tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37616635690149320952024-03-05T20:47:15.109-05:00NOELIA'S READSliterature has gifted me the opportunity to process, understand & appreciate this life <br>& my inner world. here: my favorite words, sentences, stories. Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.comBlogger339125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-89739313703325513992024-01-25T14:49:00.004-05:002024-01-25T14:49:58.390-05:00What remained were documents and my memories, and now it was up to me to make sense of myself.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLf6q97bnW7iCLpDpUsg4ht3YWE2tFZ5u3j0TzGFZNYsa9TZEukt6bcoLe4-6WMuPserL1EKMYH1EWP6DoiDIJStb6IqmS0SoEBzvYmgLWEEUApKUxgf7IlzC8ViKschyphenhyphenZXMk5zGLX4oXzYp-JaAZN2EO2eLkeN7FCihQaLKAJqHjgPFuxk_aodpUg3X3K/s4032/IMG_8407.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLf6q97bnW7iCLpDpUsg4ht3YWE2tFZ5u3j0TzGFZNYsa9TZEukt6bcoLe4-6WMuPserL1EKMYH1EWP6DoiDIJStb6IqmS0SoEBzvYmgLWEEUApKUxgf7IlzC8ViKschyphenhyphenZXMk5zGLX4oXzYp-JaAZN2EO2eLkeN7FCihQaLKAJqHjgPFuxk_aodpUg3X3K/w300-h400/IMG_8407.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">wild, sweet child</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>Crying in H Mart<div>By Michelle Zauner</div><div><br /></div><div>I've spent the first weeks of the new year loving on myself, nurturing all parts, including the parts I find hard to accept and/or want to change (think less rose woman, more thorn). Repeating "I forgive myself" over and over for what's found in the abyss.</div><div><br /></div><div>My 2023 reflections are a jumble of words and phrases building in a note, waiting to be organized into coherent sentences, and in an ideal world I'd share them soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spent the holidays in Houston immersed in lots of quiet, in familiar love and also in the discomfort of feeling out of place in a space that's been my go-to for 10 years. Reclaiming objects and mementos that are mine for safekeeping, and leaving behind something intangible. Thinking about what happens when home shifts. When I shift. How I've grown immensely and how sometimes that means widening a gap. Feeling some guilt and sadness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Going through old photos, I experienced pangs, but what was hurting me? The love lost that existed in the taking of the photographs? The little girl in the photos, so spunky and radiant (who I am trying to get back to)? Saying goodbye to a "home"? Probably all of the above. And yesterday I remembered I went through <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2014/05/the-ocean-at-the-end-of-the-lane-neil-gaiman.html" target="_blank">this exercise</a> nearly 10 years ago when I was moving out on my own for the first time. But now I have a decade's worth of layered memories and losses to compound the ache.</div><div><br /></div><div>I read "Crying in H Mart" in the fall. She was so honest and flawed and brave. I knew Michelle Zauner as Japanese Breakfast first, and I played "Paprika" during my <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2023/01/happy-new-year-2023.html" target="_blank">33rd birthday photoshoot</a> to feel more dreamy. I saw her perform at Radio City on October 4, where she announced she would be moving to Korea for 2024. I love that her journey has culminated to her current reality, despite a devastating loss. I'm so stoked for her year and the subsequent second book.</div><div><div style="text-align: left;">--- </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She was my champion, she was my archive. She had taken the utmost care to preserve the evidence of my existence and growth, capturing me in images, saving all my documents and possessions. She had all knowledge of my being memorized. The time I was born, my unborn cravings, the first book I read. The formation of every characteristic. Every ailment and little victory. She observed me with unparalleled interest, inexhaustible devotion.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Now that she was gone, there was no one left to ask about these things. The knowledge left unrecorded died with her. What remained were documents and my memories, and now it was up to me to make sense of myself, aided by the signs she left behind. How cyclical and bittersweet for a child to retrace the image of their mother. For a subject to turn back to document their archivist. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I had thought fermentation was controlled death. Left alone, a head of cabbage molds and decomposes. It becomes rotten, inedible. But when brined and stored, the course of its decay is altered. Sugars are broken down to produce lactic acid, which protects it from spoiling. Carbon dioxide is released and the brine acidifies. It ages. Its color and texture transmute. Its flavor becomes tarter, more pungent. It exists in time and transforms. So it is not quite controlled death, because it enjoys a new life altogether. </div><div style="text-align: left;">The memories I had stored, I could not let fester. Could not let trauma infiltrate and spread, to spoil and render them useless. They were moments to be tended. The culture we shared was active, effervescent in my gut and in my genes, and I had to seize it, foster it so it did not die in me. So that I could pass it on someday. The lessons she imparted, the proof of her life lived on in me, in my every move and deed. I was what she left behind. If I could not be with my mother, I would be her.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(pp. 223-4, "Kimchi Fridge")</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>
<iframe allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="352" loading="lazy" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/3zyqphgXvgHe436IMKeey3?utm_source=generator" style="border-radius: 12px;" width="100%"></iframe><div><br /></div><i>
Lucidity came slowly </i><div><i>I awoke from dreams of untying a great knot </i></div><div><i>It unraveled like a braid
Into what seemed were </i></div><div><i>Thousands of separate strands of fishing line </i></div><div><i>Attached to coarse behavior it flowed </i></div><div><i>A calm it urged, what else is here? </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>How's it feel to be at the center of magic </i></div><div><i>To linger in tones and words? </i></div><div><i>I opened the floodgates </i></div><div><i>And found no water, no current, no river, no rush </i></div><div><i>How's it feel to stand at the height of your powers </i></div><div><i>To captivate every heart? </i></div><div><i>Projecting your visions to strangers who feel it </i></div><div><i>Who listen, who linger on every word </i></div><div><i>Oh, it's a rush </i></div><div><i>Oh, it's a rush </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>But alone it feels like dying </i></div><div><i>All alone I feel so much</i></div><div><i>I want my offering to woo, to calm, to clear, to solve </i></div><div><i>But the only offering that comes </i></div><div><i>It calls, it screams, there's nothing here </i></div><div><i>How's it feel to be at the center of magic </i></div><div><i>To linger in tones and words? </i></div><div><i>I opened the floodgates </i></div><div><i>And found no water, no current, no river, no rush </i></div><div><i>How's it feel to stand at the height of your powers </i></div><div><i>To captivate every heart? </i></div><div><i>Projecting your visions to strangers who feel it </i></div><div><i>Who listen, who linger on every word </i></div><div><i>Oh, it's a rush </i></div><div><i>Oh, it's a rush</i></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0New York, NY, USA40.7127753 -74.0059728-5.4492937609216128 145.3690272 86.8748443609216 66.6190272tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-76595947017596483812023-12-22T21:56:00.010-05:002024-01-11T17:18:04.824-05:00I want to be a rose woman.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiI0IBluDOBr4LyXVcBB3E2oiZw1o-LI3IaZZg8L6rbkyfrISFkrTK3_BbYDralnmOZO7nOJh9lLMZj6x_eYfmoedyTz-UI7_UQvNPTZVuCCvp6in1vdT7FyZyl1VLgFpYzIX1H3j0jnOQUJIc7kO9QU60GrKYS-OsjYaKXGACeTIkJ64IZ6de9N8YuCnf/s4031/IMG_6239.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2853" data-original-width="4031" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiI0IBluDOBr4LyXVcBB3E2oiZw1o-LI3IaZZg8L6rbkyfrISFkrTK3_BbYDralnmOZO7nOJh9lLMZj6x_eYfmoedyTz-UI7_UQvNPTZVuCCvp6in1vdT7FyZyl1VLgFpYzIX1H3j0jnOQUJIc7kO9QU60GrKYS-OsjYaKXGACeTIkJ64IZ6de9N8YuCnf/s320/IMG_6239.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Grimoire Girl</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Hilarie Burton Morgan</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Towards the end of the summer, I found the most delicious, luscious, fragrant pink roses. I have been searching for roses as fragrant since to no avail. In an unexpected turn of events, I discovered the same potent fragrance today...via a Yankee Candle in a Houston, TX mall. It'll do for now. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In searching for photos of the original bouquet, I remembered my friend gave me Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's "Con Un Sogno in Testa" (which I have yet to read but can't wait to) and this excerpt from Hilarie Burton Morgan's "Grimoire Girl," whose magic spells and stories I devoured on a recent trip to the Dominican Republic. In it, she describes cutting roses from her garden and discovering a dying bee in one—admiring the flower like the Little Prince did his rose till its death—while she reflected on passing of her dear friend, life cycles, being your softest self.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBD8ELkF9vcjmr3zuB-qqZfrLu5RB2AXb-WElc8Zgg7aiUF8a-oynLH_dB2fhaqm9xp7__c5nz8Jegi5qVvvztKGOXIY6s35vxyXO1US75p2SXGm23lk3E-UQIWaOyltjKNuTFV1sYIJXMVnMzdh43FSQCCWpSTBw6-i5gQF1LPLWT9pB7LRU9qLbqZyMR/s3843/IMG_8051.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3843" data-original-width="2976" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBD8ELkF9vcjmr3zuB-qqZfrLu5RB2AXb-WElc8Zgg7aiUF8a-oynLH_dB2fhaqm9xp7__c5nz8Jegi5qVvvztKGOXIY6s35vxyXO1US75p2SXGm23lk3E-UQIWaOyltjKNuTFV1sYIJXMVnMzdh43FSQCCWpSTBw6-i5gQF1LPLWT9pB7LRU9qLbqZyMR/s320/IMG_8051.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1RBCzJbfI7j6UvSnhyphenhyphenwVVHWYHqzR5_4rCTUE0DnqwmjnNx17JdoTF5_aeZTzzlpcUy7dhZfjW93iepKuIc6Jf2zrwaY89woHjBjDoSSDZJMbmZWIQgFLG4khh1ivL008x1aaCBc78JUijYOo2MgSB137m4-R4dsCtSj0ARoJ7iV-mLHSNVreNg0KTicd/s4032/IMG_6257.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1RBCzJbfI7j6UvSnhyphenhyphenwVVHWYHqzR5_4rCTUE0DnqwmjnNx17JdoTF5_aeZTzzlpcUy7dhZfjW93iepKuIc6Jf2zrwaY89woHjBjDoSSDZJMbmZWIQgFLG4khh1ivL008x1aaCBc78JUijYOo2MgSB137m4-R4dsCtSj0ARoJ7iV-mLHSNVreNg0KTicd/s320/IMG_6257.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyygS2f0iZ1aW2KJl4wnkAIP-aSmzv7caCvl_1hLYa2MV_TqWy6OCYlIF-tVJMNgrz160nbf235vx701lTrrpZ06gl738mxES_7oqecXH0jef2xohhy-w-gQ0n98ElOq8QpJncJDXSfjOZsLOJzOcDu5NJEAv0jEmszRLJwZ8mNHNF8p4Wq_DC3AQI052/s4032/IMG_8415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyygS2f0iZ1aW2KJl4wnkAIP-aSmzv7caCvl_1hLYa2MV_TqWy6OCYlIF-tVJMNgrz160nbf235vx701lTrrpZ06gl738mxES_7oqecXH0jef2xohhy-w-gQ0n98ElOq8QpJncJDXSfjOZsLOJzOcDu5NJEAv0jEmszRLJwZ8mNHNF8p4Wq_DC3AQI052/s320/IMG_8415.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0Houston, TX, USA29.7604267 -95.36980281.4501928638211545 -130.5260528 58.070660536178849 -60.2135528tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-57181915036971302252023-08-31T23:25:00.000-04:002023-11-23T10:36:22.958-05:00August is a sunset, a Sunday, the last hour of the best party.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDgpcPzuiO5wXHa9ZmV0xIf7uvPD51Lec8Z_g7h95V6cZTPb2TDluntPPFoDZ6MLxYQhy8TedDSKIZIQwsy4ktdpV8rHe78n-q1TU02eBTlTOxwv2TJxvS605wDgAczMSn19yT7aX_b0gtqDco2-ks1BL0YGwS-x2JwaDOHPB68qKpdaOFI5Xv7sq2atk/s4032/IMG_6102.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDgpcPzuiO5wXHa9ZmV0xIf7uvPD51Lec8Z_g7h95V6cZTPb2TDluntPPFoDZ6MLxYQhy8TedDSKIZIQwsy4ktdpV8rHe78n-q1TU02eBTlTOxwv2TJxvS605wDgAczMSn19yT7aX_b0gtqDco2-ks1BL0YGwS-x2JwaDOHPB68qKpdaOFI5Xv7sq2atk/s320/IMG_6102.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plump and sultry summer August night featuring the Chrysler and the full moon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My Inner Sky: On Embracing Day, Night, and All the Times in Between</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Mari Andrew</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Sweet & perfect summer 2023; feverishly nodding 'yes' to Mari's ode to August.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">For many creative people, regret and longing is what we <i>live</i> for. We love limitations, especially the wistful ones. August is a three-week foreign love affair that you can't bring back home. August is a beautiful person who just got off the subway, or a tomato whose prime you may miss by a couple of hours. August is a sunset, a Sunday, the last hour of the best party.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is one of my favorite months. Every year, like clockwork, I begin to see summer's charms when its days are numbered. I get preemptively nostalgic for the nights that feel as plump and sultry as an overripe plum, and I begin to miss the sundresses I haven't even worn yet. It's like living the last days of a relationship you know is about to end, and there's magic in that ache.