Tombliboo Tumbling

Ask me, ask me, ask me...   Caitlin - 25 - Australian - I like to write poems, Greek dance, and have very occasional dazzling moments where I understand Plato.

Just listened to my mother and sister argue for approximately fifteen minutes about what to name the dog that they are planning to get after they come and visit me at Christmas.  Mum is keen on Georgie (after The Seekers’ ‘Georgie Girl’), which my sister hates, unless it is simply a shortened form of Georgiana (Mum: ‘It’s a puppy, not a princess!’).  Wow.

— 7 hours ago with 2 notes
#but I am TOTALLY in favour of Georgie  #imagine calling out 'hey there georgie girl' in the park! 

A simple goodnight will not do;
a goodnight is not how it
works.

I numbly wish that
you could have shown
me the forest,
but you were ill;
and would the deer
have ventured out
had I been there?

I wish that you’d not
missed the bus,
that you’d shown up
alone at the station
and twirled me around
like she once did
(in hazier times);
but I wandered
up every street of
that so little town,
weighed down by
my backpack,
and waited and
waited
(as she too had once
made me do).

I wish that your timing
was better,
that nights didn’t always
make me seethe
or in efforts
utterly futile
seek out stars.

I wish that you might take the train
down the coastline as I’ve done
so often, returning,
but you have
work;
and I wish you’d answer the question
I failed to shroud in the secrets
I so love so many sleepless
nights ago.

I wish that I wasn’t burdening
this unjust blame,
this furious greed,
this need so clinging
and clutching
for loftier things
and for poetry romance,
for pearl-pricked touch
and the laying of
gossamer tracks minute
on skyscaped backs
on you.

— 22 hours ago with 2 notes
#poetry 

mymodernmet:

Montreal-based studio Moment Factory has transformed Quebec’s Parc de la Gorge de Coaticook into Foresta Lumina, an illuminated nocturnal trail through an enchanted forest. After nightfall from now until mid-October, visitors to the park are invited to take a magical stroll through the woods on an immersive, storybook-like adventure.

(via hassieholmes)

— 1 day ago with 428 notes
Tonight’s reading~

Tonight’s reading~

— 1 day ago
#personal 

Some thoughts:

1. The entire insect population of Reading is encamped on my ceiling.  Worryingly.

2. How on earth did twenty-year-old Caitlin stay up past 11pm, and still manage to produce half-decent work?

3. My poor dear orchid is not dead, as I had assumed!  Its moss just needed a bit more water.  Feeling much more capable regarding my ability to look after living things now.

4. All my poems lately are about London and love-sickness, oops.

5. Assessors’ report on my progress this year was A-OK, although I am mildly concerned that my supervisor feels that my proposed submission date is somewhat optimistic.

6. This literature review is driving me MAD…

7. …so I shall retreat to the much more inviting world of ‘Olivia’.  Goodnight!

— 6 days ago with 2 notes
#personal 
nickkobyluch:

Bush House - Aldwych. The old home of the BBC World Service.

nickkobyluch:

Bush House - Aldwych. The old home of the BBC World Service.

(via londonwalkr)

— 6 days ago with 16 notes
#art 
howveryvery:

