tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43942266719035399782024-03-12T18:35:53.523-07:00The Incredible Thinking WomanSo Much To Know, See, Learn, Do, Be, Love, Think . . . . .Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-24236466535769013782010-09-10T10:53:00.000-07:002010-09-10T10:53:53.953-07:00What. The. Heck?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0I2XGW9SoYdHBDE6QaxXjR59zx-wsw_QG-OjSzQ93y2crmIa2k09RE582wTM_VxDrNwwKOJIBplQAK2I9EyVbWANBvy5StmP6drAyBHCDmva6khi04m3GHVXYzxaqFBWz7dkVg6nPvX8/s1600-h/mcqueen1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0I2XGW9SoYdHBDE6QaxXjR59zx-wsw_QG-OjSzQ93y2crmIa2k09RE582wTM_VxDrNwwKOJIBplQAK2I9EyVbWANBvy5StmP6drAyBHCDmva6khi04m3GHVXYzxaqFBWz7dkVg6nPvX8/s320/mcqueen1" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj59uwXJvLIJoSubNfaRME3SQhRCC-3Uou8eN1VJAYgWb7SbeR9qBoJ_IsV43wCCXexvv4iJHHh6pYuKtjSsNCiHFlgIAU5AJONGDggoO-xQ1blGodf-lQYb3T-z9rtSdFhyYg3-WbG7Nw/s1600-h/mcqueen2" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj59uwXJvLIJoSubNfaRME3SQhRCC-3Uou8eN1VJAYgWb7SbeR9qBoJ_IsV43wCCXexvv4iJHHh6pYuKtjSsNCiHFlgIAU5AJONGDggoO-xQ1blGodf-lQYb3T-z9rtSdFhyYg3-WbG7Nw/s320/mcqueen2" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-12396119227555249502010-01-13T05:45:00.000-08:002010-01-13T15:37:26.554-08:00Guitar Hero<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >This is my friend Chris. He's a guitar dealer and lead guitarist for Mother Hubbard, a band out of Concord, NH. My friends call him Rocker Dude. So do I. That's him on the left. Hot guy playing some cool licks on his Les Paul guitar.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6wejDi2kvzGV2366DshJbbDLDB4tgIm79b7st1VTbUdT3URmqdoH1lhrjQYwZql38XWMzRQmpltK2PHk8zTjBCqZAKcveEmky_Pa2WKtXJlbIbm__qZAJ5UhlexfdO5WwCk_ylMe-s8/s1600-h/8124_142010367988_141474662988_2670847_831891_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6wejDi2kvzGV2366DshJbbDLDB4tgIm79b7st1VTbUdT3URmqdoH1lhrjQYwZql38XWMzRQmpltK2PHk8zTjBCqZAKcveEmky_Pa2WKtXJlbIbm__qZAJ5UhlexfdO5WwCk_ylMe-s8/s320/8124_142010367988_141474662988_2670847_831891_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419170588637928306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">Back in November, Chris read an article in the Concord Monitor -- it was a story about Deanna Matthews and her family -- husband Richard, Kitana, Jessica, Dakotah -- and Deanna's brother Gerry. This is the beginning of the story by Ray Duckler in the Concord Monitor:</span><br /><span class="storybodytext"><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="storybodytext"> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">The old house in a working class Franklin neighborhood is electric today, with kids running and laughing and showing off their stuffed animals. </span></span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" class="storybodytext"><span style="font-size:85%;">It's not always this way, but there's little sign of the rare chromosomal disorder suffered by the two middle children, or the learning disability of the youngest child, or the autism displayed by the oldest child, or the stroke that disabled their mother, or any of the other diagnoses that plague the Matthews family. </span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" class="storybodytext"><span style="font-size:85%;">Jessica, 6, is proud of her pink backpack. Kitana, 9, loves playing with the family dog, Harley. Dakotah, the youngest at 5, has a smile he can't wipe away. Tyler, 15, isn't home from Franklin High yet. </span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" class="storybodytext"><span style="font-size:85%;">The rest of the household includes Richard Matthews, the quiet fat</span><span style="font-size:85%;">her of the three younger kids and Tyler's stepdad, and uncle Gerard Auger, the one truly healthy person here, a blessing when it comes to assisting a family with more problems than a MASH unit and no way to get around. </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYwcUlnXkUJyHPx51zi_HFt5d-uetU-ccYI8KJ4Q1fWiEEHMLiibnmIqGvl4TV7KgMlw19CMBB5vwmlDkqEtztiikxDTAgxy1Kj4rHcglgjmGvRKjE0ACKKGxYnKj-QivJ2g1tAxq8Cis/s1600-h/bilde.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 253px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYwcUlnXkUJyHPx51zi_HFt5d-uetU-ccYI8KJ4Q1fWiEEHMLiibnmIqGvl4TV7KgMlw19CMBB5vwmlDkqEtztiikxDTAgxy1Kj4rHcglgjmGvRKjE0ACKKGxYnKj-QivJ2g1tAxq8Cis/s320/bilde.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426344695686119522" border="0" /></a></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">And then there's Deanna Matthews, mother, spokeswoman, leader. She's the one reaching out so one day she can afford a car to drive her kids and herself to doctors' appointments.</span><br /></span></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">You can read the rest of the Concord Monitor story <a href="http://www.concordmonitor.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20091122/FRONTPAGE/911220355/0/NEWS01">here</a>.<br /></span></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Deanna was determined to get her family the help they needed. One of her little girls was facing surgery and a ten day recovery up at Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital. Besides that, the whole family was in need. When you live in New Hampshire, a car is a necessity. For Deanna's family, it's even more so.<br /></span></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Uno Chicago Grill hosted a fundraiser for the Matthews family, donating 20% of the proceeds, but the evening netted only $100.<br /></span></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Chris read about Deanna and knew he had to do something. Chris is a get-it-done kind of guy, so he placed a call to Santa. And because Santa loves to help those in need, and also happens to be a big fan of classic rock, he delivered.</span></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">As is his way, Chris called to tell me about Deanna and the car that Santa got for her only after the deal was almost done. He invited me along for the ride to see Deanna receive her new wheels -- a sweet 1999 Plymouth Voyager.</span></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was just so fabulous to meet Deanna, her brother Gerry, husband Richard, and her cute kids. And, it's great to know she now has her own wheels thanks to Santa and one anonymous guitar hero.</span></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">You can read a follow-up to this story <a href="http://www.concordmonitor.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20091211/FRONTPAGE/912110301/0/NEWS04">here</a>.