tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59593742024-03-18T23:07:48.694-05:00RM<b>Thoughtful Ponderings From a Few Seeking Souls</b>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.comBlogger237125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-2350024597589155352008-05-02T09:32:00.000-05:002008-05-02T09:34:30.575-05:00From the Desk of Glinda<br /><br />Tell them it was a storm that dropped you here on the other side of the rainbow in this land of yellow brick roads and witches to the north, the south, and the west. There used to be one from the east, until your house fell upon her head. Oh, you shouldn’t be surprised those ruby red shoes fit your feet so well. Besides, she can't use them now. She’s dead. Go ahead little girl, skip down the yellow brick road to find the witch of the west. Kill her too; then, take her broom. Of course, it belongs to you. But if you even dare think about adding my wand to your collection, I’ll kill you.<br /><br />P.S.— your little dog, too.-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-28274394496828877982008-04-21T08:04:00.002-05:002008-04-21T08:12:49.447-05:00I met a man that I have known and liked for some time. He told me that Obama was the anti-christ. I laughed and he didn't. 'now what?' I thought... "Have you read any good books lately?" I asked. <br /><br />"Yes! You have got to read 'World War Z'. It is a great book about the attack of the zombies."<br /><br />"Ok," I said.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#000099;">80. How come it that a cripple does not offend us, but that a fool does? Because a cripple recognises that we walk straight, whereas a fool declares that it is we who are silly; if it were not so, we should feel pity and not anger</span>. -Pascal. Pensées, section II.</span><br /><br />So many of us are crippled fools. When do you suppose that 'great correction' will be here?-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-2893877503097720822008-02-12T12:21:00.000-06:002008-02-12T12:23:01.505-06:00Rubbing Alcohol.<br /><br />Poetry.<br /><br />Cognition Articles.<br /><br />Classical CDs.<br /><br />Moleskin Journal.<br /><br />Coffee - luke warm in handmade cup.<br /><br />These are the things I see before me.-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-24027368629773491842007-10-15T15:11:00.000-05:002007-10-15T15:13:40.258-05:00<b>A is for Ablutophobia</b><br /><br />In a painting class last week, I suddenly found myself creating an alphabet page for phobias. It startled me, as if I had been thinking about it for the past eight years without knowing.emily oi!http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174247639136095662noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-49018425849160510372007-08-01T18:57:00.000-05:002007-08-01T18:58:05.394-05:00<em>Without God, we cannot. Without us, God will not</em>. -Agustine-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-75870363488540079962007-06-08T08:36:00.000-05:002007-06-08T08:44:48.499-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhla1Bs9DethYR5DwGSDOH0pkugSDRiGoPgVbLKJGbqkObHpqhcCG5uPbXNZLl67pGuNXVwF1-Shz0w-MXbzhl3Li3QszOwmkgPoW9MC6ou4rSRhbarax8ka25AJ8Y5vdm3xYJX/s1600-h/thelaptop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073686943689729154" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhla1Bs9DethYR5DwGSDOH0pkugSDRiGoPgVbLKJGbqkObHpqhcCG5uPbXNZLl67pGuNXVwF1-Shz0w-MXbzhl3Li3QszOwmkgPoW9MC6ou4rSRhbarax8ka25AJ8Y5vdm3xYJX/s320/thelaptop.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Greg Martens is a remarkable man. In regards to his genius, I will not lean on my own understanding but simply be grateful for having encountered him and drink up any blessings that might flow from him in my direction. Greg made the drawing you see here. Perhaps he will see it and tell us something about it. Greg's posts are always a pleasure to read. As far as the likeness in each of the drawings, I believe he captured the psychological truth of each of us. Dare I say that I immediately recognized the two that were not me. Greg hit the mark with them profoundly well. It took me some time to accept the fact that he hit it with me as well. "Know Thy Self" as the highest aim of education needs to come with the additional suggestion: "and learn to live with it." I am learning. Thank you Greg.