thank your maugham

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thank your maugham

Post by sara » Wed May 04, 2005 4:23 am

so mother's day is sunday. In case anyone isn't thinking of thanking, think again.

Thanks for 1975 mom:


Eugenio Montale
Once loved the sun
Then craved the dark.

Loved Pound
Despite dissimilar sympathies.

Went to the Wasteland
And came back
With a new set of words.

In 1975 I was born,
And you were recognized.
What a good year
To be alive.

And thanks for you:

Smetana's mother tongue

This is water.
Your story
is one of water.

Ripples and dappled light,
bubbles and gurgles,
my mother is this river
speaking in her native tongue.

Ma Vlast, Smetana
my mother's second language
is German.

This river
my mother's country
Smetana and sunlight
Ma Vlast
symphonic poems

My mother's first language
is music.


love you mom

Post by sara » Thu May 05, 2005 2:22 am

my mom took me to France and that means I have a lot to be grateful to her for. She's a pretty crazy lady, but crazy in a good way.

Like me I think.

So at the risk of sounding like the chick from american pie . . .this one time at bandcamp . . .

This one time in France, we were on the Dordogne and I could not fucking paddle the canoe. (I mean I couldn't. I suck. I am really not a very athletic girl at all. However, I like to ride my bicycle and go to the batting cage. I don't know. Team sports and cooperative activities I'm not good at. I think it must be the aries in me.)

So my mom paddles all the way down the river as I sit there whining. And she's like, "Shut, it! Sit still and be quiet. How in the hell did this incompetent spring from my loins?" No, she didn't say that she wouldn't she's very nice, well polite.

So mom, thanks for paddling and always being polite.


i -yo ! cinco de ma

Post by sara » Thu May 05, 2005 8:35 pm

Dimanche a Paris -- Un Cadeau

Her father had not promised her, but her mother, having received a fellowship to study in France, had offered to take her for the first few weeks before her study at the university began. Behind them was the long flight from New York and the ordeal of dragging unwieldy , un-cooperative luggage through miles of that labyrinth that the French call the metro. Whose idea was it not to take a taxi? But even the pains of that two day old memory seemed as distant as those of childbirth. And eventually the passage from that laborious maze had led to the glorious light filled streets of Paris.

Yes, that was behind them now. They had checked into the tiny hotel off l'Avenue de la Fayette, in a quiet quartier near a Jewish church. Monsieur Claude Kulam, their concierge, who was not French, but from some Middle Eastern country, and who spoke at least a dozen languages fluently, had been so kind, so helpful. They had found several inexpensive cafes in the area, had bought their museum and metro passes and had spent several days doing the things all tourists in Paris must do.

Today, however, was Sunday and the two women were eager to simply "profiter du beau jour" as the French are fond of saying . . .

(this is my mom's story. she's a pretty good writer I think. She's a better reader, but ya know. She used to read me The Little Princess before tucking me in at night, what a mom, picking that book!)


thank god mom likes gouda

Post by sara » Thu May 05, 2005 11:32 pm

. . . As she and her mother passed through the streets, the daughter, unknowingly, had been the focus of many admiring glances from French eyes. The two were so rapt up in the beauty of Paris that neither of them seemed to know that they were a part of that beauty.

It was not until a young man passing them professed, "You do well in the streets," that the mother or daughter considered themselves to be in the scene at all. The mother bristled and became a bit overprotective.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" she asked him accusingly.

He laughed, "I assure, Madame, that is a compliment."

Then there was another who gazed longingly at the daughter and murmered, "Ah, que tu es belle."

Ah, is right, The French!

Because Parisians love to sleep in on Sunday mornings, the streets were blissfully quiet; there was no traffic, no hustle and bustle from vendors and shop keepers, no constant ebb and flow of pedestrians. Low sounds emanated from cafes as their owners and waiters set out tables and chairs, dried cups and saucers, and prepared for the countless espressos which they would serve. Pigeons fluttering nearby cooed, and young lovers began to stroll languidly on the shady boulevard.

