Days pass and I don't know what I do. I have gotten down to Tried and True for a beverage, feeling horrible. My fate may be for a short life. I can't see this ending in a good way.
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
But wherefore to the mountain-top
can this unhappy woman go,
whatever stars is in the skies,
whatever wind may blow?
full twenty years are past and gone
since she (her name is Martha Ray)
gave with a maiden's true goodwill
her company to Stephen Hill;
and she was blithe and gay,
while friends and kindred all approved
of him whom tenderly she loved
Posted by Chris Farrell at 4/25/2017
Monday, April 24, 2017
The Solitary Reaper
behold her, single in the field,
yon solitary highland lass!
reaping and singing by herself
stop here or gently pass!
alone she cuts and binds the grain
and sings a melancholy strain
listen, for the vales profound
is overflowing with the sound
no nightingale did ever chaunt
more welcome notes to weary bands
of travellers in some shady haunt,
among arabian sands
a voice so thrilling never was heard
in springtime from the way
breaking the silence
among the farthest hebrides
will no one tell me what she sings?
perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
for old, unhappy, far-off things,
and battles long ago?
or is it some more humble lay,
familiar matter of today?
some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
that has been, and may be again?
Whatever the theme, the maiden sang
as if her song could have no ending
I saw her singing at her work,
and listened o'er the sickle bending
I listened motionless and still
and, as I mounted up the hill,
the music in my heart I bore,
long after it was heard no more
Posted by Chris Farrell at 4/24/2017
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Oh do not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember, thou wast one.
But yet though canst die, I know;
To leave this world behind, is death;
But when though from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapors with thy breath.
Or if, when though, the world's soul, goest,
It stay, 'tis but thy carcass then,
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
But corrupt worms, the worthiest of men.
O wrangling schools, that search what fire
Shall burn this world, had none the wit
Unto this knowledge to aspire,
That this her fever might be it?
And yet she cannot waste by this,
Nor long bear this torturing wrong,
For much corruption needful is
To fuel such a fever long
These burning fits but meteors be,
Whose matter in thee is soon spent.
Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee,
Are unchangeable firmament.
Yet 'twas of my mind, seizing thee,
Though it in thee cannot persevere.
For I had rather owner be
Of thee one hour, than all else ever.
Posted by Chris Farrell at 4/19/2017
Saturday, April 15, 2017
I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots,
And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over
And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,
but call any thing back again when I desire it.
In vain the speeding or shyness
In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,
in vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones,
in vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,
in vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low,
in vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,
in vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,
in vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,
in vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador,
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff
Posted by Chris Farrell at 4/15/2017
Friday, April 14, 2017
a song of joys
o to make the most jubilant song
full of music, full of manhood, womanhood, infancy
full of common employments, full of grain and trees.
o for the voices of animals, o for the swiftness and balance of fishes
o for the dropping of raindrops in a song
o for the sunshine and motion of waves in a song
o the joy of my spirit, it is uncaged, it darts like lightning
it is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,
I will have thousands of globes and all time.
Posted by Chris Farrell at 4/14/2017
Tuesday, February 07, 2017
Here I am, back again to the blog that has kept me away for so long. There's some joy to typing your thoughts out on paper, as banal as they might be. My writing certainly needs a lot of work, and one way to test it is through this blog, and writing phrases such as "the quick fox jumped over the lazy dog".
So anyway, I am spending too much on vaporizers, and I'm not sure what all that is doing to my lungs in any case, so that is something else to worry about.
The weather is cold and not good for walking around, but that is what I'm doing anyway. The idea being, to get out in the cold air between rounds of playing songs. There's hope in the day, and the flowers are coming up out of the ground, so spring is not far off.
Posted by Chris Farrell at 2/07/2017
Friday, October 28, 2016
I'm back from a while off of writing, and I'm still getting over getting my electric stolen from me and other shaking to be taking place and getting that to where it is tolerable is a way to get things done, it seems to me, and the maker of coal and the maker of pearls. So then what I was saying is that some of my writing is all backwards and forwards, but undeniably about the So strange that I have to come up with these documents every day and figure out more memos to ad it to. then I can be a media franchise.
