Archive for April, 2010

2010 Goals

Posted in Uncategorized on April 6, 2010 by Sarah aka Sarjé

Last night, I finished creating my goal map. This is different from New Year’s resolutions (which never do me any good). Since I’m a primarily-visual learner, I find compiling my goals into a mind-map of sorts to be helpful. I’ve done this before, but this time around, I wanted to be more precise in the foci of the map, and also be more selective about what went onto the map. I wanted to make sure everything would fit on my mounting board, rather than have it become some huge project that wouldn’t ever be completed (I’m trying to avoid those!).

I’m posting this up on various websites I frequent, so I have a regular reminder to pursue my goals.

So, here’s what I created (click to enbiggen):

Goal Map 2010



Posted in Uncategorized on April 1, 2010 by Sarah aka Sarjé

TEN (a response to X … FYI: format isn’t as intended, but haven’t the energy to correct at the moment…hopefully the meaning will still ring true.)

0. Origin of the theses*:

*Prosody: [less commonly] stressed.

I once wrote poems of great love.

1. Aforementioned and foreword:
While reading those old poems,

I have (Chorus: again, again, once more with feeling)

found myself time-traveling,

observing a girl who was

self-satisfied, naïve, hopeful,

and certain that the love she felt

was also felt by the beloved.

2. Non-chronological:

Time-travel of the mind is fragmentary

at best.

3. And scene! (4000 miles traveled in the blink of six months):

Alone together with him, something surely

unwise, and yes

it was, but oh,

it wasn’t.

4. The warmth of winter:

It was beautiful, in its shades of grey and old,

stony, silent, wet, and cold,

the dampest, steely cold—

that cut deep through flesh

beyond the marrow, the core of bones—

into thought itself.

Somehow that liquid air soothed my aching


and I found clarity within that heaviest fog.

5. Leaving:

Farewell scenes in airports

are always more romantic

in the movies. (Chorus: don’t go, don’t go)

But there was a swift kiss,

and later, tears in the loo.

6. Months later.

My sense of self devolved

into blackest thought.

7. Alone.
And this became the new pattern, quite unlike

the orderly, angular argyle pathway of raindrops

(on the windows of a bus)

which I once felt

inclined to observe.

Instead, circular—

A steeply declining spiral

natural enough in its descent,

for even Fibonacci to recognize.

8. Observations began to shift:

From the constant, determined effort to connect all life around me to some         nebulous concept

of being-in-love.

To simple acknowledgment

of being.

9.  And more commonly,

the thesis is unstressed.

I had chosen to live this way, believing each successive love to be my last,

but meteorologists could have told me that

such high pressure would push each one of them

away from me.

10. And the curtain approaches.

The old  chorus resounded: “thoughts of you, thoughts of you, thoughts of you.”

The new one is an old one,

a joke from the Bard himself: “to thine own self be true.”

This seems the thing to do.


Posted in Uncategorized on April 1, 2010 by Sarah aka Sarjé


So I slept in,
missed a speech—
I wasn’t supposed to be there anyway.


Riding the bus to work is a goodtime for
thought, thoughts on poetry, lines about
consonance: creatively coy and charming,
quietly cunning, climbing kitelike,
quite right, and calling, “catch me, cause it’s a
calm quarantine up here…”


And the window’s cracked
open as far as it’s allowed,
the breeze unwittingly makes its way in,
ruffling my hair, strangely
reminding me of hot boat rides spent
staring down
a great deep iridescent salty sea,
hopping from one wave to another,
and onto the train; at the station waits another bus.


The driver’s outside having a smoke,
disinterested in my greeting, I sit behind three
When the engine starts and we roll along,
there’s a startling percussiveness, the windows
are rattling, and so we look around in
unison.  I look up, past the frames of my glasses,
noticing the way lamps become yellow dandelions on grey ground,
and now I’m looking curiously out the window,
playing with the focus of my lenses,
seeing things clearly, blearily, a little of both,
the combination is a pleasant headache in the making.


Now we’re over the river, the clouds are hovering low and heavy,
a plane overhead, we’re driving high over the valley, and I almost believe that I
can reach up and collect it as a toy, but moreso I wish I
were flying within, flying to you,
but now it’s disappeared in a fog.


Here’s a stoplight, a crow lands on the streetlamp,
the clouds break behind its head to reveal a hole of sky,
the first passenger disembarks.


I look at how the raindrops splatter scatter shatter across the windowpane;
the culinary student escapes to wait at a stop sign dripping 4-WAYs,
and she’s giving me a look as we drive by that says,
“why did it have to rain today?”


The trails are creating a moist argyle pattern across the glass,
and the headphoned artist is away with his portfolio.
Now it’s me and the driver.  It’s always just me and the driver, in the end.
And my thoughts, scattering about like the rain;
I think about having the camera, but left it at the house,
so I can’t capture the rain pathways, but
I trace them with my fingertip anyway.


My stop comes short,
so I have to wander across the parking lot,
wending between the motorcycles,
and now the rain falls on my face, my glasses have their own pathways,
my focus is more veiled than ever before,
I wish for once that I had one of the umbrellas you’re so fond of.


A single moment of clarity comes to me.
Thoughts of you,
of you,
thoughts of
you are always resting transparently over all the rest,
colouring my experiences, tinting everything of my life
with an element of you.
The poetry, the light,
the plane, the bike,
the music and the focus
and even the crow,
somehow find a way of meaning you.

(from July, 2006.)