The air had not yet become humid and was pleasantly cool. Sunlight filtered through the trees of the Jardin de Luxemburg and played on the glass of the cafe windows. The mother and daughter chose the Cafe de Luxemburg on the Boulevard Saint Michele to rest. The American women did not know that the beautiful French actress, Catherine Deneuve lived just around the corner, but that did not matter. They knew that they had found a nice spot to sit for a spell. And on this day, this Sunday, the cafe was theirs, and they were the beautiful ones.

They sat in their cafe chairs outside and watched others go by, even as earlier they had been watched. They drank their cafes slowly and nibbled their pastires. The scent of the French women who passed -- a certain Je ne sais quoi -- mingled with the odor of fresh strong coffee and intoxicated them faster than any wine could have. They were so much at home and perfectly at ease.

A man sat nearby reading a newspaper in English. He was not French, but from the Middle East as was M. Kalum. He was delighted to meet two lovely Americans and wished to speak English with them. In his flawless English, he expressed his sorrow that they would not be staying until June 20 when all of the local bands in France would give free-live performances. He told them that the evening and Paris would be full of sound and even more animated than usual. What lovely people one meets in Paris. They did not stay in Paris until June though although they did here the music in the town of Blois, but that is a different story.

As they sat on their corner, they became vaguely aware of a faint sound in the distance, a low hum, a chant or something almost medieval. Intrigued, they left their new friend, and like the children of Hamlin, followed the beckoning melody. It became clearer and more persisten until finally a processional emerged. Some of its members carried banners, although most simply walked along singing. No one on the street seemed to know what the occasion was. There was no religious holiday, nothing was being protested or supported. For the two women, the procession was for them alone. Something sacred and mysterious and inexplicable, but obviously something they were meant to see. Mother and daughter followed the group until it disappeared beyond the Odeon, leaving only a lingering memory of its melancholy refrain.

Having weaved their way in and out of the side streets the two eventually worked their way back onto Boule Mich. Directly across the street was the little square that faces the front of the Universite de Sorbonne. By now even the Parisian students were out on the streets and all the tables at the cafes were taken. For those who could not sit at tables, the curb sides seemed an ideal place to sit. When in Paris . . . The two tucked their skirts beneath them and settled on the ground as well. Why think about the dirt, the pigeon droppings and who knows what else? All they thought of was the pure contentment of being on that very spot in Paris on that lovely Sunday. It was then that the gift really arrived.

Nearby a string ensemeble had been warming up and now the two could clearly hear what they were playing. Softly, steadily with its low urging repetitive strains, Pachelbel's Canon began to drift into their senses. The warm sun of Paris caressed their shoulders, the smell of the street rose up at their feet, the gentle murmur of French voices whispered in their ears, and now the music they both loved so well swelled and flowed from the stringed instruments and engulfed them.

They did not speak. They cried. For a moment life was perfect and they shared that perfect moment. They shared the gift of a wonderful Sunday in Paris. They still do. They always will.

Every good and every perfect girft is from above and comes down from the Father of lights with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

-- James

My Father always promised us that we would live in France.

-- Judy

(But my mother took me there.)


meet eugenio

Post by sara » Fri May 06, 2005 2:58 am

But I do not intend to stray from my subject and I wonder if the conviction on which the statute of the Nobel Prize is based is justified: and that is that sciences, not all on the same level, and literary works have contributed to the spread and defence of new values in a broad "humanistic" sense. . . infinitely more numerous and practically impossible to identify would be the legion, the army of those who work for humanity in infinite ways even without realizing it and who never aspire to any possible prize because they have not written works, acts or academic treatises and have never thought of "making the presses groan", as the Italian expression says. There certainly exists an army of pure, immaculate souls, and they are an obstacle (certainly insufficient) to the spread of that utilitarian spirit which in various degrees is pushed to the point of corruption, crime and every form of violence and intolerance. The academicians of Stockholm have often said no to intolerance, cruel fanaticism and that persecuting spirit which turns the strong against the weak, oppressors against the oppressed. This is true particularly in their choice of literary works, works which can sometimes be murderous, but never like that atomic bomb which is the most mature fruit of the eternal tree of evil.

