tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29506287456429787072024-03-13T10:57:13.909+00:00Who do we ever see but ourselves?In everything we see, we see ourselves - or the absence thereof. This thought came to me from a quote in Wicked. There are many little things I find and want to either have a record of or share, that's what I'll do here.
Could be anything!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-74009177418304663842011-03-12T10:24:00.004+00:002011-03-12T12:45:31.080+00:00We're all leaving...<div><div></div><blockquote><div>We're all leaving</div><div>even the ones who stay behind</div><div>We're all leaving in our own time</div></blockquote><div></div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BcwW57Ei7y4/TXtqpXrh2kI/AAAAAAAAAIs/aeFpZFrhwiQ/s1600/P1010195.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BcwW57Ei7y4/TXtqpXrh2kI/AAAAAAAAAIs/aeFpZFrhwiQ/s400/P1010195.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583173422019631682" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div>lyrics: Karine Polwart, photo: me</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-79796783029231071782010-09-26T15:59:00.000+01:002010-09-26T16:00:50.125+01:00You are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 14px; "><p><span class="head1" style="font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(65, 89, 65); ">On Work</span><br /><i> Kahlil Gibran</i></p>You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.<br />For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons,<br />and to step out of life's procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.<br /><br />When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.<br />Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?<br /><br />Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune.<br />But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,<br />And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,<br />And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret.<br /><br />But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written.<br /><br />You have been told also that life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.<br />And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,<br />And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,<br />And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,<br />And all work is empty save when there is love;<br />And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God.<br /><br />And what is it to work with love?<br />It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart,<br />even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.<br />It is to build a house with affection,<br />even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.<br />It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy,<br />even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.<br />It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,<br />And to know that all the blessed dead<br />are standing about you and watching.<br /><br />Often have I heard you say, as if speaking in sleep, "He who works in marble, and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone, is nobler than he who ploughs the soil.<br />And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet."<br />But I say, not in sleep but in the overwakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;<br />And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.<br /><br />Work is love made visible.<br />And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.<br />For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger.<br />And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine.<br />And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-36056117250974776922010-03-07T16:43:00.002+00:002010-03-07T18:28:58.673+00:00No-one knows where the night is going...One by one, the guests arrive<div>The guests are coming through</div><div>The broken-hearted many</div><div>The open-hearted few</div><div><br /><div>And those who dance, begin to dance</div><div>Those who weep begin</div><div>And "Welcome, welcome" cries a voice</div><div>"Let all my guests come in".</div><div><br /></div><div>- Leonard Cohen, Let The Guests Come In</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-58111202775177109712010-02-14T18:30:00.001+00:002010-02-14T18:31:44.391+00:00.Lord, how glad we are that we don't hold you,<div>but that you hold us.</div><div><br /></div><div>- traditional prayer from Haiti</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-72828198499091494772009-12-19T13:35:00.001+00:002009-12-19T13:37:53.184+00:00I miss 'that' place.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; "><b>Largeman:</b> You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone.<br /><b>Sam</b><b>:</b> I still feel at home in my house.<br /><b>Largeman:</b> You'll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it's gone. You feel like you can never get it back. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. Maybe it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I don't know, but I miss the idea of it, you know. <b><i>Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place. </i></b></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-4340688405437994472009-12-11T21:08:00.002+00:002009-12-11T21:11:54.615+00:00No-one knows true, not even you.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SyK1ZHrRvjI/AAAAAAAAAHM/H6q1LG5EQH0/s1600-h/boetti+map+of+the+world.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 218px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SyK1ZHrRvjI/AAAAAAAAAHM/H6q1LG5EQH0/s400/boetti+map+of+the+world.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414089145214680626" /></a><br />Boetti's embroidered Map of the World (part of a series embroidered by Afghan and Pakistani artisans). [click for larger image]<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-48142510762627352542009-09-27T18:47:00.004+01:002009-09-27T19:00:27.035+01:00Oh where are you going and can I come with you?<div>Oh where are you going<div>and can I come with you,</div><div>and what is your method</div><div>for keeping alive:</div><div>no pack or possessions,</div><div>no clothing or shelter,</div><div>no food to sustain you -</div><div>how can you survive?