</div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0New York, NY, USA40.7127753 -74.005972840.295128081163845 -74.55528920625 41.130422518836149 -73.45665639375tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-81031387911607112382023-08-20T16:16:00.005-04:002023-08-20T16:17:17.224-04:00When we create this space within ourselves—a space of calmness that is undisturbed by the storm—the storm tends to pass more quickly.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuqnqufMAOjr1A0lmU-kQzy2EbRc-SE7J5Ia-09I0XZn-3E_1njYqeFTE8lskz8YNorHJA2hlcvVuI3FP0yUCE4GWfAcoE5uVUOWrBlU-rCsYaHls2w7UJeDm4W4x2Yhzrm_PAedDhyGS0enMhrCSWXYERqss73plCDbe0WRAWmkBZARPNuk6lRi5j2cL/s1472/IMG_6980.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1472" data-original-width="828" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuqnqufMAOjr1A0lmU-kQzy2EbRc-SE7J5Ia-09I0XZn-3E_1njYqeFTE8lskz8YNorHJA2hlcvVuI3FP0yUCE4GWfAcoE5uVUOWrBlU-rCsYaHls2w7UJeDm4W4x2Yhzrm_PAedDhyGS0enMhrCSWXYERqss73plCDbe0WRAWmkBZARPNuk6lRi5j2cL/s320/IMG_6980.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Inward</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Yung Pueblo</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A few reminders from Yung Pueblo.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Changes in the external world can cause great misery when we do not know how to engage and heal ourselves. Moments of pain and discomfort, or encounters with ideas that may break the mental images we have created of the world, are normally things we not only run away from but also things we build walls to defend ourselves from. These walls we build in our minds and hearts make sense when we don't know any better. We all have the right to protect ourselves from pain, but be aware that these walls can turn from protection into prison—the more walls we build around ourselves, the less space we have to grow and be free. We have a harder time releasing the habits that cause misery when we are surrounded by the psychological walls we have constructed, causing us to stagnate and fall into a rhythm where we are always running within a space that is slowly growing smaller.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 15)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There is an important difference between dwelling in misery and understanding that on the path of healing things will come up that sometimes cause us to feel the old emotions and patterns that we are working on letting go. There is great power in honoring the reality of our current emotions—not feeding them or making them worse but simply recognizing that this is what has arisen in this present moment and that this will also change. When we create this space within ourselves—a space of calmness that is undisturbed by the storm—the storm tends to pass more quickly.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Practicing such profound honesty within ourselves helps in all facets of internal and external life—there is no real freedom without honesty, and without honesty, there can be no peace of mind. Healing ourselves isn't about constantly feeling bliss; being attached to bliss is a bondage of its own. Trying to force ourselves to be happy is counterproductive, because it suppresses the sometimes tough reality of the moment, pushing it back within our depths of our being, instead of allowing it to arise and release.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 81)</div><p><br /></p>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-13093123653630034592023-08-13T13:56:00.001-04:002023-08-13T15:57:40.739-04:00I couldn't imagine ever being studied and known like that.<div style="text-align: left;">Ghosts</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Dolly Alderton</div><p>Time to pull a handful of posts out of the drafts folder...</p><p>As <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2023/01/beautiful-country-qian-julie-wang.html">desired</a>, I re-read Ghosts earlier this year, in the middle of winter (again). It made me cry (again). It also made me feel tinges of hope and empathy as I further dissected the parallels in Nina George's journey to mine and those of the people I know, as told via Dolly's delicious prose and metaphor.</p><p>Ongoing: I continue to contemplate the ghosts of my friendships, romances, and family.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKWFSckBOxrLzYh5ZLcej8faLNkbM1O_Qx5TY6K-FjkeDrQpUl0jQrtLOoEq7eXzdwppoJ2hziJcmEk7vTZhhqUoPFcLQfriENjgqm6EvV7c2jZg-hgChHQGvzbQmObZsSBfBXdNCVb3A4mgQlLwWH-XtcZ6KVeQeXGntX1NEBSo56aKqZlXaoKYg8uy0/s4030/IMG_0613.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4030" data-original-width="2950" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKWFSckBOxrLzYh5ZLcej8faLNkbM1O_Qx5TY6K-FjkeDrQpUl0jQrtLOoEq7eXzdwppoJ2hziJcmEk7vTZhhqUoPFcLQfriENjgqm6EvV7c2jZg-hgChHQGvzbQmObZsSBfBXdNCVb3A4mgQlLwWH-XtcZ6KVeQeXGntX1NEBSo56aKqZlXaoKYg8uy0/w293-h400/IMG_0613.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is one of my favorite moments from the novel. I had never consciously considered the ways loved ones (could) hold hope for one another. We've said prayers, but this beautiful exchange felt different. There have been times in my love journey where I lost hope and all I needed was for someone to hold it for awhile. I think some people have. <br />(p. 296)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">There was the evidence, in all these profiles, where who we really are and who we'd like everyone to think we are were in such unsubtle tension. How clear it suddenly was that we are all the same organs, tissue and liquids packaged up in one version of a million clichés, who all have insecurities and desires; the need to feel nurtured, important, understood and useful in one way or another. None of us are special. I don't know why we fight it so much. </div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 32)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The sexiest, most exciting, romantic, explosive feeling in the world is a matter of a few centimeters of skin being stroked for the first time in a public place. The first confirmation of desire. The first indication of intimacy. You only get that feeling with a person once.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 39)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Big night?" I asked, the note of judgment in my voice as bright and sonorous as a middle C.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 96)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Being a heterosexual woman who loved men meant being a translator for their emotions, a palliative nurse for their pride and a hostage negotiator for their egos.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 98)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There was a daftness that I shared with Joe, and a seriousness that I shared with Max. Both were parts of me and both were true, but both seemed so in conflict with each opposing representative present. I hadn't anticipated that this merging of people meant this merging of selves—it made me think anxiously about myself in a way that was unfamiliar.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 102)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I felt myself lean towards his praise like it was the warmth of sunlight.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 113)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My body responded with more than my senses—I felt it in my cells. It was biological and visceral, prehistoric and predetermining. There in the middle was the garden square, perfectly kept in accordance with every angle my memory had captured.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 116)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In the predawn hours of the next morning, unable to sleep, I went to Dad's bookshelf and picked up his dictionary of English etymology. I sat on the floor, cross-legged, with my back pressed against the sofa, and flipped to N. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Nostalgia:<i> </i>Greek compound combining <i>nostos</i> (homecoming) and <i>àlgos </i>(pain). The literal Greek translation for nostalgia is "pain from an old wound."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 138)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I stayed in front of Marie-Thérèse in her red armchair and examined every part of her exquisitely scrambled form. The impossible positioning of her breasts stacked on top of each other, the surreal placement of her mismatched shoulders. How her face split into two parts, one half of which could be another face kissing the other in profile, if you looked for long enough. Was the second face that Picasso saw symbolic of Marie-Thérèse's hidden multitudes? Or was it his profile—did he imagine he dwelled within her, his lips on her cheek wherever she went? What would it be like, I wondered, to be seen through such adoring eyes, that they could not only capture you in a painting, but rearrange you to further exhibit who you were? I stroked the rounded right angle of where my neck met my shoulder like it was the hand of a lover and thought about being put inside a Rubik's Cube of someone's gaze. I couldn't imagine ever being studied and known like that.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 175)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.tate.org.uk/research/tate-papers/28/picasso-nude-woman-red-armchair "><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="551" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4sX2Dsoovmxi1Hk0OXMcDMUcaCXkgxw3ko8FJ4PgBGB1u7wuQuOVquZyE_rGZ3QQvmqYi2-srJzn7bsjTs2x3wn0GQEAvEM6N9HoTeWlpoicoIUlezrpOoR2SQCSOTfK4s9PKr_5fW3t1L2EqyNiDF-tYxDlSe4jJTWnkgE6JdBRckPQxwHllwbOJQ/s320/N06205_9.jpeg" width="242" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.tate.org.uk/research/tate-papers/28/picasso-nude-woman-red-armchair ">Copyright: (c) Succession Picasso/DACS 2016 / Photo (c) Tate</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My solitude was like a gemstone. For the most part it was sparking and resplendent—something I wore with pride...But underneath this diamond of solitude was a sharp point that I occasionally caught with my bare hands, making it feel like a perilous asset rather than a precious one.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 185)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As I watched him surrender to the silly, untamable joy of hysterical giggles, I realized that while the future might strip him of his self, something mightier remained. His soul would always exist somewhere separate and safe. No one and nothing—no disease, no years of aging—could take that away from him. His soul was indestructible.</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 269)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>
<iframe allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; fullscreen; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="352" loading="lazy" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/5AhRNIjYPBleR1lfHphcrE?utm_source=generator" style="border-radius: 12px;" width="100%"></iframe>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-71286251134078718372023-05-14T22:10:00.005-04:002023-05-14T22:12:58.383-04:00Credo che ciò che può cambiare la vita esista sempre al di fuori di noi.<div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Mdd32h6IzYQpeX6clpAUqiKyuQGF2blEfLULZmpm2WHFwxHOhGaEHPDkxgat0Es5B5qnDiaq7e2Lbwka50yjsNap7UHVaIvFyaueBrFHpKDVgJFPkqic3pu5Z_NGCmu1tRAwEKuymPSV54a0YNoXm9iodUOR0KzmSA-18nNR8WkrkJ7AgZ2UaG-WiQ/s4032/IMG_0188.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Mdd32h6IzYQpeX6clpAUqiKyuQGF2blEfLULZmpm2WHFwxHOhGaEHPDkxgat0Es5B5qnDiaq7e2Lbwka50yjsNap7UHVaIvFyaueBrFHpKDVgJFPkqic3pu5Z_NGCmu1tRAwEKuymPSV54a0YNoXm9iodUOR0KzmSA-18nNR8WkrkJ7AgZ2UaG-WiQ/s320/IMG_0188.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">with cherry blossoms @ the brooklyn botanic garden</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>In Other Words/In Altre Parole</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Jhumpa Lahiri</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>Vorrei scrivere questo “review” en italiano. </div><div><br /></div><div>Temo di aver dimenticato quasi tutto quello che ho imparato quando studiavo l'italiano e abitavo in Italia ma l'unica cosa che posso fare è provare di nuovo— studiando, leggendo libri, ascoltando podcasts, guardando film, viaggiando in Italia, etcetera.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Altre Parole è pieno di metafore che mi hanno colpito. Ciò che ha fatto Jhumpa Lahiri con sua vita e con questo libro è un esempio di coraggio forte che mi ispira. A volte mi sento triste, pensando a tutto il tempo che ho perso in questi anni—durante la pandemia particolarmente—ma poi, imparo di esperienze come la sua, e ricordo che non è troppo tardi per riscoprire me stesso e di fare tutto che desidero.</div><div><br /></div><i>
I would like to write this “review” in Italian.
