More Hair Than Wit?

There are two options in life when it comes to hair... Cut it or don't.  Until about thirty minutes ago, I was in the NO SCISSORS! phase of life in hopes of growing it out to where it was before I hit the CUT IT ALL OFF! phase two and a half years ago.  However.  Growing out hair is frustrating and unattractive (in all honesty).  As I look back through pictures of my 'shorter than it is now' hair I say to myself, "CUT IT ALL OFF!"  Then I look at my 'longest it's ever been' hair and I say, "NO SCISSORS!"  What's a girl to do.  Oh, that's right.  Read The Tempest instead.

As it turns out, The Tempest has actually joined my list of favorites when it comes to Shakespeare.  I look forward to watching Julie Taymor's new version of the play... She used Helen Mirren as Prospero (well in this case Prospera).  I've seen clips and it seems psychedelic and amazing.

"I'll drown my book"

To tie this back into the "hair" rant... I love Mirren's hair in this role.  If my hair wasn't curly I'd have this cut in a heartbeat.  I plan on filing this look away in my memory bank though for when I'm older and go grey.  It's such a great short cut because it's not so severe like ever other old lady's cut.

Moving on.

Last time I promised the poem about the Van Gogh painting.  My professor, again, loved my work.  Again, he raved over it.  And again he gave me a 3++ on a scale of 1-3.  (Every other poem I've seen so far has either gotten a 2+, a 3-, or a 3+)  Unfortunately my classmates did not really agree.  It was completely silent for about 40 seconds when my workshop started.  (Yes.  I counted.)  Of course I knew that meant they either hated it or didn't understand it.  Or both.  So I was getting comments like "I really loved this but I didn't really get it."  "Who was Vincent supposed to be?"  "I felt like it was really good but the words were wasted on the setting."  What?  After my professor explained that it was about a Vincent Van Gogh painting they were like "Ooooh!"  I wasn't allowed to speak through any of this but I can say that it was still plenty frustrating that my work makes so much sense to me but my peers never "get it."  I really don't think that my poetry is that complex.  Sure it's more complicated than "you're breaking up with me and my heart hurts because of it" but it's not really that hard to understand.  I'm not E.E. Cummings.  But what of it.  Here's my poem.  

The Cafe Terrace

With cold, white linen set in front of you - 

How did you learn to see the glow of stars?

Somehow you broke my heart.  Reaching through bars

to kiss the colors - mix each vibrant hue.

The blushing gold that drips into the blue

and fades to black as thick and deep as tar

pleads, 'Stop. Stop, you demons - Au revoir.

These tortured nights, I pray this drink subdues.'

Sweet Vincent. I can hear your crying now.

Drowned in swirling light that choked your mind

and forced you soul out through your fingertips.

Yes. I can feel its weight upon your brow

to have no voice inside a world that's blind -

to speak a sorrow ne'er to pass your lips.

Believe it or not I can actually connect this back to hair.  Van Gogh was a ginger.

"I dream my paintings and I paint my dream"