</div>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-10431669511412699432007-06-04T16:44:00.000-05:002007-06-04T16:50:55.117-05:00The compact writing of Saki (H. H. Munro 1870 - 1916) is a treat after so much shallow cartoon living that one is exposed to on a daily basis when one is involved with slowly developing children. <br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#000099;">The elder of the two had the appearance and manner of a diplomat; in point of fact he was the well-connected foster-brother of a wine business. The other was certainly a journalist. Neither man was talkative and each was grateful to the other for not being talkative. That is why from time to time they talked.</span> </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;color:#000099;">"In the first place I may say that the disappearance of Mrs. Umberleigh was not regarded by the family entirely as a bereavement. My uncle, Edward Umberleigh, was not by any means a weak-kneed individual, in fact in the world of politics he had to be reckoned with more or less as a strong man, but he was unmistakably dominated by Crispina; indeed I never met any human being who was not frozen into subjection when brought into prolonged contact with her. Some people are born to command; Crispina Mrs. Umberleigh was born to legislate, codify, administrate, censor, license, ban, execute, and sit in judgement generally. If she was not born with that destiny she adopted it at an early age. From the kitchen regions upwards every one in the household came under her despotic sway and stayed there with the submissiveness of molluscs involved in a glacial epoch. As a nephew on a footing of only occasional visits she affected me merely as an epidemic, disagreeable while it lasted, but without any permanent effect; but her own sons and daughters stood in mortal awe of her; their studies, friendships, diet, amusements, religious observances, and way of doing their hair were all regulated and ordained according to the august lady's will and pleasure."</span>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-20962576906619776922007-05-31T09:25:00.000-05:002007-05-31T09:29:43.307-05:00Sometimes a song just hits the spot - and sometimes it doesn't.<br /><br /><span style="color:#990000;">Mean Old Man - by James Taylor</span><br /><span style="color:#990000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#990000;">On my own How could I have known? Imagine my surprise Just a fool From a tree full of fools Who cant believe his eyes Imagine my surprise I was a mean old man I was an ornery cuss I was a dismal dan I made an awful fuss Ever since my life began Man, it was ever thus I was a nasty tyke who was hard to like I had to misbehave I did things in reverse Refused to wash or shaveI was horrid to my nurse I got back what I gave Which only made me worse I had to have my way Which was bleak and gray, oh dear Living in here One hundred years of rain Such a drag This riches to rags With just myself to blame A dirty low-down shame</span><br /><span style="color:#990000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#330099;">Other lyrics by other artists have other affects - what affects you?</span>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-38142412304339691732007-05-31T07:41:00.000-05:002007-05-31T07:46:19.418-05:00When this site was first initiated in the Fall of 2002, I was blessed with the insightful contribution of several genius children. I would like to return to an early entry and ponder where I have been so that I might better understand where I am going.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#333399;">Sunday, October 27, 2002</span></strong><a name="83596016"><span style="color:#333399;"> </span></a><br /><span style="color:#330099;">1) The law of interest dictates that we do what we want to do and learn what we want to learn: it is a choice. The job of a teacher is to present information in a way that promotes interest and therefore makes it more likely to be learned. The job of a student is to make an effort to absorb this information and not reject it based on the qualifier that it's information. There is a borderline between the jobs of the student and the teacher: what if the student refuses to learn? if the teacher refuses to teach? The teacher's job is not only to provide information but also to present it... a thespian indeed.</span><br /><span style="color:#330099;">2) The law of diminishing returns dictates that if interest does not serve to keep a student engaged, the teacher must become more and more engaging. This can be avoided by getting everyone engaged in the first place, and the subject matter addressed will become more interesting as it is more deeply investigated. Many are content to be comfortable; the teacher must then run at them several times with an increasingly pointier weapon. Assumptions contains ass. Yo b****.