happy heart day, robotdinosaurswithhumanhearts. you can make your own chalky masterpiece here. i thought about trying to make this literary by asking for your favorite love poems or love stories or romances depicted in film, but really i just wanted to post this cute heart. i'd still love to hear what you love, though. xo.
9 comments:
this is too much fun for me. i've made a million 8th-grade-boy combinations."Ass" and "Butt" on a candy heart is just too hilarious.
I've been questioning my sanity all week, and this does not help.
Well, love day's passed, but in the spirit of it, I thought I'd post one of my favorite love poems.
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
by Jack Gilbert
How astonishing that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it wrong. We say bread, and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnnamon, horses and birds.
I didn't really want to post a comment; I wanted to start my own post about something else entirely, but since today this blog is not letting me (note that I have started my own post before), I'll just post this comment instead: Glass as Selves, isn't that the poem on your bedroom wall? I dearly love it. I had never heard of Jack Gilbert until I read that poem on your bedroom wall, but how can one not love a poem that recognizes the indisputable fact that giraffes are desire in the dark?
Indeed, cheese, this graces my bedroom wall. I do love it too. The best love poem. Here's another from Mr. Gilbert. No asses or butts here, but this would fit nicely on a little heart.
Married
I came back from the funeral and crawled
around the apartment, crying hard,
searching for my wife's hair.
For two months got them from the drain,
from the vacuum cleaner, under the refrigerator,
and off the clothes in the closet.
But after other Japanese women came,
there was no way to be sure which were
hers, and I stopped. A year later,
repotting Michiko's avocado, I find
a long black hair tangled in the dirt.
One time, in college, I had these hippie friends Matt and Sarah, and they had a big beautiful Huskie, and before Christmas Matt spent months combing the dog's hair and secretly saving it & he spun it into wool and knit Sarah socks with the wool and the socks had little dogs on them. So that's my saving hair story. Fiction writers, I'm giving it to you--use as you see fit.
Cheese, I want your post! Stupid blog!
So I also once knew some hippies who gathered dog hair -- in this case, the fur of a friend's golden retriever -- and spun it into yarn and knit scarves with it. But my question about the whole process is this: when these socks and scarves and things get wet, do they smell like wet dog? I never got to ask my hippies, or investigate for myself. Do you have the answer, Starrykick? I have been wondering these many years....
That is an excellent question, chees with a spoon. Not to be mean, but my hippie friends didn't smell so great most of the time--they were living in a cabin with no electricity or running water and showered at my house about once every two weeks--so I don't think I would have noticed if their dog-hair clothing began to stink when wet. So maybe it's not such a big issue for them. I, however, would consider the wet dog smell of my socks or scarf a significant drawback. Future hippie boyfriends, take note.
YES, dog-hair clothing articles do smell when they get wet. I only know this because when we were out walking my big, fluffy, white dog once, this lady came up to us and asked us if we saved Kobe's hair. Uh, no, we throw the big clumps of nasty stuff in the trash, duh (this is my mom talking, not me). She proceeded to explain to us her obsession with Samoyed hair and how expensive it was and yada, yada. Needless to say, it was snowing and she was wearing a wool-ish sweater and did not smell good. On second thought, we do live at the mouth of the canyon where the Donner party of cannibals came through years and years ago. Maybe she ate humans. Hippies and cannibals. A match made in dog-hair-heaven. (But not boyfriend heaven.)
Er, what is the Donner party of cannibals? I must assume that they are/were in no way related to Doner Kebabs, or rotating meatwheels as my husband calls them -- and yet they name sounds so tantalizingly similar. What the hell is a "party of cannibals," anyway? Doesn't sound like much of a party to me, but I guess it does to them! Glass, please elaborate.
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