to forgive me for leaving you alone. Take care of yourself, believe in yourself, you are a strong, big hearted woman. Teach our babies to live life to its fullest, tell yourself to do the same. Don’t forget to take Toad to Disney World. I will be there with you. Melissa, I will always want you need you and love you in my heart, mind, and soul. Do me one favor, after you tuck Toad and Bean in, give them hugs and kisses from me. Go outside, look at the stars and count them. Don’t forget to smile.
On March 1st of 1968, Johnny Cash married June Carter. They remained together until her death 35 years later. Below are two notes, both written by Cash — the first to June in 1994 on the occasion of her 65th birthday, and the second shortly after her death in 2003.
Johnny Cash passed away two months later, four months after his wife.
June 23 1994
Happy Birthday Princess,
We get old and get used to each other. We think alike. We read each others minds. We know what the other wants without asking. Sometimes we irritate each other a little bit. Maybe sometimes take each other for granted.
But once in awhile, like today, I meditate on it and realize how lucky I am to share my life with the greatest woman I ever met. You still fascinate and inspire me. You influence me for the better. You’re the object of my desire, the #1 Earthly reason for my existence. I love you very much.
Happy Birthday Princess.
July 11 2003
I love June Carter, I do. Yes I do. I love June Carter I do. And she loves me.
But now she’s an angel and I’m not. Now she’s an angel and I’m not.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged America, black, black and white, letter, letters, money, president, quotes, reading, retro, Roosevelt, Sidney Poitier, vintage, white, words, world, writing on March 2, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
In January of 1943, 15-year-old Sidney Poitier left his poverty-stricken family in Nassau and headed for the United States, the “land of opportunity,” in search of a better life for himself and, ultimately, his loved ones. Months of low-paying jobs in Miami followed, and then countless nights sleeping rough as he slowly made his way to Harlem. Once there, still only 16 and unable to find a job to keep him afloat, he lied about his age and joined the U. S. Army, from which he was discharged after a year. Very quickly his money was gone and he was ready to give up. Desperate to return home but unable to scrape together enough money with which to buy a ticket, he wrote the following letter to President Roosevelt and asked for a loan.
Thankfully for Poitier, no reply came; he soon joined the American Negro Theater and slowly made an impression as an actor. In 1963, 18 years after writing to President Roosevelt, Sidney Poitier became the first black person to win a Best Actor Oscar, for his role as Homer Smith in Lilies of the Field.
Dear President Roosevelt,
My name is Sidney Poitier and I am here in the United States in New York City. I am from the Bahamas. I would like to go back to the Bahamas but I don’t have the money. I would like to borrow from you $100. I will send it back to you when I get to the Bahamas. I miss my mother and father and I miss my brothers and sisters and I miss my home in the Caribbean. I cannot seem to get myself organized properly here in America, especially in the cold weather, and I am therefore asking you as an American citizen if you will loan me $100 to get back home. I will send it back to you and I would certainly appreciate it very much.
Your fellow American,