slow and steady wins the race

Sometimes, it doesn't matter what place you finish...so long as you finish. Exhibit A: thesis.

try, really try

"...there are so many of us here on earth... too many of us for anyone to know us all... and there is a little eye on each of us... there is a little eye on every thing... we all have cares and worries... and every worry matters the same... i am trying to remember that worries are just thoughts... they can be changed into bunnies."

~owl in the dark

“Those who believe that the geological record is in any degree perfect, will undoubtedly at once reject the theory. For my part, following out Lyell’s metaphor, I look at the geological record as a history of the world imperfectly kept, and written in a changing dialect; of this history we possess the last volume alone, relating only to two or three countries. Of this volume, only here and there a short chapter has been preserved; and of each page, only here and there a few lines. Each word of the slowly-changing language, more or less different in the successive chapters, may represent the forms of life, which are entombed in our consecutive formations, and which falsely appear to have been abruptly introduced. On this view, the difficulties above discussed are greatly diminished, or even disappear.”
~Charles Darwin: The Origin of Species X.443

In light of the selected passage, I see how one could easily brush aside the theory of evolution as absurd and, for lack of a wittier pun, ungrounded. It is true that no geological pattern exhibits irrefutable proof that organisms have gradually morphed into variations of one another, nor that traces of linkage exist among seemingly divergent species. Anyone refuting the evolutional theory has grounds to do so; he need merely examine the ground directly below him. A fossilized and sedimentary timeline, like everything else, encourages interpretation. Although ridiculed, just as any conviction is, it is easy to listen to the positive reinforcement surrounding anti-evolutionist theories, because, after all, it is comforting to embrace the evidence at hand, to accept what is, and forget to question an unforeseeable question. I understand how one finds peace of mind in accepting the accepted “facts” of the here and now by disregarding the possibility that something more lies within a world which is now no more than an eroded memory. I, after all, once found comfort in it, myself. To disregard the theory of evolution, however, is more than accepting an alternate viewpoint; it is surrendering the capacity to imagine that the here and now, that immediate existence, is no more significant than alpha, omega, or the voids therein.

As much as I would prefer to dance around the clichéd issue of faith, I find it difficult to avoid approaching this matter of geological precision without doing so, seeing how it ultimately merges into both the theories of evolution and anti-evolution; specifically, I speak of the geological record which remains a controversial topic as well as the basis, literally and figuratively, of both views. As such, I pose this point to anyone who wishes to contradict the theory of evolution, or to simply branch out from his or her current perspective: Is faith in a perfect history of time so dissimilar from a faith based on gaps and lapses? My point here, regardless of my personal view, is to emphasize the fact that, as Darwin metaphorically acknowledges, “a history of the world imperfectly kept” is no easier to embrace than a world void of inconsistencies. To claim that evolutional theorists take the high road by staking their claims on the unseen, the voids which no geological record can accurately measure in the face of immeasurable time, is undermining a separate version of faith and miscomprehending the basis of evolution altogether. Proof is irrelevant because interpretation fabricates truth; whether something exists or not is not evidence at all, but grounds for interpretation. Neither existence nor inexistence equates with evidence, but merely serves as a means by which one lays the groundwork of his truth. The geological record, although rooted in theoretic controversy, lays the groundwork for a commonality among evolution and its counter-theories: faith, whether perfect or flawed, is not rooted in the substantial, but in the unseen.

a happy

http://polanoid.net/

"untitled"

Lykke Li - 'Untitled' from Lykke Li on Vimeo.

once again, she knows where my little mind has been.

anthem

Dog Days Are Over Florence + the Machine from The Milk Group on Vimeo.