At any rate I am here because I have written poems. A completely useless product, but hardly ever harmful and this is one of its characteristics of nobility. But it is not the only one, since poetry is a creation or a sickness which is absolutely endemic and incurable.

True poetry is similar to certain pictures whose owner is unknown and which only a few initiated people know. However, poetry does not live solely in books or in school anthologies. The poet does not know and often will never know his true receiver.

great lyric poetry can die, be reborn, die again, but will always remain one of the most outstanding creations of the human soul.

Today not even a universal fire could make the torrential poetic production of our time disappear.


back to maugham

Post by sara » Fri May 06, 2005 8:20 pm

Gray and Larry are best friends and both have a thing for Isabel.

Trevor and Mike are best friends and both have had a thing with Janice.

Janice is voluptous. Isabel is described by maughum as fat.

Isabel lives with her mom. Janice lives with her mom.

Gray makes money in the city (he offers a legitimate way for Larry to "get in" -- Mike works, sometimes, in the city and offers Trevor a legitimate way to "get in")

Larry wants to educate himself for the sake of knowing more. So does Trevor.

Larry wants to loaf. Loaf should be Trevor's middle name.

Right in the middle of his engagement to Isabel, Larry decides to go to Paris to loaf.

Right in the middle of his relationship with Janice, Trevor decides to go to Paris and loafs.

Elliot wants to hook Larry up with a femme du monde. Trevor is femme du monde magnet.


on the fifth day of madre

Post by sara » Sat May 07, 2005 9:06 pm

my true love said to me maughum and montmartre.

Montmartre sounds like a mom word.

and since mom sent me to france, montmartre today.

this is a silly story.

Years ago I'm strolling around the red light district with this friend of mine. He wants to go into a sexy shop. I really do not care, so we go. I don't know what either of us expected, but we looked like a couple of Americans who are not a couple.

It was wall to wall porno-crap. I mean magazines not movies and toys, just mags. I was so mortified because at that point in my life I was definitely a country mouse. I had never even been in a sexy shop. My face was blood red. He was trying to look around as if he was in a grocery store and I was trying to avert my eyes. If I could have a video of just my eyes I would laugh my tale off I'm sure.

No, tits, can't look there.

Ass, agghh, not there either.

Oh, god, two furries, uggh!

Shit, fingers going somewhere.

OH! NO! a tongue!

I finally looked at my feet and screamed under my breath (if that's even really possible) to my friend. I want to leave. NOW!

This is the same friend who insisted on paying for a table dance for me and another girl in New Orleans.

This is another silly red light story.

She, and he and I go to get drunk. He and I had been to New Orleans when were about 22 -- I had no idea that two years later I'd be living near there, but the first time he and I go, he begs me to go to a strip club with him, remembering the debacle in France, I'm like hell no. But two years later, I'm like what the hell. I'm sure it'll be interesting if nothing else.

It was the funniest thing I've ever seen. This little guy is on the table and I swear to god he was wearing chuck taylors and not much else. I'm eye level with his package, and I kept staring at the tennis shoes and thinking have I become part of some child / sex / traffic ring. He was working it for all he was worth. I mean he was so sincere, and I think that is what made me try very hard to be serious about the whole thing, but in the end I could not do it.

In attempt to seem extremely aroused, I buried my head in my girlfriend's neck and hid out under her hair, laughing. She had to keep a straight face for the both of us. Then she goes to the bathroom. The little asks. "How did I do. I mean was I good?" and I'm like, "Yes, honey, you were great!"

He paid for this, my boy-friend, so when my girlfriend comes back, she's like T you should check out the girls on the other side. They are much hotter.

He goes. We haul ass.