</span><br /><span style="color:#330099;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Thank you EZL.</span>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-34011947879855349452007-05-30T11:40:00.000-05:002007-05-30T11:41:28.669-05:00The following was sent to me by a friend who knows me well and was perhaps hinting that the content reflects my life - sigh<br /><br />Russell Edson<br /><br />A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face,<br />tilting it to his mouth. It's historical, he thinks.<br />He scratches his head: another historical event. He<br />really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of<br />history this morning.<br /><br /><br />Oh my, now he's buttering toast, another piece<br />of history is being made.<br /><br /><br />He wonders why it should have fallen on him to<br />be so historical. Others probably just don't have it,<br />he thinks, it is, after all, a talent.<br /><br /><br />He thinks one of his shoelaces needs tying. Oh<br />well, another important historical event is about to<br />take place. He just can't help it. Perhaps he's taking<br />up too large an area of history? But he has to live,<br />hasn't he? Toast needs buttering and he can't go<br />around with one of his shoelaces needing to be tied,<br />can he?<br /><br />Certainly it's true, when the 20th century gets<br />written in full it will be mainly about him. That's<br />the way the cookie crumbles--ah, there's a phrase<br />that'll be quoted for centuries to come.<br />Self-conscious? A little; how can one help it<br />with all those yet-to-be-born eyes of the future<br />watching him?<br /><br />Uh oh, he feels another historical event coming. . .<br />Ah, there it is, a cup of coffee approaching his<br />face at the end of his arm. If only they could catch<br />it on film, how much it would mean to the future.<br /><br /><br /><br />Oops, spilled it all over his lap. One of those<br />historical accidents that will influence the next<br />thousand years; unpredictable, and really rather<br />uncomfortable . . . But history is never easy,<br />he thinks. . .-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-58414505143626799912007-05-30T11:31:00.000-05:002007-05-30T11:39:28.245-05:00A letter from the past to shine light on the future - with this thought to preface:<br /><br />Recollection is a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">discarded</span> garment, which beautiful as it may be, does not fit, for we have outgrown it. Repetition is an imperishable garment, which fits snugly and comfortably, neither too tight nor too loose. Hope is a charming maiden but slips through the fingers, recollection is a beautiful old woman but of no use at the instant, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">repetition is</span> a beloved wife of whom on never tires. Youth hopes and youth recollects, but it requires courage to will repetition. If you only hope, you are cowardly; if you only recollect, you are voluptuary; if you will repetition, you are mature - the more expressly you know ho to make <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">your</span> purpose clear, the deeper is your maturity.<br /><br />On to the letter:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#6666cc;">So here are three particular questions - questions that I ask myself often:<br /><br />How it began: The emotion of: guilt, anger, abandonment, alone/lonely, unloved,-worthlessness…-<br /><br /> It wasn’t the kind of thing where I planned ahead of time on my calendar. It would suddenly just happen. I felt like I had no control over how many times a day I would cut. It all began, I suppose, when I fell into depression and lost interest in what I had loved to do. I would stay in my room all afternoon. Most of the time I did not even eat at the table I took my food and ate in my room. As time went by, I felt more alone than ever. I felt abandoned and left behind. Not having things to occupy my time, (note: when I did I was never stressed out. It was fun. So it wasn’t like I was overworking myself.), made me think of my pass. Something I had tried to overlook during elementary. How I envied, and still do, people who would talk with admiration of their father. I could never do that. I suppose, it was the guilt thinking,“ I made them argue! I was the reason why my mother was ever abused by my father! IT WAS ALL MY FALUT!” guilt- Probably the main reason why anyone cuts…THEN later, I would cut when more disputes arrived in the house, my brothers drinking issue for example, (affects all of us in the family and has hurt us all because we love him…)<br /><br /><br />How I began to let go: <br /><br /> I never took any counseling, group therapy, etc. However, being in a relationship with someone who has supported me, and made me feel loved, helped me overcome this battle with the knife. Feeling that I am not the person pushed aside, made me let go.. So now its been 11 months without cutting.