Saturday, November 19, 2005

Hanging Up a Familiar Picture

It's time to hang a familiar picture at my new place here at Blogger.

You know how it is when you move to a new place. It stays bare for a while, until you accept that you really can't go back to your old place. In my case, my old place has been hijacked by marauders and defaced beyond my own recognition.

Yes, I'm an AOL Refugee* and I'm still reeling from the effects of being displaced from my AOL Journal, a place I have called home for more than a year.

AOL has tacked ugly banner ads on the journals of its customers, and I vowed I would not post there again unless the ads were removed. I miss my old place. I'm in mourning. I'm trying to get used to Blogger.

For a while, I had some hope AOL would rethink its position about the ads. But it doesn't look like that's going to happen, despite the outrage of many journalers, despite a mass exodus. As a result of the ads, AOL has lost many of its best journalers, most of whom seem to have ended up at Blogger.

Blogger does offer some intriguing features. For example, I kind of like how you can list favorite books and movies on your profile and then find other Bloggers who share your interests.

Below I have copied one of my recent posts from AOL, kind of like hanging a familiar picture in a new place to make it feel more like home. Hopefully soon I'll get myself to posting here regularly, like I did at my AOL Journal. I also hope to bring more of my AOL Journal entries here. It's going to take me a while to move, though.

*AOL Refugee: A phrase coined by my friend, Vince, who also came here from AOL.

My entry from the other place.
I chose this one because it illustrates the interests I listed in my profile--reading, writing, loving:

From "The Song of Songs"

Like an apple tree among the
trees of the forest
is my lover among the young men.
I delight to sit in his shade,
and his fruit is sweet to my taste.
He has taken me to the banquet hall,
and his banner over me is love.
Strengthen me with raisins,
refresh me with apples,
for I am faint with love

A fellow journaler recently expressed some sadness at not having found the perfect lover. The journaler writes of having unreturned love. I've found that the best writing comes out of such longing.

Walt Whitman once wrote of the pain of unreturned love, saying, "Now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay's certain one way or another. (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd, yet out of that I have written these songs.)"

There is nothing else to say: Channel your longing into your art.


Ken Verheecke said...

Well spoken... and in a way we've been forced from our homes which has been the AOL J-Land Community for many of us... I can see we are walking a "trail of tears."

I can see it in post after post within the various new blogs being set-up here at Blogger.

AOL Refugees... we walk on.

Celeste said...

I will read you no matter where you go.
Will you continue to read any of the AOL journals?

Cynthia said...

You used the same image I did when I posted my poetry from my old blog over here, hanging pictures on the walls. It just feels right, setting up the stuff I don't want to do without. Now, I've got to figure out how to do pictures.

Gannet Girl said...

It's a confusing time. But we will prevail, one way or another.

Judith HeartSong said...

a Chagall yes? I am so glad you are here. We will find our hearts and souls again.

Paul said...

Jaysus, Theresa...I hope you dinna bring Tom Jones here. http://singlemanwriting,

ckays1967 said...

What I love is that you can back dat your entries and actually copy you whole journal over here. I have copied my whole Journey jost saved most of it as drafts, which is also a neat more annoying alerts.

Our new neighbor has beauty and different views.

Plus did you see what one can do with poetry? Present it like poetry should be done? Centered....and lovely?

I have done some of my poems...



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"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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The Secret of Hurricanes : That article in the Waterville Scout said it was Shake- spearean, all that fatalism that guides the Kennedys' lives. The likelihood of untimely death. Recently, another one died in his prime, John-John in an airplane. Not long before that, Bobby's boy. While playing football at high speeds on snow skis. Those Kennedys take some crazy chances. I prefer my own easy ways. Which isn't to say my life hasn't been Shake-spearean. By the time I was sixteen, my life was like the darkened stage at the end of Hamlet or Macbeth. All littered with corpses and treachery.

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