</span></p><p class="storybodytext" style="font-family:georgia;"><span><span class="storybodytext"><span><span class="storybodytext"><span><span class="storybodytext"><span><span class="storybodytext"><span><span class="storybodytext"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWB53ZDsdLYPUbxSw8bNgYZ6o9Iau62w0dqc-GjKCR6G7aNqfZkcMcYYkp4wDiIRW93HufJzKtbOppoacviwRO-dDZrSzjx4NI2DYpRvO_JdiB7wmrkMfCuAgsD3_DlnfGYsTy4Y_L7U/s1600-h/IMG_2128.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWB53ZDsdLYPUbxSw8bNgYZ6o9Iau62w0dqc-GjKCR6G7aNqfZkcMcYYkp4wDiIRW93HufJzKtbOppoacviwRO-dDZrSzjx4NI2DYpRvO_JdiB7wmrkMfCuAgsD3_DlnfGYsTy4Y_L7U/s320/IMG_2128.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426344172381032450" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="storybodytext">The middle photo is by Katie Barnes of The Monitor.<br /></p></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8RXjDCnBKbXCdHck0bq5ZZ-gw15p2MlbM4OXI77UNFrp4UMgPgg9ujWAALY677EzSdryD_JeQTehyN9Vdlih6PfhCLxXyPQUDk2atX91N1hN00DoLJcb71DnXnfdLIXRSsI0Ny9LgQE/s1600-h/148-1.JPG"><br /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-40688359631059873462010-01-07T08:24:00.000-08:002010-01-07T08:27:26.610-08:00Alma: A Very Short Film by Rodrigo BlaasThis multi-award short is available for viewing for only a limited time, so be sure to check it out before it <span style="font-style: italic;">vanishes</span>!<br /><br />Best viewed on the enlarged screen.<br /><br /><object width="400" height="225"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=4749536&server=vimeo.com&show_title=0&show_byline=0&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=4749536&server=vimeo.com&show_title=0&show_byline=0&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/4749536">Alma</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/alma">Rodrigo Blaas</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-55516219934904041912009-12-18T06:00:00.000-08:002009-12-18T07:13:22.258-08:00Origami by Marjorie Evasco<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZx-cEQmu5KBQr0lGOQ5t5vq9yzwxSt7HVJ9z-_unxKlOynJ6y8gq2MteMXuFRkSOrWVfx56WhPsDkqE2tbOdXq3jDHTsJiEAmHx_mnmX1Ga6OgTeT1lGK1UT1zZ0ecLtnjPhWmB32J_w/s1600-h/origami-crane.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZx-cEQmu5KBQr0lGOQ5t5vq9yzwxSt7HVJ9z-_unxKlOynJ6y8gq2MteMXuFRkSOrWVfx56WhPsDkqE2tbOdXq3jDHTsJiEAmHx_mnmX1Ga6OgTeT1lGK1UT1zZ0ecLtnjPhWmB32J_w/s320/origami-crane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416259507732957730" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />This word unfolds, gathers up wind<br />to speed the crane's flight<br />north of my sun to you.<br /><br />I am shaping this poem<br />out of paper, folding<br />distances between our seasons.<br /><br />This paper is a crane.<br />When its wings unfold,<br />The paper will be pure and empty.<br /><br /><br />Why I Write<br /><br />On occasions like this when I am asked to talk about my poetics the image of the Great Heron standing in the mudflats comes to mind. It is an image that brings me back to a long bus ride I once took with my parents from Tagbilaran City to the town of<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2Nkn0deCVdgQE4lGw2T4SM8GG4nFdba1cWy_wwU62CiqS7J9UJ3hNNoyURhntLgMe1MmgCuGecTPuyVsq0WeFePLD-DLMioC90__3D7DrJs9_SoSC8RFpVfICse09XRCLkHg6WtRRHg/s1600-h/marjorie+evasco.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 83px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2Nkn0deCVdgQE4lGw2T4SM8GG4nFdba1cWy_wwU62CiqS7J9UJ3hNNoyURhntLgMe1MmgCuGecTPuyVsq0WeFePLD-DLMioC90__3D7DrJs9_SoSC8RFpVfICse09XRCLkHg6WtRRHg/s320/marjorie+evasco.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416259115768850898" border="0" /></a> Ubay to visit my grandparents for the summer vacation. I hated those bus rides because invariably, too many people were crushed together, and under the seats were all sorts of odds and ends-- potatoes, bananas, dried fish, corn grits and chickens tied at the feet to be sold at a public market in some town. There were fewer buses in Bohol then and when the one we took blew one of its tires, it meant a tedious wait in the middle of nowhere while the driver walked to the nearest vulcanizing shop.<br /><br />I was a hungry, hot-tempered and testy 10-yr. old from the heat and dust when our bus stopped in San Pascual, a barrio 25 kms. from our destination. But my father hoisted me down from the seat, brushed the white lime dust from my hair, and led me up a hill where the cogon grass swayed to a pungent breeze. From this lookout point, the rice in the paddies were ready for harvesting.<br /><br />“Watch,” my father instructed, pointing to a pond where two carabaos were cooling off. Suddenly, my father clapped his hands, and as if by magic, a flock of white birds flew out of the water behind the clump of cogon grass. The birds circled and took my heart with them as they flew away.<br /><br />“Herons,” my father named them. They were perfect in flight, and as the child I was, I must have associated beauty with motion. I must also have associated magic with the way the hands can call forth things, and the way names can fix in memory a moment of transient wonder.<br /><br />Many summers hence, far from my family and away from the island of Bohol, I began to learn the language of flight, dream and memory I now call poetry.<br /><br /><br />Today's Poetry Friday is being hosted by Susan Taylor Brown. Click <a href="http://susanwrites.livejournal.com/">here </a>to go <a href="http://susanwrites.livejournal.com/">there</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-70320704747179438062009-12-16T06:00:00.000-08:002009-12-16T06:00:05.579-08:00Hoedown: The Fabulous Eleanor Stewart<object width="400" height="270"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=5020134&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=5020134&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="270"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/5020134">Hoedown from Rodeo</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user1856146">Eleanor Stewart</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p><p>Eleanor Stewart created this stop-motion animation for her final year degree in Visual Communication at the Glasgow School of Art.<br /></p><p>The very talented Eleanor blogs <a href="http://www.eleanorstewart.blogspot.com/">here</a>. Check it out to see more of her work.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-57735068462960784882009-12-15T09:47:00.001-08:002009-12-15T10:20:07.289-08:00Going West: Stop-AnimationThis is a gorgeous piece of work. The book is by <a href="http://www.bookcouncil.org.nz/writers/geem.html">Maurice Gee</a>, an important and prolific New Zealand author who writes for both kids and adults. The design is by <a href="http://www.andersenm.com/">Andersen M Studios</a>, and was commissioned by the <a href="http://www.bookcouncil.org.nz/">New Zealand Book Council. </a><br /><br />It may take a few viewings to acclimate to the NZ accent, but it's worth a repeat or two . . . or three. Be sure to watch till the end.