From Eliot: "You are not here to justify ... you are here to kneel." From Williams: "They enter the new world naked, / cold, uncertain of all / save that they enter." From The Princess Bride: "Life is pain .... Anyone who says differently is selling something." From Crane, "'If I am going to be drowned--if I am going to be drowned--if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees?'"

And words, just words! Palimpsest, plump, erudite, immolate, drowsy-blousy-lousy ....

So I don't have a favorite quote. I have lines and words, I have owls and pussycats in pea green boats, volcanic ash trays, hardwood floors, hollow men, order at key west, sandwiches, and this poem by Dylan Thomas. I hope it's enough.

The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
By Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

The novel is centered around a group of friends going through a small liberal arts school in Minnesota (based on Carleton College). There is a queen of fairy, and Janet Carter does save Tam Lin, but that’s outside the real story of Janet discovering friendship, love, heartache, and a little about literature. It made me ache for a college experience that I, going to a large state university, wasn’t going to have. It also helped me recognize the moments of magic and camaraderie of the first year, such as the quiet, shaded courtyard behind the Information Science Building and the labyrinthine stacks in the basement of the ISB, of the ghosts that haunt Bruce Hall and the cold nights at the observatory outside of town.

Tam Lin is about that magic we discover when we think we’ve outgrown the fairies and elves hiding in the garden, that magic that accompanies new experiences, new friends, and opening worlds. Pamela Dean captures the magic of these transition moments so well, not just in Tam Lin but in Juniper, Gentian, and Rosemary, which explores that first, all-consuming love, and how easy it is to lose yourself--again with the thread of magic weaving through.

We began trying to get pregnant when Audrey was two years old. It's been almost seven years, and I guess we're still trying. We've had the tests, and nothing particular is amiss. Regardless, I've found that I can't watch Buffy anymore. Like U2's October is inextricably tied to seventh grade and repeated readings of Dune (sigh), Buffy is so tied up in those months of pregnancy and new motherhood that I can't enjoy it. Beyond that, it's sometimes painful to watch.

Luckily, I didn't watch Angel until well after all that, so I can still enjoy visits to the Buffy-verse periphery. But Buffy belongs to that time, and I can't go back.

Also, this is an old installation of MovableType, and I need to upgrade the authentication on the comments, as I've been overrun with spam. So, assuming anyone wants to comment, I'll try to get that less ponderous.

So, a favorite movie. I do have a handful of movies that I will watch again and again, all for different reasons. One of my favorite movies to watch with my classes is The Royal Tenenbaums. It is such a storybook movie that it is a great model for character analysis. Plus, Richie reminds me of Hal Incandenza, what with the tennis, as well as his sadness, seeking, confusion, and desire. The little revelations and moments of redemption are contrived but still beautiful.

My perceptions and sympathies with the characters have changed over time. While once I felt every moment of Richie’s pain and longing, I now find myself completely caught up in Chas’s paralysis. It is toward his sad, desperate eyes I look. Indeed, my favorite moment in the film is when, after Royal buys the dalmatian dog to replace the late Buckley, Chas says simply, tearfully, “I’ve had a rough year, Dad.”

I don't know if The Royal Tenenbaums is a classic or a "good" film. All I know is that after many repeated viewings, i still find something new every time I watch it.

The first time I heard Iron and Wine's "Belated Promise Ring," it reminded me of late spring, after the time changes, but before the day stretches so long, when the evening still brings cooler temperatures. It reminded me of friends and laughter and front porches. It recalled long walks, cheap beer, cigarettes, and sun through leaves.

I have always judged songs by whether they would wear well on a road trip. This one wants two lane highways and open windows.

Over the next 30 days, I will write something each day. Here’s the list, borrowed/stolen from a site I ran across. I like her writing, and I like the premise. So here goes.

30 Days, 30 Topics.

Day 01 — A favorite song
Day 02 — A favorite movie
Day 03 — A favorite TV show
Day 04 — A favorite book
Day 05 — A favorite quote
Day 06 — A fun fact about me
Day 07 — A favorite photo
Day 08 — Something I crave
Day 09 — Pet peeves
Day 10 — A photo of me taken over ten years ago
Day 11 — A photo of me taken recently
Day 12 — Something I bought recently
Day 13 — Something I want to buy
Day 14 — An old photo
Day 15 — My celebrity crush
Day 16 — A favorite food
Day 17 — A photo of my family
Day 18 — A baby photo
Day 19 — A fun memory
Day 20 — A hobby of mine
Day 21 — A favorite recipe
Day 22 — A favorite joke
Day 23 — A video
Day 24 — A travel story
Day 25 — A favorite photo
Day 26 — A funny (true) story
Day 27 — A child I love
Day 28 — A place I love
Day 29 — A person I love
Day 30 — Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days

This house with the boarded windows was nothing, no special destination. It might not have even been the correct house. But Marty had driven for four hours through a Texas summer afternoon and this street, with its parched lawns and overgrown, underwatered trees, houses and pavement the same non-color of dust, looked right enough.

His left hand moved up, his lips kissed the filter end of the Camel, and Marty closed his eyes, no longer looking. In his right hand, he clutched a letter, pages creased from pocket carrying and stained from opening and closing. His left hand floated away, then, empty. The Camel between his lips, Marty raised the greasy folds of the letter to the Camel and held it, waiting for the orange glow to spread, the edges of the paper to crawl away in that black retreat. He walked forward then, and the pool of gasoline at the edge of the front walk mirrored him dark and broken as he dropped the burning letter, his left hand unloading the Camel at the same time.

