Catholics get married inside

Unlit stained glass in pretty flower patterns

Pink and blue pastels for boys and girls

Curved and pointed panels, dark wood attic

Where dusk hands in sun shocks, hovering, watching

And grandma unfolds her tiny wedding dress

My wrists barely fit through ivory sleeves

(Her heavy, single great-aunt ironed it,

A wedding gift that hot fall day)

And my grandma's grandma, ovaries heavy

With wild, growing masses soon to bring

Death, the always too soon thing. Lord, keep mine.

"Where any set of men, scattered over distant nations, maintain a close society or communication together, they acquire a similitude of manners, and have but little in common with the nations amongst whom they live. Thus the Jews in Europe, and the Amenians in the east, have a peculiar character..." ~Hume



This afternoon, my roommates and I and another friend blew off our responsibilities and giggled, perused my favorite art gallery--the Freer/Sackler gallery, and listened to a man fiddle.


The art of Whistler and Dewing, in particular, evinces a highly romanticized view of women and art. And yet somehow, I always let it convince me. I may be the most feminist conservative I know. Nothing irks me more than a dig about women pregnant and barefoot. If this ever happens to me, I pray Aristotle will be in my hands while I'm stirring the stew. Perhaps the fear that my romantic picture is really unfinished in the corner, leading to an unraveling of all of my plans, is what motivates me. Perhaps it is my vague hope that I've chosen the right influences on me in my friendships, and that I'll continue to choose, or be blessed with, such influences. Perhaps I'd just like to enjoy this moment in the field, with my art, this moment with my kindred spirits in white dresses, without longing for something that isn't.

Love is a grace and love is concrete. The desire for an abstraction, and the grasping after that abstraction seems to be two dangerous roots. And yet wishing isn't wrong as far as I can tell (or see in Aristotle). This romantic dreaming seems to be a problem when it leads us away from the things of this world, and not when it leads us to them.

The Dark Night of the Soul

"On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings--oh, happy chance!-- I went forth without being observed, My house being now at rest."

As far as I can tell, no one seems to actually know what the dark night of the soul is (much like the jounalist tradition of ending with "That's 30" or "--30--"). This via negativa, which offers truth through the deprivation of sense, is a mystical and ellusive idea. Likely, there is a parallel between the dark night of the soul and the crucifixion of Christ--it is through the death of one's self that one moves toward true life.

In this first bit of the poem, we see, notably, a delight in being alone and at rest (as opposed to the typical human search for community and society). Especially when one is in love, he seeks at least friends, if not a lover. In this stanza, however, the narrator rejoices in night and isolation and peace.

Between a Yell and a Whisper

If I were to meet Carrie Bradshaw...

I would ask her to explore whether or not confrontation is effective. Is it just women opening their hearts to no purpose or is something important achieved?

I think that I confront rather passive-aggressively, like Carrie herself would probably do. I imagine that Charlotte would be a bit more bold because she would be more offended and just not take it. Miranda would be excessively abrasive, and I bet money that Samantha could pull off the sexy confrontation.

I was raised by a mother who insists that the less words one utters the better, and cites a Bible verse for it (I'm 90% sure that I drove her to this--my uncle euphemistically described me as a woman of many words). Isn't it just the appropriate amount of words that is ideal?

Deep down, I at least act like I think that confrontation is entirely pointless, except to give me a chance to vent. Do we do it selfishly to get what we want? Is it even possible to altruistically confront someone, caring more for the other person, or at least for the friendship, more than oneself?

Rant (first in an occassional series)

"There is only one thing that comes natural to a guy, and it's not that." With those words, a friend dispelled the myth that has plagued me. I thought that guys were aware of the don't-speak-to-women-about-other-women rule, particularly if there's been even one-sided affection in the past. And yet my male friends of all varieties persist in speaking with me about the women that they think are hot or are otherwise desirable.

Now it is one thing to tell me about someone that you are dating. Tell away. I'll meet her and try my best to like her. It is entirely another thing to write me off as a petty, irrational girl because, despite repeated and insistent expression of my frustration, you continue to ask me to introduce you to my friends. I don't want to play matchmaker. Get your own damn wife.