i'll make tea

THE HISTORY TEACHER | BILLY COLLINS

2011-12-23T01:57:32Z

Trying to protect his students' innocence
he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.

And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of time.

The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
"How far is it from here to Madrid?"
"What do you call the matador's hat"

The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.

The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,

while he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer war told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.

A STORY THAT COULD BE TRUE | WILLIAM STAFFORD

2011-10-06T07:06:06Z

If you were exchanged in the cradle and
your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.

He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand on the corner shivering.
The people who go by--
you wonder at their calm.

They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
"Who are you really, wanderer?"--
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king."

rip steve jobs (1955-2011)

BAR NAPKIN SONNET 23 | MOIRA EGAN

2011-09-29T12:08:15Z

Sometimes you have to swallow. I love you
might otherwise escape your lust-dumb lips.
By dumb I mean here dim-witted, not mute,
though I have learned the Helen Keller trick
to see no, hear no, speak no thing like truth.
How could this big dumb guy I'm sitting with
have made me come so hard I damn near swooned?
And now he's watching baseball as if it's
a new religion. Jesus Christ. Who knew
that goddamned oxytocin spike I get
could trick me into thinking amour fou.
It's bitter, but I just dry-swallow it
like aspirin, or confession. I get used
to walking out, my ass and soul both bruised.

FALLING AND FLYING | JACK GILBERT

2011-09-09T16:21:50Z

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRDS SING | MAYA ANGELOU

2011-09-03T15:23:56Z

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

BLUEBIRD | CHARLES BUKOWSKI

2011-09-01T13:30:43Z

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but i don't
weep, do
you?

HOW TO BUILD AN OWL | KATHLEEN LYNCH

2011-08-26T18:53:24Z

1. Decide you must.

2. Develop deep respect
for feather, bone, claw.

3. Place your trembling thumb
where the heart will be:
for one hundred hours watch
so you will know
where to put the first feather.

4. Stay awake forever.
When the bird takes shape
gently pry open its beak
and whisper into it: mouse.

5. Let it go.

APPARENTLY I DO INTRO POSTS NOW. GO FIGURE.

2011-08-09T11:33:49Z

one. HI, ALL. Okay, so I figured with the new friends and all I should at least take a couple minutes to be social and introduce myself. Also, I am procrastinating on copywriting work, so excuse me as I blather about myself for a bit. Yeah. So. THIS IS ME. (And, of course, this is me in chibi form. My name's Késhia (pronounced kay-shee-ah), but call me Kesh or whatever because many find the accent mark a blight upon their typing sensibilities.

two. So! Fandoms! I am one of those people who says they love everything and actually means it (except for when I don't). No, really. Bandom, MARVEL, DC, Disney, Inception, The Eagle, White Collar, Sherlock Holmes, The Social Network, Beserk, KHR, D. Gray-man, DOGS, Historical RPS, JDramas, ~I COULD GO ON - really, anything that holds my attention for more than three minutes. I am notoriously flaky and maddeningly shippy. The only reason I ever really made it through Faust was by shipping Faust/Mephistopheles, it's actually kind of ridiculous.

three. I really love films. Like, I really, really love films. I'm actually starting at USC Cinematic in January, so it's kind of a ~~passion~~ obsession of mine. So I'll tend to talk about them a lot if I find the time; unfortunately, I leave all my technical speak at home so what filters through on LJ is basically just flailing and incoherent excitement. Especially when I talk about B-grade horrors.

Also, poetry. I will post a lot of poetry. But poetry has a tendency to make me really quiet so just know that the flailing is dutifully implied.

four. Life! Just recently 19. Born in London, England before moving to India, then moved back to London, then to LA, then back to London, and quite recently back to LA. What is my life, I don't even know. Anyway. I now live in LA with my mum and stepdad, though the rest of my mum's side is in London. I visit my father and his wife once a year in India and then generally go gallivanting about Asia for two months because he's a photographer and he likes to cart me along on shoots.

five. I really like tea.