Heartache’s Élan
There is nothing more tiresome, is there, than to answer in cold blood a letter that has been written in emotion, but you know you needn’t (10, 24th Nov. 1918).
If one thing can be said about Dorothy Bussy, it is that she is a woman of emotion. Selected Letters of  André Gide and Dorothy Bussy recounts the thirty year span of their correspondence, begun over her work as his chief translator into English and which began late in their lives, in their fifties! Their undeniably passionate, mutual yet skewed love, and devotion to their friendship is mesmerizing, heartbreaking, but inspiring too.
Dear Gide,I always feel in such a fearful panic after I have sent you a letter. I want to go and drown myself. Such intolerable stuff I write you. I can’t imagine how you bear it. Shameless it seems to me after it has gone, and worse than shameless–stupid–often not true. Can you tell what is true and what is false? I suppose you can. I suppose that is why you put up with me and why I always find the courage to begin again. Because in reality I’m not ashamed of the essential part–the part that is true. No. I’m proud of it (52, 16th Aug ‘20).
She was in love with him, but alas, one can not feel what they don’t feel, and Gide did not return that sort of feeling. They were both married, and Gide had homesexual lovers and other heterosexual lovers as well (of more particular heartbreak for Bussy) and yet, he writes to her a day after her letter above:
Very Dear Friend,Your letters send my heart and mind into corkscrews spirals–but delightfully (55, 17th Aug. ‘20).
The relationship is rich in its intellectual depth, and wonderously complex regarding what it means to love someone. Where she loves body and soul, Gide can only offer his soul and wonders if that is not superior:
I cannot convince myself that what I feel for you in my heart is not really better than what you are looking for –and stronger, more constant, more serious (121, 9 April ‘28).
And yet it is something of a constant torment to them both. The letters are historically, culturally, and intellectually fascinating. But it is Bussy that is truly remarkable. Her love, which she is aware is considered a humiliation, (and she battles those feelings in herself) she also understands to be the most authentic force of her life. She writes again and again about her inability to suppress her feelings. Her inability to be anything but completely nakedly honest with Gide. Why shouldn’t she? Most people don’t allow themselves to love so intensely. On his part, he writes again and again to her, beseeching her to write, to continuing writing her way. Sometimes with nothing to say, he writes only that he must write her. His words are achingly beautiful:
I read your letter of the 8th; that little swallow of pure friendship refreshes the soul (173,  12 Jan ‘37)
I devoured this book. I have correspondences of my own, heartbreaks, and vigorous exchanges with people I love, and I am aware that letter writing is not so fashionable in this day and age, but there is something freeing and deeply enrichening to me in the practice, (even in email form, mine more often than not adhere to the long format letter length exchanges of former days..) which is perhaps why I was compelled to read this book.
My only disappointment was the inclusion in the epilogue  of a third party’s take on the letters. Gide’s friend Martin du Gard had certain papers in reference to “Madame Simon Bussy” and he added his own thoughts. He wrote of Bussy’s “delusion” and recalled Gide “avoid[ing] her, flee[ing] from her” noting that Gide’s love was only compassionate - to me, a condescending word in this context. Oh, how my heart burned in indignation at his take on the matter!
This morning you were very near to me, your check on mine, your lips so near to mine. But no, I did not dare. That must be reserved for dreams. They have sometimes come.Good night my very dear.Tear this into a thousand pieces & drop it into the sea.Yr. D (210, 29 April ‘42)
Five months later Gide responding to her accusation that he didn’t read her letters writes, “It goes without saying that I miscalculated, but you immediately accuse me of not reading your letters carefully…Shame! How mean! I read and reread your letters; there is even one (simply dated ‘Wednesday evening’) that I always carry with me.
The letter to which he refers is the above account of her dreaming about him….
It was no wonder at all to me that he loved her, and I felt deeply sorry that his feelings (that strange chemical reaction) differed from hers. But all the same. I found her a brilliant force of love and feeling. If that is humiliating, then so be it. Should she have humiliated herself by revealing all? Yes. By God Yes. What else is there?
Not a saint–not a boy–just your hopeless and yet not altogether unhappy
LoverD.B. (74, July ‘21)
*edited by Richard Tedeschi, Oxford University Press.

howveryvery:

Heartache’s Élan

There is nothing more tiresome, is there, than to answer in cold blood a letter that has been written in emotion, but you know you needn’t (10, 24th Nov. 1918).

If one thing can be said about Dorothy Bussy, it is that she is a woman of emotion. Selected Letters of  André Gide and Dorothy Bussy recounts the thirty year span of their correspondence, begun over her work as his chief translator into English and which began late in their lives, in their fifties! Their undeniably passionate, mutual yet skewed love, and devotion to their friendship is mesmerizing, heartbreaking, but inspiring too.

Dear Gide,
I always feel in such a fearful panic after I have sent you a letter. I want to go and drown myself. Such intolerable stuff I write you. I can’t imagine how you bear it. Shameless it seems to me after it has gone, and worse than shameless–stupid–often not true. Can you tell what is true and what is false? I suppose you can. I suppose that is why you put up with me and why I always find the courage to begin again. Because in reality I’m not ashamed of the essential part–the part that is true. No. I’m proud of it (52, 16th Aug ‘20).