I fear I've forgotten almost everything I learned when studying Italian and living in Italy but the only thing I can do is try again—studying, reading books, listening to podcasts, watching movies, traveling in Italy, etcetera.
In Altre Parole is full of metaphors that moved me. What Jhumpa Lahiri did with her life and with this book is an example of a willful courage that inspires me. Sometimes I feel sad, thinking about all the time I've lost over the years—particularly during the pandemic—but then, I learn from experiences like hers, and I remember it's not too late to rediscover myself and do everything I desire.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>———</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Credo che ciò che può cambiare la vita esista sempre al di fuori di noi."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I believe that what can change our life is always outside of us.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 42)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Cosa significa una parola? E una vita? Mi pare, alla fine, la stessa cosa. Come una parola può avere tante dimensioni, tante sfumature, una tale complessità, così una persona, una vita. La lingua è lo specchio, la metafora principale. Perché in fondo il significato di una parola, così come quello di una persona, è qualcosa di smisurato, di ineffabile."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>What does a word mean? And a life? In the end, it seems to me, the same thing. Just as a word can have many dimensions, many nuances, great complexity, so, too, can a person, a life. Language is the mirror, the principal metaphor. Because ultimately the meaning of a word, like that of a person, is boundless, ineffabile.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 86)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>(</b><i><b>I read most of this book out loud to myself.)</b></i></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Perché mi interessa, da adulta, da scrittrice, questa nuova relazione con l'imperfezione? Cosa mi offre? Direi una chiarezza sbalorditiva, una consapevolezza più profonda di me stessa. L'imperfezione dà lo spunto all'invenzione, all'immaginazione, alla creatività. Stimola. Più mi sento imperfetta, più mi sento viva.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Why, as an adult, as a writer, am I interested in this new relationship with imperfection? What does it offer me? I would say a stunning clarity, a more profound self-awareness. Imperfection inspires invention, imagination, creativity. It stimulates. The more I feel imperfect, the more I feel alive.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 112)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Sono una scrittrice: mi identifico a fondo con la lingua, lavoro con essa. Eppure il muro mi tiene a distanza, mi separa. Il muro è qualcosa di inevitabile. Mi circonda ovonque vada, per cui mi chiedo se forse il muro non sia io.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Scrivo per rompere il muro, per esprimermi in modo puro. Quando scrivo non c'entra il mio aspetto, il mio nome. Vengo ascoltata senza essere vista, senza pregiudizi, senza filtro. Sono invisibile. Divento le mie parole, e le parole diventano me."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I'm a writer: I identify myself completely with language, I work with it. And yet the wall keeps me at a distance, separates me. The wall is inevitable. It surrounds me wherever I go, so that I wonder if perhaps the wall is me. I write in order to break down the wall, to express myself in a pure way. When I write, my appearance, my name have nothing to do with it. I am heard without being seen, without prejudices, without a filter. I am invisible. I become my words, and the words become me.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 142)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>On Italian, English and Bengalese in her life:</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Penso che questo triangolo sia una specie di cornice. E che questa cornice contenga il mio autoritratto. La cornice mi definisce, ma cosa contiene?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Per tutta la mia vita ho volute vedere, dentro la cornice, qualcosa di specifico. Volevo che dentro la cornice ci fosse uno specchio capace di riflettere un'immagine precisa, nitida. Volevo vedere una persona integra anziché frammentata. Ma questa persona non c'era. Per colpa della mia doppia identità vedevo solo oscillazione, distorsione, dissimulazione. Vedevo qualcosa di ibrido, di sfocato, di sempre confuso.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Penso che non poter vedere un'immagine specifica dentro la cornice sia il rovello della mia vita. L'assenza dell'immagine che cercavo mi pesa. Ho paura che lo specchio non rifletta altro che un vuoto, che non rifletta nulla.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Vengo da questo vuoto, da questa incertezza. Credo che il vuota sia la mia origine e anche il mio destino. Da questo vuoto, da tutta questa incertezza, viene l'impulso creativo. L'impulso di riempire la cornice."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I think that this triangle is a kind of frame. And that the frame contains my self-portrait. The frame defines me, but what does it contain? </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>All my life I wanted to see, in the frame, something specific. I wanted a mirror to exist inside the frame that would reflect a precise, sharp image. I wanted to see a whole person, not a fragmented one. But that person wasn't there. Because of my double identity I saw only fluctuation, distortion, dissimulation. I saw something hybrid, out of focus, always jumbled.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I think that not being able to see a specific image in the fame is the torment of my life. The absence of the image I was seeking distresses me. I'm afraid that the mirror reflects only a void, that it reflects nothing. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I come from that void, from that uncertainty. I think that the void is my origin and also my destiny. From that void, from all that uncertainty, comes the creative impulse.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The impulse to fill the frame.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 157)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Credo che il potere dell'arte sia il potere di svegliarci, di colpirci fino in fondo, di cambiarci. Cosa cerchiamo leggendo un romanzo, guardando un film, ascoltando un brano di musica? Cerchiamo qualcosa che ci sposti, di cui non eravamo consapevoli, prima. Vogliamo trasformaci, così come il capolavoro di Ovidio ha trasformato me."<br /><i>I think that the power of art is the power to wake us up, strike us to our depths, change us. What are we searching for when we read a novel, see a film, listen to a piece of music? We are searching, through a work of art, for something that alters us, that we weren't aware of before. We want to transform ourselves, just as Ovid's masterwork transformed me.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 170)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Si protrebbe dire che il meccanismo metamorfico sia l'unico elemento della vita che non cambia mai. Il percorso di ogni individuo, di ogni Paese, di ogni epoca storica, dell'universo intero e tutto ciò che contiene, non è altro che una serie di mutamenti, a volte sottili, a volte profondi, senza i quali resteremmo fermi. I momenti di transizione, in cui qualcosa si tramuta, costituiscono la spina dorsale di tutti noi. Che siano una salvezza o una perdita, sono i momenti che tendiamo a ricordare. Danno un'ossatura alla nostra esistenza. Quasi tutto il resto è oblio."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>One could say that the mechanism of metamorphosis is the only element of life that never changes. The journey of every individual, every country, every historical epoch, of the entire universe and all it contains, is nothing but a series of changes, at times subtle, at times deep, without which we would stand still. The moment of transition, in which something changes, constitute the backbone of all of us. Whether they are a salvation or a loss, they are moments we tend to remember. They give a structure to our existence. Almost all the rest is oblivion.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 171)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Credevo, quando ho cominciato a scrivere, che fosse più virtuoso parlare degli altri. Temevo che la materia autobiografica fosse di minor valore creativo, perfino una forma di pigrizia da parte mia. Temevo che fosse egocentrico raccontare le proprie esperienze. </div><div style="text-align: left;">In questo libro io sono, per la prima volta, la protagonista. Non c'è nemmeno un pizzico di un altro. Appaio sulle pagine in prima persona, e parlo francamente di me stessa. Un po' come la serie di Nudi Blu di Matisse, figure femminili tagliate, raggruppate, mi sento spoglia in questo libro, appicciata ad una nuova lingua, disgregata."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>When I began to write, I thought that it was more virtuous to talk about others. I was afraid that autobiographical material was of less creative value, even a form of laziness on my part. I was afraid that it was egocentric to relate one's own experiences. In this book I am the protagonist for the first time. There is not even a hint of another. I appear on the page in the first person, and speak frankly about myself. A little like Matisse's "Blue Nudes," groups of cutout, reassembled female figures, I feel naked in this book, pasted to a new language, disjointed.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 214)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-58366630309618637862023-02-12T11:41:00.013-05:002023-05-17T09:01:14.049-04:00How much—how little—is within our power.<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDVw710uLL9cP8XdQFuIcrTPI9gJ8_7cI57lc0dxYCF7TPN91sqyYxLgWaLKWTQ2lhGY_kU2j0nbbvKjnyvWZO3HYX6Jcq5y6YyY1YxpzCwySEEks0ZDpn4kLbi5471wX4E9F1ZQ3tcel-u15kCL3Qyx9af1Y6Gc78lsKiYoUea2GlOAZmWt_-r8_wg/s4032/8D327938-015C-4E5A-9E03-60CAE44812AB.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDVw710uLL9cP8XdQFuIcrTPI9gJ8_7cI57lc0dxYCF7TPN91sqyYxLgWaLKWTQ2lhGY_kU2j0nbbvKjnyvWZO3HYX6Jcq5y6YyY1YxpzCwySEEks0ZDpn4kLbi5471wX4E9F1ZQ3tcel-u15kCL3Qyx9af1Y6Gc78lsKiYoUea2GlOAZmWt_-r8_wg/s320/8D327938-015C-4E5A-9E03-60CAE44812AB.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">December 2022</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">Envelope Poems </div><div style="text-align: left;">By Emily Dickinson</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Picked this one up on a whim during a gift shop visit, a gift for me. I'm gravitating towards poems in the winter and letting the words blanket me with comfort. Emily's envelope poems also remind me of my post-it note poems, and more recently, my aqua-note poems & scribblings, capturing all the musings that fall with the shower downpour.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><b>In this short life </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>that only lasts an hour</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>merely</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>How much — how little —</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>is within our power.</b></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-66847512644157872622023-01-29T20:04:00.084-05:002023-02-25T20:23:32.791-05:00Recommendations for Repair<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWK8nGtald2xZJObvqhzyPx70UaXMMjXlBlW9FJA2c5DZkg26TxNr20g-uX86ZuRUWqao9N-e6h9Ha-Nj3DTBQStErko20nbYSPz9dTFUW3DCT9UO0ZDMXa5a5O5UW4LT00CFeuYnC9II2EVdVmDvhH6pWrp9d5lGJMnKeOvB5NdO81ywPpd4t7P0BQ/s3088/IMG_8025.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWK8nGtald2xZJObvqhzyPx70UaXMMjXlBlW9FJA2c5DZkg26TxNr20g-uX86ZuRUWqao9N-e6h9Ha-Nj3DTBQStErko20nbYSPz9dTFUW3DCT9UO0ZDMXa5a5O5UW4LT00CFeuYnC9II2EVdVmDvhH6pWrp9d5lGJMnKeOvB5NdO81ywPpd4t7P0BQ/s320/IMG_8025.