Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,
Jacqui
jacqui

Cruel Mary With Her Talk of Poetry and Grilled Cheese Sandwiches and My Inner Sex Demon VS My Shyness

And here I thought I was done with my mad round of journal postings when I read this e-mail from my friend Mary - Mary of the recent birthday. First I was pissed off at her (not really) for writing to me about grilled cheese, which I would possibly kill something small and innocent for, and then I read this beautiful poem. She's such a good writer, this just has to be shared.

Oh Best Beloveds, in these troubled times, perhaps you will find solace in the knowledge that April, which begins tomorrow, is both National Poetry Month and National Grilled Cheese Month. It is entirely possible that judicious observance of both these occasions might bring about the wisdom needed to solve some of the world's hurts. Certainly, it will make us feel better for a few delicious minutes.

To this end, you can go to Clementine's, in Century City, where they are celebrating the Grilled Cheese month by serving a different combination sandwich every day. Or make your own: Thomas Keller of the French Laundry recommends white English Cheddar on brioche lightly brushed with clarified butter. Others say you can't go wrong with a combination of three cheeses (especially if one is gruyere) and bacon on rosemary potato bread.

As for poetry, Knopf will send you a poem a day to your email throughout the month. Go to: http://www.randomhouse.com/knopf/poetry/ and the signup is on your right. (This link may not work, so just paste into your browser. Or google search Knopf Poetry month.)

Here's one to start you off.

IT WAS LIKE THIS: YOU WERE HAPPY

It was like this:

you were happy, then you were sad,

then happy again, then not.

It went on.

You were innocent or you were guilty.

Actions were taken, or not.

At times you spoke, at other times you were silent.

Mostly, it seems you were silent--what could you say?

Now it is almost over.

Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life.

It does this not in forgiveness--

between you, there is nothing to forgive--

but with the simple nod of a baker at the moment

he sees the bread is finished with transformation.

Eating, too, is now a thing only for others.

It doesn't matter what they will make of you

or your days: they will be wrong,

they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man,

all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention.

Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad,

you slept, you awakened.

Sometimes you ate roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons.

--Jane Hirshfield

Meltingly,
Mary


PS: The rage of my hormones continue. This English journalist was blabbing away on the television as I wrote to you but them my little inner sex demon perked up and I realized, "Ahhh it's the English accent." I so want this man because of his pretty voice. Sigh. Poor Scott what must he be making of all of this? He knows what a truly slothful anti-sexual being I have been, and here I am just one week post op and some kind of swampy-sex-being is rising up from within me. Must have cock. And you know what's even funnier to me about all of this, is that I am really very shy, you wouldn't know it, few people do, but here I am handing out my site address to doctors, and nurses, whoever asks for it, and there I go using all of these frighteningly stimulating sexual words. Maybe I should split off the bariatric surgery/weight loss part of this into another journal so people can just follow that and not have to read about my dreams. Naaaah, screw it, I am who I am, more and more.
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