Practicing Domesticity: Well, they look a little bit alike

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Well, they look a little bit alike

At least I think so. And this is easily explained: they're twins.

Yes, our dear housie, Sarah, has a twin. Meet Kelly, a senior at Biola who, much like her sister, loves animals, the outdoors, and tea.

Now, for whatever reason, whenever I think of twins, I think of The Parent Trap. Just in case you've forgotten, feel free to familiarize yourself: Let's Get Together

In no way do Sarah and Kelly resemble Susan and Sharon - they have not been separated from birth by parents who took them to different states (or countries, depending on which version you're watching, although some people claim Boston is a different country), their parents do not own a vineyard or a bridal store or belong to the elite East Coast class of old money (again, version dependent - I'm an equally opportunities watcher), and they did not meet at summer camp and hatch a scheme to get their parents back together. However, they are wonderful, and I have a feeling that if asked, they could pull off this sing and dance number :)

Today is their birthday. Going to different schools can make celebrating birthdays difficult, although, their case is somewhat easier, seeing as they only have one day to figure out how to get together and that covers both of them.

Well, this year Kelly came up and visited us. She and Sarah hung out all day and then in the evening we partied (I'm beginning to fear that everyone's getting the wrong opinion - we really don't party all the time, I promise). Michelle bought streamers and I decorated the living room while she baked a cake - tie-dyed and from scratch, my roommate is that amazing.

I've decided I like twin birthdays - twice as much excitement for the same price.

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What I Learned From My Mother

by Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love

the living, to have plenty of vases on hand

in case you have to rush to the hospital

with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants

still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars

large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole

grieving household, to cube home-canned pears

and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins

and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.

I learned to attend viewing even if I didn’t know

the deceased, to press the moist hands

of the living, to look in their eyes and offer

sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.

I learned that whatever we say means nothing,

what anyone will remember is that we came.

I learned to believe I had the power to ease

awful pains materially like an angel.

Like a doctor, I learned to create

from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once

you know how to do this, you can never refuse.

To every house you enter, you must offer

healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,

the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

Source: Sleeping Preacher (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1992)

Alone

by Maya Angelou

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

The Silence

by Wendell Berry

Though the air is full of singing
my head is loud
with the labor of words.

Though the season is rich
with fruit, my tongue
hungers for the sweet of speech.

Though the beech is golden
I cannot stand beside it
mute, but must say

"It is golden," while the leaves
stir and fall with a sound
that is not a name.

It is in the silence
that my hope is, and my aim.
A song whose lines

I cannot make or sing
sounds men's silence
like a root. Let me say

and not mourn: the world
lives in the death of speech
and sings there.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Well, they look a little bit alike

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