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1/1/23</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I asked Instagram for recommendations<i>—</i>stories, in any form, about <i>repair</i>. Suggestions could be very broad dealing with any and all kinds of reparations: in communities, structures, systems, relationships, self. Stories about broken dreams & changed patterns. Stories about items that have been repaired, healed or reconstructed in a dazzling or revelatory way. Stories about repairing a way of thinking, of being. Repair from an injury or an experience. Stories with levity and positivity. Stories about healing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My friends delivered. </div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Finding Me by Viola Davis </li><li>The Wreckage of My Presence by Casey Wilson </li><li>The Old Place by Bobby Finger</li><li>Welcome Home by Najwa Zebian</li><li>One Night on the Island by Josie Silver</li><li>Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner </li><li>Heartbreak: A Personal and Scientific Journey by Florence Williams</li><li>Intimations by Zadie Smith </li><li>Atomic Habits by James Clear</li><li>Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides</li><li>Happy to be Here Podcast by Vivian Nuñez</li><li>How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America by Kiese Laymon </li><li>You Made a Fool of Death with your Beauty by Akwaeke Emezi </li><li>Dream Out Loud: The Sneakerhead’s Path to Redemption by Rikki Mendias and Wendy Adamson</li><li>Mango & Peppercorns: A Memoir of Food, an Unlikely Family and the American Dream by Tung Nguyen, Katherine Manning and Lyn Nguyen</li><li>Pan de limón con semillas de amapola by Cristina Campos</li><li>Due sirene in un bicchiere by Federica Brunini</li><li>The Banshees of Inisherin</li><li>Spiderman: No Way Home</li><li>Journey to the West: Conquering the Demons</li><li>The Grand Budapest Hotel</li><li>Ecclesiastes, the Dao de Jing, and the Mandukya Upanishad (together)</li></ul><div>My recommendation (and current read) -> Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-89116016691722926342023-01-15T23:52:00.162-05:002023-02-17T08:54:04.827-05:00She has been unearthed. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpW3EGrJElOyn_mxNKZ14rFxsIap2iUmlrlQQcRLpHg_mqwUql0JdQreTCJTw_3TO_Ob64iURpznNZYcMuN9qJYmYsiSudZBmTSZyF-JzmpZsGmpowksMAfD1laybJvAVQbzTwHOGkHQscvEeS-8ih7B1LuPPPL0Xiqy6nEH5d6d4wf7Xg46PgpWgKKA/s3088/IMG_3986.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpW3EGrJElOyn_mxNKZ14rFxsIap2iUmlrlQQcRLpHg_mqwUql0JdQreTCJTw_3TO_Ob64iURpznNZYcMuN9qJYmYsiSudZBmTSZyF-JzmpZsGmpowksMAfD1laybJvAVQbzTwHOGkHQscvEeS-8ih7B1LuPPPL0Xiqy6nEH5d6d4wf7Xg46PgpWgKKA/w240-h320/IMG_3986.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Beautiful Country</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Qian Julie Wang</div><p>As determined as I feel to read 50 new books this year, I keep thinking about the books I listened to and loved last year. I'd like to revisit them, this time as hard copies with a pencil in hand to underline all of my favorite sentences. </p><p>"Beautiful Country" is one; "Olga Dies Dreaming" and "Ghosts" are two others.</p><p>I started "Beautiful Country," read by the author, just before my trip to Thailand last April and I took it with me. I listened to the final chapter on our road trip to the island of Koh Chang and got teary while identifying with the emotion of Qian reaching out to her younger self. Many of us still walk with our littler selves within hoping to be acknowledged and freed.</p><p>As waves of peace washed over me on Koh Chang, I could feel I was at a turning point. That everything would soon change. I felt confident I'd leave my job within the year but I didn't yet know how. I only knew what awaited me would allow my current self to unfurl and help younger me—bright, joyful, fearless—rise above the heavier parts I carry. More on that some other time, but for now, I am so thankful to Qian and the permission slip her words formed.</p><div>"From then on, the little girl makes her home in my shadows, even as I make the move back to New York City to work in a top law firm. I know she is there, watching as I play my assigned role in my gilded American Dream, living my empty Manhattan life full of all the food and clothes and things I could ever want. You cannot know that some things are not enough until you have them. </div><div>At first, I act like she doesn't exist. I try to kick dirt over her in my mind again. But it is too late: she has been unearthed. </div><div>It comes to me clearest in the first seconds of every morning. Upon opening my eyes, I forget who I am and how I've come to chase this life. And then I see her in the corner of my bedroom, still scared, still starving. I look past her and out the window, my mind roaming beyond the Hudson River and into Jersey City, through the door of the condominium unit where Ma Ma and Ba Ba now live, apparently free and safe, but really behind bars wrought from trauma. And then I slide forward in time and see myself many decades older, hair gray and skin loose, behind those same bars myself, the little girl still cowering next to me.</div><div>I repeat the judge's words. It has become a daily morning practice, but this time, after almost a year, I feel the lies slip away through the weave of my mantra. My muscles lose a tightness I did not know they have been carrying, and against the backdrop of my truths I am at long last free to admit: I am tired. I am so very tired of running and hiding, but I have done it for so long, I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to do anything else. It is all I am: defining myself against illegality while stitching it into my veins. The judge's words are my blanket nest, and in its snug embrace I rediscover a safety I knew once, long, long ago.</div><div>I turn back to the window and see for the first time the little girl cast aglow against the light of the waking sun. And then I try something new. I look that wise little girl in the eyes and reach my hand out for hers."(pp. 296-7)Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-1840968250508919782023-01-01T16:07:00.010-05:002023-02-10T12:43:17.914-05:00On giving in to the enchanting promise and possibility of a new year.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlpnv_b7w7wtkh3yk8EElEc60mRFJBb3JoekB6SzG8QXamL0Qo8MaJ8IoR8umuahY8fWDr6YJ9RMLiYOeN-0ykHoTyTljzbC9aP6rnK-ay_3ZtkI2WvQqQGM02zY-2hDJfxnU655tRudNHETkmTXLT3bE6pABfy8icIAuJ90MxnGEuRr4kQhbCDAddw/s1440/5E1FEF0A-610F-4486-89CF-B52398D34940.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1440" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlpnv_b7w7wtkh3yk8EElEc60mRFJBb3JoekB6SzG8QXamL0Qo8MaJ8IoR8umuahY8fWDr6YJ9RMLiYOeN-0ykHoTyTljzbC9aP6rnK-ay_3ZtkI2WvQqQGM02zY-2hDJfxnU655tRudNHETkmTXLT3bE6pABfy8icIAuJ90MxnGEuRr4kQhbCDAddw/s320/5E1FEF0A-610F-4486-89CF-B52398D34940.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9e6C5TDYyEZY_GZJc4PzK7Up5mv4z0Gs6_CHbkITm_cBA36WJzCDA16JjOTNp9-g5Pv2qqy3nX8jETTUPybo-U6EvdZ-OBGIDnoC9Bly8PiMOUzEtf6KbqeszC9pAznZYRDdxneM7xUEXflfxzGwG7f44ttCTYvOIzMxVuLmRkqNcwCgE6usVXVb6Ww/s1440/8153F728-0980-4841-A1E0-6BC1CCDCCBCA.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1440" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9e6C5TDYyEZY_GZJc4PzK7Up5mv4z0Gs6_CHbkITm_cBA36WJzCDA16JjOTNp9-g5Pv2qqy3nX8jETTUPybo-U6EvdZ-OBGIDnoC9Bly8PiMOUzEtf6KbqeszC9pAznZYRDdxneM7xUEXflfxzGwG7f44ttCTYvOIzMxVuLmRkqNcwCgE6usVXVb6Ww/s320/8153F728-0980-4841-A1E0-6BC1CCDCCBCA.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photos by Carol Guerrero</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>I admit to giving in to the enchanting promise and possibility of a new year. </b>Today, I will gift myself flowers.<div><br />On the day after my 33rd birthday, I did a photoshoot themed to "<a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2021/02/mary-oliver-.html" target="_blank">Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches</a>," to commemorate reaching a period in my life I've been dreaming about for years. It wasn't a perfect experience but it still felt momentous. We ended, serendipitously, near Strawberry Fields.<div><br /><div>I'm reflecting on another year of learning, growing, loving, hurting, messing up, excelling, of good and bad and big decisions. Appreciative for it all. I never pick a theme for the new year but I thought this time I might, and the first word that kept surfacing from my mind's depths was <b>Repair</b>. I didn't like it because it inherently indicates some brokenness and it doesn't sound sparkly or profound, but it is persistent and it's stuck. As it marinates, the more it feels a reflection of some thrilling deep work ahead and a fitting conduit to the expansive and exploratory 2023 I've been working towards. I am a little nervous, but also confident and hopeful. And ready as hell.<div><div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I didn't reach my goal of reading 25 books in 2022, but I doubled the goal for 2023 anyway. I think I can do it. And even if I don't, the win is that I'll be reading more robustly and intentionally this year. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div style="text-align: left;">Bonus: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This has nothing to do with anything except nearly every time I listen to Dolly Parton sing "I Will Always Love You" I cry, and this stunning medley was a sweet thing to hear this new year's afternoon.</div>
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet"><p dir="ltr" lang="en">this <a href="https://twitter.com/MileyCyrus?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@mileycyrus</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/DollyParton?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@dollyparton</a> medley is makin' us EMOTIONAL. 🥲 <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/MileysNewYearsEveParty?src=hash&ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#MileysNewYearsEveParty</a> <a href="https://t.co/YNMtbmQUHx">pic.twitter.com/YNMtbmQUHx</a></p>— NBC Entertainment (@nbc) <a href="https://twitter.com/nbc/status/1609440658544291842?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">January 1, 2023</a></blockquote> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div></div></div></div></div></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-84970177978835468552022-06-19T09:30:00.002-04:002022-06-22T09:10:16.248-04:00But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4KQXN0e6-AFr5OojucaIqekdIBX-yKEkywbYjEwUgQUTmGVw5VOSDVIlS3gqr3kaCuJLDh9ZRKZnRzwDRuKaJlqiG39hSQarU3AODaXmyth6D-IYTwqGTdAWi8JMPWQ5m6Ix7hq1PG2OuSSzhhRfOACKOGoNVaSUfKhzDmFGewNEolClESRzBHn2tg/s2048/devotions.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1347" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz4KQXN0e6-AFr5OojucaIqekdIBX-yKEkywbYjEwUgQUTmGVw5VOSDVIlS3gqr3kaCuJLDh9ZRKZnRzwDRuKaJlqiG39hSQarU3AODaXmyth6D-IYTwqGTdAWi8JMPWQ5m6Ix7hq1PG2OuSSzhhRfOACKOGoNVaSUfKhzDmFGewNEolClESRzBHn2tg/s320/devotions.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;">Flare<br />By Mary Oliver</div><p style="text-align: left;">Today's a hard day for me but instead of succumb to <i>too</i> much sorrow, I intend to spend the day outdoors. I know Mary Oliver would approve and—speaking of—there's a poem I encountered earlier this year, while <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2021/02/mary-oliver-.html">making my way through Devotions</a>, that stunned me. A new one I'd never read before that I immediately felt in my bones.</p><p>Full read in its whole perfect splendor, <a href="http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/mary_oliver/poems/15811">here</a>. </p><p>And it starts with, "Welcome to the silly, comforting poem."</p><div style="text-align: left;">"5.<br />My mother was the blue wisteria,</div><div style="text-align: left;">my mother</div><div style="text-align: left;">was the mossy stream out being the house,</div><div style="text-align: left;">my mother, <i>alas, alas,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">did not always love her life,</div><div style="text-align: left;">heavier than iron it was</div><div style="text-align: left;">as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>oh, unforgettable!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I bury her </div><div style="text-align: left;">in a box</div><div style="text-align: left;">in the earth</div><div style="text-align: left;">and turn away.</div><div style="text-align: left;">My father</div><div style="text-align: left;">was a demon of frustrated dreams,</div><div style="text-align: left;">was a breaker of trust, </div><div style="text-align: left;">was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.</div><div style="text-align: left;">He followed God, there being no one else </div><div style="text-align: left;">he could talk to;</div><div style="text-align: left;">he swaggered before God, there being no one else</div><div style="text-align: left;">who would listen.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Listen</i>,</div><div style="text-align: left;">this was his life.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I bury it in the earth.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I sweep the closets.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I leave the house.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">6.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I mention them now, </div><div style="text-align: left;">I will not mention them again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is not lack of love</div><div style="text-align: left;">nor lack of sorrow.</div><div style="text-align: left;">But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I give them—one, two, three, four—the kiss of courtesy,</div><div style="text-align: left;">of sweet thanks,</div><div style="text-align: left;">of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.</div><div style="text-align: left;">May they sleep well. May they soften.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I will not give them the responsibility for my life.