scene

it is. he was right, 

" all the world's a stage... "

caught in the act 
but by a few, 

most walk on and along 

consuming without question
thought-- 

second thought-- what's made us watch us 
perform so-- 

from behind big sunglasses no reflection glitter on bright 
screens starred envisioned watching the time forgot to look 

and to think-- 

but what's the purpose-- 
question-- so on 
and on... 
so and so and 

speaking, flashing, posing, speaking
lines when prompted 
and on 

and on and -- line -- 

and on 
and on 

and off consumed 

oft it is... 

he was right

ps....

yes that's right i just remembered... i have a blog!!! ha! wow, funny how that slipped my mind. in fact, i have two blogs, well, more than two.. i better catch up. 

'all the world's a stage' is the theme of the summer writing workshops that i'm doing with the kids, but it has also been the way the world has been playing before me in recent months, the way in which things have appeared to me... from behind my sunglasses (and i do believe i'm borrowing the phrase 'from behind my sunglasses' from one of my student writers! isn't that an awesome sentence?!!) authenticity is nearly impossible to grasp-- there's so very little of it... at best i put on my sunglasses and search for what little of it remains within myself... and on and on-- through-- beyond-- and behind-- all the staged and the stages...

x c

words and photos c by chantal

of course!

"the course of true love... " shakespeare

senior year in college i wrote an essay on shakespeare's use of apostrophes in the title of his play Love's Labour's Lost. the topic and resulting paper were the mixed result of a late night, not having read the play for a long time, a blank page and a looming essay due in the morning, and a fine-tuned ability to write interesting content on obscure topics while somehow in the process discovering meaning and importance in the details of such randomly selected subjects. I do believe that that was what i really learned from being an english major, and it has served me extremely well and in fact enhanced my perspective, understanding and appreciation of the word (ha! typo... i meant to write.. world) ever since. oh and we spent the rest of class the next day discussing the issue i raised of the apostrophe in the title. so perhaps in due course, avoiding one way of looking at things can haphazardly bring about an understanding of something else that's usually avoided (and in this case, i'm directly referring to the tripped over and forgotten, the use and misuse, of apostrophes, haha. but i'm serious...)

but all i meant to write here, was that, staring into nothing across the mess surrounding me just now, my eyes focused in on that very title, the words facing vertically down on the book cover binding: Love's Labour's Lost. and i got it i mean literally through osmosis it momentarily settled my nerves and came over me. and i got it. by shakespeare i got it. i could write that essay again with an entirely different meaning. those apostrophes say it all. they did back in college and yesterday and then again, today, it hit me, and it meant everything, and in the ink-stained hands of time, the touch of shakespeare's pen scribbled on the to do list sitting on my desk in front of me, reminding me that it's all happened before, this is the experience, the process, and in the tradition of his timeless words, the course--

Love's Labour is at times, overlooked; Lost. at other times, it is again found. and at times like this, it is somehow all at once lost, found, running and smooth.






"the course of true love never did run smooth--" shakespeare. of course.

x c

.
fool! don't you see now
that i could have poisoned you a hundred times
had i been able to live without you!
{cleopatra}
.


.
.

a hush falls... on rue mademoiselle

rough day. been meaning to write for the past few days... in fact, i've been doing so, been writing so much, just not posting recently. i will. the haiku have been flowing..... i will also be back to communicating with all of you, i haven't forgotten. but i'm writing this late night post {in lieu of sleeping off this headache} because i received some news just now that saddens and slightly startles me, despite the fact that i knew.. one day.. it would happen. the beautiful sophie marie of mon bon chien in paris who touched something in us all with her devoted eyes and perfectly manicured paws has passed on in search of greener grass, more squirrils to chase, and walks with cedric that never end. i miss her presence already. and in heavy-hearted haste, tried to capture her sweet, gentle, patient, loyal spirit in this poem:

though i knew
one day it would arrive--
still my heart--
skipped a beat
sweet face tender eyes baby in her paws
resting her chin patiently attentive
as she'd sit waiting for the next adventure