He comes out and is like thanks, really, those were the hottest transvestites I've ever seen

So mom, travel taught me a lot. Like how to haul ass and laugh.



Post by sara » Sun May 08, 2005 11:09 am

Once there was a tree . . .
And she loved a little boy
And every day the boy would come
And he would gather leaves
And make them into crowns and play king of the forest
He would climb up her trunk
And swing from her branches
And eat apples
And they would play hide-and-go seek
And when he was tired,
He would sleep in her shade
And the boy loved the tree
Very much
And the tree was happy
But time went by
And the boy grew older
And the tree was often alone
Then one day the boy came to the tree
And the tree said, “Come, Boy, come and climb
Up my trunk and swing from my branches
And eat apples and play in my shade
And be happy.�
“I am too big to climb and play,� said the boy.
“I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money.
Can you give me money?�
I'm sorry, said the tree, but I have no money
I have only leaves and apples
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them
In the city. Then you will have money
And you will be happy
And so the boy climbed up the
Tree and gathered
Her apples
And carried them away

And the tree was happy

But the boy stayed away
For a long time . . .
And the tree was sad
And then one day
The boy came back
And the tree shook with joy
And she said, “Come, Boy,
Climb up my trunk
And swing from my branches
And be happy.�

“I am too busy to climb trees,�
Said the boy.
“I want a house to keep me warm,�
He said.
“I want a wife and I want children,
And so I need a house.
Can you give me a house?�
“I have no house, said the tree.
“The forest is my house,
Buy you may cut off my branches
And build a house.
Then you will be happy.�
And so the boy cut off
Her branches
And carried them away
To build his house.

And the tree was happy.

But the boy stayed away
For a long time.
And when he came back,
The tree was so happy
She could hardly speak.
Come, Boy, she whispered,
“come and play.�
“I am too old and sad to play,�
Said the boy.
“I want a boat that will take me far away
From here.
Can you give me a boat?
“Cut down my trunk and make a boat,�
Said the tree.
“Then you can sail away . . .
And be happy.�
And so the boy cut down her trunk
And made a boat and sailed away
And the tree was happy . . .
But not really
And after a long time
The boy came back again
I am sorry Boy
Said the tree, but I have nothing
Left to give you
My apples are gone

My teeth are too weak
For apples, said the boy

My branches are gone,
Said the tree, you cannot swing on them --

I am too old to swing
On branches, said the boy

My trunk is gone, said the tree
You cannot climb --

I am too tired to climb, said the boy.

I am sorry, sighed the tree
I wish that I could
Give you something . . .
But I have nothing left. I am just
An old stump. I am sorry . . .

I don't need very much now,
Said the boy,
Just a quiet place to sit and rest
I am very tired

Well said the tree,
Straightening herself up
As much as she could
Well, an old stump IS good
For sitting and resting.
Come, Boy, sit down
Sit down and rest

And the boy did

And the tree was happy.

The End

The Giving Tree
-- Shel Silverstein


double delight

Post by sara » Sun May 08, 2005 11:44 pm

I went to my mom and dad's for the afternoon.

My brother was there. He's truly smarter than I am. He also has no idea how to do many, many things.

He does however know how to out do me with the mother's day presents. Bastard -- well, not really, not at all.

So I go to the local nursery to get my mom some flowers. And I want to get the best smelling roses there are. And they need to be pretty too, and they've got to have something to do with the giving tree because I'd already decided to give her that poem.

So I found the double delight rose tree! It has those classic beauty roses on it. Big and white with red trim. And the smell, just like opening a perfume bottle so I bought it and took it to her and was very proud of myself. And she smiled a really great mom smile and then went on with the afternoon.

I'm leaving when my brother drives up and I say hey, what'd you get mom. He pulls out the freaking French Perfume rose bush and these look just like pressed flowers and the name! Damn him!!

Anyway my mom once told me that a twice given gift is twice blessed -- it's some mom proverb (that makes regifting okay).

It's pretty good. And so are two sets of roses on mother's day.