meme time

Because, frankly, nothing peps me up more when I'm in a depressed mood than having people comment on my LJ. Well, except actually talking to one of you all in person. Or some sushi. Or singing some peppy Bach. Or...ok, well, anyways, I love it when people comment all the same!

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don't speak often, please post a comment with a memory of you and me. It can be anything you want--good or bad. When you're finished, [feel free to] post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people remember about you.

I think it would be especially neat if people who have never met me in person posted a comment. ;)

poem

If you get the Inkberry newsletter, you'll have read this poem. But I wanted to share with everyone else, simply for the line "If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down" if for nothing else.

A BRIEF FOR THE DEFENSE

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

-- Jack Gilbert, from Refusing Heaven