</div><div><br /></div><div>- John Bell, in "Heaven Shall Not Wait" music book</div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3124/3167293194_c6b0be85bc.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 333px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3124/3167293194_c6b0be85bc.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>http://www.flickr.com/photos/24537594@N04/3167293194/Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-78367613484764200602009-08-07T21:16:00.004+01:002009-08-07T21:17:56.295+01:00The heart asks pleasure first...and then...I didn't know this was a poem. A very sad poem.<div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Times;font-size:medium;"><table width="400" align="Center"><tbody><tr><td><blockquote><pre>The heart asks pleasure first, </pre><pre>And then, excuse from pain; </pre><pre>And then, those little anodynes </pre><pre>That deaden suffering; </pre><pre><br /></pre><pre>And then, to go to sleep; </pre><pre>And then, if it should be </pre><pre>The will of its Inquisitor, </pre><pre>The liberty to die. </pre></blockquote></td></tr><tr><td align="center"><h4><pre>Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) P.1890</pre></h4></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-64613245431135288392009-04-10T12:46:00.003+01:002009-08-07T21:26:35.154+01:00me and you<div><blockquote>You can do better than me,<br />but I can't do better than you.</blockquote><span style="font-style: italic; ">- Death Cab for Cutie</span></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SnyNwGXuZjI/AAAAAAAAAGs/TU_wUHT2ubg/s1600-h/iona+wellies2.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px; " src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SnyNwGXuZjI/AAAAAAAAAGs/TU_wUHT2ubg/s320/iona+wellies2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367320713402148402" /><br /></a><div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bannini/208408901/"></a></span></span></div><div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bannini/208408901/" style="text-decoration: none;">http://www.flickr.com/photos/bannini/208408901/</a></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-49411343521757822942009-04-08T16:09:00.002+01:002009-04-08T16:11:54.517+01:00When Earth's last picture is painted...<p> When Earth's last picture is painted<br />And the tubes are twisted and dried<br />When the oldest colors have faded<br />And the youngest critic has died<br />We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it<br />Lie down for an aeon or two<br />'Till the Master of all good workmen<br />Shall put us to work anew</p><p> And those that were good shall be happy<br />They'll sit in a golden chair<br />They'll splash at a ten league canvas<br />With brushes of comet's hair<br />They'll find real saints to draw from<br />Magdalene, Peter, and Paul<br />They'll work for an age at a sitting<br />And never be tired at all.</p><p> And only the Master shall praise us.<br />And only the Master shall blame.<br />And no one will work for the money.<br />No one will work for the fame.<br />But each for the joy of the working,<br />And each, in his separate star,<br />Will draw the thing as he sees it.<br />For the God of things as they are!</p> - Rudyard KiplingUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-49800583718123523292009-01-14T16:14:00.002+00:002009-01-14T16:27:56.576+00:00So I took to whisky so I could recall The taste of his mouth on my mouth, that’s all.Karine Polwart's The Sun's Coming Over The Hill. <br /><br />I've been listening to this non stop for the past few weeks. She's my favourite singer, but I hadn't got this (her first solo) album, Faultlines. The lyric's for this song are just out of this world. I listen to them over and over and every time I just think it's about the saddest song ever.<br /><br />Two different live versions of the song [the second just shows how great a live performer she is]:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4kYE1JD-OoY&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4kYE1JD-OoY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/It689k1Ww80&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/It689k1Ww80&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><a href="http://www.karinepolwart.com/music/faultlines/04_thesuns.html">Lyrics</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-22276997768675841822008-12-29T11:28:00.004+00:002008-12-29T11:46:59.623+00:00Now we deal with those for whom life is but a carnal tomb, in which the darkness holds no power and neither does the final hour.poet Seamus Heaney:<br /><br />History says, Don't hope<br />On this side of the grave,<br /><br />But then, once in a lifetime<br />The longed-for tidal wave<br />Of justice can rise up<br /><br />And hope and history rhyme,<br />So hope for a great sea-change<br />On the far side of revenge.<br /><br />Believe that a farther shore<br /><br />Is reachable from here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-10742192289629364272008-12-26T17:41:00.003+00:002008-12-26T17:46:30.425+00:00maybe next year<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yE3dLzIYKs8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yE3dLzIYKs8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I've never known the story behind it before.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0rEhOnd8S-8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0rEhOnd8S-8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-79217967975883032502008-11-03T15:51:00.001+00:002008-11-03T15:52:41.750+00:00A Holy City discussion thought...lower standards and aspire to principals.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-4196682987990216182008-09-11T23:59:00.002+01:002008-09-12T00:02:18.714+01:00me and you<blockquote>I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.<br /></blockquote>- Roy Croft<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SMmjR6AVdcI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/2__BfzElhRw/s1600-h/DSCF0933.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SMmjR6AVdcI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/2__BfzElhRw/s320/DSCF0933.