Thursday, 27 December 2012

Moonshine soon - werewolf alert.

It's the full moon tomorrow.  
Whether you believe in astrology or not, full moons should be respected and acknowledged.  
 If you can't sleep, just go with it. 
As LeAnn Rimes said, Can't fight the moonlight.

The police and those in the health profession attest to higher number of incidents that occur under the full moon and there is an increase in epileptic seizures that still can not be explained.

This might also explain why I had an urge to read poetry.  The full moon and the fact that I am so busy right now to read a hunk of a novel with a nice moral of the story at the end of it. I wanted instant literary gratification.  
Emily Dickinson scratched that itch.  
She is so hardcore in every which way.  
So much so, that I can not believe there has yet not been whole fashion collections by Yohji Yamamoto or Ann Demeulemeester ( I had to spell check that, ain't gonna lie ) dedicated to her sense of asexual, militant, rural, ascetic aesthetic.

Ascetic aesthetic could really catch on if we gave it a chance people.

I do not understand what she is going on about half the time but she must have been the Jerry Springer version of her time because you read some of her stuff and you think,   "Hmmm, actually life is pretty okay compared to whatever she is going through. "

I thought I was having a rough day...

Considering we are all so busy, I am surprised we all don't read more poetry.  Sometimes there is a message after just a few lines.  Instant gratification.  So if you don't have time to read a Russian novel,  just go on 

As I am in London in wintertime, I thought this rather apt.

Winter is good - his Hoar Delights (1316)

by Emily Dickinson

Winter is good - his Hoar Delights
Italic flavor yield -
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World - 

Generic as a Quarry
And hearty - as a Rose - 
Invited with asperity
But welcome when he goes.

To be honest,  I still don't really get it and had to look up Hoar which means ice crystals with a white deposit. I just politely nodded and clicked on another one. 

Luck is not chance (1350)

by Emily Dickinson

Luck is not chance—
It's Toil—
Fortune's expensive smile
Is earned—
The Father of the Mine
Is that old-fashioned Coin
We spurned—
Short and sweet, no?
(Still don't fully get it but hey, don't you feel like you have done something useful? )

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