need proof?
see the video below.
some book-shelf inspiration
A few months ago, I started writing a teeny tiny collection of poems, all loosely based around a specific shelf of Icelandic children stories that I found in Alderman stacks. I like book shelves. I like the thought of a lot of different stories and ideas being forced into the same neighborhood. I like the way books must be physically supported, held.
Whenever I go to Alderman, I always end up studying in the stacks by these Icelandic stories. They intrigue me. They have these fun, colorful covers and interesting titles. The subject matter (of the ones I can skim through in English) is whimsical and typically about fish or witches or cats or princesses.
So one day I just wrote a poem about the shelf. And then a few days later, I wrote another one about one of the book covers. And then I thought "let's make this a project". And so I did, but then kind of forgot about it after writing a few more. Today I got a random burst of excitement to dig back into it again. I wrote the following. And p.s. This was also inspired by some pictures my friend took of street art she saw when she visited Iceland, and by this flickr page I browsed and LOVE.
Happy gorgeous saturday :)
------------------------------------
Street-art graffiti in Reykjavík at 5 p.m.
where I am holding your hand.
A tall green man is standing on the flaking side of a furniture shop.
His painted shadow reaches around the corner, back
into the alley by the trash
where it fades, tumultuous blues, and stops in sleep.
I wonder what he’s dreaming.
Your thumb feels nice on my skin.
Over our heads, a fish is flying
with his fish friends on a day-trip from the sea.
You pull out your camera and his scales
leave flashes of light like sunspots on the photos.
You try to take a picture of me, and I say
No, don’t. I am a flying fish.
(Fullness in me when I watch you laugh)
I say, What color are my scales?
You say, purple and that color of the peach you ate yesterday.
I say, Will you count them up?
You say, I will touch each of them with my thumb.
I say, Are you a flying fish?
(Fullness in me when I watch you smile)
Above us is a family of them now,
swooning together in the liquid sunlight.
We watch them leap over a line where
bicycles are hanging from their wheel axles.
They are melting their glittering colors into the day.
I think of how we could talk forever
about fish scales and art
and I’d never want sleep again.
I think of the dimples
on the left side of your face
where I could take a swim.
Whenever I go to Alderman, I always end up studying in the stacks by these Icelandic stories. They intrigue me. They have these fun, colorful covers and interesting titles. The subject matter (of the ones I can skim through in English) is whimsical and typically about fish or witches or cats or princesses.
So one day I just wrote a poem about the shelf. And then a few days later, I wrote another one about one of the book covers. And then I thought "let's make this a project". And so I did, but then kind of forgot about it after writing a few more. Today I got a random burst of excitement to dig back into it again. I wrote the following. And p.s. This was also inspired by some pictures my friend took of street art she saw when she visited Iceland, and by this flickr page I browsed and LOVE.
Happy gorgeous saturday :)
------------------------------------
Street-art graffiti in Reykjavík at 5 p.m.
where I am holding your hand.
A tall green man is standing on the flaking side of a furniture shop.
His painted shadow reaches around the corner, back
into the alley by the trash
where it fades, tumultuous blues, and stops in sleep.
I wonder what he’s dreaming.
Your thumb feels nice on my skin.
Over our heads, a fish is flying
with his fish friends on a day-trip from the sea.
You pull out your camera and his scales
leave flashes of light like sunspots on the photos.
You try to take a picture of me, and I say
No, don’t. I am a flying fish.
(Fullness in me when I watch you laugh)
I say, What color are my scales?
You say, purple and that color of the peach you ate yesterday.
I say, Will you count them up?
You say, I will touch each of them with my thumb.
I say, Are you a flying fish?
(Fullness in me when I watch you smile)
Above us is a family of them now,
swooning together in the liquid sunlight.
We watch them leap over a line where
bicycles are hanging from their wheel axles.
They are melting their glittering colors into the day.
I think of how we could talk forever
about fish scales and art
and I’d never want sleep again.
I think of the dimples
on the left side of your face
where I could take a swim.
what five-year-olds can give you
I’ve been trying to concentrate on midterm studying for awhile now, and I just can’t. I should in no way be blogging anything at 1:51 AM on the morning of a huge test– I should either be sleeping or reading Macbeth. I’m also breaking my vow to cut out distractions (such as this blog) this week, but today has been hard and I feel a need to breathe it out onto paper.
Today has been hard because I can’t stop thinking about her.