Posted by Chris Farrell at 10/28/2016
Friday, July 08, 2016
how sweet the wood shades the hot summer hours
and stretches oer my head its sheltering green
as I recline mid grass and cooling flowers
and seeded stalks of blossoms that have been
sure tis a pleasure in such secret nooks
to muse on distant friends in memorys eye
or glance on passages in favourite books
whose thoughts like echoes to our own reply
or shades recall which substance long forsook
from the black nothingness of days gone bye
blessings of infant hope and loves young bliss
ah thus to think the thoughts of death is sweet
in shaping heaven to a scene like this
with loves and friends and feelings all to meet
...as I lazily sit and jam and smoke on the Summit grass....
Posted by Chris Farrell at 7/08/2016
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Posted by Chris Farrell at 6/25/2016
Monday, June 20, 2016
Posted by Chris Farrell at 6/20/2016
Monday, June 06, 2016
I haven't felt like sharing anything personal. Actually there might be a thing or two. It's funny how certain events turn out to be not as fun as you thought they might be. Going out to see Space Neighbors at Tyee was a drag. I didn't like the place, and there weren't many people to support the band. Much different than their enthusiastic show at the Avery Park space. They aren't much of a band in that Nick Rivard and Navarro aren't the greatest, and the outer space and silliness and semi-funky funk aren't much really.
Too bad you can't hear Melanie sing. That's a shame. So anyway, I got out of Tyee fast.
Then there was the Bombs show. Melanie was funny with her guest list thing. I wonder if that was a joke or she was just messing with me to be funny, or another possibility, it had nothing to do with me.
So that's what it is. Enjoy life for now, not what might happen down the road, but it happened with Karen, why not again? Maybe a different life than I've really experienced thus far, although I have had a lot of good times in my life.
Posted by Chris Farrell at 6/06/2016
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Monday, May 16, 2016
Saturday, May 14, 2016
and leads a humdrum life indeed
as none beside herself would lead
and what wi’ hogs and ducks and geese
can never have a minutes peace
bangs down the yard thro thick and thin?
nor picks a road nor cares a pin
who (save in sunday bib and tuck)
goes daily (waddling like a duck)
oer head and ears in grease and muck
who used to pattins or to clogs
Who takes the swill to serve the hogs?
And steals the milk for cats and dogs
Who frost and Snow as hard as nails
Stands out o' doors and never fails
To wash up things and scour the pails
Who bussles night and day in short
At all catch jobs of every sort
And gains her mistress' favor for't
And who is oft repaid wi parise?
In doing what her mistress says
And yielding to her wimmy ways
For theres non apter I believe
At 'creeping up a Mistress' sleve'
Then this low kindred stump of Eve
Who when the baby's all besh-t
To please its mamma kisses it?
And vows no Rose on earths so sweet
But when her mistress isn't nigh
who wears and wishes it would die
and pinches it to make it cry
Oh rank deceit! what sould could think
But gentrly there revealing ink
at faults of this this friend must wink
Who, not without a 'spark o' pride'
Tho strong as Grunters bristly hide
does keep her hair in paper's typd
and mimicking the Gentry's way
who strives to speak as fine as they?
and minds but every word they say
And who (tho's well bid blind to seey stuff?
as her to tell ye A from B
things herself none o low degree?
who prates and runes oer still
...to be continued
talked to now deceased Valerie Tate for a week year before last on skype and she made me see nothing was really happening...thanks, I owe you for that, too bad it's too late to ever see the person ...such a great person and intelligence ....such a great perception. Oh well. I'd say a face from the past, but we never actually met outside of skype.
Posted by Chris Farrell at 5/14/2016
Monday, April 18, 2016
Old friend Alex asked me a while ago how I can do that "nothing happening" thing I do all the time. I guess it is a thing I do. It's a special quality that I have partly through karate and it's way of seeing things. Karate is really good at not speaking instead of saying something, and that changes things, somehow.
It's because pieces need to come back together before I might have things happening, like with a group of friends: and I think particularly of how much my Oregon friends would like my friends from Berkeley, if they were to meet. I can guarantee there'd be some frisky dancing, some Hendrix, a bit of Pink Floyd, and delve into the deep meaning ....I mean, get high and play some music.
I mean, I have things happening...karate, music, but ....I see why I had to get out of the Berkeley scene..... no place, etc.
But given that I might have been talked about a bit, so what? What good is that doing me now?
On the other hand, things aren't so bad. You could say that karate and family support got me to where I am today
Posted by Chris Farrell at 4/18/2016
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Posted by Chris Farrell at 4/17/2016