<br /><br /> 3. How I am now: <br /><br /> Every now and then, I think of all that has happened that’s why I had said “I am addicted to tears” Remembering everything brings me down… so I cry. . . late at night. I am still in the process of overcoming everything. I want to feel complete ,COMPLETELY!. I’m putting myself together slowly.. and writing the letter to Graf was part of overcoming depression and cutting. I would never go back! Not after I’ve come so long without the knife. No, I don’t think of cutting anymore- Another step on letting go-…there’s so much ahead, I could never go back never!</span>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-21082794138222615062007-05-29T14:34:00.001-05:002007-05-29T15:00:20.509-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5RB_nT1oHmy-7unxkz60eqKRnZVXX4VCuCg6Xw-vTkJCwbpF1GxgmK8GbOdThzFZCVNWW9ZseebBJPHL3xbco9IjNP-rJnZDMMhOOkm48Z5BHeOZKOsolO6Qyz5yPdt5O1qY/s1600-h/a14.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070074216452931938" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ5RB_nT1oHmy-7unxkz60eqKRnZVXX4VCuCg6Xw-vTkJCwbpF1GxgmK8GbOdThzFZCVNWW9ZseebBJPHL3xbco9IjNP-rJnZDMMhOOkm48Z5BHeOZKOsolO6Qyz5yPdt5O1qY/s320/a14.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ogC640mvYkGbvlwg2t48lg9Ei36W5OKM0lkCxRbkLD0CNNxZRDD7Oh-J27XBX8obFKAg3n2_NqMWKRMcjHLREXXcjUJK6auOg9MAhhNllekVNYIRHc_ycn33vYbXPdITQXE5/s1600-h/a12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070073524963197266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ogC640mvYkGbvlwg2t48lg9Ei36W5OKM0lkCxRbkLD0CNNxZRDD7Oh-J27XBX8obFKAg3n2_NqMWKRMcjHLREXXcjUJK6auOg9MAhhNllekVNYIRHc_ycn33vYbXPdITQXE5/s320/a12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />What ever happened to her?<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClf3yoGV3cj0TmU6Bqnt9SJMNzhYDgkoG3-avMkzv-cJb4gdJdamnr1xYwmhaprX_ELcRSWwxm1msA_f2yx85HQ_rPo9ysIaeS4qtXWNSYUt5pzIMAh6yt_7x2SEnrsOS2sUm/s1600-h/a10.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070073451948753218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjClf3yoGV3cj0TmU6Bqnt9SJMNzhYDgkoG3-avMkzv-cJb4gdJdamnr1xYwmhaprX_ELcRSWwxm1msA_f2yx85HQ_rPo9ysIaeS4qtXWNSYUt5pzIMAh6yt_7x2SEnrsOS2sUm/s320/a10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>Stellar group here.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><br /> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070072004544774450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 243px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 289px" height="299" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3Wikyehee_lR833HRr-m94sm8ZmQtM1HIpbsZTxzLRqrliiMgRwOceHbLAY_zyPpiC5ZoZxaWLnkM0c5kxv4axh5kn64hWtIvDUwsfpDonkzxBhDxG13HJkxZsh7fRPSqwWn/s320/a8.jpg" width="251" border="0" />I actually have the darwing he was working on.<br /><br /><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNO_8G2mlq9C5iewApUQkhFTlsN4sVpSmao0xmcF5ubzFv4Q1QmENLFmmo7jWnyBoi0LaALLSC5IrTnCyM6E2OrMntJmpgYOVAeBTI2nG1jvi3WDkLuSdAxgbabMN7P12o9p4M/s1600-h/a7.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070071587932946706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNO_8G2mlq9C5iewApUQkhFTlsN4sVpSmao0xmcF5ubzFv4Q1QmENLFmmo7jWnyBoi0LaALLSC5IrTnCyM6E2OrMntJmpgYOVAeBTI2nG1jvi3WDkLuSdAxgbabMN7P12o9p4M/s320/a7.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZSTz5H5GutE3UDbxedZZRUaRfuh0Ht1kdCOuR2k_5kpunUxVNk_kcZN1RsIsoTvjD7ujQnEEjlu_ok_UOzB5ijdWD4nkGCJuFzEx4Vhu0cAwVWya07pYBlE3zuxXtYDBMbaxO/s1600-h/a2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070069663787597986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 350px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 222px" height="157" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZSTz5H5GutE3UDbxedZZRUaRfuh0Ht1kdCOuR2k_5kpunUxVNk_kcZN1RsIsoTvjD7ujQnEEjlu_ok_UOzB5ijdWD4nkGCJuFzEx4Vhu0cAwVWya07pYBlE3zuxXtYDBMbaxO/s320/a2.jpg" width="289" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyU07zbwb0OkDzYOJ2-kE-VNP3g03T182Xi21GCbo4s5n7IwRhyMXz8p4AADxlolGZZL_jfbj0S3zUvfzbYx3WPYU3ELDyOc8uMmeXEjrLnxU0y-BFDh5bMocUjQ6RAdgeEfg/s1600-h/a3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070069831291322546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 232px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 286px" height="308" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyU07zbwb0OkDzYOJ2-kE-VNP3g03T182Xi21GCbo4s5n7IwRhyMXz8p4AADxlolGZZL_jfbj0S3zUvfzbYx3WPYU3ELDyOc8uMmeXEjrLnxU0y-BFDh5bMocUjQ6RAdgeEfg/s320/a3.jpg" width="278" border="0" /></a> Nice hat.