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Below are the 5 most recent journal entries recorded in
Remus Haddon (Spike)'s InsaneJournal:
| Monday, September 8th, 2008 | |
| 1:37 am | I seem to have been remiss at keeping this up. In penance, I offer this: In the Park by G.E. Johnson We walked along Central Park West and at 65th We turned into the dark where horse carriages Clip-clopped along and late night strollers drifted By and we sat on a bench set in shadowy foliage And there you nestled so perfectly at my left side, Your head on my shoulder against my cheek, My arm around you, and there you reclined, And we talked in the dark and then we didn't speak. Your body and mine fit so comfortably. I put My hand against the side of your lovely head And we sat peacefully merged from head to foot, Wrapped in one thought that didn't need to be said. And then we walked away. I remember we kissed On the corner of 76th and Central Park West. |
| Friday, June 13th, 2008 | |
| 3:56 pm | Noted for the Record #0003 The Well Dressed Man with a Beard -- Wallace Stevens After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends. No was the night. Yes is this present sun. If the rejected things, the things denied, Slid over the western cataract, yet one, One only, one thing that was firm, even No greater than a cricket's horn, no more Than a thought to be rehearsed all day, a speech Of the self that must sustain itself on speech, One thing remaining, infallible, would be Enough. Ah! douce campagna of that thing! Ah! douce campagna, honey in the heart, Green in the body, out of a petty phrase, Out of a thing believed, a thing affirmed: The form on the pillow humming while one sleeps, The aureole above the humming house . . . It can never be satisfied, the mind, never. |
| Thursday, June 12th, 2008 | |
| 12:16 pm | Noted for the Record #0002 How To Be a Poet (to remind myself) -- Wendell Berry Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon affection, reading, knowledge, skill-more of each that you have-inspiration, work, growing older, patience, for patience joins time to eternity. Any readers who like your work, doubt their judgment. Breathe with unconditional breath the unconditioned air. Shun electric wire. Communicate slowly. Live a three-dimensioned life; stay away from screens. Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in. There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places. Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays, make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came. |
| Wednesday, June 11th, 2008 | |
| 8:42 pm | Noted for the Record #0001 You Never Said Where You Were Going -- Elizabeth Fredricks In photographs, my mother has the sort of smile that warms your fingers in winter. She is all certainty, all competence, a woman who can draw blood from the hearts of rabbits, and herself, a woman who knows the physics of music, the algebra of adolescence, the shocking biochemistry of pain. Demeter harrowed hell for her daughter. Most mothers would agree they would have done the same, no fields of asphodel or poppies no rivers of forgetfulness or pain, would keep them from their baby. Who stops to contemplate what Persephone would have done with places reversed? When the daily antiphony was broken, when there was no answer to her call, the blessed daughter, with only a fraction of her mother’s power— where would she have gone? I sat with old photo albums across my lap every fiber of me trying to push backwards through time and lean over my mother’s bed, invading the underworld of dream with a whisper: Mama, you must not leave— I cannot live without you. |
| 8:18 pm | Third Person Intro Two. Five. Four. Three. One. One. The tiny space he used as a writing office allowed him to pace in a tiny little circle, past the window, around the closet. Two. Five. Four. Three. One. One. It wasn't a very comfortable pattern. It really wasn't even much of a pattern. Barely enough to really get going. But he was perfectly happy pacing it, over and over, muttering to himself. If you walked past the window, he liked to think, it'd look like the man inside was tormented indeed. (Nevermind that really it looked more like a drunken bee in a jar.) Two. Five. Four. Three. One. One. Over and over, repeating a line to himself until he could drop it perfectly into the meter of whatever it was he was writing. He'd pace, and mumble, chatter and pace until with a start he'd leap over to the desk, scribble down what he'd done, read it, and promptly throw it away. Terrible stuff. And then he'd pace, all over again. ---- Name: Remy Haddon / Spike Domain of: Erskine/Torquil Power: Vampiric healing from any wound at night. |