She was in love with him, but alas, one can not feel what they don’t feel, and Gide did not return that sort of feeling. They were both married, and Gide had homesexual lovers and other heterosexual lovers as well (of more particular heartbreak for Bussy) and yet, he writes to her a day after her letter above:

Very Dear Friend,
Your letters send my heart and mind into corkscrews spirals–but delightfully (55, 17th Aug. ‘20).

The relationship is rich in its intellectual depth, and wonderously complex regarding what it means to love someone. Where she loves body and soul, Gide can only offer his soul and wonders if that is not superior:

I cannot convince myself that what I feel for you in my heart is not really better than what you are looking for –and stronger, more constant, more serious (121, 9 April ‘28).

And yet it is something of a constant torment to them both. The letters are historically, culturally, and intellectually fascinating. But it is Bussy that is truly remarkable. Her love, which she is aware is considered a humiliation, (and she battles those feelings in herself) she also understands to be the most authentic force of her life. She writes again and again about her inability to suppress her feelings. Her inability to be anything but completely nakedly honest with Gide. Why shouldn’t she? Most people don’t allow themselves to love so intensely. On his part, he writes again and again to her, beseeching her to write, to continuing writing her way. Sometimes with nothing to say, he writes only that he must write her. His words are achingly beautiful:

I read your letter of the 8th; that little swallow of pure friendship refreshes the soul (173,  12 Jan ‘37)

I devoured this book. I have correspondences of my own, heartbreaks, and vigorous exchanges with people I love, and I am aware that letter writing is not so fashionable in this day and age, but there is something freeing and deeply enrichening to me in the practice, (even in email form, mine more often than not adhere to the long format letter length exchanges of former days..) which is perhaps why I was compelled to read this book.

My only disappointment was the inclusion in the epilogue  of a third party’s take on the letters. Gide’s friend Martin du Gard had certain papers in reference to “Madame Simon Bussy” and he added his own thoughts. He wrote of Bussy’s “delusion” and recalled Gide “avoid[ing] her, flee[ing] from her” noting that Gide’s love was only compassionate - to me, a condescending word in this context. Oh, how my heart burned in indignation at his take on the matter!

This morning you were very near to me, your check on mine, your lips so near to mine. But no, I did not dare. That must be reserved for dreams. They have sometimes come.
Good night my very dear.
Tear this into a thousand pieces & drop it into the sea.
Yr. D (210, 29 April ‘42)

Five months later Gide responding to her accusation that he didn’t read her letters writes, “It goes without saying that I miscalculated, but you immediately accuse me of not reading your letters carefully…Shame! How mean! I read and reread your letters; there is even one (simply dated ‘Wednesday evening’) that I always carry with me.

The letter to which he refers is the above account of her dreaming about him….

It was no wonder at all to me that he loved her, and I felt deeply sorry that his feelings (that strange chemical reaction) differed from hers. But all the same. I found her a brilliant force of love and feeling. If that is humiliating, then so be it. Should she have humiliated herself by revealing all? Yes. By God Yes. What else is there?

Not a saint–not a boy–just your hopeless and yet not altogether unhappy

Lover
D.B. (74, July ‘21)

*edited by Richard Tedeschi, Oxford University Press.

— 6 days ago with 4 notes
#to read 

When you venture into London,
may I meet you in Trafalgar
Square, or anywhere?

But you, oh you, have
so much pluck,
and what,
in fact,
have I got?
Dots ad infinitum,
repetition running ragged
as it monkeys
with a leer across
the darkened
bedroom wall;

swimming over silences,
the reeds that catch
and snag,
the nettled sting
of wordlessness
a guarantee that
always aches of
personal affront;
and light in hibernation
solar-system repetition,
never being able to resist
an invitation,
(though it’s really
a demand),
a vintage dress,
a cherry bun.

When you tiptoe into London,
might I catch the bell
that beckoned you
and keep it,
for I cannot be a siren
on my own?

And might I pull you, dreaming,
into Richmond’s waving
grasses, where the
buzz and haze of summer
set me snaking,
longing,
home.

— 6 days ago with 5 notes
#poetry