ears alert to the sound of
biscuits dropping on the floor
or the infamous sliding door--
gentle loyal soph soph sniffing the air with curiosity
found her way into our hears and smiles
{as well as the biscuit cabinet, the kitchen..}
and into her french quartier and our laughter
the golden
pink painted paws touch softly
the sidewalks of paris
now only in our sweetest memories



and every time we pass
the window of her shop
somehow we know she's still there
crunching nostalgic dreams
and squirrels yet to chase
and on occasion {though cleverly disguised
as only a diva so artfully can}
tapping her tail on the floor over
her next mischievous but ever harmless trick
her next meal her next hug from harriet
daily caresses of small eager hands
who come from all over paris
to pet her soft {shedding everywhere} fur
on rue mademoiselle
and her next steps
into the forest she knew one day
she'd run through once more
in our bittersweet dreams

from squirrels in seattle to tempting baguettes and birthday parties on rue mademoiselle, the infamous, almost 14-year-old golden retriever with pink nail polish has retired from her position as princess of the boutique mon bon chien paris, leaving both joy and emptiness in our hearts. we still expect her to awake out of the deepest sleep and come out of nowhere just to sneak another biscuit. from all sides of the world, we remember her sweet eyes, her silly ways, her eyebrows that told stories of their own, and her devoted owner harriet, who started her doggie bakery business so that she could spend every day with sophalina. sending love and peanut butter kisses to you both, and dearest diablo {soph soph's rascal of a little brother.}

my puppy poulet {the one jumping here in the picture} learned his best tricks from sophie marie, he grew up in her sparkling shadow: how to guard the treats and how to sneak extra, patience and fidelity, guilt and begging as well as pouting to get what he wants {ok, that last one he may have learned from me}, his kindness to other dogs and feisty guarding of the bone, how to dress to impress and confidently wear pink, and soph's trademark move he does every morning that makes me laugh and think of sophie, the rollin' on the back with the legs flailing about it the air move.

you guys are the best thing that ever happened to us....
can’t imagine where we’d be without you.

i will write more mon bon chien stories soon {and please check past mbc posts here.} images: from the mon bon chien site where you can order biscuits online shipped all over the world, and from my camera last summer when i spent some quality time with soph. poulet {my little guy} is performing his trademark move above in the photo and sophie is, as ever, begging gracefully by his side.

"sweets to the sweet, farewell!"
shakespeare

for what it's worth

© Eni Turkeshi Photography

...and as shakespeare wrote

{every time i repeat this quote to myself
it finds new meaning somewhere within me}

"fortune brings in some boats that are not steered"

sands of grain

katya de grunwald photography


they all write about this, i know, to the point of cliché....
so many words, eloquent, trite, common, touching,
describe a simple notion:
the persistent inability
to firmly grasp the grains of sand that
inevitably fall through our fingers
despite an ever present desire, need,
attempt, to hold on.

they all write about this,
today it is i, who will write, scribbled down on paper,
typed hastily on macbook, repeated over
and over under the falling water
of my shower, the persistent inability
to firmly grasp the grains of sand that
inevitably fall through our fingers;
the ever present desire to hold on.

'like the grains of sand through the hour glass,
so are the days of our lives'
a dramatic voice on the television
if you care to tune in,
speaks daily, from another room.

once i wrote a poem about the beach,
four pages long, and yet
one phrase: ephemeral sandcastles
stands out to me well beyond the rest.

does it all wash away? slip
through the fingers, smooth
out by morning as though nothing had ever been there?
whispers in the faithful return of the crashing
waves suggest to me otherwise..

you are like this.
these soft grains, course, at times
hot, and in moments, surprisingly cool,
damp; dry, too hot to walk on,
i sink deeper when i try to stand still, stumble
when i take a step toward you;
yet, they seem so firm
when you run away....

i reach down, without thinking,
yet it's all i think about,
and grab yet another handful of sand.
hot in the summertime,
cool in the autumn,
but i always reach for more.

grab a smooth handful of perfection,
a glimpse of what should be, an encounter
i can't ignore, pleasure
i don't want to forget and then i feel
the grains that slip through the cracks,
my desire fails to close the smallest of spaces in between
that allow you to escape,
seems the harder i hold on, the faster they fall,
can't grasp them, watch them, sense them
slipping through my fingers,
devastatingly deliciously caressing
as they fall away, reminding me to forget.

