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Sunday, December 18, 2005 

Lesson 1

Sometimes when life gets too hard, like now, the week before Christmas, I lose it. I find this time of year most horrendously overrated. Here in Australia and I'm sure in other parts of the world too, people become obcessed with giving and getting and I tune out. I feel depressed by all the fake sentiment, the enforced consumption, the terrible merriment of it all. I turn inside and think about the things that matter to me and wonder if I have done enough to improve my relationships, my friendships, my sense of self worth. If I have done enough? I really hate Christmas! For fuck's sake Jesus was born in September if anyone would really like to check their stupid facts! I try not to lose it. I try to center myself. I try not to hurt myself for something I know is wrong and I choose not to take part in it. Instead, I turn to this part of a peom by William Wordsworth written on July 13th 1798. A long time ago, I agree. I first heard it watching a Art History doco by an interesting old English git. He talks about romantic art and recites just this part of the overlong peom complete with the haunting music and shots of the Scottish countryside. I loved just this little sequence and would watch it over and over again. These few stanzas remained etched in my mind and before long I had searched them out and found the complete verse. I read the overlong peom but it was these lines that would come back to me time and time again. And here again, at this time, with an ache too difficult to shake with a single bright happy thought, I return once more to Wordsworths nature and vision. Merry Christmas.

"Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by,)
To me was all in all. -- I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite: a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye."

you rock!

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  • I'm oliverharold
  • From Queensland, Australia
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