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108 | Juliana Bellinger: I Was Born in a Quonset Hut

Juliana and Heidi talk about friendship, Interlochen Arts Camp and moving 54 times. Juliana is a Gemini Sun, Taurus Moon and Aries rising.



From Good Poems:

"Perfection Wasted"

And another regrettable thing about death is the ceasing of your own brand of magic, which took a whole life to develop and market — the quips, the witticisms, the slant adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears, their tears confused with their diamond earrings, their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat, their response and your performance twinned. The jokes over the phone. The memories packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act. Who will do it again? That's it: no one; imitators and descendants aren't the same.

"i thank You God"

i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes (i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth day of life and love and wings and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any-lifted from the no of all nothing-human merely being doubt unimaginable You? (now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees going nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the gray feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.


This morning I looked at the map of the day And said to myself, “This is the way! This is the way I will go; Thus shall I range on the roads of achievement, The way is so clear—it shall all be a joy on the lines marked out.” And then as I went came a place that was strange,— ’Twas a place not down on the map! And I stumbled and fell and lay in the weeds, And looked on the day with rue.

I am learning a little—never to be sure— To be positive only with what is past, And to peer sometimes at the things to come As a wanderer treading the night When the mazy stars neither point nor beckon, And of all the roads, no road is sure.

I see those men with maps and talk Who tell how to go and where and why; I hear with my ears the words of their mouths, As they finger with ease the marks on the maps; And only as one looks robust, lonely, and querulous, As if he had gone to a country far And made for himself a map, Do I cry to him, “I would see your map! I would heed that map you have!”

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