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/F_jyXJTlrH0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/F_jyXJTlrH0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-61026439993821547562009-12-08T13:05:00.000-08:002009-12-08T13:14:28.225-08:00Procrastination by John KellyThis says it all:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/37wR_TWdVy0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/37wR_TWdVy0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-68471397998425946742009-12-04T08:37:00.000-08:002009-12-04T08:41:01.066-08:00Poetry Friday: The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Qy4K-DpgBS0AVsfF7vRxaQDYWPD_AwQX-DmOYLi8TpXyfLBDKZN4nVmP_daR1RIYCLn6KWs3d_BmMcUC_JK27UeGyLXhEoavtWAJoyH0GO5doN924RnOO_AHd8mkDg6x0JtsOjLm30M/s1600-h/853.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 277px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Qy4K-DpgBS0AVsfF7vRxaQDYWPD_AwQX-DmOYLi8TpXyfLBDKZN4nVmP_daR1RIYCLn6KWs3d_BmMcUC_JK27UeGyLXhEoavtWAJoyH0GO5doN924RnOO_AHd8mkDg6x0JtsOjLm30M/s320/853.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411421749470728930" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.<br />He bites it, day by day,<br />Until there's but a rim of scraps</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">That crumble all away.<br /><br />The South Wind is a baker.<br />He kneads clouds in his den,<br />And bakes a crisp new moon <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">greedy</span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">North </span>. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">Wind </span>. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">eats </span>. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">again</span>!<br /><br /> -- Vachel Lindsay<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIJuiORWLD0RRLE4NLyEHKzi6Rq5a_mqMemyfBMocpjjSnZG66mBrCkXzeaVe3dYxDwkncFuU-TX2eQeMcG2eEmadnsv4-SX3JSvlkFaid8VwXxeSjzzPpUz9_Jvfn8b6wHcxSGmrcmc/s1600-h/2960.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIJuiORWLD0RRLE4NLyEHKzi6Rq5a_mqMemyfBMocpjjSnZG66mBrCkXzeaVe3dYxDwkncFuU-TX2eQeMcG2eEmadnsv4-SX3JSvlkFaid8VwXxeSjzzPpUz9_Jvfn8b6wHcxSGmrcmc/s320/2960.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411419769781129202" border="0" /></a><br />Today, Poetry Friday is being hosted at Elaine's blog <a href="http://wildrosereader.blogspot.com/">The Wild Rose Reader</a>. Click <a href="http://wildrosereader.blogspot.com/">here </a>to get there!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-85322661582677119452009-11-23T13:26:00.001-08:002009-11-23T13:28:37.316-08:00Self-Discipline the Joyce Cary Way<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhf1KLA6tLZzV_6zGpX38pG18zShihGoAwnbjVkJfi62ei7uYe_5hq9ClRnzrld86DtFPv3UtY2XD6f8_JM3jZBwmOjy1dUn0ottMKm4LQBtSs-wodnNs_Hv649claS8eIwvLJucvvCo/s1600/joyce-cary2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhf1KLA6tLZzV_6zGpX38pG18zShihGoAwnbjVkJfi62ei7uYe_5hq9ClRnzrld86DtFPv3UtY2XD6f8_JM3jZBwmOjy1dUn0ottMKm4LQBtSs-wodnNs_Hv649claS8eIwvLJucvvCo/s320/joyce-cary2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407413754905376562" border="0" /></a>It's something I struggle with daily -- finding the will to write. The work is hard. It's sometimes isolating. There are days when it seems hopeless to even consider myself talented <span style="font-style: italic;">enough</span>. And so I find ways to distract myself until I gather the courage to finally stop <span style="font-style: italic;">avoiding it</span>. The only person who will write my books is <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>. Life is too short and the work too long . . .<br /><br />During these times, I often turn to a description of the author Joyce Cary's last months and days of writing. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) struck Cary and he died in 1957. I wish I could credit the writer, but I have been unable to locate that information.<br /><br />So, how dedicated are you to your craft?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He ceased working in the top attic as the stairs became impossible for him and began to use Trudy's old private sitting-room on the ground floor as his study. He had metal grips fitted into the walls of the passages at various strategic points and with their aid and that of a stick could for</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieMWmM_a1Z8WKjBqTWHY6NukosmN9MgR0DEJD02S25B0s0mNx1Ffwvd6vL_cQEVLkUsGIKtaqzDaxzZUB-gSjT4EhgLKQ0wNCbJcfR92fytwP-FshaaUOp10tdXEa0_8rGwzaR9wvyTbA/s1600/joycecary1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieMWmM_a1Z8WKjBqTWHY6NukosmN9MgR0DEJD02S25B0s0mNx1Ffwvd6vL_cQEVLkUsGIKtaqzDaxzZUB-gSjT4EhgLKQ0wNCbJcfR92fytwP-FshaaUOp10tdXEa0_8rGwzaR9wvyTbA/s320/joycecary1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407361673427516258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> a time get about without other help. When the disease attacked his hands he contrived a sling with an elastic band which could take the weight of his wrist and leave him free to write . . .<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He was in bed all the time now and working under heartbreakingly difficult conditions. He now had a bed-desk invented by himself and made for him by his next-door neighbor, a </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">magistrate whom Joyce called "the Judge". A roll of blank paper ran underneath which led across the desk to another roll on which the used paper was wound.<br /><br />At first, he still had enough movement in his right hand to be able to push the paper forward as it was used. When this, too, became impossible his son Tristram devised an electrical switch by which Joyce dropped his wrist on a button and the paper moved forward automatically. The hand itself was supported by a sling and the pen or pencil was fastened to the fingers.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40ilzIl4w2lSu5iftCfbia9FCFGGvEBzNOuCzU-7Oc7RYDC2jlOeYoU3rBLYJFa9RfhC9y_luWTnUGuqPl76XgsPCPPauUZjUlgmOoivhUfidyEMUMXpUxTNBFbj2Ig3q1EAjSdvrqw0/s1600/joy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40ilzIl4w2lSu5iftCfbia9FCFGGvEBzNOuCzU-7Oc7RYDC2jlOeYoU3rBLYJFa9RfhC9y_luWTnUGuqPl76XgsPCPPauUZjUlgmOoivhUfidyEMUMXpUxTNBFbj2Ig3q1EAjSdvrqw0/s320/joy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407361489784324738" border="0" /></a><br /><span>You can read more about Joyce Cary <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joyce_Cary">here</a>.