without thinking, and yet it's all i think about,
time and time again, i reach,
somehow faithful none the less, determined
to try once more; yet knowing all the while,
the small handful of hope that
i reach for and hold here is fleeting.

nearly immediate, eventual escape,
return, the grains fall,
mix with the sand below that spans
as far as my eyes can see, supporting me,
causing me to sink with every step.

warm breeze, cold wind,
the grains blow in my eyes, tears fall,
sandy fingers wipe them away with inherent motion
touched with familiarity and my damp fingers
reach down once more.
know i'll never be able to hold on
yet confident in that whisper,
gently touching me, slipping through my fingers,
but i'll never let go.

will seize them when i can,
feel the smooth, rough grains of perfection
between my fingers when
at last, your warm embrace
through the cool seasons evading, gentle, seductive,
fleeting, desperate, even apprehensive and infinite,
as the grains of sand we so often write about, read about,
walk all over and brush away with careless ease...

'when I consider every thing that grows
holds in perfection but a little moment…'
writes shakespeare in the first and second lines of sonnet 15...

ephemeral sandcastles

does it all wash away?
slip through the fingers,
smooth out by morning as though nothing had ever been
there; while whispers of the faithful return
in crashing waves upon these very grains of sand,
continue to suggest the caress of something more..

dear abby

robyn glaser

i confessed to abby, one of the 12 year old girls that i tutor in writing, that i'd never finished reading the book island of the blue dolphins {that was back in 4th grade, mind you} she looked at me in disbelief, "you mean you never found out what happened to her?!" abby was reading the book again {on her own accord} for a second time. she proceeded to pull a copy of the book out of her bag, "i have two, you take this one so you can read it again and finish it" and she put it on the table in front of me. and so, i will be reading island of the blue dolphins. the whole thing this time. i'd say i learned my lesson, but really, the reason i so firmly remember not finishing the book, lies in the fact that this was when, at a young age, i discovered my own reading style. i don't generally read for the story, i read for the words, the crafting of the sentences, and if i can't get something out of almost every sentence, i'm often not compelled to continue reading it. and if i do get something out of almost every sentence {virginia woolf!!}, i read each sentence over and over, and forget what was happening in the story. this sort of reading i like to call métro reading, as i often read the same book in the métro {mostly virginia woolf} because i could get distracted, the lights could do that momentary dimming thing then come back on and i'd be right back on enjoying the same sentence. {hmm..writing this now, i hesitate to wonder if this could potentially be deemed a.d.d. reading, but i dismiss this thought, because i do in fact concentrate on every word, often getting lost in the rhetoric somewhere under the streets of paris...}


julia galdo

anyway. i'm in the middle of maybe 15 books and enjoy them all in their own moment. this is not to say that i never read books for the story, and that i never finish, because on occasion i do both. but all through high school and college as a dramatic art and english major, i don't recall finishing many books. one night i had a paper due the next morning on shakespeare's love's labour's lost, and though i'd acted in it, i'd never fully read the text {but talk about a writer whose every line can stand alone} so, at about 2am i decided to write the paper on the placement and meaning of the apostrophes in the title. we proceeded to spend the entire next class researching and discussing the importance of the apostrophe in this play's title and the professor was very pleased. this was more of a creative attempt to get that paper written without finishing -- or even starting -- the reading process, and it was a time issue more than anything, as i adore shakespeare and getting lost in his sentences... and really, i've seriously been know to take interest in the use of apostrophes... but this is neither here nor there.


julia galdo

i just have the image of abby handing me the book and i was so enthralled and delighted with the fact that there's a 12year old out there who reads for pleasure, who doesn't live to spend every free moment on that wii thing, who adores writing as much as i do, and who {as i came to discover} reads multiple books at once and enjoys them all in their moment. we both believe that we get something different from the same books every time we read them. when abby and i work together, i sit across the table from her in the cafe where we meet, and i see myself in her, and know exactly how the spinning mind in that shy, genuine, sweet head is mulling over the details and the fantasy, the spectacle and wonder of everything that dances before her in her reality and plays in the imagination....but anyway, i should go, i have another book to read...

Let me not...

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. s h a k e s p e a r e sonnet 118