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Sep. 22nd, 2004 06:59 amHappy birthday to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
matociquala!
matociquala!Sep. 22nd, 2004
Since today is September 22 . . .
Sep. 22nd, 2004 09:21 amThis seems appropriate:
To Autumn
John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
To Autumn
John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Wrote: 450 words. I started out trying to write more on words on a scene I already had and was blocked, blocked, blocked. In desperation, I decided to write something crazy. So I wrote a v. short scene where Jack and Solveig were having a design meeting on the ice palace, and Solveig couldn't come up with any ideas, and so Jack urged her to try to imagine she was building it out of something else entirely. He demonstrates by beginning to construct a model palace out of Krispy Kreme donuts.
Mood: Frustrated out of my mind. I picked up Victoria Nelson's On Writer's Block and paged through it while gnashing my teeth over this little scene.
Notes: I still don't know what the hell I'm doing. I seem to be incapable of constructing a simple declarative sentence. I don't think this will go into the book at all.
BTW: The girls came in and interrupted me five times while I was working on this.
Mood: Frustrated out of my mind. I picked up Victoria Nelson's On Writer's Block and paged through it while gnashing my teeth over this little scene.
Notes: I still don't know what the hell I'm doing. I seem to be incapable of constructing a simple declarative sentence. I don't think this will go into the book at all.
BTW: The girls came in and interrupted me five times while I was working on this.
Burning question in the back of my mind
Sep. 22nd, 2004 09:28 pmWhat if I never finish this book? What if I never write a book again?
(Do I have to give the necklace back?)
(Do I have to give the necklace back?)