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-52025440185340901792009-11-11T10:03:00.000-08:002009-11-11T10:05:42.696-08:00<object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7529622&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7529622&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/7529622">Germans in the Woods</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/rauchbrothers">Rauch Brothers</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-71038390836714575052009-10-31T10:25:00.000-07:002009-10-31T13:38:33.824-07:00Grimbro: 13 Nights<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JmiEi3UmnWbnatHJOWoFlQHPJBu8_mgIrn-36DS_rrhhq4rWHMw9X7Rm9l-jiQcm2Py66NTGvum0mFYd7HPMbGInG0_Gv_z32ZNYUj11ETVpnYT6loX-McUljefIlVfL5O8Mh-79whk/s1600-h/halloweendracula.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 253px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JmiEi3UmnWbnatHJOWoFlQHPJBu8_mgIrn-36DS_rrhhq4rWHMw9X7Rm9l-jiQcm2Py66NTGvum0mFYd7HPMbGInG0_Gv_z32ZNYUj11ETVpnYT6loX-McUljefIlVfL5O8Mh-79whk/s320/halloweendracula.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398818136829931106" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDFpLv6aObK5KAYtxdFLzyZol389Vi9VlPcmcCz1eKd3U3fQ82-iI4eWSqMqbIgZGeRuaQhy8Wg_79leM0umJzQNInktckzskN75yInf7jVZDSQEDgR-nUWFcNEc_u8N0xD6UKnCDCPo/s1600-h/halloweenfrank.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDFpLv6aObK5KAYtxdFLzyZol389Vi9VlPcmcCz1eKd3U3fQ82-iI4eWSqMqbIgZGeRuaQhy8Wg_79leM0umJzQNInktckzskN75yInf7jVZDSQEDgR-nUWFcNEc_u8N0xD6UKnCDCPo/s320/halloweenfrank.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398818380566103058" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I came across Grimbro's art by chance. I don't know much about him, except that he's an artist from New England. The challenge he gave himself this year was to paint (quickly) -- in the thirteen days preceding Halloween -- the icons of great horror films.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJM9KJnPrF0jKr7pHaQNG1iV4F0Hgp3fngKrMfKQXymZa4RRqfE4Na6BsDN5T9wpHrK-CUHv7cdBnW-rCKeyQAsCLkPGPayaX5wgeFQtm1mbI8HQ212_GA-nkyFF8Th3I8_mEEhck8-Y/s1600-h/halloweenthebride.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJM9KJnPrF0jKr7pHaQNG1iV4F0Hgp3fngKrMfKQXymZa4RRqfE4Na6BsDN5T9wpHrK-CUHv7cdBnW-rCKeyQAsCLkPGPayaX5wgeFQtm1mbI8HQ212_GA-nkyFF8Th3I8_mEEhck8-Y/s320/halloweenthebride.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398818264567362754" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I like his work. Check it out <a href="http://grimbro.deviantart.com/gallery/#_featured">here</a>. Best viewed by clicking the image for a larger version. <br /><br />Happy Halloween!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-71889453416325246672009-09-01T10:54:00.001-07:002009-09-01T11:01:00.175-07:00You Tell Me: Is This PSA Too Graphic?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FtrCwnuH0xDRqG5uQM52TlMH9pI42VgNMHIVKXLgcUNGBY_iyftPxNangv-HsrX5Pjv9SnXfm5Ps8VqsPrS8sOxd3L0YqIxrSYm3DaVExSW3Pct743mtYWOYJHm9ymSNEPvx91xKiV8/s1600-h/texting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FtrCwnuH0xDRqG5uQM52TlMH9pI42VgNMHIVKXLgcUNGBY_iyftPxNangv-HsrX5Pjv9SnXfm5Ps8VqsPrS8sOxd3L0YqIxrSYm3DaVExSW3Pct743mtYWOYJHm9ymSNEPvx91xKiV8/s320/texting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376560155792708962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />A friend sent me this <a href="http://popwatch.ew.com/2009/08/24/british-texting-while-driving-psa/">link </a>-- a PSA from Wales. Not for the faint of heart.<br /><br />What do <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> think?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBsFdzxQYi-BdO52vMKN2b5tuG-fg8k_5GNXgWpvVJrq0S3J6XH1Q0Effds-m-3GzR4ItKflgvWumgjvyrn_s9bR6MdjLpv89F7ThwP0mUnaBUH7il7tErbgorjpOmac8K42QlVesrwD0/s1600-h/texting2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBsFdzxQYi-BdO52vMKN2b5tuG-fg8k_5GNXgWpvVJrq0S3J6XH1Q0Effds-m-3GzR4ItKflgvWumgjvyrn_s9bR6MdjLpv89F7ThwP0mUnaBUH7il7tErbgorjpOmac8K42QlVesrwD0/s320/texting2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376559819754573826" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4yg27dqkPHQ8WPDqHJWUWneSFRpPRyQl4IruA-XNq1EnXa1ieg9EN8j5tHl64ZLKrqd2C59crbCUFlxoEv3UDKCVu86kQBih5UN9LeTUJzOzc_fnCTxr_ejo8XxGFIdQLZuWhN4LRrrk/s1600-h/texting+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4yg27dqkPHQ8WPDqHJWUWneSFRpPRyQl4IruA-XNq1EnXa1ieg9EN8j5tHl64ZLKrqd2C59crbCUFlxoEv3UDKCVu86kQBih5UN9LeTUJzOzc_fnCTxr_ejo8XxGFIdQLZuWhN4LRrrk/s320/texting+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376560033529681474" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-68102463550711298072009-06-05T00:01:00.000-07:002009-06-05T00:01:00.506-07:00Bob Dylan: Nettie Moore<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLq41llko1Lan08ScOUhg9GVT4DLV5dWAsFwDE4MOZNfEtJRNyl0cWBv_iwIiFZzqhH_QXkZf4fGaikt0Hs5KYhyphenhyphenzv2oq9_shm-DZH3LQfWiYJXDMRuC9IMhdnmwXp-lbfJAXdGwHrnc/s1600-h/vicollage15_475x339.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLq41llko1Lan08ScOUhg9GVT4DLV5dWAsFwDE4MOZNfEtJRNyl0cWBv_iwIiFZzqhH_QXkZf4fGaikt0Hs5KYhyphenhyphenzv2oq9_shm-DZH3LQfWiYJXDMRuC9IMhdnmwXp-lbfJAXdGwHrnc/s320/vicollage15_475x339.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324549766377481538" border="0" /></a>I wasn't a big Bob Dylan fan as a youngster, but I'm a big one now -- especially of his later works on <span style="font-style: italic;">Modern Times.</span> Here are the lyrics to one of my favorites on the album. It loses something in the reading, so I think it's far better to listen to it -- you can check it out at <a href="http://www.bobdylan.com/#/songs/thunder-on-the-mountain">bobdylan.com</a> where all his <a href="http://www.bobdylan.com/#/songs">songs </a>are featured. Go out and buy this album or download it!<br /><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Helvetica,Ariel,Times,Roman;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Nettie Moore</span><br /><br />Lost John's sittin' on a railroad track<br />Something's out of whack<br />Blues this mornin' fallin' down like hail<br />Gonna leave a greasy trail<br /><br />Gonna travel the world is what I'm gonna do<br />Then come back and see you.<br />All I ever do is struggle and strive.<br />If I don't do anybody any harm, I might make it back home alive.<br /><br />I'm the oldest son of a crazy man,<br />I'm in a cowboy band<br />Got a pile of sins to pay for and I ain't got time to hide<br />I'd walk through a blazing fire, baby, if I knew you was on the other side<br /><br />Oh, I miss you, Nettie Moore</span><br /><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Helvetica,Ariel,Times,Roman;font-size:85%;" >And my happiness is o'r<br />Winter's gone, the river's on the rise<br />I loved you then, and ever shall<br />But there's no one left here to tell<br />The world has gone black before my eyes<br /><br />Well, the world of research has gone berserk<br />Too much paperwork<br />Albert's in the graveyard, Frankie's raising hell<br />I'm beginning to believe what the scriptures tell<br /><br />I've gone where the Southern crosses The Yellow Dog<br />Get away from all these demagogues<br />And these bad luck women stick like glue<br />It's either one or the other or neither of the two<br /><br />She says, "Look out, daddy, don't want you to tear your pants<br />You could get wrecked in this dance."