Marty didn’t move at the small explosion at his feet but turned away as the fire moved toward the house. He put the gasoline can in the trunk of the Falcon and folded himself in the front seat. The tires churned quiet dust as the first curtained window blinked open. ]]> tag:www.septemberist.com,2008://1.284 2008-04-28T04:33:22Z 2011-02-15T06:05:36Z

Six months had passed two times, and still the water kept pouring in over her. She could hear the whispers of her friends, Thank God there are no children to think of. Thank God, indeed, she echoed, not even closing her eyes anymore as she submerged.

Thea lived on the first floor of a two-story house. Upstairs were three bedrooms, two with doors open. In one was a jumble of boxes half-unpacked, books and photos and notebooks flowing in a stream of dust at sunset when the sun’s last rays flickered through the prism of warped glass and cracked shade. Another door exposed a bed unmade, covers caught wrinkled in the midst of a floe. An alluvium of clothes and shoes littered the edges of the still mattress pond.

The third door remained closed.

Thea would stand at the sink in the kitchen, eyes staring unseeing out the window, deafened by the rush of the tap water. Each day, she dirtied one bowl, one spoon, one plate, one fork, and one glass and washed them all each evening in the kitchen sink, rinsing each far longer than necessary. When the dishes were cleaned and rinsed, Thea placed them on the counter, spoon in bowl, fork on plate, glass next to plate.

When the sun had truly sunk and all color had drained from the sky, she turned out the light in the kitchen and moved to the sofa in the living room. Somewhere between the kitchen and the couch, two talismans appeared in Thea’s hands. In her right hand, she carried a man’s watch, heavy and silver and silent. In her left hand was something small. The main of it was clenched tightly in her fist, invisible, but if a car drove by on the street outside, its guide lights might illuminate something pale blue between her fingers. A ribbon, perhaps, tied to a small silver charm, perhaps.

Thank God there are no children to think of. Thank God, indeed. She no longer fought to breathe when she submerged.

When we were very young, we had cane poles with line, bobbers, and hooks, and not much else. Later, we would all have cheap reels and a tackle box, but that wasn't until at least one of us, probably Matt, was judged responsible enough for a fishing knife.

Fortified with our slimy bait and cane poles, we would tramp through the pasture to the ponds Grandpa had the county dig when they mined the shale. Most of the ponds were seeded with perch or catfish, and we could fish from those all we wanted. Further back were two bass ponds that we could only fish in with Grandpa's permission. Of course, generally only Matt, being the only grandson at the time, was invited to fish the bass ponds. Stacey, the de facto grandson when Matt and I were back home in the suburbs, often fished back there. But not when the true grandson was around.

Instead, we'd fish the perch ponds with our baloney and American cheese and give Matt hell for being Grandpa's favorite. Of course, later, Matt would go into town with Grandpa to get an ice cream cone and watch him play cards while we burned our bare feet on the hot shale road walking over to Grandma Marie's for ice tea and store brand sandwich cookies.

She sits on the edge of the bed, bare feet reaching for the vibration through the worn plank floor. Her fingertips just rest on the window glass, feeling there the motion too slight for the floor to relate. She curls her toes, flattens them.

From the front room, she can hear the whir of the mantle clock preparing to strike the hour or quarter hour. She doesn’t know, doesn’t need to know. Of what use was clock time? She strains to hear through the walls to her grandmother’s room. Would she wake?

There. Her feet begin to tickle from the slight movement of the floor. Slowly, she rises from the bed, wincing at the moan of the bedsprings and at the stretching of the new scabs on her chest and belly. She was too old to be climbing pecan trees, especially with no shirt on. And why she couldn’t climb down the same way she climbed up was some mystery, anyway. But that was how she had always climbed, how he had taught her.

The window glass rattles as she moves barefoot silent toward the doorway, down the hallway. Clock chimes conspire with the girl as she pushes past the squealing hinge of the screen door and onto the crumbling concrete porch. Out here, she can’t feel the earth vibrate, but she doesn’t need to. Already, a faint grumbling can be heard in the evening sounds of the small mill town.

The girl steps to the edge of the porch, her hand grasping the metal column, ignoring the ants that travel across her fingers. She hears his voice, Not yet, feels him pulling back on her t-shirt, holding her back.

If we go too soon, someone will just stop us, tell us to stand back.

So instead of running, she walks, down the steps and the grass-grown walk way to the sidewalk. She turns, looks back to the window of her grandmother’s room, to the screen door.

The air is no longer grumbling but beginning to shout. The leaves shudder as the girl walks, more quickly now, hands balled into fists at her side. She won’t run. A dove coos—no, it is an owl—no, a dog howling. It is the horn.

The girl begins to run, the slap of her feet against the pavement inaudible now. He is running beside her, urging her onward. He used to be faster, his longer legs pulling him ahead.

Longer and louder, the horn races the girl to the crossing. A shriek of pain tears through the arch of her foot as she runs over the dusty glass of a broken bottle, but it is overpowered by the horn, the thunder of wheels against rails. Faster, she sprints off the cracked pavement onto the gravel at the edge of the rails.

He has pulled ahead, as always. One, two, three steps ahead, his foot finding the chunk of pavement knocked by time and weather from the street to the gravel, wedged into the thirsty dirt by some forgotten rain storm. He stumbles, pitching forward. She pushes herself against the roar to him, reaching out to grab his shirt, to pull him back.

The girl’s fingers grasp only dust, close over only air as her screams are lost in the wake of the train.