I love Blake Lewis

I love love love Blake Lewis!

...and Melinda Doolittle.

...and Sabrina Sloan.

échouer dans l'amour

Failing in love
Isn't the same as not loving.
It doesn't let you off the hook.
It doesn't mean you're free to not love.

Death

Death --
more plenteous than all heaven
has tears to mourn it.
The slow dissolving of the great design.
The spiraling apart of the work of eternity.
The world and its beautiful particle logic,
all collapsed, all dead
forever.
We are failing,
failing --
The earth and the angels.

Who asks of the Order's blessing
with apocalypse descending?
Who demands more Life
when Death, like a protector,
blinds our eyes,
shielding from tender nerve
more horror than can be borne?
Let any being on whom Fortune smiles
creep away to death
before that last, dreadful daybreak
when all your ravaging returns to you,
and morning blisters crimson
and bears all life away.
A tidal wave of protean fire
that curls around the planet
and bares the earth,
clean as bone.

On moving, and moving on

For the nth time, I'm moving. No, I'm not talking about moving from one city or country to another, though that'd still make enough sense if you knew me well. I've moved around so many times, a job at Globe Trekker seems in store for me. But this time, I'm moving blogs. Just blogs, yes, but it's still a blog, you know. It's the electronic equivalent of my life, the closest I can go to making an autobiography. And now I'm moving again. From xanga to LJ, friendster to multiply, there's no shortage of movement, whether with me or with my blogs. Which, in any other case, would be enough to drive me nuts, but my reason for moving this time is exactly that -- I'm going nuts. Over the past, over now. And I figured that if I didn't move soon, I'd have to be committed to a mental institution, and who wants that? Seriously. I'm going crazy.

In a lot of ways, moving is just like moving on. My blog, electronic and lifeless as it is, is me. It's my personal overdose of honesty, a computer-based window into me that even I, sometimes, find surprisingly refreshing. Whenever I feel like talking to someone (and most of the time, no one is available), I type everything down. And even if I don't exactly publish everything I type down, it's still a respite. It's my personal escape, my excuse from the world.

Now I feel like things have changed. My perspective has shifted, so everything else has to shift too, personal escape hatches included. That's why I'm moving. I have a past that seems too heavy for me to carry around, and sad as it is, I have to leave some luggage behind. I have to say hello to new things, to new possibilities; there's a whole new game I have to play now. I've warmed up. I'm ready.

I'm moving on.