Sunday, 2 January 2011

My Night Tonight

Watching this via Love Film (British Netflix like provider). Such a crazy night! I've also drank too cups of herbal tea and watched a Father Ted documentary! No work tomorrow, so plenty of time to catch up on my blogging. Yey Bank Holidays.


This poem has inspired me through so many meh-wah-blah parts of my life. Parts of my life with various circumstances. The backstory behind it is so tragic as well, it's essentially inspired by the suicide of Bishop's girlfriend after a shakey depression filled relationship. A lot sadder than anything my 23 years has thrown me. Anyways, enjoy:

One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master; 
so many things seem filled with the intent 
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.  

Lose something every day. 
Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master.  

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: 
places, and names, and where it was you meant  
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.  

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or 
next-to-last, of three loved houses went. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master.  

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, 
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. 
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.   

--Even losing you (the joking voice, 
a gesture I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
 the art of losing's not too hard to master 
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Substitute high school/being 18 for young 20's and a new Y-P and this dialogue from Little Miss Sunshine comforts me greatly.

Dwayne: I wish I could just sleep until I was eighteen and skip all of this, high school, everything.
Frank: Do you know who Marcel Proust is?
Dwayne: He's the guy you teach.
Frank: Yeah. French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent 20 years writing a book almost no one reads. But he's also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he, uh, he gets down to the end of his life, and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered, Those were the best years of his life, 'cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn't learn a thing. So, if you sleep until you're 18--Ah, think of the suffering you're gonna miss. I mean high school? High school-those are your prime suffering years. You don't get better suffering than that. "