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244902769073419714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><blockquote></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-89731755277403658302008-09-03T15:08:00.004+01:002008-09-03T15:12:49.303+01:00My favourite church ever...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SL6a5ZQoePI/AAAAAAAAADs/BRCbTXEe4no/s1600-h/DSC00352.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SL6a5ZQoePI/AAAAAAAAADs/BRCbTXEe4no/s320/DSC00352.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241797327129704690" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SL6ar6_YjWI/AAAAAAAAADk/ij31Fxl1eYU/s1600-h/DSC00354.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SL6ar6_YjWI/AAAAAAAAADk/ij31Fxl1eYU/s320/DSC00354.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241797095665995106" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SL6bB6XTeoI/AAAAAAAAAD0/g3X7d7oGibE/s1600-h/DSC00355.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SL6bB6XTeoI/AAAAAAAAAD0/g3X7d7oGibE/s320/DSC00355.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241797473455012482" /></a><br /><br />The word of God.<br />The works of God.<br />What else do we need?<br />The people to praise God.<br />C'est ca.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-58141706287733379982008-07-16T19:08:00.002+01:002008-07-16T19:11:58.608+01:00faith vs. humanity vs. immortality<blockquote>'There is nothing more terrible than that you lose your faith.'<br />'Yes there is,' I said. 'You can lose your humanity. That is far more terrible.'<br />'Fine words, Gideon,' my father said, 'but they mean nothing. You go to America, and that is what they will tell you there. It won't help you when you have to confront your own immortality.'</blockquote><br /><br />- Passage from James Robertson's 'The Testament of Gideon Mack'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-35554468292024494682008-07-12T11:13:00.002+01:002008-07-12T11:14:32.350+01:00Happiness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SHiD0CasszI/AAAAAAAAADA/UwLk6oyWWv4/s1600-h/herecomesthesun.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SHiD0CasszI/AAAAAAAAADA/UwLk6oyWWv4/s320/herecomesthesun.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222068697961378610" /></a><br /><br />From Postsecret this week.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-40692124460756144182008-07-07T12:13:00.003+01:002008-07-07T12:23:08.779+01:00Poetry and History<blockquote>The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose... The true difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular.</blockquote><br /><br />- Aristotle in "Poetics"<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SHH8U8QipUI/AAAAAAAAACs/vBW3bnHwNlM/s1600-h/inbetween.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SHH8U8QipUI/AAAAAAAAACs/vBW3bnHwNlM/s320/inbetween.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220230879802205506" /></a><br /><br /><br />[photo from flickr]Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-64958574260908062192008-04-17T18:00:00.002+01:002008-04-17T18:03:37.893+01:00blank<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SAeC2d2z8-I/AAAAAAAAACk/u-L6aXpKPXo/s1600-h/tape.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SAeC2d2z8-I/AAAAAAAAACk/u-L6aXpKPXo/s320/tape.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190260967806858210" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-86815566582627976692008-04-16T16:05:00.002+01:002008-04-16T17:15:44.763+01:00sad/happy - delete as appropriate<blockquote>No-one else can really know how sad or happy you are.</blockquote><br /><br />- Proverbs 14.10Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-9566319748064051272008-04-14T10:14:00.003+01:002008-04-14T10:18:54.274+01:00be wary of...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SAMhKN2z89I/AAAAAAAAACc/kVCRft2wlfA/s1600-h/Ducks.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SAMhKN2z89I/AAAAAAAAACc/kVCRft2wlfA/s320/Ducks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189027655062909906" /></a><br /><br /><blockquote>'People who claim they are evil are usually no worse than the rest of us.' He sighed. 'It's people who claim that they're good, or anyway better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of.</blockquote><br /><br />-from Gregory McGuire's 'Wicked'<br /><br /><br /><br />[photo taken by me somewhere in northern Scotland in 2003]Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-9422209296596331792008-04-12T13:51:00.001+01:002008-04-12T13:54:13.828+01:00knowledge<blockquote>"To know everything is to forgive everything."</blockquote><br /><br />- Gautama<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SACwySGrCuI/AAAAAAAAACU/R5gXoeFnxxo/s1600-h/fineral.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/SACwySGrCuI/AAAAAAAAACU/R5gXoeFnxxo/s320/fineral.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188341148630584034" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-6469826345989880202008-04-10T11:29:00.005+01:002008-04-10T11:54:59.303+01:00the function of man is to live<blockquote>"I would rather be ashes than dust!<br />I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it be stifled by dry rot.<br />I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.<br />The function of man is to live, not to exist.<br />I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.<br />I shall use my time." </blockquote><br /><br />-Jack LondonUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2950628745642978707.post-89691048380699260182008-04-08T16:15:00.003+01:002008-04-08T16:20:27.773+01:00there's no-one left to tell your troubles to<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/R_uM34plvgI/AAAAAAAAACM/fitBgq-IqOY/s1600-h/DSC00075.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_27LTIPbO1Qc/R_uM34plvgI/AAAAAAAAACM/fitBgq-IqOY/s320/DSC00075.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186894287574777346" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://ia310131.us.archive.org/2/items/weepies_2004-09-18_live_in_ohio.shnf/weepies_2004-09-18_live_in_ohio_37_comfort_vbr.mp3">Deb Talan: Comfort</a><br /><br /><br /><br />[photo taken by me sometime last year in my bedroom]Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0