<br />They say whisky'll kill you, but I don't think it will<br />I'm ridin' with you to the top of the hill<br /><br />Oh, I miss you, Nettie Moore<br />And my happiness is o'r<br />Winter's gone, the river's on the rise<br />I loved you then, and ever shall<br />But there's no one left here to tell<br />The world has gone black before my eyes<br /><br />Don't know why my baby never looked so good before<br />Don't have to wonder no more<br />She been cooking all day, it gonna take me all night<br />I can't eat all that stuff in a single bite</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnI1wunylydeLolK5k4SWf57zcFMTKFUP2QEyrM6IGM6tBqdj2Bz5kaZ5biPelVwKm1cmp8D5TPZk6wvFt4LBa9Nt6FYVXQ8Gpvi4KQjdtGYLs7pLkgKv3SLSOXoRLocfroNWbgg0rXdg/s1600-h/dylan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnI1wunylydeLolK5k4SWf57zcFMTKFUP2QEyrM6IGM6tBqdj2Bz5kaZ5biPelVwKm1cmp8D5TPZk6wvFt4LBa9Nt6FYVXQ8Gpvi4KQjdtGYLs7pLkgKv3SLSOXoRLocfroNWbgg0rXdg/s320/dylan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324549376324002578" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Helvetica,Ariel,Times,Roman;font-size:85%;" ><br />The judge's coming in, everybody rise<br />Lift up your eyes<br />You can do what you please, you don't need my advice<br />'Fore you call me any dirty names, you better think twice<br /><br />Gettin' light outside, the temperature dropped<br />I think the rain has stopped<br />I'm gonna make you come to grips with fate<br />When I'm through with you, you'll learn to keep your business straight<br /><br />Oh, I miss you, Nettie Moore<br />And my happiness is o'r<br />Winter's gone, the river's on the rise<br />I loved you then, and ever shall<br />But there's no one left here to tell<br />The world has gone black before my eyes<br /><br />The bright spark of the steady lights<br />Has dimmed my sights<br />When you're around me all my grief gives 'way<br />A life time with you is like some heavenly day<br /><br />Everything I've ever known to be right has been proven wrong<br />I'll be drifting along<br />The woman I'm loving she rules my heart<br />No knife could ever cut our love apart.<br /><br />Today I'll stand in faith and raise<br />The voice of praise<br />The sun is strong, I'm standing in the light<br />I wish to God that it were night<br /><br />Oh, I miss you, Nettie Moore<br />And my happiness is o'r<br />Winter's gone, the river's on the rise<br />I loved you then, and ever shall<br />But there's no one here left to tell<br />The world has gone black before my eyes<br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-75399139855122865322009-05-15T07:24:00.000-07:002009-05-16T06:24:04.915-07:00Men's League Softball, Gillette, Wyoming<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmtf6bO504R5NGlGn3Gab_NQ-B61Kz9gJ3NEOACrlATMJkVZs1NFM9gNe9tlOQ_mW2spFsxJApzjOhNg0mJVYxryQY_hqrUtJDPiEjmCqLSwyaIh5MrkMEGlsWJpBrHrpFXRiSzeLfXIw/s1600-h/softball1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 147px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmtf6bO504R5NGlGn3Gab_NQ-B61Kz9gJ3NEOACrlATMJkVZs1NFM9gNe9tlOQ_mW2spFsxJApzjOhNg0mJVYxryQY_hqrUtJDPiEjmCqLSwyaIh5MrkMEGlsWJpBrHrpFXRiSzeLfXIw/s320/softball1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336058257907318274" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><em></em></span>Out of the broad, open land they come.<br />Out of a coal seam's<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">$! </span><br /> hundred-thousand tons<br /><br />of overburden, out of shit-reek barns<br />and shearing pens,<br /> <br /> or down from the powder blue<br /><br />derrick platforms of howling Cyclone rigs<br />they rung by rung descend.<br /> <br /> They come bearing the weight<br /><br />of lives and labor on their boot heels,<br />a week of night shifts,<br /> <br /> of the prairie sun's relentless arc.<br /><br />But here, beneath the lights of Bicentennial Park,<br />these men work the stiffness<br /><br /> from their shoulders,<br /><br />crow-hop and sling the ball sharply<br />around the horn. No matter<br /><br /> who they've become<br /><br />in the years since boyhood, the game's<br />muscular beauty remains.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYz4OMOLB5qJwqIzI4HUJxicZCYkdAoYlVblPeYwkA6FHao254_DsmVmDU0zVg_aMbvjfszanmxT3GVQ8rOTjKh8VC14yZ3V4cmCvyYSYL8ru2mDWfE4EvPDpthI3pJrHmJyEFrCIJP0/s1600-h/softball2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYz4OMOLB5qJwqIzI4HUJxicZCYkdAoYlVblPeYwkA6FHao254_DsmVmDU0zVg_aMbvjfszanmxT3GVQ8rOTjKh8VC14yZ3V4cmCvyYSYL8ru2mDWfE4EvPDpthI3pJrHmJyEFrCIJP0/s320/softball2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336058440491257122" border="0" /></a><br /> -- Lucas Howell<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9rifuXSvCKMN8erDvMmg56EV7umhcuNj7uwUlp-26ZGaGZiO8SiM0xRYU9BKrfKSM_JZxiTyW8SwtGqu-6uyGVpzB2mAJlfcVsj7Kzs9Ux4O9kwEmwWQX0gHL6ib9GBfIlupmylPSKYo/s1600-h/Lucas_Howell.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9rifuXSvCKMN8erDvMmg56EV7umhcuNj7uwUlp-26ZGaGZiO8SiM0xRYU9BKrfKSM_JZxiTyW8SwtGqu-6uyGVpzB2mAJlfcVsj7Kzs9Ux4O9kwEmwWQX0gHL6ib9GBfIlupmylPSKYo/s320/Lucas_Howell.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336062981235953762" border="0" /></a><br />This is Lucas at the right.<br />My apologies to him for the wrong formatting of his<br />poem. Blogger won't let me justify the single lines.<br />They're supposed to be over to the right.<br /><br />You can see the original formatting <a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2217621/">here.</a><br />You can read<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>his <span style="font-style: italic;">Primitive Road </span><a href="http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1P3-1166484741.html">here.</a><br /><br /><br />Today's Poetry Friday is being hosted at music-loving Kelly Polark at her blog <a href="http://kpolark.blogspot.com/">here.</a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$And</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-56109668388326416932009-04-21T18:26:00.001-07:002009-04-21T18:30:33.548-07:00The Saturday Evening Girls<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwKGiUeDBQONKNweKTZcUD7Vu9t3TIqcDDaSdIBImEbjlIT43-V5NlyT4r0IPJZ9ykMMCS8oejp3WmIiTd2za7i9_y3G7YQY_uk8iIbZLzuh8StLVESAvrhhoB0nRrGl_-JjUJLa0un6c/s1600-h/seg+6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwKGiUeDBQONKNweKTZcUD7Vu9t3TIqcDDaSdIBImEbjlIT43-V5NlyT4r0IPJZ9ykMMCS8oejp3WmIiTd2za7i9_y3G7YQY_uk8iIbZLzuh8StLVESAvrhhoB0nRrGl_-JjUJLa0un6c/s320/seg+6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327321146830034354" border="0" /></a>The Saturday Evening Girls got their start during the late 19th century -- due to the convergence of three movements. The Settlement House movement began in London as a way to help the poor -- to give them food, shelter, and a way to make a living. In the US, the name most associated with this movement is Chicago's Jane Addams.