My posting's been really sporadic and here one minute! gone the next! as of late but I'm really trying to change that. But, yes. Have I forgotten anything? I've probably forgotten things. Oh well. Feel free to ask. :D

THIS POST WAS REALLY JUST A SELFISH REASON TO USE MY TOY STORY .GIFS
BECAUSE, Y'KNOW.
RAD.

WE'LL HAVE A DALMATIAN PLANTATION

2011-08-08T04:55:27Z

Dude, this is a teaser trailer for Irvine Welsh's Ecstasy. And okay, teaser, so at the moment it just kind of looks like a slightly overexposed montage of fucking and raving, but. I can't even. It's like, Three Chemical Romances, right? Overall, it doesn't look overtly stylized which is neither here nor there, so. I mean - necrophiliacs! Obese Romance novelists! Somerset accents! Thalidomide victims! Chainsaws! Drugs! Not his best work, admittedly, but I'm just wondering how they're going to intertwine all such shenanigans.

CEASEFIRE | MICHAEL LONGLEY

2011-07-31T12:51:46Z

1
Put in mind of his own father and moved to tears
Achilles took him by the hand and pushed the old king
Gently away, but Priam curled up at his feet and
Wept with him until their sadness filled the building.

2
Taking Hector's corpse into his own hands Achilles
Made sure it was washed and, for the old king's sake,
Laid out in uniform, ready for Priam to carry
Wrapped like a present home to Troy at daybreak.

3
When they had eaten together, it pleased them both
To stare at each other's beauty as lovers might,
Achilles built like a god, Priam good-looking still
And full of conversation, who earlier had sighed:

4
'I get down on my knees and do what must be done
And kiss Achilles' hand, the killer of my son.'

ONE AFTERNOON | JOANIE MACKOWSKI

2011-07-10T22:25:40Z

A woman stepped outside, crumbled
into a loose particulate, and, as the breeze
blew up from the east, she scattered: her handful
of heart, volcanic ash, spiraled the highway,
and five of her teeth slipped between
her neighbor's breasts; her neighbor
unbuttoned her blouse to scratch
at her suddenly red and luminous skin.
Days passed. Each day the sun distractedly
drifted from chair to chair; each night the stars,
old scatterbrains, they commiserated.
It didn't rain. Strange, the granular woman
thought to herself: although I encompass
so much, I accomplish so little.
Her car sparkled with her hair and bones;
her garden thrived. She tried to think:
why did this happen? what had I eaten?
why was I bothered? --those old hours,
spotted the exotic lizards, darted
the gravel, flicking through their colors
of skin as one flicks channels on a tv.
She couldn't catch one. Then, as a flock
of sparrows converging for the skull
of an oak, all her twittering dust,
her brain, bone, and the dangerous shreds
of her fingers clawed for the sky;
what an interesting cloud someone said.

DOUBLE ENTENDRES GET LOST IN THE TUNDRA

2011-01-30T06:20:05Z

I went on a bit of a friending spree as of late, so if you're one of those people, hi. Hell, even if you're not one of those people: Hi. You are most probably an insanely interesting person and it's starkly apparent to me that it is a lot easier to friend you, than for me to bookmark your journal, sort it into an appropriate bookmark folder lest I lose it in the diseased spaghetti junction that is my browsing history, and sporadically lurk through tabbing. So. That's that.

On another note, I've been practicing my fashion illustration techniques as of late, which are appalling. You think: Lines! Curvy, sinuous lines! My hand just needs to glide smoothly across the page like a gentle breeze among willows! Alas, tis not so simple. Renewed respect, hear ye hear ye. Much practice in order.

ON ANOTHER ANOTHER NOTE.

Castaway on the Moon (2009) is legitimately one of the most brilliant, heartwarming, fantastically cushiony films I have ever seen. I am ridiculously smitten; it's one of those pictures which leaves you smiling long after the credits, chest inflated like a balloon, and with a renewed sense of just plain happiness.

What are your favourite films?

MY POEMS | ISAAC OLIVER

2011-01-29T10:42:04Z

I hate my poems.