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">7.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Did you know that the ant has a tongue</div><div style="text-align: left;">with which to gather in all that it can</div><div style="text-align: left;">of sweetness?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Did you know that?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">8.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The poem is not the world.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It isn't even the first page of the world.</div><div style="text-align: left;">But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It knows that much.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It wants to open itself,</div><div style="text-align: left;">like the door of a little temple,</div><div style="text-align: left;">so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and less yourself than part of everything."</div><p style="text-align: left;"><b>And towards the end,</b></p><div>"A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of the world<br />and the responsibilities of your life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.</div><div>Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the glare of your mind, be modest.</div><div>And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling."</div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-41320191027116956252022-06-12T19:30:00.043-04:002022-07-04T21:05:28.042-04:00This year, was I competent? Did I referee my whims or elaborate on them? Did I express gratitude? Feel the potency of night? <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKfnTo__coDF4EPr7g0ITySIkNgl2mcat7s7P7fCtISepINHObVAvCd9hAp5pRGAxgqkdvVeD1rGBYqRhtQafYe64UAUiVIpWCXKQCv8rhy2hJD7kdxQTTjmnd3w6PoCUrLH2TqAbU0ZZTnETgzbJakfBHIsHAQczNWMaTLdo1eFO39J7JjNzTlojKA/s4032/ndlcmirrorreddress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKfnTo__coDF4EPr7g0ITySIkNgl2mcat7s7P7fCtISepINHObVAvCd9hAp5pRGAxgqkdvVeD1rGBYqRhtQafYe64UAUiVIpWCXKQCv8rhy2hJD7kdxQTTjmnd3w6PoCUrLH2TqAbU0ZZTnETgzbJakfBHIsHAQczNWMaTLdo1eFO39J7JjNzTlojKA/w300-h400/ndlcmirrorreddress.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;">Too Much and Not the Mood</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Durga Chew-Bose</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"What new habits did I develop to cut myself off from the world? When will I learn that those habits are, it's possible, delimiting me from innocuous connections. Someone to sit next to on a couch too small, flipping the pages of a book too big, where the pages graze my sweater's stomach, and I can't pin why, but the whole small-big ratio of pages grazing my sweater creates an impression of secrecy.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Someone to wish well before his trip to Tokyo; to call when I can't sleep. To share a bowl of blanched almonds with, sitting on stools—small again too—that force my knees to bend at right angles, which feels somehow athletic. Which is, by nature, suggestive. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Someone to provoke me; to watch Game 7 with; to accompany to a gallery where I don't care for the art , but oh, how I love being in the vicinity of someone I confide in daily, whose posture is indistinguishable, even under the lumpy mass of her winter coat, her scarf, the infantilizing fit of her boots. When will I learn? Nobody knows you're thinking of him, of her, of our walk along the Thames, eight years ago I think it was, after seeing Peter Doig's white canoe at the Tate, unless you call or write and say so."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 76)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"This year, was I competent? Did I referee my whims or elaborate on them? Did I express gratitude? Feel the potency of night? Accept an offer to stay over without reciting the many excuses I use to screen my doubts?"</div><div style="text-align: left;">(pp. 76-7)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>oof so much to relate to & unpack here.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I was, back then, a decade or so away from clocking my brownness, from taking notice of its veiled prominence in my life. I wasn't so much blind to it, but uninvolved in it. Emotionless about it. I was a brown daughter too inclined by whiteness to appreciate that being a daughter extends beyond the home. That it's a furtherance. That my parents were handsome, strong, willing. Adaptable. Selfless. Brilliant. Beautiful. I was too busy troubling myself with what I thought was pretty.</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I cloistered my brownness. I wasn't yet ready to scrutinize my weird, even toxic, relationship to the exclusionary appeal of these older white girls. To their ubiquity. To their immunity. I was coaxed by my stewed and crummy and, invisible to me, feeling of inferiority. In turn, I praised these girls for the faintest reasons."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(pp. 102-3)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I am sick for those years when I was paying attention without purpose. When I was arranging stories free of import, and when my imagination could draw courage instead of warrant that I stay in."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 122)</div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-33542655840176832252022-06-08T12:21:00.026-04:002022-06-20T13:01:52.455-04:00What a nook person wants is space, however small, to follow whatever image is driving her instead of sensing like she might have to trade it in or share it before she's willing. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjks3yeLjwVXtSwwHX22paRixTRP3YnBW4YJOCfULZKieEmkI1Pk2HOzwvpUtgBETmCT1EMu7nHBFRlo95GYJPKSFAgkKeGYoqpQAKJUWoqUnLsrd3vri9SDmYlQg_Hfd6pXOWryyE1pSYc9-SP4wajI-vDUVPyXunk5Qw8UxhtrclvHI1PctaqNsO6yw/s1333/ndlchome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="623" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjks3yeLjwVXtSwwHX22paRixTRP3YnBW4YJOCfULZKieEmkI1Pk2HOzwvpUtgBETmCT1EMu7nHBFRlo95GYJPKSFAgkKeGYoqpQAKJUWoqUnLsrd3vri9SDmYlQg_Hfd6pXOWryyE1pSYc9-SP4wajI-vDUVPyXunk5Qw8UxhtrclvHI1PctaqNsO6yw/s320/ndlchome.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from the early days of the pandemic; may 2020</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Too Much and Not the Mood</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Durga Chew-Bose</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Durga's varied multi-page description of nook people is one of my favorites (& magically it also includes a reference to Céline's Paris apartment and the last scene of Before Sunset with "Just In Time" ❤️).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I've wondered if being a "nook person" is a good thing? But recently when pondering whether some of my qualities are good or bad, a friend said to me with love—"Not good or bad, just who you are." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Nook people are those of us who need solitude, but also the sound of someone puttering in the next room. Someone working on his project, down the hall and behind a door left ajar. We look away from our screen and hear him turning a page or readjusting his posture, and isn't it time for lunch? Resurfacing is nonpareil. And splitting a sandwich with someone you've said maybe two words to all morning is idyllic. A brief belief that life picks up after a few bites of toasted rye."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 60)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"What a nook person wants is space, however small, to follow whatever image is driving her instead of sensing like she might have to trade it in or share it before she's willing. Her awakening demands no stage but, rather room to store that second half of what she deems her double life: what's corrugated inside. Intuition's buildup."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 62)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYorcQBmNdypVtthMHDuXaXPDsouIOj-kQu9B26_UrU7FBIM1Us1rI8KEFKdteuDV4XlpTwGcEETs-DmY4vVg7CcF_j2ebom-RFZ7tOGcEpei2XBbp8jRbHEGo8Rucs6gUvkqkkeZNlJvDGhV0Cixf4ynAM3wIzGBMSDTNP9CD5DLQvIBRpyKk8uT76Q/s1515/ndlcwindowshutters.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1515" data-original-width="1136" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYorcQBmNdypVtthMHDuXaXPDsouIOj-kQu9B26_UrU7FBIM1Us1rI8KEFKdteuDV4XlpTwGcEETs-DmY4vVg7CcF_j2ebom-RFZ7tOGcEpei2XBbp8jRbHEGo8Rucs6gUvkqkkeZNlJvDGhV0Cixf4ynAM3wIzGBMSDTNP9CD5DLQvIBRpyKk8uT76Q/s320/ndlcwindowshutters.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Nook people are interested in what's backstage; are especially passionate about the small-scale bedlam of wimmelbooks; seek coats that cocoon; seek windows with shutters; a pattern that reveals itself over time; a vacation alone. Nook people can gently disagree while securing their spark. No. <i>No.</i> Spark is not substantive enough. Their approach. That radiant heat they typically keep stored inside because it functions as insulation."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(pp. 62-3)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-56925698572687278062022-06-05T19:21:00.003-04:002022-06-19T09:13:44.227-04:00It's love and someone you love's power growing, and it's watching the elements cater to a woman who exudes.<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUEWgsZBTWkNwoC6nx7O9Ztb8vOKNdyznMaTVVgcMJdGlyIcJR6I4fXoowPeUqgFCosCVsCBQM_jpqS737EuNpjg_cxssgZ2J58f0ahsHGG2NiDDo8VrBB7d01OqV4nuW78EzEyj-QaBR_6Xt3s70rLSeB7Fz1mM_x8bIUM5FhIR4GnsgtfexBKugb8A/s2000/8BEC4C85-A29A-4229-A33D-756DE737D668.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUEWgsZBTWkNwoC6nx7O9Ztb8vOKNdyznMaTVVgcMJdGlyIcJR6I4fXoowPeUqgFCosCVsCBQM_jpqS737EuNpjg_cxssgZ2J58f0ahsHGG2NiDDo8VrBB7d01OqV4nuW78EzEyj-QaBR_6Xt3s70rLSeB7Fz1mM_x8bIUM5FhIR4GnsgtfexBKugb8A/s320/8BEC4C85-A29A-4229-A33D-756DE737D668.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(proud of the woman I am & the woman I'm still becoming.)</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div>Too Much and Not the Mood</div><div>By Durga Chew-Bose</div><p></p><div>"For twenty dollars—an extravagance I can't afford but can, so in that minute I spend it—we place our palms on metal sensors, have our photo taken with a Kirlian-type camera, and then sit and listen as an employee at Magic Jewelry—who sometimes speaks to us in the first-person plural—interprets the psychedelic colors our aura. Reds and oranges mean one thing—that we've been working too hard, we've been told—and cooler colors signify that we're withdrawn and overthinking, daydreaming and negligent of more earthly forces. Habitually, the both of us are purple. Absent and worn-out. Entombed in thought. A distinguishing quality of the women I love, meaning, none of us are bothered by how infrequently we see one another. We have an arrangement that was never formally arranged. A consideration for turning down invitations. We are happy for the person who is indulging in her space, and how she might merely be spending the weekend unescorted by anything except her own work, which could also mean: she is in no rush to complete much. She is tinkering. She is gathering all the materials necessary for repotting a plant but not doing it. She is turning off the lights and climbing into her head because that's usually the move."</div><div>(p. 53)</div><div><br /></div><div>"The women I love reenter the world so poorly. Their elegance lies in how summarily they'll dodge its many attenuations, advancing alongside the world as if passing their fingers over the rails of a fence and cleverly selecting the right moment to hop over.</div><div>They are women who are loveliest when just a little bit haunted or mad as hell on a clear day. Who carefully believe in ghosts and kismet, and are mistrustful of shortcuts. Who laugh like villains. Wake up earliest when the sky is overcast. Who needn't say much for all to know, tonight, they won't be staying out long. Who dip their toes into the current, only to retreat and fantasize about the bowl of cereal they'd rather be scarfing down at home. Who, like my friend Jenny specifically, are hot. Who don't need anyone—including me right now—to depict why. Proximity to hotness can feel like a link to the universe. Your hot friend on a balmy summer night telling you about some good news in her life is—How do I put this without sounding absurd? It's barometric. It's love and someone you love's power growing, and it's watching the elements cater to a woman who exudes."</div><div>(p. 54)</div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-32477520572782653552022-06-01T15:12:00.005-04:002022-06-18T12:09:11.207-04:00 A woman carries her inner life—lugs it around and holds it in like fumes that both poison and bless her—while nourishing another's inner life, many others actually, while never revealing too much madness, or, possibly, never revealing where she stores it: her island of lost mind.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1w3IbtnnXdwMiTmGtS6qr4aI_PfmZKeepke6rNN9MMWLMHYfhpCOTz0NaMRs6qaaxFG8qPze5qxx5iMbQRPLjMXguXEawpcNroE-Szo3MeMNtIrLUdGJStrktVnGZiY5rqpfaBIo3uirSkLSrDUcf_AVV-ZkSULXt0pQaANdh2_cuZR_itQQDA6y7g/s4032/IMG_3655.