where late the sweet birds sang

from a fairly young age, my mother made me hyper-aware of one of my greatest flaws: procrastination.  thanks to this hyper-awareness, i know how to control the flaw and have become quite good at planning and organizing.  sometimes i even over-compensate and have premature freakouts long before i should about school, work, and other obligations--except, that is, social and personal ones.  

when i am overwhelmed with a sense of urgency about a project, or consumed by my own wandering psyche, the things and people i love most are the first to be left behind.  and sometimes, unfortunately, there is such an overwhelming amount of catching up to do that i keep extending the deadlines i set for myself.  i'll call her back tomorrow, or the next day.  and because i am sometimes so ashamed of my neglect, i don't pick up the phone at all. 

that's what's happened with my infant blog; i hit the ground running, but then life got in the way.  last week i went out of town for a funeral and spent much time then and since being overwhelmed with the greatness of life.  i've avoided you, dear readers, because, well, there's too much to tell.  i have a backlog of thoughts, movies, songs, poems, and more that i want to tell you about scribbled in a book of neon index cards, just waiting for me to find the time and the grand vision to somehow "fix" everything in one post.  but as any successful dieter who's gone on a week-long donut spree will tell you, the best thing is not to overdose on carrot juice, but to simply start again with the next meal:  

here's one of the first poems i ever memorized.  it is a bit morbid, but ultimately hopeful, and the only fitting thing for the moment, as it expresses an almost self-deprecating graciousness in the face of the enormity of life:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang. 

In me thou seest the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west; 

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the deathbed whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourished by. 

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, 

To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 

-William Shakespeare

don't worry, though: i'm not leaving.  in fact, this is me, picking up the phone.