Rhythms
After church on Sunday we were walking home and I was daydreaming and looking up at the sky. It was like the smoothest piece of blue canvas with candy floss clouds scattered randomly across it and I exclaimed, "The sky is so nice!" To my surprise, no one looked upwards but they all turned their heads and Susana said, "Is it this guy?" and some of them attempted to wave at a random guy who was walking past us at that moment. It turned out that they'd all heard, "This guy is so nice!"
So obviously have to work on my pronunciation!
These past few days have been packed and they're flying by so quickly that I'm afraid the time will come soon that I have to pack my bags and leave for the summer. The weather's getting warmer and I'm afraid spring will come soon and everything will start to grow and change. Not that I don't want spring to come; I just know that every day that passes by in a wink hastens the day when I'll have to go back and tear up all the little rootlets I've planted in Leeds over the last three years.
I went with Katie to Strawberry Fields yesterday for a "poetry slam". I'm not too sure what they called it; but some of our coursemates from philosophy last year organised it. They gather once every few weeks to read their poetry aloud to each other. Not lovely, romantic poetry; but poetry quite real and blunt and reflective, and crude, at times. Didn't know what to expect when we were going, but it turned out that we were so absorbed in listening to the poems that we quite forgot ourselves and I had a great time.
One of the women, a frank, humorous, drily self-deprecating woman recited the best poems of the night, I thought. One of the poems was about being mediocre at everything, and I thought it was so funny, and real, and honest! Another of the poems had the loveliest line which I've forgotten already - think it was something like "running my fingers over his perfect ribcage" - am not very helpful, am I?
So this got me to thinking about the state of my writing, and how I need to start being more observant and jotting down my thoughts - photocopied some of my notes today and noticed how one of the guys in front was organising his notes on a little table. From time to time one of the sheets would flutter down to the ground with a curious rhythm, falling and then sweeping back up again and falling again in the briefest of seconds, and he would respond a second too late also mimicking the rhythm of the paper falling, and I thought it was peculiarly poetic. Life is made up of beats - the little breaks between which we do things, the pauses between conversations, irregular tap-taps of our eyelids and the flicking of our heads, sometimes, to look at whither and whom; the silences and the rhythms of our actions sometimes say more than doing ever could.
Better get back to proper work - The Geophysics and Astrophysics of Fluids calls.
So obviously have to work on my pronunciation!
These past few days have been packed and they're flying by so quickly that I'm afraid the time will come soon that I have to pack my bags and leave for the summer. The weather's getting warmer and I'm afraid spring will come soon and everything will start to grow and change. Not that I don't want spring to come; I just know that every day that passes by in a wink hastens the day when I'll have to go back and tear up all the little rootlets I've planted in Leeds over the last three years.
I went with Katie to Strawberry Fields yesterday for a "poetry slam". I'm not too sure what they called it; but some of our coursemates from philosophy last year organised it. They gather once every few weeks to read their poetry aloud to each other. Not lovely, romantic poetry; but poetry quite real and blunt and reflective, and crude, at times. Didn't know what to expect when we were going, but it turned out that we were so absorbed in listening to the poems that we quite forgot ourselves and I had a great time.
One of the women, a frank, humorous, drily self-deprecating woman recited the best poems of the night, I thought. One of the poems was about being mediocre at everything, and I thought it was so funny, and real, and honest! Another of the poems had the loveliest line which I've forgotten already - think it was something like "running my fingers over his perfect ribcage" - am not very helpful, am I?
So this got me to thinking about the state of my writing, and how I need to start being more observant and jotting down my thoughts - photocopied some of my notes today and noticed how one of the guys in front was organising his notes on a little table. From time to time one of the sheets would flutter down to the ground with a curious rhythm, falling and then sweeping back up again and falling again in the briefest of seconds, and he would respond a second too late also mimicking the rhythm of the paper falling, and I thought it was peculiarly poetic. Life is made up of beats - the little breaks between which we do things, the pauses between conversations, irregular tap-taps of our eyelids and the flicking of our heads, sometimes, to look at whither and whom; the silences and the rhythms of our actions sometimes say more than doing ever could.
Better get back to proper work - The Geophysics and Astrophysics of Fluids calls.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home