Her name is Manessa and she is five-years-old. I met her last week at La Chureca, which is a dump and a community on the outskirts of Managua, Nicaragua. That place is hell and dust and misery, but she is beautiful.
Our group drove through the dump and went to a school located in the center. As soon as we walked into the courtyard, I saw her. She was sitting by herself on the steps. I walked over, leaned down and said "Hola". That was all it took. She gave me this radiant smile that I won't ever forget and stretched her arms out to me. I picked her up and held her. I asked her about her favorite animals and then we imitated them. I spun her around in fast circles. I loved how she leaned her cheek against my collarbone as I read her Spanish words that I could barely understand.
In about two hours, she changed me. She is changing me still.
Late that night back at Casa, I sat alone at a picnic table and felt this moment of alteration that reminded me of high school english class. You know, when your teacher would ask you to cite a page number and paragraph where you can notice the main character experiencing a dramatic shift, an identifiable event that begs a response from the rest of the story. This was my page number - this little five-year-old chica with the same color eyes as mine and a big smile. I sat there and suddenly thought things that hadn't occurred to me before. Where was Manessa now? Did she eat dinner tonight? Did anyone tuck Manessa in as she went to sleep? Did someone wish her sweet dreams and whisper in her ear that she was beautiful? Or smart? Or loved?
I didn't sleep well.
Those questions kept me awake, aching.
Inside that dark, hellish dump, Manessa gorgeously illuminated for me what it means to love: to have your arms wide open, to give it away without pause, to allow yourself to receive it fully. And I think of what a gift that little girl has been to me and then I think of what she lives in everyday and I think of how unfair it is and how it doesn't make sense, and I keep trying to process it and make it right in my head. But nothing lines up when I do that. It still hurts.
Today and all the other days since the visit to Chureca have been hard because I can't stop thinking of what is enough. Is it enough for me to pray for her every day? Is it enough for me to dream for her, to imagine what she'll become? Is it enough for me to dream even for her children, that they might have a mother who holds them and spins them in fast circles and tucks them in at night?
I am haunted as I try to think of how to make Manessa more than just a moment, bigger than just a beautiful smile and two tiny hands that I held once. I am haunted, also, when I think of how I must have looked in her eyes, when I had to leave the school and set her down in her classroom. I think of how I hugged her and waved as if I would see her tomorrow, and then I walked away. I hated myself then.
Now I am in the moment of the "what now?" I am smothered by a frenzy of questions, but I am also learning, learning to believe in what mattered: that I held her. That I instantly fell in love with her. That she loved me so well. Those things count, but how do I respond to them? Where begins my dramatic character shift that some 9th grader somewhere could look at my life and pick out, years from now? I feel like, somehow, I am transforming. A grinning five-year-old with a dirty school uniform is in the process of giving me new eyes.
Today has been hard because I can’t stop thinking about her.
Her name is Manessa and she is five-years-old. I met her last week at La Chureca, which is a dump and a community on the outskirts of Managua, Nicaragua. That place is hell and dust and misery, but she is beautiful.
Our group drove through the dump and went to a school located in the center. As soon as we walked into the courtyard, I saw her. She was sitting by herself on the steps. I walked over, leaned down and said "Hola". That was all it took. She gave me this radiant smile that I won't ever forget and stretched her arms out to me. I picked her up and held her. I asked her about her favorite animals and then we imitated them. I spun her around in fast circles. I loved how she leaned her cheek against my collarbone as I read her Spanish words that I could barely understand.
In about two hours, she changed me. She is changing me still.
Late that night back at Casa, I sat alone at a picnic table and felt this moment of alteration that reminded me of high school english class. You know, when your teacher would ask you to cite a page number and paragraph where you can notice the main character experiencing a dramatic shift, an identifiable event that begs a response from the rest of the story. This was my page number - this little five-year-old chica with the same color eyes as mine and a big smile. I sat there and suddenly thought things that hadn't occurred to me before. Where was Manessa now? Did she eat dinner tonight? Did anyone tuck Manessa in as she went to sleep? Did someone wish her sweet dreams and whisper in her ear that she was beautiful? Or smart? Or loved?
I didn't sleep well.
Those questions kept me awake, aching.
Inside that dark, hellish dump, Manessa gorgeously illuminated for me what it means to love: to have your arms wide open, to give it away without pause, to allow yourself to receive it fully. And I think of what a gift that little girl has been to me and then I think of what she lives in everyday and I think of how unfair it is and how it doesn't make sense, and I keep trying to process it and make it right in my head. But nothing lines up when I do that. It still hurts.
