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prairiesong
If you woke up surrounded by doctors who told you that you'd been in a medical experiment since birth and that your entire life had been a dream, how do you think you'd react?


This is a great question. I'd probably call Hollywood and have a movie made, a la "The Truman Show".
 
 
 
prairiesong
23 April 2011 @ 10:43 pm
What was the first video or computer game you ever played? Did you love it or hate it, and why?


Space invaders. I am nostalgic for it! I think I liked it because it didn't seem as violent as some of the others.
 
 
 
prairiesong
22 March 2011 @ 10:51 pm
Can some one tell me how to remove this here photo and export it to facebook? Right clicking, which used to save things, doesn't seem to do anything.
 
 
 
prairiesong
02 February 2011 @ 10:43 am
"Demas, In Love With This Present World"
Kristin Fogdall

2 Timothy 4:9-10

What you've heard is true — I've gone to Thessilonika.
I've taken a room above the agora with a view
of the harbor and wake too early to merchants' voices,
bleatings of every sort, and carpets being beaten.
The innkeeper and his wife bring bread — they are kind,
and their daughter is pretty, though she has a withered hand.

At night I watch the fishing boats come in to shore,
hung with many lanterns. The men pull up their nets
and sort the catch in shifting light; they sometimes sing
a song about the moon seducing an old sailor
and drink a bit and fall asleep wrapped in their robes.
Later someone puts the lights out one by one.

In between, the days are slow, and I think of you often.
I know what some are saying, that I loved my father
and his estate more than truth and our way of life.
It wasn't the inheritance that called me back,
and I won't return to the assembly or his house.
Demetrius is here, asleep beside me as I write.

He has thrown one of his warm legs over me
in a dream, and two pears with a jar of wine wait
on the table for when he wakes. I wish you understood
how it feels to fear the truth while also loving him.
I still believe this present world is passing away,
but now it is impossible to rejoice with you.

Sometimes when I walk outside the city gates
and look up into the mountains, toward Rome
where all of you are waiting, I want to come back —
but it doesn't last. I walk home through the colonnade,
listening to the temple priests and fortune tellers,
the eastern caravans selling cedar, pearls, and linen.

The innkeeper's daughter greets me at the door,
the weak hand cupped to her breast. She has been
praying to a small bright god in the corner
of her room, for health and peace, as she has been taught.
I will go upstairs and place my arms around the loved
and living body of one who owns no household gods,

who confesses no world but this. We will watch
the sky turn dark and wait for the fishermen to light
their lamps and disappear across the invisible sea.
I pray to the God I remember, whom I love and fail
to love, knowing words are all I have to bind
us to each other, knowing they are passing too.

Grace be with you.
 
 
 
prairiesong
21 November 2010 @ 07:29 pm
“My Hood of Stars”
Frank Gaspar

God was still walking around in the wilderness
fascinated and puzzled. He kept trying to show
me how to take the words from dreams and old
magazine covers, to make something out of them.
He was preoccupied for hours and hours, but
he never spoke his mind plainly. He did not
like people to feel too comfortable around him.
He was far more troubled than anyone now wants
to remember. This is when the world was
mostly without form, but it wasn't void: it is
just that everything made only one kind of sense.
You didn't have good words like automobile or deduction,
though you had rebuke and anoint. Then God
bent down and picked up a handful of desert.
Not really. It's just how we talk about such things.
He picked up a handful of desert and there came
a great tempest. Then there were worlds standing in line,
waiting on street corners and in train stations. Then
God went a great way into that wilderness, whistling
and singing in bright garments. I watched him go.
Everybody did. Then his stars fell around us like swallows,
stricken and stunned: That’s when the people began scooping
them into their pockets and purses, trying on names, in-
venting excuses. That’s when I tried on my own garment,
drunk on fear and craving. That’s how I began whistling and singing.
 
 
 
prairiesong
21 November 2010 @ 07:26 pm
The
moon asked me
to meet her in a field
tonight.

I think
she has amorous
ideas.

Fantastic.

~ Hafiz
 
 
 
prairiesong
As Far As Cho-Fu-Sa
by Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

If you are coming down the narrows of the river Kiang,
let me know beforehand and I will come out to meet you
as far as Cho-Fu-Sa.

-Li Po, “The River Merchant’s Wife,”
as translated by Ezra Pound


What I am, ever, is this: composure of stone.
Spare weather visiting the garden, small as the hours
I keep watch by. Beyond this wall

Must be better weathers. This claw of stars
Must constellate somewhere into a bear,
Else names would lie.

Since winter’s thaws, no script from you
Save this: “I travel the river and follow
The white gulls—”

Husband. See me walking the dusty pass
Where loom our prior lives?
Here the years pass that I enshrine

Within these walls, sparing nothing
From the ardors of my stare. Blue plums,
Paired butterflies repeat you

In a walled world. I tell myself
To clear the moss, mend the gate
So long unswayed and caked with dirt,

But nothing moves. Somewhere
You are actual. Happen to me there.
 
 
 
prairiesong
02 October 2010 @ 09:45 pm
He had mixed up the characters in the long novel he was writing. He forgot who they were and what they did. A dead woman reappeared when it was time for dinner. A door-to-door salesman emerged out of a backwoods trailer wearing Chinese robes. The day the murderer was supposed to be electrocuted, he was buying flowers for a certain Rita, who turned out to be a ten-year-old girl with thick glasses and braids... And so it went.

He never did anything for me, though. I kept growing older and grumpier, as I was supposed to, in a ratty little town which he always described as "dead" and "near nothing."
 
 
 
prairiesong
29 July 2010 @ 11:44 am
Dear Phriends, I realize that for some of you, fretting about your weight and what you ate is the de facto bonding chatter, but as someone who is diagnosed hypothyroid, I won't be joining you. I refuse to be any harder on myself than my doctors already are--

Some of this site's visitors have reported to me that they were on a 900-calorie a day diet, walking 3 miles a day, and not losing weight, and the doctor says, "well, you just must be eating too much."

The whole article: http://thyroid.about.com/cs/dietweightloss/a/losingweight.htm

We are all beautiful. Love and low-fat pretzels, Heidi
 
 
 
prairiesong
14 July 2010 @ 07:30 am
Four Hours - Denise Duhamel

My sister picks up her daughters at the bus stop
ever since a nine-year-old girl from the neighborhood
was coaxed into a car by a man
telling her he'd hit a kitten down the road.
His story went that the small ball of fur
ran somewhere near the railroad tracks
and he needed an extra pair of eyes to find it.
The girl was smart and had been taught
everything grownups thought she'd have to know
about even the worst of strangers, but she wanted
to be a veterinarian when she grew up.
And the man looked as though he'd been crying.
"He had that child in the car four hours,"
my mother tells me, my mother who would cut off his balls
if she had the chance. She sounds fed up, middle-class,
when she says it, and I want to say "no,"
but I too share her sentiment. My father
thinks the rapist deserves worse, to be shot dead --
no questions asked. My brother-in-law has a gun,
and my sister knows he'd use it if anyone tried to touch
their daughters, my nieces, my parents' grandchildren.
Four hours is longer than some double features,
longer than some continental plane rides,
longer than a whole afternoon in grade school.
Nothing is slower than time when you're nine years old,
nothing is more fragile than trust.
The rapist dropped the girl off at the pizza parlor
where the men who worked there called an ambulance.
Before this, my nieces walked the short distance home
and they protest, wanting to know why they can't anymore.
The after-school rapist hasn't been caught,
but the second and fifth grade rumors aren't terrifying enough.
My sister wonders how to tell her daughters,
who love small animals and only want to help.