I used to love them, back when they knew their place.
Poems are like dogs you walk in the park
to attract off-duty firemen who love them and in turn love you.
Not my poems.

My poems used to be shy, they used to stand in front of the
mirror
and complain about their bloated syntax and pimpled thematic
structure.
But now they leave the house in couplets I don’t remember
rhyming,
and when I ask where they’re going and with whom they’re going
out,
they say, “He’s not your style. He writes think pieces, political
pieces.”

Oh god, not think pieces, not political pieces.

My poems see a guy across crowded room,
start talking pretty saying things like “Your eyes are like moons,”
and before I know it, I’m left standing alone at a punch bowl.
I’ll grab a stanza’s arm and say, “Just let me have this one, please.”
“You snooze, you lose,” it responds, rolling its eyes.
“You think you’re so hot with your semicolons,” I shout after it,
“but I wrote you for a class assignment! You weren’t even
inspired by anything!”

My poems make better theatre dates than me.
They make jokes, they offer multilayered compliments,
they know someone in the chorus.
My poems spend money without thinking twice.

They hold hands with men on the subway no matter who’s
looking.
“How’d you get so fearless?” I ask a particularly savvy poem that
insists
on all lowercase letter and refuses every title but “untitled”.
“I don’t know. Are you jealous?” it replies,
its thumb making circles on the palm of a modern dancer/social
activist.
My poems are bitches.
So they’ve been to some festivals, that doesn’t mean they know me.
“You’re much less grateful than my earlier work, when I used to
title poems,” I snap.
“You mean the ones you wrote with Tori Amos playing in the
background
and without the sense of humour?” “untitled” retorts.

My poems also come knocking in the very early morning,
and I let them sleep on my couch, and they cry about cruel men
and betrayal and Karl Rove,
and I hold them and remember why I wrote them.
I’ve needed to be fearless, to not capitalize words,
to laugh, to spend money, and to leave something untitled.
I’ve needed them to be my spies,
to have their hearts broken and their spirits tattered,
and to come back to me for punctuation.

IF YOU FEEL LIKE LOVING ME, IF YOU GOT THE NOTION; I SECOND THAT EMOTION

2011-01-25T08:06:24Z

In which I am besotted with mannerist elongation and thus wish I was taller and could pull off a boat hat. Or, y'know:

My (Totally Mini, Doesn't Do Him An Ounce Of Justice) J.C. Leyendecker Appreciation Post

Because such gouache makes me gush. :D (Oh, I went there.) Nah, mate, but seriously...

Probably what most know him for: the Arrow Collar Man. Hng. His pinstripes, the grey coal of his suit against the soft floral sofa! How every single line of the body connects and bends to other such lines of the body! His ramrod straight cane in conjunction with the crushed glove in the other hand. The green highlight of his tie against his starched white collar. Tell me you don't want to touch this man's lapels; I dare you.

This man did more Saturday Evening Post covers than Rockwell, okay, and that is no mean feat. It's SANTA. Here's the thing; I was raised Jehova's Witness. I do not celebrate Christmas. Never have. This illustration? Makes me want to hug a jolly, fat man with rosy cheeks, no lie. Look at the little cherub child in his onesie, tippy toes stretching to clutch at Santa's shoulder. (Or maybe he's just gunning for the presents on his back, idek.) ;_____; AND YOU CAN BET HIS BELLY WOULD WOBBLE LIKE A BOWL FULL OF JELLY.

THIS. I adore everything about this painting. Her elongated elegance, the sheen on light accenting her dress, her fingers. And lookit him all SIGH SIGH ~DEBONAIR in the background. I love the way he blends slightly into the background, the cut of his white cuffs and flower standing out stark against the blackness. ALSO. NOTE THE FURNITURE. How she mirrors the banister, and he the understated chandelier. It's so balanced. The geometry of this man's work is sensual.

HEY, BB. 'SUP? Upon closer inspection, there seems to be a whole lot more appreciative appraisal gong on between the males in this crowd than the one female. In fact, she looks a little lost at sea, to be quite honest with you. (:D?) But, oh man, look at the cut of the clothing. The folds of cloth, the way the sunlight slants downwards against the lean of their bodies. The bloke on the far right - the brim of his hat pulled down to shade his eyes, the cock of his hips, his smirk. I am besotted. One could write a goddamn epic on the body language in this illustration, may I just say.