<br /><br />The women's movement focused more attention on women's economic and social needs. The Arts and Crafts movement was also getting its start. It emphasized pride in craftsmanship as people search<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeHl5aMSTY_0748AieEI0nZedkTrsm78G0Mtm1FB8mHqrzeE0hS5eC_NDpCAWqrevXZdNI3YCBBGLXS25mZWixv21Q8JmqG0KvEBgzwBeE_xpQl9w6WRRESo7cLrn-RnPHkz5O91zk64/s1600-h/seg+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeHl5aMSTY_0748AieEI0nZedkTrsm78G0Mtm1FB8mHqrzeE0hS5eC_NDpCAWqrevXZdNI3YCBBGLXS25mZWixv21Q8JmqG0KvEBgzwBeE_xpQl9w6WRRESo7cLrn-RnPHkz5O91zk64/s320/seg+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327314934080855218" border="0" /></a>ed for an antidote to the mass produced goods of the Industrial Revolution.<br /><br />The Saturday Evening Girls started in 1899 as a club through the Boston Public Library that provided education and social activities for young immigrant girls. Local philanthropists hoped their contribution would keep girls off the streets. Many girls had to work to provide an income for their families, which meant no time for school.<br /><br />Under the guidance of Edith Brown and Edith Guerrier, with assistance from Helen Storrow, the group eventually turned to making and selling pottery as a way to pay for the organization's summer camps.<br /><br />The small business was called Paul Revere Pottery for the group's proximity to the historic location in the North End where Paul Revere worked his silver one hundred years earlier.<br /><br />The club helped young women develop not only the skills of decorating pottery, but also business skills to go alo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOLseRcrPU575ehHHmJw96g3BCLLYWWcevZzAhlPIMvqAWuiJMPp23N-u8RLTUlJUnUALXBfGb36jgoNXGwLT__lq5JMgEDC7HGaSLYj50KD5XHSIOBlBdDvk7eiHvCgikTQHiKQOlljg/s1600-h/seg+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOLseRcrPU575ehHHmJw96g3BCLLYWWcevZzAhlPIMvqAWuiJMPp23N-u8RLTUlJUnUALXBfGb36jgoNXGwLT__lq5JMgEDC7HGaSLYj50KD5XHSIOBlBdDvk7eiHvCgikTQHiKQOlljg/s320/seg+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327321359985779442" border="0" /></a>ng with it. Local department stores and other retail ventures bought the girls' lovely pieces..<br /><br />According to the Museum of Fine Arts, volunteers read to the girls as they worked. One mug is inscribed "In the forest must always be a nightingale & in the soul a faith so faithful that it comes back even after it has been slain," a verse from the 1910 play <span style="font-style: italic;">Chantecler </span>by Edmond Rostand."<br /><br />The MFA provides this review from writer Margaret Pendleton in 1910: "The glaze is dull, soft in color and texture…The colors are pure yellow, soft green, old blue and a tan. Their success in color scheme is wonderful." The girls decorated children's pottery and kitchen sets.<br /><br />The most accomplished of the SEG was Sara Galner.<br /><br />The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston has a collection of Saturday Evening Girls' pottery, and has this to say about Sara:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRph4SsvF3rN-sr95GO_HRUjwEYnvF4xk19wD9r_dBr9BfILikfonVAjX1z035Z6aUNaSkfRaig4GxYt6BFF-Le2cBrllMdKk8m6kmbjO1vSi3NXiRQhfx0cE9ZRWyhMJO_bksYRg9Cao/s1600-h/seg+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRph4SsvF3rN-sr95GO_HRUjwEYnvF4xk19wD9r_dBr9BfILikfonVAjX1z035Z6aUNaSkfRaig4GxYt6BFF-Le2cBrllMdKk8m6kmbjO1vSi3NXiRQhfx0cE9ZRWyhMJO_bksYRg9Cao/s320/seg+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327314666274370370" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"The vast majority of works in the collection were decorated by one of the Pottery's best artists, Sara Galner, the mother of the collection's donor. Galner, a Jewish immigrant from Austria-Hungary, joined the reading club as a young girl and later worked at the Pottery until her marriage. Objects bearing her signature span at least ten years, including some of the earliest years of the Pottery's production and the height of their artistic achievement and success in the mid-1910s. Examples of her work show the Pottery's efforts to refine both materials and technique, as well<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwD9JQT6j5mehN5hLhkfgoVIm07AvPtABtz4liDlN887R3dr6Va29SRPaO07knWzSbcaASxqfRBOAszLzm9YdCIS_sfS8XB80sWp0Ej-RS4UvuSzHWndg8Via2_0ebrCYNyHwf4fr1xog/s1600-h/seg+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwD9JQT6j5mehN5hLhkfgoVIm07AvPtABtz4liDlN887R3dr6Va29SRPaO07knWzSbcaASxqfRBOAszLzm9YdCIS_sfS8XB80sWp0Ej-RS4UvuSzHWndg8Via2_0ebrCYNyHwf4fr1xog/s320/seg+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327314854693708482" border="0" /></a> as Galner's own refinement and maturity as an artist."<br /><br />Paul Revere Pottery operated until the 1940s.<br /><br />You can read more about the Saturday Night Girls at the MFA by clicking <a href="http://www.mfa.org/exhibitions/sub.asp?key=15&subkey=3326">here</a><br /><br />When you get to the page, click on the Interactive Exhibition Preview near the top of the page.<br /><br />This same post appears at <a href="http://www.thewritesisters.blogspot.com/">The Write Sisters' blog.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-46441744256465305622009-04-20T00:00:00.000-07:002011-04-21T06:31:26.265-07:00Happy Birthday! Today, It's All About Me and Birthdays<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkPabzN0pNEnzzlUes-fQEm5t9ZP8XJWn7ft2vDC4wtFC9vy3lNDBxNBKGpMW1XFEG2kFhSwXiewo8PboIdzxzEEl4pmCp72uz3Jt4231WyAQsQt7DCBWEHpWXrpA7ab0TL4FFRE2zE5Q/s1600-h/birthday-cake.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324366378846176226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkPabzN0pNEnzzlUes-fQEm5t9ZP8XJWn7ft2vDC4wtFC9vy3lNDBxNBKGpMW1XFEG2kFhSwXiewo8PboIdzxzEEl4pmCp72uz3Jt4231WyAQsQt7DCBWEHpWXrpA7ab0TL4FFRE2zE5Q/s320/birthday-cake.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 262px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 250px;" /></a><br />
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It's my birthday, and I've been waiting until today to share a very cool website called <a href="http://www.paulsadowski.org/BirthDay.asp">The </a><a href="http://www.paulsadowski.org/BirthDay.asp">Birthday Calculator</a>. Thanks, Ed!<br />