</div><div><br />She worked so so hard - so I send her a Harry Potter bow.<br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0zMAwZZGaatx9jP_KXxTaPliANP_p7JbXe52KUggXB55U2eoKSCA6TEvYPo7x6hiDoJ3qHmYhmeK9o9ZWjQEGAM_8DYW9ZB1i9cDN7BAWF0ZMe7pjAPFMQCKdOq4rs1xpg7M/s1600-h/a6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070071124076478722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0zMAwZZGaatx9jP_KXxTaPliANP_p7JbXe52KUggXB55U2eoKSCA6TEvYPo7x6hiDoJ3qHmYhmeK9o9ZWjQEGAM_8DYW9ZB1i9cDN7BAWF0ZMe7pjAPFMQCKdOq4rs1xpg7M/s320/a6.jpg" border="0" /></a> That image in the upper right corner is mine.<br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsGBtWiUfqqV1SEiT2ZjbQNjcbo1Gg7_HJKcLEThccwwrY49gk55zlUomabZiGoOoTtAHX4lZvqdKdhWb06orXRb-E07SVTvqrs8o9x4dISZD_wDFUoOO0YTshqjyJX9JW2Qe/s1600-h/a1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070069461924135058" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsGBtWiUfqqV1SEiT2ZjbQNjcbo1Gg7_HJKcLEThccwwrY49gk55zlUomabZiGoOoTtAHX4lZvqdKdhWb06orXRb-E07SVTvqrs8o9x4dISZD_wDFUoOO0YTshqjyJX9JW2Qe/s320/a1.jpg" border="0" /></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5070069895715832002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 135px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 249px" height="258" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2clUG06nIW8ANBi_cqpLd7ynxoTzA1Shja588JniUcHif2H9tt_DjKkGz8OVLnGeOVJSk75aHoEfsdz1t4UY914utVlx2o0XhZRejtBqu48pxz9kzboASpbtg58QZCk87haP/s320/a4.jpg" width="145" border="0" />Does prayer work - even if it is over a cookbook?</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-4573237742021680462007-05-29T09:10:00.001-05:002007-05-29T09:10:37.147-05:00The photo was by Ann-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-57723413478959906182007-05-29T09:05:00.000-05:002007-05-29T09:09:53.807-05:00<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwm0vaZAVM6taHyCBbo8f_pasD-Pg36wgakG78aS5V8zSyu6tQE_CLSM5KPgXVghnBX3I6tvE3Fzh8aa5ldQoQnQLV3pmKAzQEjyY-HrJgeaK0QgG9ap3Ki8lIR5BOy-Z7Kff/s1600-h/mom_and_son.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069983742966841458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwm0vaZAVM6taHyCBbo8f_pasD-Pg36wgakG78aS5V8zSyu6tQE_CLSM5KPgXVghnBX3I6tvE3Fzh8aa5ldQoQnQLV3pmKAzQEjyY-HrJgeaK0QgG9ap3Ki8lIR5BOy-Z7Kff/s320/mom_and_son.jpg" border="0" /></a> Mother and son at a small diner with chaos everywhere.</div><div align="center">Can you tell by the expressions?</div><div align="center"><br />NPQ - N'importe Quoi<br /></div><div align="center"></div>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-243696838346796612007-05-20T13:32:00.000-05:002007-05-20T13:43:39.032-05:00I've returned to this place after a long absence, indeed.<br /><br />I saw it in need of visual revivification, so I provided for it.<br /><br />I just now managed to log in to blogger (I had forgotten even my user name) and transfer everything to my google account.<br /><br />A return to blogging?<br /><br />Perhaps.danhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01236633299807980360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-21271758694867602852007-05-18T21:20:00.000-05:002007-05-18T21:22:54.582-05:00notes from underground by that romantic crazy-man:<br /><br />I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. Ibelieve my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about mydisease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctorfor it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine,anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I amsuperstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That youprobably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, Ican't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by myspite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by notconsulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am onlyinjuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it isfrom spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse!<br /><br />I think I am going to memorize this and use it as a dramatic method for getting attention at dinner parties.