I feel strongly that I can get my life in order- with something as simple as, "whatever you do, do it with all your heart, for God, and not for men." Well. I hope God gets my life in order, and not me, because I wouldn't know how to order colour-coded pencils. Or children's stacking cups. I think, children's stack cups. Pencils are too difficult.
Eat Me!
I love music, but God... music.. God.. music... or both. As to practical application...
If I don't at least put forth a slight effort, which is about 95.5% mental exertion PRIOR to the actual effort, (though, note, the effort doesn't count even if it is 95.5% mental exertion, unless the actual action is committed) then I've failed my Saviour.
Not in the way of swinging the pendulum, but I hate myself.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
On his way to the River Idle...
he was almost certainly a man of the cloth.
grossly stained, crossly stitched, impeccably hung from the limp-and-stooped frame of a man sworn into religious serviture, cloth. In fact, it had an air about it, as if it had been rescued from a festering heap of pig-slough. Proper religious, it was.
His shoes: rough boots of worn leather and held up below the knees with short length. As to the knees, they protruded.
Where all insightful men should expect a devout follower of the Mother Mary and weighty meditations (in which lofty thought was taken captive and beaten like a breakfast egg); such men would be baffled.
Those protrudingly knobbly knees-- wibble-wobbled above the conjectured clogs. These clogs found their way into every dribbly puddle along the snow-shifted terrain.
Brown and white checkerboard with two perpendicular dashes of brown, and then white. By sheer coverage alone, brown was getting to be in the winning league.
Then a redundant rogue of some thirty-odd lost years, upon a fence post sat, and spoke- the bastard git:
"have you had your cheer today, friar? it seems you have some place to go fastily."
"I have, master tucson, thank you, and I have."
"well, what's in it for you? Is it a keg- or is it perhaps a lone squash?"
"Certainly, if I had a squash, I would throw it at you. But that would change naught."
"As long as there's a King on the Throne," the bastard puffed, "There will be no need of change, and I speak as no traitor."
"Certainly, as long as there is a King on the Squash, we are all very much safe in our beds."
grossly stained, crossly stitched, impeccably hung from the limp-and-stooped frame of a man sworn into religious serviture, cloth. In fact, it had an air about it, as if it had been rescued from a festering heap of pig-slough. Proper religious, it was.
His shoes: rough boots of worn leather and held up below the knees with short length. As to the knees, they protruded.
Where all insightful men should expect a devout follower of the Mother Mary and weighty meditations (in which lofty thought was taken captive and beaten like a breakfast egg); such men would be baffled.
Those protrudingly knobbly knees-- wibble-wobbled above the conjectured clogs. These clogs found their way into every dribbly puddle along the snow-shifted terrain.
Brown and white checkerboard with two perpendicular dashes of brown, and then white. By sheer coverage alone, brown was getting to be in the winning league.
Then a redundant rogue of some thirty-odd lost years, upon a fence post sat, and spoke- the bastard git:
"have you had your cheer today, friar? it seems you have some place to go fastily."
"I have, master tucson, thank you, and I have."
"well, what's in it for you? Is it a keg- or is it perhaps a lone squash?"
"Certainly, if I had a squash, I would throw it at you. But that would change naught."
"As long as there's a King on the Throne," the bastard puffed, "There will be no need of change, and I speak as no traitor."
"Certainly, as long as there is a King on the Squash, we are all very much safe in our beds."
Sunday, January 13, 2008
holmes and the fortune cookie factory prisoner
holmes: well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.
lestrade: oh, indeed! then you think that the serpentine plays no part in the matter?
H: I think it very unlikely.
L: then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?
(he opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes, and a bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.)
L: There. (said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile.) There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.
H: Oh, indeed! (said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.) You dragged them from the serpentine?
L: No. They were found floating near the margin by a park keeper. they have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off.
H: by that same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. and pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?
------------------- --- ----- ------- -- -- ----- ----------- - --------------
he was a sane looking gentleman with a crooked, scottish nose. it diverged from the rest of his face, cold as it was, standing out like like a rouged seagull on a plate of sand.
(he was also affectively friendly and very old-gentlemanly)
he cracked his fortune cookie, i'm sure. then he stopped me and asked if i had thirty seconds to spare. then he began;
"When I took my children out for chinese food- they're all 40 or 50 now- every time we went, i would open up the cookie and say, 'isn't this amazing! my fortune cookie says, "help! I'm a prisoner in a fortune cookie factory!"'"
----
neither my brother nor my father were much amused by above anecdotes.
lestrade: oh, indeed! then you think that the serpentine plays no part in the matter?
H: I think it very unlikely.
L: then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?
(he opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes, and a bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.)
L: There. (said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile.) There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.
H: Oh, indeed! (said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.) You dragged them from the serpentine?
L: No. They were found floating near the margin by a park keeper. they have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off.
H: by that same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. and pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?
------------------- --- ----- ------- -- -- ----- ----------- - --------------
he was a sane looking gentleman with a crooked, scottish nose. it diverged from the rest of his face, cold as it was, standing out like like a rouged seagull on a plate of sand.
(he was also affectively friendly and very old-gentlemanly)
he cracked his fortune cookie, i'm sure. then he stopped me and asked if i had thirty seconds to spare. then he began;
"When I took my children out for chinese food- they're all 40 or 50 now- every time we went, i would open up the cookie and say, 'isn't this amazing! my fortune cookie says, "help! I'm a prisoner in a fortune cookie factory!"'"
----
neither my brother nor my father were much amused by above anecdotes.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
burgundy panic
it was a red night-
a burgundy night
the finger-splitting
mind driving
eye clenching
fist breaking
fight.
shattered the black glass
the asphalt coddled
burning sand comforted
water from springs poured infection
into wounds
to close eyes
meant to fill them with blood
escape was disguise
disguised as escape
an invisible enemy is felt
in the asphalt hall
there was no escape
there was a disgruntled sense of purpose
at least
a sense of achievement in dis-achievement
and it was just a sheet of white, the climax of the ascent, when nails and claws are thrust into the base of our necks
betrayal is no word in our language
for we do not know each other
until the end
until the black and red end
a burgundy night
the finger-splitting
mind driving
eye clenching
fist breaking
fight.
shattered the black glass
the asphalt coddled
burning sand comforted
water from springs poured infection
into wounds
to close eyes
meant to fill them with blood
escape was disguise
disguised as escape
an invisible enemy is felt
in the asphalt hall
there was no escape
there was a disgruntled sense of purpose
at least
a sense of achievement in dis-achievement
and it was just a sheet of white, the climax of the ascent, when nails and claws are thrust into the base of our necks
betrayal is no word in our language
for we do not know each other
until the end
until the black and red end
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