Happiness hit her like a train on a track
Coming towards her stuck still no turning back
She hid around corners and she hid under beds
She killed it with kisses and from it she fled
With every bubble she sank with her drink
And washed it away down the kitchen sink

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your longing behind
You cant carry it with you if you want to survive

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
Because here they come

And I never wanted anything from you
Except everything you had and what was left after that too, oh
Happiness hit her like a bullet in the head
Struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
Because here they come

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your loving, your loving behind
You cant carry it with you if you want to survive

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
Because here they come

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run

revolutionary

backgammon

i only thought it was intense. and then...i read this.

http://www.chicagopoint.com/bgdoubling.html
doubling...who knew?

http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2009/05/06/sylvia-plath-anne-sexton-the-art-the-artists-of-self-destruction-no-1/

triptych

This poem is thrice

told. It exhales

a story of ghosts,

her countenance and

keys. These are framed,

threefold. As we

watch it, this poem

makes us prey.

It impregnates our peripheral

sight. To see her

entirely we must

look at the picture

as one. A lady

splintered, our primary

focus. Thrice the eye,

twice removed. Thrice

her kneejerk hair. Thrice

the concentric Underwood

circles. Each division,

a longitude rubbing her

cotton underbelly blur

on cold-rolled steel,

whiplash prances slightly

on some triptych turquoise.

The first breath

is the cat's cradle

* * * * * * * * * *

swathed in her

butterfly drift. The rippling

pawprint is proof

that she carries over

to the second

and third frames and

so on and

so forth. Now look.

She has moved

us into the second

breath, just likethat.

We crane to see

her seafoam iris.

There might swim mermaids

in that jade.

We will never see

that half again.

The margin has left

us this singular

storm, this cycloptic green.

We should note

her hair is still

split-end cursive,

wringing her powdered neck.

This is important.

Note the solar flare,

the fine-spun

* * * * * * * * * *

copper coiling. These are

extensions of her

lashes. The same faerie

rings. The same

pale moons set

the frame's right hand.

She looks just

like before, except this

time, she loses

certain symmetries. And so

she moves out

of sight, to outskirts.

This is her

final breath and frame.

We watch keys

dancing in her stead.

She might be

on the other side,

behind the vertical.

She might be watching

those crescent pirouettes.

We spy her repercussion,

believing that once,

only a breath ago,

we could measure

her life in frames

and triptych echoes.

dinah

Dinah found me on my blue-greyest day. She hopped her way up to my doorstep and we've loved eachother ever since. We decided early on that we'd both be much better off with the other to cuddle. So we soldified our best friendship over catfood and coffee and haven't had a cat fight a day in our lives. She's my little sweetness.

Sylvia

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zexu2SMUIdU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_B3ZJ8MyIGM&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVlwqh0M80I&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=giQfsZNq4XA&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6KydHrU_WE&feature=related http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDUnFFjOU7c&feature=related

Underwood 5

note to Self: buy more ribbon.
http://www.typewritermuseum.org/collection/index.php3?machine=underwood5&cat=kf

floorboard wars

Peter Pan - You Can Fly, You Can Fly, You Can Fly

maxim

Was it playing when
curiosity killed the cat?
I must know. How
and why? Was it,

perhaps, the cat was

black, bad luck? Licking

old age? Was it

preying? Dying to know

where cat ghosts go

once they die life

number 9? Ate seven

mice and paid? Dearly

beloved we are gathered

here today to remember

the cat. Was it

crossing the road to

get to the other

side? Did it cross

a chicken on its

way out? Inside? Down

under? Where was it

when curiosity killed it?

I wonder soemtimes. And

I get caught up

in the wrapping and

forget about the present.

I wonder. Was it

out of its mind?

In good company? Maybe

over the hill? Beyond

the mountain seeing what

it could see? But

all that it could

see was the other

side of the...what?

What did it see?

A sea shell? A

sea shore? Did it

drown at sea? Swallow

its pride? For whom?

Did it give a

damn? Did it give

two? Have a heart

attack when curiosity struck?

Did it finish its

supper, the last meal?

Was it dead meat?

Did it regret being

at the wrong place

at the wrong time?

Or was it right?

Was time like it

is now? Was it

alone? Starving for attention?

Or did it love

the spotlight? Was it

ruthless, maybe a glutton

for punishment? Was it

a pet? With a name?

Like mine? Was it

already one foot in

the grave? Was it

arching its back? Breaking

dawn with yellow eyes?