<br /><br />my poor wife-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-73514164777494279442007-05-18T21:11:00.000-05:002007-05-18T21:18:08.859-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4-TPR11VxcRMpTiDDbIG5SF4_oItm3EcBd9bQBf-XUVKv3cXY-mvhRsQrtAOhkfnogkwRgVjMhxBsVNNLs77zfyYSNrSh__lXc6gEFXjwIbycv-Uac040jXlaJAsYezvwV_g/s1600-h/firestarter_tiff.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066089496119558242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 402px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 328px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="240" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4-TPR11VxcRMpTiDDbIG5SF4_oItm3EcBd9bQBf-XUVKv3cXY-mvhRsQrtAOhkfnogkwRgVjMhxBsVNNLs77zfyYSNrSh__lXc6gEFXjwIbycv-Uac040jXlaJAsYezvwV_g/s320/firestarter_tiff.jpg" width="371" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXNUnkOkYypICayyz-QUDOT4S9c2ywmobniK35uNexIQ3pagbXNqet4trhMX-ZgRx2UnWrShUF5jlSfiri78m2BJ_6YzlpQ2AmNIkrfP3RMu7rRZtEuTDEpIJEfI2krK-fQKm/s1600-h/edgeofhurricane_tiff.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066089375860473938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="359" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXNUnkOkYypICayyz-QUDOT4S9c2ywmobniK35uNexIQ3pagbXNqet4trhMX-ZgRx2UnWrShUF5jlSfiri78m2BJ_6YzlpQ2AmNIkrfP3RMu7rRZtEuTDEpIJEfI2krK-fQKm/s320/edgeofhurricane_tiff.jpg" width="397" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHsydiKRuEDNtjT5gYUDru_sMev50eKhoYVOTFw3_3Tv2H3W-ZnlffnUGzBkQMsKA0k6Na8_M1ysM2sq7E9ovnAAvVZ2vQP6sHCBhpx-6tMpirFE5fh1TOzckwWEk1tX8Cr-0/s1600-h/trees.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066089272781258818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="398" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikHsydiKRuEDNtjT5gYUDru_sMev50eKhoYVOTFw3_3Tv2H3W-ZnlffnUGzBkQMsKA0k6Na8_M1ysM2sq7E9ovnAAvVZ2vQP6sHCBhpx-6tMpirFE5fh1TOzckwWEk1tX8Cr-0/s320/trees.jpg" width="284" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHa9oUGLTHxY3I1vHsAzrSONhaU_FeGWJAYAH-Jtx1k8eu7JDzmonMSxo7Cu1zCgKRM8UjCbNO9pSMFR6EdH-X64O6-vdDutN_xIcGJAkp44fQWUru1PEfFNo-_3VO_YarjJLt/s1600-h/3d-amazing-butterfly-01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066089148227207218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHa9oUGLTHxY3I1vHsAzrSONhaU_FeGWJAYAH-Jtx1k8eu7JDzmonMSxo7Cu1zCgKRM8UjCbNO9pSMFR6EdH-X64O6-vdDutN_xIcGJAkp44fQWUru1PEfFNo-_3VO_YarjJLt/s320/3d-amazing-butterfly-01.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0zDSUCwWvRa-TRnFmPyR0gNEtlta9UKDcmYKIE5X8kk2nupCFJ7mOzOX1Ebrlgq2RegFu-RNW7LdB6fjxpPVHEk_GB9ZeJ-GznYZTKzB8FfAyWV97AKZP6RjJ6gPA38deQJn/s1600-h/Amazing.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066088993608384546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 382px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 279px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="352" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0zDSUCwWvRa-TRnFmPyR0gNEtlta9UKDcmYKIE5X8kk2nupCFJ7mOzOX1Ebrlgq2RegFu-RNW7LdB6fjxpPVHEk_GB9ZeJ-GznYZTKzB8FfAyWV97AKZP6RjJ6gPA38deQJn/s320/Amazing.jpg" width="394" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>images from a recent trip to the net -these can be found when googling images of "amazing photos" - for those who are insistent upon credit being given to where credit is due - I beg forgiveness for my laziness but direct you to see the source for yourself - along with so many others that are stunning.</div></div></div></div></div>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-32456720100490269862007-03-29T21:34:00.000-05:002007-03-29T21:36:43.721-05:00Democracy: two wolves sitting down with a lamb and discussing what to have for dinner.<br /><br />Liberty: a well-armed lamb contesting the vote. <br /><br />-B. Franklin-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-77794415698463775252007-03-24T15:11:00.000-05:002007-03-24T15:15:31.837-05:00This is a difficult subject for me right now.<br /><br />I have deep ties with emily joy, but I see her so infrequently that it is difficult to maintain a really close friendship. Part of that is my fault. I don’t make enough of an effort, but there’s so much else to do and so much else that needs to be done.<br /><br />I have friends at school. My roommate makes fun of me for being a social butterfly, which never occurred to me before. In high school, I didn’t have that many friends, but a little effort exerted in college resulted in many more friends than I can properly deal with. I don’t have a best friend at school, I have a conglomerate of people I couldn’t function without. Most of them are sophomores, which will eventually leave me with the conundrum of what to do when they’re gone.