Today and all the other days since the visit to Chureca have been hard because I can't stop thinking of what is enough. Is it enough for me to pray for her every day? Is it enough for me to dream for her, to imagine what she'll become? Is it enough for me to dream even for her children, that they might have a mother who holds them and spins them in fast circles and tucks them in at night?
I am haunted as I try to think of how to make Manessa more than just a moment, bigger than just a beautiful smile and two tiny hands that I held once. I am haunted, also, when I think of how I must have looked in her eyes, when I had to leave the school and set her down in her classroom. I think of how I hugged her and waved as if I would see her tomorrow, and then I walked away. I hated myself then.
Now I am in the moment of the "what now?" I am smothered by a frenzy of questions, but I am also learning, learning to believe in what mattered: that I held her. That I instantly fell in love with her. That she loved me so well. Those things count, but how do I respond to them? Where begins my dramatic character shift that some 9th grader somewhere could look at my life and pick out, years from now? I feel like, somehow, I am transforming. A grinning five-year-old with a dirty school uniform is in the process of giving me new eyes.
Dear people who read my blog,
Hi. I like you a lot. Thanks for reading all my weird thoughts and for putting up with all my strange videos of people dancing or silly songs. You're the greatest.
As much as I love blogging, I'm gonna have to take a little break. Hopefully for just like a week or so, because life will be a little cray-cray (yep, I just said that) for the next few days. But don't be sad. I'll be back with more random sentiments & ramblings before you know it.
As much as I love blogging, I'm gonna have to take a little break. Hopefully for just like a week or so, because life will be a little cray-cray (yep, I just said that) for the next few days. But don't be sad. I'll be back with more random sentiments & ramblings before you know it.
For now, I just wanted to say thanks. I don't know why you all read what I write on here sometimes, but you do, and that's fun. Also, so that you won't be too devastated, I will leave you with some pictures of joyful Nica kids, and that will cheer you right up as you gaze on them in my absence.
with hearts&hugs&kittens,
emily
I'm back
and my feet feel too clean.
I would tell you all about Nicaragua, but I can't. As in, I literally cannot compose the sentences to describe my week there. I always have words to say, so this sensation of feeling like they were all taken away is crazy. It's painful. It's dizzying.
There will be pictures later. And as I slowly gather them up and sift through them, there will be words later, too. But for now:
I'm home. It feels different. Nicaragua is beautiful.
I would tell you all about Nicaragua, but I can't. As in, I literally cannot compose the sentences to describe my week there. I always have words to say, so this sensation of feeling like they were all taken away is crazy. It's painful. It's dizzying.
There will be pictures later. And as I slowly gather them up and sift through them, there will be words later, too. But for now:
I'm home. It feels different. Nicaragua is beautiful.
sometimes it's fun to be one of two Emily Morgan Thompson's at UVA
because then people think they are e-mailing the other Emily and they actually e-mail you.
In my inbox this morning:
subject line: tay tay's alc
hey emily!I put $40 in your box for alcool for tyalor, do you think thats enough?? I can give you more, i just had no idea how much to give you.I was thinking like a bottle of aristocrat vodka maybe a bunch of minis and either two bottle of andre or a 5th of whiskey. Let me know what you think! I can come pick it up sometime this week!
I wrote back:
girl,
OMG! $40 def isn't enough! You're gonna have to give me at least double that. I mean, do we want Taylor to get DRUNK or don't we?! and I'm not gonna be able to check my box, so you're gonna have to drop off that original $40 plus maybe $50 more at my friends house...she lives on Price. Her name is also Emily. Don't worry about it. Sweet! Thanks girlfriend!!!
....only joking. but I do wish that's what I sent back.
In my inbox this morning:
subject line: tay tay's alc
hey emily!I put $40 in your box for alcool for tyalor, do you think thats enough?? I can give you more, i just had no idea how much to give you.I was thinking like a bottle of aristocrat vodka maybe a bunch of minis and either two bottle of andre or a 5th of whiskey. Let me know what you think! I can come pick it up sometime this week!
I wrote back:
girl,
OMG! $40 def isn't enough! You're gonna have to give me at least double that. I mean, do we want Taylor to get DRUNK or don't we?! and I'm not gonna be able to check my box, so you're gonna have to drop off that original $40 plus maybe $50 more at my friends house...she lives on Price. Her name is also Emily. Don't worry about it. Sweet! Thanks girlfriend!!!
....only joking. but I do wish that's what I sent back.