I wonder, was it

the cat who wondered,

in so much wondering,

was it worth it?

book hunting and gathering

That's right...it's a1907 edition of none other than Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. I salvaged it out of a rotting (not to be confused with rotten) barn. It was stashed in one of the many book cemeteries I've found 'round about Cookeville's outskirts.

if the shoe fits

This is not my window sill, nor my pretty laces all in a row, nor my sweet cubby corner. But the shoes might fit...

a good man is hard to find...

...a good gnome is not.

ghost writing

I've lost track of how many letters I've written to never send. Written, truly. Chickenscratched, sealed with a kiss, marked with a C...the works. How many batches of trifolds and manilla have I shyed away, used as bookmarks or airplanes? Surely not enough to say what I meant when our mouths said under one roof. I write him every day, everything, nothing to send.

quite contrary

There's just something about silver bells and cockle shells and pretty jars all in row...

a crafty

I haven't figured out why I enjoy dolling up playing cards just yet. I don't even know how to play many card games. Rook isn't half bad, I guess. I avoid Go Fish when I can. War...what is it good for? But I s'pose that, even if you're not playing with a full deck or seem on the verge of folding, you can make something pretty with whatever you're holding onto. Then again...I'm no Maverick.

a boatful of littles

a little boat best fits a little row. a little tent best fits a little low. and our little dreams best a fit a little go.

dustbunnies

I like cleaning out my closet and untangling the little laces that collect along the floorboards. They remind me of me. I pick them up, tidy their frowny Selves and say, "Look little lady, you shine up like a new penny." Few things are prettier than a thoughtfully tucked closet space. It's a cubby corner that no one but yourself really needs to know about (or even look at for that matter). I think that's what makes it so pretty, really. You open the door and- ta-da!- a little cloth garden in full bloom! Each morning, just for you. When it comes right down to it, this is what I think matters: it's the cubbies that we could abandon (all the dustbugs we could squash and sweep hurridly under the rug, because they'll go unseen anyway). It's the long list of coulds that we could easily take, but choose to make lovely...to, instead, make our quiet, shadowed gardens. It's having something that might not even seem worth picking up and dusting off and pinning back up to bright eye level...but doing it anyway. Because you can. And no one else will or wants to. It's the people who do, depsite all the coulds. And it's certainly not easy. Some mornings, I wake up feeling like a long-lost, cobwebby sock. It's easy to sniffle and say, "Who will ever think to look for me down here?!" Those are the sorts of days that it's easy to throw a pity party of one. But how silly! People aren't socks, nor long-lost. People are people, of course. Perhaps we get shortly lost or mildly lost or terribly, scarily lost...but long lost is such a long time and too long a time to find yourself unfound if you can help it. And you can help it. Or someone can help you, if need be. People can pull themselves (or eachother) together much easier than any poor, pitiful, lost sock. And once you collect your pretty or handsome Self (which you must-must-must), you might be very pleased to see that, you too, shine up like a new penny. And then, you might just find that the sweetest way to spend your morning, afternoon, evening or goodnight is to put on a little tea pot, short and stout, hop to the bedroom, and clean the closet out. Perhaps you can then give the sock a helping hand (or foot).

jackets

Few little sweetnesses make me happier than my books. They're darling creatures. Of course, some of their tiny faces are plain like mine or wear too-tattered dresses or trousers. But books don't judge us, nor should we them. They never ask a lady to powder her face or coif her hair before building couch cocoons or readying tea kettles. They never tell a gentleman he's too un-dapper to peruse the prose. No, ma'am (or sir)! Books simply let the simples be. No muss, nor fuss. I've found no pleasanter company than that of dustbunnied paperbacks. But my library get dreadfully cold in the wintertime; and though my papery menagerie hibernates there contentedly, I think their spines must surely sh-sh-sh-shiver (though I've never heard them complain. So patient!). What a perfect opportunity to make little winter coats for my friends...some thicker covers for their paper thins. It's the least I can do. I think I'll start with the A's...Alice, perhaps.