tiredteaspoons

lo, how the lowly have risen

to nympheline….

i am constantly amazed by the luminosity of your posts, the way in which you blend images with words of your own, and the beauty that you are able to find in everyday life. i imagine that you go through life like this, constantly struck with wonder at the world around you. and yet there is an undercurrent of – not quite bitterness – what might i call it? the bittersweet? a recognition of sorrow and loss as well as beauty and joy? that combination, to me, is immensely honest and appealing.

and yet often i am struck by the force of your opinions, by the intensity of your scrutiny. i feel that i might weigh my words more carefully around you than around others, because you reflect them back to me with even greater care and, holding up that mirror, make me see the flaws as well as the gems.

(submitted by emmadelosnardos upon my request to know people’s opinions of me)


i’m a selfish, selfish person, emma, and there’s a huge part of me that wanted to keep this all to myself, hoarded away in the darkest hollow of my heart. but you said you wanted to see it posted and reacted to, so here it is.

the quote on tiredteaspoons’s blog reads “because someone, somewhere, is always doing something beautiful,” and that simple sentence has resonated with me in a way that very little else has in the last ten years. there is so much, so much passion and artistry and effort and thoughtless perfection. who can help but see it? but i can’t be the one doing that something beautiful. i’ve tried. so all i can do is search out the something beautiful that someone else is doing and try to be a part of it, try to pay homage to it, and try to share it. thus: this blog.

which is why, i think, i examine you more closely than i might do others. when i see something beautiful, i want to drown myself in it. i want to hunch over it, trace every detail; i want to let it pour into my brain, swirl through the passages and dips therein, and gently shift my mental landmarks to new places. i want every beautiful thing i see to change the way i think. and i love the way you think and the things you see, and as i read over your words again and again, i hope to internalise your thoughts and methods and approaches, to make a tiny mental emma with whom i can talk over “shoes and ships and sealing wax.”

but i am not a pure vessel. a month or so ago, CT said the same thing you’re saying: that i see beautiful things, and i know they’re beautiful things, and still i’m sad. as you know, i am depressed–or bipolar, or simply overstressed, depending on whom you ask–and there’s no escaping it. at this point it feels like such a part of who i am that i don’t even know if i want to escape it. and i think: if my life, which has been so full and so lucky, still carries with it such sorrow and rage and emptiness–if i can put on my expensive clothes, step outside on a gorgeous lapis day of clear skies and cool breezes, get into my totally-paid-for-car and drive to my institution of higher learning, make high grades without trying that hard, have shopkeepers hail me by name, eat four square meals a day, pay my rent, receive calls to spend time with wonderful people… if i can have all this, do all this, and still want nothing more than to cry until my eyes are so swollen that i can’t see all the beautiful fucking blessings that make up my myriad world… what must everyone else be feeling?

with inflated ego, i assume that everyone carries in them this chiaroscuro, this heart-heavy dichotomy. so how could i write of one without the other? i can’t, not any more than i can revel in the one untethered by the other.

tiredteaspoons replied to your post: Today is turning out so tedious I might actually…

Hang in there! The day is already over here, and I survived. So no deaths on a tautological level. Not even theoretically. I need you to not kill yourself because I need you to write cool stuff. Killing other people? Fine. (Be sneaky.)

THANK YOU yes we’re almost done, tautological-death-free.  And I have soooo much to send you which text may have been bloated somewhat from feelings about Petrarch and early-fifties-proto-electronica-French music BUT IT HAPPENS TO THE BEST OF US amirite.

petrarch cxxxii by way of chaucer

If Love it’s not, O God, what feel I so? 

If Love it is, what sort of thing is he? 

If Love be good, from where then comes my woe? 

If he be ill, wondrous it seems to me 

That every torment and adversity 

That comes from him I can so joyous think; 

For more I thirst, the more from him I drink. 

 

If it is in my own delight I burn, 

From where then comes my wailing and complaint? 

Rejoicing, why to tears do I return? 

I know not, nor, unweary, why I faint. 

Oh living death, oh sweet harm strange and quaint! 

How can this harm and death so rage in me, 

Unless I do consent that it so be? 

 

And if I do consent, I wrongfully 

Bewail my case; thus rolled and shaken sore 

All rudderless within a boat am I 

Amid the sea and out of sight of shore, 

Between two winds contrary evermore. 

Alas, what is this wondrous malady? 

For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die.