<br /><br />My default is no longer Milwaukee.<br />I suppose this is my default now. Second Burton lounge with Leah, James, and Erika watching Now & Then.<br /><img src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a266/allielittlelegs/allieleah.jpg" />Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09385392321868020671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-1169003674857755682007-01-16T21:08:00.000-06:002007-01-16T21:14:34.873-06:00well, before i begin my first entry in probably a really long time, i'll respond to g's questions. 1) my best friend is jessica. 2) she is my best friend because she's always been there for me and vice versa. she listens well and she makes me feel comfortable and safe. 3)i kind of already answered that in two. 4) i honestly don't know how to respond to that. but i will say that after new years, i had a new sense of self-confidence. i have never had self-confidence. it feels great not to be weighed down with self-loathing thoughts. and with that, i end with a photo and a promise to mail a cd on saturday.<br><br><img src="http://i15.photobucket.com/albums/a381/childishfits/coolpix/0089.jpg"><br><br>peace to all.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-1168194448828119832007-01-07T12:24:00.000-06:002007-01-07T12:27:28.830-06:00Who is your best friend?<br /><br />What do they do for you?<br /><br />What do you do for them?<br /><br />What is your default?<br /><br />My default seems to be this:<br /><br />My single most important responsibility to anyone is to be right with God - as far as it depends on me. Discernment is required in all circumstances and the suspension of judgment at almost all costs. The closer I get to anyone, the more messed up I find them to be - this is said with the humble acknowledgement that I am the most messed up of all.<br /><br />Happy New Year and joy and peace to you.-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-1162309108575971312006-10-31T09:34:00.000-06:002006-10-31T09:38:28.606-06:00Some Thinking can cause Sinking.<br /><br /><a href="http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-6077326441742307086&q=funny&hl=en">http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-6077326441742307086&q=funny&hl=en</a>-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-1159195482935878192006-09-25T09:43:00.000-05:002006-09-25T09:44:43.006-05:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4027/104/1600/gib%20hike.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4027/104/320/gib%20hike.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Fall hikes = goodness - photo by me-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-1159195387533031422006-09-25T09:42:00.000-05:002006-09-25T09:43:07.563-05:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4027/104/1600/fogbench.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4027/104/320/fogbench.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />photo by AMG?-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5959374.post-1159193959933495292006-09-25T09:12:00.000-05:002006-09-25T09:27:48.026-05:00<strong>A Simple Little Thing<br /></strong><br />She stood in a beaten yellow rainslicker, on the corner of 68th and Milwaukee Street, waving. Legions of cars were wafting through, slowing at the stop sign, resting to a hault, checking for the right of way, and passing across the five- point intersection; and all the while, she kept waving. It was four months into the major highway reconstruction, all of us were frantic to find alternate routes and it was here, as we all happened upon this tributary of downtown traffic, that we came upon her. At first we all thought she was developmentally disabled. Or stupid. Or simple. Because all she did was wave.<br /><br />She waved. She waved at everyone, constantly. She was ummistakeably an olde-fashioned crossing guard, complete with little red handheld hexagoned stop sign. She was supposed to, we knew, be commissioned to simply direct traffic around onslaughts of little people's steps and dropped homework and laughing, traipsing tiny gangs on their way to school. Sure, she could wave a time or two to an oncoming or particularly patient fleet of cars. That wouldn't be so out of the ordinary. That would be appropriate. She could give a nod and wink even to the passing motorists at the knowingness of "adults vs children's" sense of timing and pace. But to wave so damned incessantly like this? All the time?"