margarets house

Earth does such things
to itself: furrowing, cracking apart, bursting
into flame. It rips openings in itself, which it struggles
(or not) to skin over. The moon
doesn’t care about its own
craters and bruises. Only we can regret
the perishing of the burned place.
Only we could call it a wound.
—  Margaret Atwood, Morning in the Burned House: A Fire Place

SLYTHERIN: “Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.” -Margaret Atwood (The Penelopiad)

The dark soft languages are being silenced:
Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothertongue
falling one by one back into the moon.
Language of marshes,
language of the roots of rushes tangled
together in the ooze,
marrow cells twinning themselves
inside the warm core of the bone:
pathways of hidden light in the body fade and wink out.

The sibilants and gutturals,
the cave language, the half-light
forming at the back of the throat,
the mouths damp velvet moulding
the lost syllable for “I” that did not mean separate,
all are becoming sounds no longer
heard because no longer spoken,
and everything that could once be said in them has
    ceased to exist.

Margaret Atwood, from “Marsh Languages,” Morning in the Burned House (Houghton Mifflin, 1995)

2

Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, (wearing the Greville Tiara and the Greville Emerald Neckalce) and Princess Margaret (wearing the Poltimore Tiara) attend the Ballet Performance in honour of the Shah of Iran at the Royal Opera House in London, 1959.

February

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,  
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries  
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am  
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,  
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,  
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,  
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here  
should snip a few testicles. If we wise  
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,  
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over  
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing  
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits  
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries  
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.
   —Margaret Atwood, from Morning in the Burned House

10

just a set of instagram pictures of Jennifer Morrison. some new, some ancient, but all amazing.

just look at her, i mean she’s so much. she’s gorgeous. she’s cute. so talented. so hardworking. she’s unbelievable.