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1w3IbtnnXdwMiTmGtS6qr4aI_PfmZKeepke6rNN9MMWLMHYfhpCOTz0NaMRs6qaaxFG8qPze5qxx5iMbQRPLjMXguXEawpcNroE-Szo3MeMNtIrLUdGJStrktVnGZiY5rqpfaBIo3uirSkLSrDUcf_AVV-ZkSULXt0pQaANdh2_cuZR_itQQDA6y7g/s320/IMG_3655.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;">Too Much and Not the Mood</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Durga Chew-Bose</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The best gifts are quiet, unexpected, and exemplary of the most sincere thoughtfulness and knowing. Like this book of essays from my dear friend Kat, which lucky for me served as the best accompaniment for a beach retreat in Koh Chang. When I remember the beginning of this book & becoming instantly immersed and amazed, the sun, sand and waves also line the memory. An eloquent stream of consciousness. I devoured these sentences. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"On the rare occasion my subconscious welds, language has a gift, I've learned, for humiliating those luminous random acts of creative flash into impossible-to-secure hobbling duds. The best ideas outrun me. That's why I write." </div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 5)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Even when pointe shoes flit down the stage like muffled hazard. When a fur coat slides off a woman's bare shoulders. Or when a kiss on my neck obscures all clichés about kisses on necks and I am no longer human but merely an undulation."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 6)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"There's strength in observing one's miniaturization. That you are insignificant and prone to, and God knows, dumb about a lot. Because doesn't smallness prime us to eventually take up space? For instance, the momentum gained from reading a great book. After <i>after</i>, sitting, sleeping, living in its consequence. A book that makes you feel, finally, latched on. Or after <i>after</i> we recover from a hike. From seeing fifteenth-century ruins and wondering how Machu Picchu was built when Incans had zero knowledge of the wheel. Smallness can make you feel extra porous. Extra ambitious. Like a small dog carrying an enormous branch clenched in its teeth, as if intimating to the world: <i>Okay. Where to?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 17)
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"To this day, watching a woman mindlessly tend to one thing while doing something else absorbs me. Like securing the backs of her earrings while wiggling her feet into her shoes. Like staring into some middle distance, where lines soften, and where she separates the relevant from the immaterial. A woman carries her inner life—lugs it around and holds it in like fumes that both poison and bless her—while nourishing another's inner life, many others actually, while never revealing too much madness, or, possibly, never revealing where she stores it: her island of lost mind. Every woman has one. And every woman grins when the question is asked, <i>What three items would you bring to a desert island?</i> Because every woman's been, by this time, half living there."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 32-3)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"There was a period in college when the sound of photocopiers in my library's basement was, I'm uncertain why: <i>blue</i>. Perhaps their ceaselessness reminded me of waves. Paralleling the surf and sway, and roll, on loop. Paper shooting out the tray like lapping ocean water foaming on the beach."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 48)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"The difference between collection and memorial has, in recent years, become less clear to me. My instinct to write things down often feels like obituary."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 49)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Far more than me, my mother is in touch—or at ease—with flows and overflow, particularly, and contends coolly, unusually so, with spats. For someone so angry about the state of things, fist up and ready to fight the fight, protesting and holding up banners or hanging them from her balcony, making calls on behalf of, hosting conference speakers at her home, showing up in solidarity, unionizing the teachers at her college, my mother does seem, on average, unbothered. There have been times when her disposition is equivalent to that of an email's auto-response away message: a calmly prompt, matter-of-fact no-show. She's <i>there</i>, but not exactly. My mother has proven that a person can be supportive yet remain unreachable, and how the combination has its virtues."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 50)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-34244621705112194082022-05-28T12:32:00.007-04:002022-06-21T09:37:51.790-04:00To be struck in the good part of your heart.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GFCbJYLql-mF1cZ1cvjxohaNWniGZAsHWZh3P954KZZmAywFeJ0zfJhtYvT5mkwny4IG5XW9bdekB2vhNbK9AHailumjCxU-w3WqR2LML2p9VnzIcjodD6iSWK27nCqsIBlCU6imdiVZFU38xGFvEPNn-tuViMuDtEDl5FeuEhUudfKWwv7fsf2PvQ/s3088/ndlc_coneyisland.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GFCbJYLql-mF1cZ1cvjxohaNWniGZAsHWZh3P954KZZmAywFeJ0zfJhtYvT5mkwny4IG5XW9bdekB2vhNbK9AHailumjCxU-w3WqR2LML2p9VnzIcjodD6iSWK27nCqsIBlCU6imdiVZFU38xGFvEPNn-tuViMuDtEDl5FeuEhUudfKWwv7fsf2PvQ/s320/ndlc_coneyisland.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">blurry beach photo @ night</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-new-yorker-interview/stevie-nicks-tavi-gevinson-conversation" target="_blank">Stevie Nicks Is Still Living Her Dreams</a></p><div style="text-align: left;">By Tavi Gevinson</div><p>Hi, hello. My 2022 so far has been filled with big decisions, big travel, big feelings. Tons of goodness, overall. This past week was the first time I’ve felt a ::pause:: on the ride, following a slam on the brakes of my own making, and I began to reflect on life’s patterns and the part I play in them. It didn’t necessarily feel good to process the consequence of my imperfections and mistakes and to remember that for all my learnings, I still have a lot of work I need to do to become (better). </p><div>I turned here. And if only I’d remembered soonest that I’d developed this space for this very reason—this tiny corner of the internet mostly for me, the equivalent of a nondescript insignificant (sorry, Blogger) but beloved<i> </i>bar located at the end of a hidden alley (I'm picturing a non-threatening one adorned with sparkling lights), that leads to the most comforting worn/torn booth tucked away in the far back, upon whose table lies a collection of wisdom from writers, gathered over 10 years, to help me understand my life. To help me endure and process my own sorrow and self-pity. My joys. My triumphs and growth. My intentions. And when needed, also provide a lift, encouragement, kinship. </div><div><br /></div><div>In sum: language for me is the balm, the salve, the buoy. Time and time again, an eternal, reliable rescue and guide. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Among the reminders found here: <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2021/03/daring-greatly-brene-brown.html" target="_blank">the ways vulnerability and whole-hearted living can expand life</a>; <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/search?q=heather+havrilesky" target="_blank">respect people's boundaries</a>; <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2021/03/the-four-agreements-don-miguel-ruiz.html">do not make assumptions</a>; <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2021/03/when-we-see-love-as-will-to-nurture.html" target="_blank">self-love is the foundation of all love</a>, <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2021/08/before-sunset-script.html" target="_blank">the urgency I feel for life</a>; <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2017/10/ethan-hawke-nerdist-interview.html" target="_blank">don't lacerate or aggrandize yourself too much</a>; <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2021/08/the-year-of-yes-maria-dahvana-headley.html" target="_blank">say yes</a>. Etc. I went down the rabbit hole.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Before I get out of my head and into the city for a solo adventure, <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-new-yorker-interview/stevie-nicks-tavi-gevinson-conversation" target="_blank">an interview with Stevie Nicks</a>. I'm grateful my friend nudged me towards this yesterday. It is grand and affirming and not as good when picked apart so I suggest reading it in its entirety. (Another time I'll need to write about the white-winged doves who made a home in my family's backyard in Houston and the synchronicity of "Edge of Seventeen" also appearing in my life at the same time.)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>on living, making the most of your time, and missing Prince:</b></div>"And now that he’s gone I’m really just so sorry. My one regret with him is that I did not call him up one day and say, “Listen, I’m just coming in, I’m gonna fly in and come over to Paisley Park and just hang out with you for two days. Because I just would love to see you.” And that’s what I always tell people. Remember, every single day of your life, the people you love could be gone tomorrow. If anybody can take away from what we’re talking about right now, it’s the fact that life is very fragile. You can’t count on ever having a lot of time left."<div><br /></div><div><div><b>on spiritual realms, life's signs and where inspiration comes from:</b></div><div><b>"</b>Yes, absolutely, I do. Because, for me, anything that gives me an idea, it strikes me in the good part of my heart, right? I have other notebooks that are just lying around on my bed, and I’ll just pick one of them to really quickly write that sentence down. I have little things written everywhere, and I try to tear them out immediately and stick them in my journal. So it’s just a feeling of an experience that you had a long, long time ago, and you remember something about it that you hadn’t thought about in a long time."</div></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-27993025424903095622022-01-01T14:10:00.007-05:002022-01-05T23:10:13.432-05:00I am running into a new year and the old years blow back like a wind that I catch in my hair.<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtJ7stfLLyOpr3-g92AI5eMwtrf9vFfDTecmCsMVTrHlIz5qvZRUdq4gi5dI93kBAc7YVsd6hvO4sx_L2p5vquE0sh4GHuJva7BG1mzvDzy5nxiGOncG6PsurA7Q-hqUiPFy1lvnt61Fe8S6pdPVHK_8IzFanruTvrdUjHuDw0DKdkLYaWfJT5v7w7Cw=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtJ7stfLLyOpr3-g92AI5eMwtrf9vFfDTecmCsMVTrHlIz5qvZRUdq4gi5dI93kBAc7YVsd6hvO4sx_L2p5vquE0sh4GHuJva7BG1mzvDzy5nxiGOncG6PsurA7Q-hqUiPFy1lvnt61Fe8S6pdPVHK_8IzFanruTvrdUjHuDw0DKdkLYaWfJT5v7w7Cw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I Am Running Into A New Year</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Lucille Clifton</div><p>Oh, this is such a good one.</p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-permalink="https://www.instagram.com/p/CYHiVCsPPI8/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading" data-instgrm-version="14" style="background-color: white; background: #FFF; border-bottom-left-radius: 3px; border-bottom-right-radius: 3px; border-radius: 3px; border-top-left-radius: 3px; border-top-right-radius: 3px; border: 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.5) 0px 0px 1px 0px, rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.15) 0px 1px 10px 0px; margin: 1px; max-width: 540px; min-width: 326px; padding: 0px; width: calc(100% - 2px);"><div style="padding: 16px;"> <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CYHiVCsPPI8/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading" style="background-color: white; background: #FFFFFF; line-height: 0; padding: 0px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; width: 100%;" target="_blank"> <div style="align-items: center; display: flex; flex-direction: row;"> <div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; border-bottom-left-radius: 50%; border-bottom-right-radius: 50%; 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flex-grow: 0; height: 12px; transform: translateY(-4px); width: 16px;"></div> <div style="border-left-color: transparent; border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 8px; border-left: 8px solid transparent; border-top-color: rgb(244, 244, 244); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 8px; border-top: 8px solid #F4F4F4; height: 0px; transform: translateY(-4px) translateX(8px); width: 0px;"></div></div></div> <div style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; flex-grow: 1; justify-content: center; margin-bottom: 24px;"> <div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; border-bottom-left-radius: 4px; border-bottom-right-radius: 4px; border-radius: 4px; border-top-left-radius: 4px; border-top-right-radius: 4px; flex-grow: 0; height: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; width: 224px;"></div> <div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; border-bottom-left-radius: 4px; border-bottom-right-radius: 4px; border-radius: 4px; border-top-left-radius: 4px; border-top-right-radius: 4px; flex-grow: 0; height: 14px; width: 144px;"></div></div></a><p style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0px 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CYHiVCsPPI8/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">A post shared by @poetryisnotaluxury</a></p></div></blockquote> <script async="" src="//www.instagram.com/embed.js"></script>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-81843694358918733402021-11-28T21:59:00.021-05:002021-12-02T23:32:27.084-05:00Everybody wants somebody to hold up the right mirror.