<br /><br />It made most of us nervous, to tell you the truth. Really. I mean, really. To stand around even when there were absolutely no kids in sight and still wave?!? This really was almost too much. She had to be stunted. They would have to find out that she was too irresponsible, or too inept, or too simple to deal with potentially a real traffic problem..and they would have to take her off the route, into a home where she could be monitered and given the correct drugs and attention to this kind of condition, thing...but. Still. Still, she stood there, day after day, in every weather, on the corner, kids or no, waving. AND SMILING. Like she knew what she was doing. Like she knew she was just waving to cars, for no good reason for god's sake. Smiling and waving. It drove us nuts.<br /><br />You'd think the city would have noticed, but even if they did...they didn't take her away. It just lasted and lasted. All through the months, as we found our angry, longer, twistier, more inconvient commute-paths, every day, every rush hour, to every weather report, there she was. Smiling and waving and happily escorting the occasional child across the street. There she was, mostly just waving. And then, the thing happened. It happened and it and we changed.<br /><br />She waved, and out of the blue, as a whim, somebody waved back. One car. One loping, on their way through, never mind who car. Some, onebody waved back. She acted like she expected it all along. She waved a little more fiercefully back. She smiled, right into the car. And then she turned, and waved to the other corner.<br /><br />One car must have seen what the first car did, they must have seen the initial wave from the car, and the rapid little influx of wave back by the crossing-guard, and her tiny little lift of a smile she regifted back. And it must have been an enticement because the second car, wanting that smile and little special wave, also gave a wave as they went through. And the rest was dominos, a landslide, history. 68th and Milwaukee Street started waving their guts out.<br /><br />Oncoming cars, idling cars, turning cars, merging cars, if there was traffic nearing the area, hands were out, smiles were anticipated, noses of passengers were tilted toward the window closest to her, the same tawdry rainslickered woman who'd only weeks before had been the Parriah, the Idiot, the Toad. And we, all of us, vied for her attention. And we waved, Oh, how we waved. We waved at her, waiting for her to turn and acknowledge us, to get our portion of her little palm a flutter. We waved, staring at other cars, waiting to get her attention, and while we waited, we figured, it wouldn't hurt to wave at each other. So we did. We waved across meridians, at oncoming traffic, hoping to telecast our smiles, our goodwill, our version of what she gave us, a do-good morning thing that was way better than any other routine we'd had for years.<br /><br />We waved in anticipation, hoping to get to the intersection early, while it was busy, so different than a month ago when everyone timed their commute to find the least traffic possible; now we got there 'early' just to have a little more time...to wave.<br /><br />We waved and waved. We all waited for that moment in the morning commute, when we could all feel good about ourselves, and believe that we belonged, and that life was right, and love could indeed be had by all.<br /><br />Most of the time the feeling only lasted until the Marquette interchange, when busses, and trucks and hundreds of cars who hadn't had a wave-moment, slid into our vision and peripheries and within moments our goodwill vanished. Our memories of the the woman were lost in fine tuning the radio traffic report, in contemplating the first order of business, in silently swearing at our purses and briefcases for losing our entrance id cards and coffee change, and of scheduled meetings and deadlines and mean-spirited politics of the day. We would lose it in minutes, most of us. We would not remember until morning, the next day, of our joy of the moment of being pure. But there she was, and is.<br /><br />Wisdom and peace. Waving to us. Waving from the streetcorners, crying out, "come! come to me! all you who are weary, and heavy laden, and i will give you rest". And verily, yea, while the freeway is being rerouted, and roads are repaved, today, we come. And we wave. And we know not her name, she in the beaten yellow rainslicker, looking for all the world to see, a simpleton. A simpleton, named Wisdom, and Peace.<br /><br />-written by M. Ageyev-ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14374592107353970619noreply@blogger.com1