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Here are some of the things you can find out about yourself (maybe a little more than you want to know):<br />
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Your date of your conception and the day of your birth. For me, both happened on a Sunday.<br />
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Your special year according to other cultures:<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-azgtDKVdHtlrAwUQ4cXORNA8xVCX5fhKtvOwIsaKsQ0vwKclx8oU69X4dlFDnGt3GnJmcmni1k5SArSSu2yywVD8vlVh-BylBtEdV8se77sv6JdmEZPIQW9uE0aIx6nudWU0AjSlqU/s1600-h/beaver_looking_camera.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324349793760404034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-azgtDKVdHtlrAwUQ4cXORNA8xVCX5fhKtvOwIsaKsQ0vwKclx8oU69X4dlFDnGt3GnJmcmni1k5SArSSu2yywVD8vlVh-BylBtEdV8se77sv6JdmEZPIQW9uE0aIx6nudWU0AjSlqU/s320/beaver_looking_camera.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 208px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 208px;" /></a><br />
The Chinese say I was was born in the year of the Dragon.<br />
My native American zodiac sign is the Beaver.<br />
My plant is the wild clover.<br />
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The Egytpians say I was born in the month of Paony.<br />
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The moon was a waning crescent on the day I was born.<br />
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My birth flower is the daisy.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnT0yfWhGPvWpAhEg6N0xH2yaWNB7UDHipHXuKOFd6GJmQqLP4_tKcx7j7tPRDV2Na0TEPOGx3jQROxj8mN5M8_DLEhGurRjHkAmSuggtxZYAyRnJII9b4x5Tj-C7Jh97lQYiVtYvHkIY/s1600-h/diamond.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324346914272252674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnT0yfWhGPvWpAhEg6N0xH2yaWNB7UDHipHXuKOFd6GJmQqLP4_tKcx7j7tPRDV2Na0TEPOGx3jQROxj8mN5M8_DLEhGurRjHkAmSuggtxZYAyRnJII9b4x5Tj-C7Jh97lQYiVtYvHkIY/s320/diamond.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 141px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 186px;" /></a><br />
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My birth tree is the Maple.<br />
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My birthstone is the diamond.<br />
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You can find out who shares your birthday by going to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page">Wikipedia</a>. Enter the date in Wikipedia's search engine.<br />
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I share a birthday with my good friends, Liz Tentarelli and Kathleen Tancrede, and also these folks:<br />
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Edna Ruth Parker, supercentenarian<br />
George Takei, aka Hikaru Sulu, helmsman for the USS Enterprise<br />
Jessica Lange, American actress<br />
Napoleon III, Emperor<br />
Harold Lloyd, silent film comedian<br />
Joan Miro, one of my favorite artists<br />
Gordon Smiley, race car driver<br />
Johnny "The Bull" Stamboli, professional wrestler<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPOE5LwrluSU9OAg3uFiqmbiY_7iDmunGC6pMUDiz2siNC7U36mrUQJJqWZBoWaI9REo8O3e-CjyjRMNbxjj9Hhv3DU4aGTDPyBKH85R2alzSQTA8k8crKVROkOoQsBrrqnHVGyunMj4/s1600-h/200px-Safetylast-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324351682280933042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPOE5LwrluSU9OAg3uFiqmbiY_7iDmunGC6pMUDiz2siNC7U36mrUQJJqWZBoWaI9REo8O3e-CjyjRMNbxjj9Hhv3DU4aGTDPyBKH85R2alzSQTA8k8crKVROkOoQsBrrqnHVGyunMj4/s320/200px-Safetylast-1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 231px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 164px;" /></a><br />
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You can also find out the events that happened on the auspicious occasion of your birth:<br />
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On April 20, in 1916 the Chicago Cubs played their first game at Weeghman Park, which would eventually become Wrigley Field.<br />
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1972 -- Apollo 16 landed on the moon.<br />
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2008 -- Danica Patrick won the Japan 300 -- the first woman to do so.<br />
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Did you know you have a Life Path? the Birthday Calculator tells me mine is number 5, and seems to be pretty accurate. It includes this:<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;"> The Life Path 5 suggests that you entered this plane with a highly progressive mindset, with the attitude and skills to make the world a better place. The key word for your Life Path is freedom. In the pursuit of freedom, you are naturally versatile, adventuro</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vi5iSahNfeBcfjNsDNPyuEC4hyZW98BTHAWTzwanxiUJLA7tDf3muYxmkIy30LNBQS7JN7ROBmLloF7Af_E2SBWC1XFSP26dDZPGRWatgy-AdfUIDUim4WtsSXOzzOdfAOQa1AEH5JM/s1600-h/miro_garden.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><span style="font-style: italic;">us, a</span><span style="font-style: italic;">nd advanced in your thinking. You are one of those people who is always striving to find </span><span style="font-style: italic;">answers to the many questions that life poses. The byword for the positive Life Path 5 is constant</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> change and improvement. You want to be totally unrestrained, as this is the number most often associated with the productive use of freedom.</span><br />
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Apparently if you're a Life Pather 1, 5 or 7, we'll get along just great!<br />
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I won't tell you how old I am in dog years.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEseajHYmE9JlAwmpCgQA71G6eEKhWxm3uzdE2_KgcDRMLkGJH1tfdIS-MODIOkr9Hn9i7YeKxSUpTj7gMz-8wnihYHn9YeYUcsxzyYOPjc0_v58r8JdpuSMhzz4EaHeBQkBzF9EyEfM/s1600-h/vie1220_328x259.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324350440286561154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEseajHYmE9JlAwmpCgQA71G6eEKhWxm3uzdE2_KgcDRMLkGJH1tfdIS-MODIOkr9Hn9i7YeKxSUpTj7gMz-8wnihYHn9YeYUcsxzyYOPjc0_v58r8JdpuSMhzz4EaHeBQkBzF9EyEfM/s320/vie1220_328x259.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 189px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 237px;" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-91457209198123867912009-04-14T16:46:00.000-07:002009-04-14T17:29:31.123-07:00Here Lies The Body Of . . