she moves she

“When You Are Old”

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

From “Song of Myself”

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

…

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my
gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d
wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me in one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Spry magazine’s Fall updates are up.

Browse it at www.sprymag.com.

My personal favorites:

missed connections (written by me)
wild taxi ride – video
stuck between stations
stephen king ruined the circus

interview with janet simpson and her album We Are Not Lovers 

and

the photography of lauren coleman

Enjoy!

Lauren

Firstly: SHUT UP CHINA!!!!! The Dalai Lama has never done you any harm. You’re the one that stole Tibet. I don’t know the whole story nor will I pretend to know the history of the differences between Tibetans and the Chinese government but I’m confident that the Dalai Lama is deserving of whatever award the U.S. is bestowing upon him. Yes, he might be seeking independence for Tibet…this is no secret…but let the Buddhist monk receive his Congressional Gold Medal of Honor in peace for Christ’s sake! (Side note: only 10 days until I get to hear the Dalai Lama speak at Purdue University. Can’t wait.)

Secondly: It’s interesting meeting famous people. Sunday night was opening night for new Broadway “sensation” Jersey Boys. I went along not knowing what the show was about. I was just a pretty date for a friend. But the show was incredible. It is the story of Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons and I was blown away. I whole heartedly believe that Theatre and Music are the most demanding of art forms physically, mentally and emotionally. Watching these actors play instruments, sing, dance, act and actually do it well consistently for over two hours is something that Britney Spears, Jessica Whatsherface, or any other asshole, pop-millionaire can’t do. You might say that I finally have accepted the Broadway Musical as an art form. This does not mean that I’ll be seeing Legally Blond the Musical or High Fidelity the Musical (Yes I know! Atrocious!) ever in my lifetime. Anyway…so it’s the after party for Jersey Boys, a whole lotta schmoozefest but I don’t care, its free cocktails. I leave my friend to check my coat and am making my way through the crowd when I get stuck behind a group of annoying schmoozers. I’m stopped for a while before I look to my left and there’s Frankie Valli–the real Frankie Valli–and he’s checking me out. “Hi,” he says. “Hi. How are you?” “I’m great,” he says giving me a twinkly eye, “how are you?” “I’m great….” I say while walking away. Brief I know but what do you say to a guy like Frankie Valli other than “how are you?” Especially when it’s “Frankie worship night at LaSalle Bank Theatre.” Anyhow, he talked to me first!

Thirdly: Just because Elle or Vogue says that it’s fashionable to wear leggings doesn’t exactly mean that it’s true, nor should every female go out and buy a pair. I can tolerate the leggings under the dress thing (only in the mornings before breakfast) but just straight up leggings? On chicks in Chicago? Seriously ya’ll, don’t do it. If you approach me on the street wearing only this and you aren’t on your way to a yoga class…I will not speak to you. I can only imagine that you would have some sort of jarbled language unintelligible only to others like you and the only thing you ever really mean to say is “Am I pretty?”

Fourthly: My ass is being kicked by school and work. As a result, Spry has been severely neglected. The next issue will not be out until this coming up weekend. It was either that or sacrificing my sanity. There was really no feasible way to make my own set deadline. But I’ve always said that if it isn’t fun…then it isn’t Spry. So Spry and myself firmly uphold the European mentality of the wonderful “ish” factor. I’ll be at work at 9ish and Spry will have a new issue mid-Octoberish.

Fifthly: As anyone seen Autumn? And will someone please call my mother and explain the concept of Global Warming? Also, tell her that Al Gore is not the anti-christ.

Chicago to Bama

Guilty tourist pleasure: Lake and River Boat Tour

Brad’s boat.

Millennium Park on a lunch break.

Labor Day at Montrose Beach. Adam loves America.

Christina and Chris do too.

Freckles.

Of Montreal at the Metro

My favorite downtown lunch spot.

By now my blood must have been replaced by red wines; cabernets and pinot noirs (a little bourgeois fairy tale).  Sometimes I think my life would be better spent not chasing art and enlightenment.  Would I have made a good doctor? Cauterizing veins on Wednesday mornings? A journalist? Climbing rocks with laptop?  A lawyer? Slicing facts and fictions?  I could be spending nights studying anatomy instead of Donne, Milton and Dryden, saving a life other than my own.

My birthday was a nice brunch, a massage, a pizza and a night out with friends and wine of the Pope.  The massage though was not relaxing as much as it was painful and toxifing.  I felt sore and strange after, like acidic knots of a dry year had just been released into my blood stream causing my entire body to say “What is this?”  The cab on the way home got into a fender bender.  Then the pizza delivery man locked me out of my apartment.  I’m standing there holding my dinner in a cardboard box explaining to the Mexican delivery guy that I might need his help climbing through a window.  I nearly cried but was saved by a sleeping roommate.  Then I had the best wines I’ve ever had, all in succession with figs and gooey cheese and loud talking (another little fairy tale).

Today marks three years in this noisy, addictive, lovely city.  I’d like to see the Pacific and Peru today.  Okinawa tomorrow.  Barcelona the day after that.