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbkwpC0x880L2dxttWfJ8kwwqgIyj-2ekAZVPIXOz6SXow-YyX_yCmQ72ZnPizEOqv3BtfUNXQZH2VXJMrLpZRomo1W__iznpqJ5m2n8BOr2OTK2cwUPoGCTdbJ-aHWuNDofFrUvtUODj9/s2048/daisyjonesandthesix.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1351" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbkwpC0x880L2dxttWfJ8kwwqgIyj-2ekAZVPIXOz6SXow-YyX_yCmQ72ZnPizEOqv3BtfUNXQZH2VXJMrLpZRomo1W__iznpqJ5m2n8BOr2OTK2cwUPoGCTdbJ-aHWuNDofFrUvtUODj9/w263-h400/daisyjonesandthesix.jpeg" width="263" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;">Daisy Jones & The Six</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Taylor Jenkins Reid</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There are now two books I'd recommend listening to on audio over reading—<i><a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2020/05/their-eyes-were-watching-god-zora-neale-hurston.html" target="_blank">Their Eyes Were Watching God</a> </i>(narrated by Ruby Dee) and <i>Daisy Jones & The Six</i> narrated by a full cast of talented, perfectly-voiced actors.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Perfect for the long weekend, I loved the experience of blindly getting immersed in this one, written like an oral history (my favorite)—of being hit with nostalgia, and sentimentality and coming-of-age <i>Almost Famous</i>-y music storytelling goodness. I only wished real tunes accompanied the great lyrics she wrote for the tale. Reid's writing has heart and I look forward to reading more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<b>Billy: </b>Teddy told me once, "What your sound is, is a feeling. That's it. And that's a world above everything else." </div><div style="text-align: left;">I remember saying "What's the feeling?"</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was writing about love. I was singing with a little bit of a growl. We were rockin' hard on the guitars with some real blue bass lines. So I was thinking Teddy might say, you know, "taking a girl home from a bar" or "speeding with the top down," or something like that. Something fun, maybe, and a little dangerous.</div><div style="text-align: left;">But he just said, "It's ineffable. If I could define it, I wouldn't have any use for it."</div><div style="text-align: left;">That really stuck with me."</div><div style="text-align: left;">("Debut" - p. 55)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<b>Daisy:</b> ... I was sitting in the living room of my cottage, looking out the window, my songbook in my lap, realizing that if I didn't start trying—I mean being willing to squeeze out my own blood, sweat, and tears for what I wanted—I'd never be anything, never matter much to anybody. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I called Teddy a few days later, I said, "I'll record your album. I'll do it."</div><div style="text-align: left;">And he said, "It's your album." And I realized he was right. The album didn't have to be exactly my way for it to still be mine."</div><div style="text-align: left;">("First"" - pp. 80-1)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<b>Billy:</b> She was great at wordplay. She was great at flipping the meaning of things, of undercutting sentiment. I loved that about what she was doing and I told her that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Daisy: </b>The harder I worked as a songwriter, the longer I worked at it, the better I got. Not in any linear way, really. More like zigzags. But I was getting better, getting really good. And I knew that. I knew that when I showed the song to him. But knowing you're good can only take you so far. At some point, you need someone else to see it, too. Appreciation from people you admire changes how you see yourself. And Billy saw me the way I wanted to be seen. There is nothing more powerful than that. I really believe that. Everybody wants somebody to hold up the right mirror."</div><div style="text-align: left;">("Aurora" - p. 201)</div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-12113641286224830232021-11-25T23:38:00.027-05:002022-01-05T23:12:23.176-05:00This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkdC6iwOYH0s9NHhToFYtth3n90-6ptkrLyQElRY1rF5iuoCefam7a1_CmvsRzfCHT7dAFAOeaeq6XTZ_TGjAdjf33CVX9-b99plYFxgqwxQ5pOBZVznsM3bbAGBhHGj_5QUybMa55bz3/s4032/IMG_2313.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkdC6iwOYH0s9NHhToFYtth3n90-6ptkrLyQElRY1rF5iuoCefam7a1_CmvsRzfCHT7dAFAOeaeq6XTZ_TGjAdjf33CVX9-b99plYFxgqwxQ5pOBZVznsM3bbAGBhHGj_5QUybMa55bz3/w300-h400/IMG_2313.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Good Bones</div><div style="text-align: left;">By Maggie Smith</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This poem struck me at first read and has entered my conscience often since. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I had a weekend that reminded me of the good; I was so glad to laugh, cry, and woo for my friends over three days of nuptial celebrations. To dance freely. To be near the ocean, day and night. To meet lovely, open, good-hearted people who inspired tons of my curiosity (though I was too shy to intensely grill them all about their lives). We could make this place beautiful.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>Life is short, though I keep this from my children.<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>estimate, though I keep this from my children.<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>is at least half terrible, and for every kind<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>stranger, there is one who would break you,<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>though I keep this from my children. I am trying<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>walking you through a real shithole, chirps on<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>about good bones: This place could be beautiful,<br /></i></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>right? You could make this place beautiful.</i></div></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-40208934818433983102021-08-29T07:11:00.124-04:002021-09-28T08:06:28.701-04:00To learn to swim in the ocean of not knowing—this is my constant work.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrXVUWUcp-7gIorsovllb1u3tq7XWQJxKNhmw6Y0dnBdydTP5qTc2Ex_DoTW5rbVkAP24sPuiagKLkXL3e_ErOxKKToBMnkTE6fvwxGEDOmBrfdpCpc0HwNf2GhMKAyk5cGUjrj1VmkbuY/s2048/betweentwokingdoms.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1356" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrXVUWUcp-7gIorsovllb1u3tq7XWQJxKNhmw6Y0dnBdydTP5qTc2Ex_DoTW5rbVkAP24sPuiagKLkXL3e_ErOxKKToBMnkTE6fvwxGEDOmBrfdpCpc0HwNf2GhMKAyk5cGUjrj1VmkbuY/w264-h400/betweentwokingdoms.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of a Life Interrupted</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By Suleika Jaouad</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As I read and (mostly) listened to Between Two Kingdoms, I remained most astounded by Suleika's generosity. It feels inappropriate to share that her pain provided perspective, but that she is so open with her story is a gift. I was grateful many times—for the window into her experiences, the affecting language she used to describe them, and her overall grace. She shares the same desire to deep-know people so though our experiences are miles apart, I felt connected and invested in her journey.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At its end, three messages were reinforced—1) as I continue on my mission to <a href="https://www.noeliasophiareads.com/2021/03/all-about-love-bell-hooks.html ">learn to love</a> better, I'd been given examples in abundance of how to do so; 2) I am fortunate; 3) I had better make the most of my life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I decided to reimagine my survival as a creative act. If chemo sores in my mouth made it too painful to talk, I would find new ways to communicate. As long as I was stuck in bed, my imagination would become the vessel that allowed me to travel beyond the confines of my room. If my body had grown so depleted that I now had only three functional hours each day, I would clarify my priorities and make the most of how I spent the time I had.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With this in mind, I reorganized my bedroom so that everything I needed was within arm's reach: a small night table littered with pens, notebooks, and paper; a bookshelf filled with my favorite novels and volumes of poetry; a wooden board that I placed atop my knees as a desk. I wrote when I was home, and I wrote each day that I found myself back in the hospital. I wrote until the anger and envy and pain bled dry—until I could no longer hear the persistent beeping of monitors, the hiss of respirators, the alarms that constantly went off. I had no way of predicting all the places the Hundred-Day Project would take me, but what I knew, for now, was that I was starting to find my power."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(p. 109)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Earlier in this chapter, she shares how her family and boyfriend also participated in the Hundred-Day Project. Her ex Will shared a daily video from the outside, her mother painted ceramic tiles, and her father wrote 101 childhood memories and gave them to her in a book on Christmas—a great idea I'm considering.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">""Write," instructs Annie Dillard, "as if you were dying." We are all terminal patients on this earth—the mystery is not "if" but "when" death appears in the plotline. With my transplant date looming, her words rang loudly. My mortality shadowed each breath, each step that I took, more present now than it had ever been. A manic energy hummed through me. I worked around the clock for a month to draft thirteen columns before I entered the transplant unit, fueled by knowledge that it was going to be a long time before I was well enough to write or walk or do much of anything else again. What would you write about if you knew you might die soon? Bent over my laptop in bed, I traveled to where the silence was in my life. I wrote about my infertility and how no one had warned me of it. About learning to navigate our absurd healthcare system. About what it meant to fall in love while falling sick, and how we talk—or don't talk—about dying. I wrote about guilt. I also wrote a will in case I fell on the wrong side of the transplant odds. To this day, I've never been more prolific. Death can be a great motivator.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On March 29, 2012, my column and an accompanying video series—called "Life, Interrupted"—was scheduled to make its debut. Just a few days after that I would receive the bone marrow transplant. The confluence of these impending milestones was dizzying: a dream and a nightmare dancing the tango."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(p. 119)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"When I arrive at the hotel, Jon is waiting in the lobby. The two of us go way back to band camp, where we met as teenagers. Jon was gangly and awkward then, with a mouth full of braces and baggy, ill-fitting clothes, so shy he bordered on mute. He's since undergone a transformation. Now, with his thick New Orleanian drawl, virtuosic piano chops, and dapper style, he has the kind of magnetic presence that turns heads and draws everyone in a room. Tall and slim, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit and leather boots, he's handsome enough to startle me. His skin, a dark honey brown, looks luminous, and his features—those lips, aquiline nose, and broad shoulders—give him the majestic air of a prince. Jon catches my eye from across the lobby, and as I walk across the room to greet him, I wobble a little under his gaze."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(p. 201)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"To learn to swim in the ocean of not knowing—this is my constant work." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(p. 265)</div><br /><p></p>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0New York, NY, USA40.7127753 -74.005972812.402543512444758 -109.16222011779098 69.023007087555243 -38.84972548220901tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-56108974935755545532021-08-15T17:10:00.034-04:002021-08-22T23:31:01.916-04:00I'd just gained awareness, and now I noticed even more how acutely imperfect I was.