This is a study of a man adjusting his sock. In theory, this should seriously not be at all as attractive as it actually is. Just. Oh.

How intricately crafted is this woman's hair and lashes, for serious. The soft curvature of her neck and arms. The light blush high on her cheek, warmth of colour stemming from her hair to her cheeks to her lips, down the line of her throat and into folded hands. I am staring at a woman kissing a baby cupid in a cage. I am okay with this.

WORDS. I CAN'T. Profiles. Those slashed white brushstrokes indicative of the reflected light are a signature mark of his. Honestly, these images are the laughably low-res to display this type of work. Look at the detail, playful lines and cutting edges. The prominence of the elderly man's chin and nose, the wrinkles curving down from his eyes into the gaunt dip of his cheekbones.

Oh. Well, look at them... okay, I've legitimately spent the last 3 minutes staring at this illustration trying to figure out what to say, but my train of thought keeps derailing whenever I look back at it. It just makes me happy, you guys.

On a completely unrelated note, I am watching a documentary about brothels in Calcutta, and this one poor boy's mother just died and it is so monumentally sad, I cannot even. It's devastating. So forgive if I can't quite muster the happy this illustration deserves. Because it deserves a hell of a lot of happy, okay. From the razor-edged lines of his suit to his whimsical little smile. Bringing it back to the 'slash' brushstrokes shoving against the planes of his form, everything compact, succinct, just one pure joyful moment.

I leave you on this note. Yes, yes I do. It's another one of his Saturday Evening Post covers, if I'm not mistaken. The detail. The unadulterated floppage. His rosy, red nose and curious, puckered expression. His braces, and the dips and pleats of his clothing. Hat balanced at a jaunty little angle. He is a thing of homeless, meatball beauty.

I am also ridiculously smitten with JCL's signature, it's a piece of artwork in itself.

JC Leyendecker was German and tragic and repressed and absolutely brilliant. He painted over four hundred magazine covers alone, and "virtually invented the whole idea of modern magazine design." He has the sensuality reminiscent of Mucha, with the vivid, commercial quality of Chéret. Yeah, I'm getting all flouncy now, so I'll finish with a Rockwell quote because the image of a young Rockwell obsessively tailing a completely oblivious Leyendecker amuses me to no end:

"I began working for The Saturday Evening Post in 1916 and Leyendecker was my god. I actually used to, unbeknownst him, follow him down the streets of New Rochelle just to be close by him. I didn't meet him until perhaps around 1914, but he was a wonderful man personally, as well as a great artist. He was a superb draftsman, and a fine colorist, and had an amazingly creative mind. In any history of American illustration, he will certainly hold a most important place."

LEGS | CHARLES BUKOWSKI

2010-10-11T06:20:11Z

she arrived in a taxi
completely intoxicated.
it was
after one of my long days as
a May Co. stock boy
and I sat there
exhausted and
sucking at
my beer and
looking at her
in her rumpled state
spread across the bed
skirt hiked high.

I sucked at my drink
then walked over
to the bed and lifted
her skirt higher:
such a sight
those glorious legs
uncovered and helpless.

she was a great woman with
great legs.

we had such tremendous fun
and much agony together
for some years

but she found
life too hard;
she died
34 years ago and

I haven't seen
legs like that
since
and I have
never stopped

looking.

THE QUIET WORLD | JEFFREY McDANIEL

2009-02-03T14:29:44Z

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it
to my ear without saying hello.
In the restaurant I point
at chicken noodle soup. I am
adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long
distance lover and proudly say
I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond, I know
she's used up all her words
so I slowly whisper I love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

ACRONYMS

2009-01-21T14:54:45Z

"Sometimes I wonder how we got words. Like, where does 'war' come from?"

"It's a universal acronym."

"An acronym of what?"

"We Are Right."