<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFADDsiGu7_6yTO7kyHJ10iWkZMTArdiWVz4R8HRUMBM1kD_NDG2MhBh0jHgOFYn3CfIpPL5DpnlmH0Wj9qKftBhG6Irms-vBP5wZe-aCRfRsrM5gu-bulbGwosZmeL40WAuQibRebf96/s1360/yearofyes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="893" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFADDsiGu7_6yTO7kyHJ10iWkZMTArdiWVz4R8HRUMBM1kD_NDG2MhBh0jHgOFYn3CfIpPL5DpnlmH0Wj9qKftBhG6Irms-vBP5wZe-aCRfRsrM5gu-bulbGwosZmeL40WAuQibRebf96/s320/yearofyes.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Year Of Yes</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By Maria Dahvana Headley</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Like all the other citizens who'd come from nowhere to this, the great somewhere, I felt like I'd finally found home. I could relax into the hum of the trains under the asphalt, the steam rising from manholes, the goth clubs downtown and the <i>clip-clop</i> of the horse-drawn carriages in Central Park. Every day, I wadded up and lay aside more of what I'd really come from: a crazy father who raised sled dogs in the desert, a lot of sorrow I wanted to forget.</div><div style="text-align: left;">In my experience, the mentally ill were like black holes, into which you could pour everything you had, only to find that they'd been off apprehending aliens in the desert of their dreams and hadn't been listening to a word you'd said. I was paralyzed with guilt over my dad, and helpless to help him. I had a nightmare that someday he'd hop a train (he'd been known to do things like that, though now he hardly left his house) and appear on my doorstep, demanding care, demanding housing and feeding and attention. In my brain, he was like a character out of Beckett, popping his head occasionally from under a garbage can lid, calling for something muddled and humiliating. I loved him, but I couldn't save him. I knew that much. I tried not to think about it. Every time I saw a homeless person, I thought of my dad, then cast the thought out from my mind, ground it into the sidewalk like a cigarette, and walked quickly away, resisting the temptation to look back. Whatever was following me would just have to stay in Hades. I drank from Lethe every other day, and it never had the desired effect."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 145)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I thought sadly about the predicament of the modern man, wrapped in a silky shroud of guilt, comfortably wallowing across guilty sheets. Were there any good ones left? If so, where the hell were they?</div><div style="text-align: left;">I tried to focus on school, on living, and not on the fact that the Year of Yes was almost over. Though I'd changed from the inside out, I hadn't found someone willing to take me for what I now was. Unfortunately, there was no going back. </div><div style="text-align: left;">On paper, it was so easy to search through your old drafts and find that darling you'd killed. You could reinstate the passage, as though you'd never even thought about murder. In life, not so. You'd change a part of yourself—a flawed part, maybe, but a flawed part you might have, secretly, been a little bit in love with. You'd know it was for the best, that you'd only manage to proceed if you revised whatever thing was messing up the overall structure of your existence. But inevitably, at some point, you'd want to go back on the changes. It would be easier to stay the same old rumpled version, the same typos and blotches, the same old severe climactic flaws. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I found myself trying to think my old judgmental things as I walked down the street. Instead I'd end up talking to everyone I saw, spending half my day sitting down next to strangers. Letting them tell me everything. Giving them love.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It wasn't like I'd made myself perfect. Far from it. I'd just gained awareness, and now I noticed even more how acutely imperfect I was. I was willing to do all kinds of things that I knew better than to do. Like, for example, fall madly in love again. With someone I knew very well was a very bad idea."</div><div style="text-align: left;">(p. 259)</div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-26081517826756450912021-08-01T15:49:00.084-04:002021-08-13T14:08:29.509-04:00 I'm not depressed but I worry I'll get to the end of my life feeling I haven't done all I wanted to do.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_kUpToGt_OOdKHu2ynKyUigRpIgW441pu-pDz-4Jly_v6OwJVFPPjrz1Wsn9khCBkF-g8G6N5ZjTFh4rxoHZRfWnt2sA9tIu9_di8kHhnG4iUtlEv4i9DT6pziUKuKRFwRKnPb5OscZ1/s1472/beforesunset.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1472" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_kUpToGt_OOdKHu2ynKyUigRpIgW441pu-pDz-4Jly_v6OwJVFPPjrz1Wsn9khCBkF-g8G6N5ZjTFh4rxoHZRfWnt2sA9tIu9_di8kHhnG4iUtlEv4i9DT6pziUKuKRFwRKnPb5OscZ1/w223-h400/beforesunset.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I posted this on Instagram & received awed replies commenting on my signed copy of the 'Before Sunset' script; alas, I'd just found it online (gratefully).</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.dailyscript.com/scripts/before-sunset.pdf" target="_blank">Before Sunset</a></div><div>By Julie Delpy, Ethan Hawke, Richard Linklater</div><div><br /></div><div>Earlier this year, I re-watched two-thirds of the "Before" trilogy. I held out on re-watching the third because I didn't want to be sad!, instead seeking the optimism of the first two. </div><div><br /></div><div>As expected, 'Before Sunset' again induced sweeping heart feels. I think it is a near perfect film, with the most perfect ending. (Nina Simone's 'Just In Time' may very well be in my top 10 songs of all time—because of this film.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Now that I'm of the same age of Jesse and Celine, with more experience, the film is more resonant and relatable. I reveled in their romance and dialogue!</div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Definitely. Are you depressed now?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">No. I'm not depressed but I worry I'll get to the end of my life feeling I haven't done all I wanted to do.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">What do you want to do?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">I mean I want to paint, write more songs, learn Chinese, play my guitar each day. There are so many things that I want to do, and I end up doing not much.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>He laughs</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Well let me ask you this: do you believe in ghosts, or spirits?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">No. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Do you believe in reincarnation?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Not at all.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">What about God?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">No, no.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Jesse laughs. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine (cont'd) </b></div><div style="text-align: left;">But at the same time, I don't want to be one of those people that don't believe in any kind of magic.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">So you believe in Astrology.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Of course! I mean, you're a Scorpio, I'm a Sag, we get along. No. There's that Einstein quote that if you don't believe in any kind of magic or mystery, you're as good as dead.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yeah, I've always felt there was some kind of mystical core to the universe. But I don't believe that me, my personality, has any permanent place here. And the more I believe that, the more I can't go through life and think "This is no big deal." This is it. What do you see? What do you feel? What do you think is funny? Every day is the last.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">No, I like it. I had a terrible nightmare the other day. I was having an awful dream that I was 32, then I woke up and I was 23, relieved, and then I woke up for real and I was 32.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Aw shit, it happens.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Time gets faster and faster. Apparently it's because we don't renew our synapses after 20, so it's all pretty much downhill from then on.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jesse</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">On the other hand, I like getting old. Life feels more immediate—you can appreciate it more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Celine</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh, I know. I actually like it too.</div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-46249380868646224882021-07-11T18:13:00.002-04:002021-07-11T18:13:33.523-04:00may you kiss the wind then turn from it / certain that it will / love your back<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/69Q7fm5kz5RkpT5CoyObOl" width="100%"></iframe>
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>blessing the boats</div><div>By Lucille Clifton</div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6berAOHbQ1O8Patvv48CKL?si=ff47a3d7750145a2">Some favorite classical music</a> played in the background the other day and at some point turned to "The Carnival of the Animals" by Camille Saint-Saëns. Did I always know that Bill Murray recited Lucille Clifton's "<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58816/blessing-the-boats">blessing the boats</a>" over this rendition? I don't know that I did...and yet I'm sure I added it for a reason. Perhaps solely for the melody? Either way, it hit as if I were listening to it for the first time and now I can't stop.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">may the tide </div><div style="text-align: left;">that is entering even now</div><div style="text-align: left;">the lip of our understanding</div><div style="text-align: left;">carry you out </div><div style="text-align: left;">beyond the face of fear </div><div style="text-align: left;">may you kiss
the wind then turn from it</div><div style="text-align: left;">certain that it will </div><div style="text-align: left;">love your back may you </div><div style="text-align: left;">open your eyes to water </div><div style="text-align: left;">water waving forever </div><div style="text-align: left;">and may you in your innocence </div><div style="text-align: left;">sail through this to that</div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-26884809546457014482021-06-13T13:45:00.029-04:002021-07-10T14:03:58.114-04:00There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled.<div style="text-align: left;">Moments </div><div style="text-align: left;">By Mary Oliver</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/poetryisnotaluxury/">@poetryisnotaluxury</a> is one of my favorite Instagram accounts of the moment, and of course I am always so pleased when Mary Oliver pops up in the feed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled." <b><i>!!!</i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"There is nothing more pathetic than caution when headlong might save a life, </div><div style="text-align: left;">even, possibly, your own."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>
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Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3761663569014932095.post-7740683697438946542021-06-06T14:34:00.025-04:002021-07-18T14:49:30.425-04:00The result of a life spent chasing down every opportunity with maximum tenacity and plowing lanes where none previously existed.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0LPipK7sTx6n7WyfUBK68baQbDwUZeqykfM3n79PULtDaJ80AGr9aVqSatcVbYLW0vWG97nQoFBo3xIO2k-hyiWS9N4IAtSndHeFdZoPspVice3JsGyO2SC6k6bzoxrH-1Ar-5RbtG12a/s2048/IMG_3377.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0LPipK7sTx6n7WyfUBK68baQbDwUZeqykfM3n79PULtDaJ80AGr9aVqSatcVbYLW0vWG97nQoFBo3xIO2k-hyiWS9N4IAtSndHeFdZoPspVice3JsGyO2SC6k6bzoxrH-1Ar-5RbtG12a/w300-h400/IMG_3377.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/06/03/movies/anthony-ramos-in-the-heights.html" target="_blank">With ‘In the Heights,’ Anthony Ramos Finds Stardom on His Own Terms</a></div><div style="text-align: left;">By Dave Itzkoff</div><p>Been rooting for Anthony Ramos' success and was so delighted to see him on the cover of the Arts & Leisure section of The New York Times.</p>"That Ramos, 29, even finds himself in this spot, singing, swinging and charming his way through bodega aisles as the film’s irrepressible hero, Usnavi, is the result of a life spent chasing down every opportunity with maximum tenacity and plowing lanes for himself where none previously existed."<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Noelia de la Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886455441505910455noreply@blogger.com0