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOyZwUbG_JgMg0r4eFEUB2UM0yqN6azkqluxmm-JI4GTnhLaOQHVOm7Gg0O0fLxexFfawgVAA9FEs_VyVqDzh6uxIT5_CCEHqfPMrHNhE7mtyK0AvG83I5PgmtwZ5bFpNz5AAZknSZH8/s1600-h/tombstone1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOyZwUbG_JgMg0r4eFEUB2UM0yqN6azkqluxmm-JI4GTnhLaOQHVOm7Gg0O0fLxexFfawgVAA9FEs_VyVqDzh6uxIT5_CCEHqfPMrHNhE7mtyK0AvG83I5PgmtwZ5bFpNz5AAZknSZH8/s320/tombstone1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324703934894973218" border="0" /></a><br /><br />As a writer, I've come to like pithy, tight writing. No better place to find tight writing than in an epitaph.<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><small>Here lies old Rastus Sominy</small></p> <p align="center"><small>Died a-eating hominy</small></p> <p align="center"><small>In 1859 anno domini</small></p> <span style="font-size:78%;"> </span><p style="font-style: italic;" align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Savannah, Georgia</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><small><br /></small></p><p align="center"><small><br /></small></p><p align="center"><small>Blown upward </small></p> <p align="center"><small>out of sight:</small></p> <p align="center"><small>He sought the leak </small></p> <p align="center"><small>by candlelight</small></p> <span style="font-size:78%;"> </span><p style="font-style: italic;" align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Wiltshire, England</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><small>Harry Edsel Smith</small><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzS1AiFDG4HFmloedKDj2fb29X-Y3MDLzoJIbgi8RBN2sERhmbeRXGftI6ehwsMp1xWKwSvNJ7B-L4eaaUw_XRaI-r7qpTsl-3hb4by8T0hyphenhyphen6_HC5h3rSGj2b1F7WMW_jLVMVaSt1lUI/s1600-h/shaft.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzS1AiFDG4HFmloedKDj2fb29X-Y3MDLzoJIbgi8RBN2sERhmbeRXGftI6ehwsMp1xWKwSvNJ7B-L4eaaUw_XRaI-r7qpTsl-3hb4by8T0hyphenhyphen6_HC5h3rSGj2b1F7WMW_jLVMVaSt1lUI/s320/shaft.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324703839528578946" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;"><small>Born 1903 - Died 1942</small></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;"><small>Looked up the elevator shaft </small></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;"><small>to see if the car</small></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;"><small>was on the way down. </small></p><p style="text-align: left;"><small>It was.</small></p><div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size:78%;"> </span></div><p style="text-align: left; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:78%;">near Albany, New York</span></p><p align="center"><small><br /></small></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><small><br /></small></p><p align="center"><small>The dust of </small></p> <p align="center"><small>Melantha Gribbling</small></p> <p align="center"><small>Swept u</small><small>p at last </small></p> <p align="center"><small>by the Great Housekeeper</small></p> <span style="font-size:78%;"> </span><p style="font-style: italic;" align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Woodville, England</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;"> </span></p> <p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">On a hypochondriac's grave: </span><img src="file:///C:/Users/Owner/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" /></p> <p align="center"><small>See. I told you </small></p> <p align="center"><small>I was SICK!</small></p> <p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Littleton, Colorado</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><br /><small> </small></p><p style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrHQK35KlIyhgWrG9twZ1BtLwYJ8AN3KpA7W47ROdDNIcrIBV75bHDgHFsMYyt3QgmBS0c8Nj7gajtzd3xoIA43cB7kM3oEax0F9aufrdDE-Gx_S2UaAd2HRHWDQW_8Kb0z4eqJsjnQo/s1600-h/smile-600x449.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 271px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrHQK35KlIyhgWrG9twZ1BtLwYJ8AN3KpA7W47ROdDNIcrIBV75bHDgHFsMYyt3QgmBS0c8Nj7gajtzd3xoIA43cB7kM3oEax0F9aufrdDE-Gx_S2UaAd2HRHWDQW_8Kb0z4eqJsjnQo/s320/smile-600x449.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324704060583788194" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: left;"><small>Here lies the body of</small></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;"><small>Jane Gordon</small></p> <div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;"><small>With mouth almighty </small></p><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;"><small>and teeth accordin!</small></p><div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size:78%;"> </span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Marblehead, Massachusetts</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></p><p align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOIR5Ew72VClpfL17hXNkd04Maq4YpZ-Sw2b786R3caHYVg1PcnQlCy6LmC6ztJ7BD_AFWY1dVmHqQm9oalxHky3oNKc_ZJ1eBUrtBptp0yTL4SL6Qut9iObChTDTNxs2u16aO5DPCBs/s1600-h/atheist.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOIR5Ew72VClpfL17hXNkd04Maq4YpZ-Sw2b786R3caHYVg1PcnQlCy6LmC6ztJ7BD_AFWY1dVmHqQm9oalxHky3oNKc_ZJ1eBUrtBptp0yTL4SL6Qut9iObChTDTNxs2u16aO5DPCBs/s320/atheist.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324704367175792386" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><small><br /></small></p><p align="center"><small><br /></small></p><p align="center"><small>Some atheist's claim to fame.</small></p> <p align="center"><small>Here lies </small></p> <p align="center"><small>an Atheist</small></p> <p align="center"><small>All dressed up </small></p> <p align="center"><small>And no place to go.</small></p> <span style="font-size:78%;"> </span><p style="font-style: italic;" align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Thurmont, Maryland</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><small>Here lies the body of poor Aunt Charlotte.</small></p> <p align="center"><small>Born a virgin, died a harlot.</small></p> <p align="center"><small>For 16 years she kept her virginity </small></p> <p align="center"><small>A damn'd long time for this vicinity.</small></p> <span style="font-size:78%;"> </span><p style="font-style: italic;" align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Death Valley, California</span></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"><small>I put my wife beneath this stone</small></p> <p align="center"><small>For her repose and for my own.</small></p> <span style="font-size:78%;"> </span><p style="font-style: italic;" align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Middlebury, Vermont</span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="text-align: left;">And, one of the favorites I heard in childhood:</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavZxIlyuhwZxFLKmQhYWjbRFQh8YuZkbxnXXYPF_YfO1evd-R2BaOmMUGGsiBs6Wuvhw1QZdq0_zS8jkXBHuMFXYvktcdUXutQIhsJAZucD8YtMVUyT8woOZHwwV6c6fu43VwACufw30/s1600-h/lestermoore.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavZxIlyuhwZxFLKmQhYWjbRFQh8YuZkbxnXXYPF_YfO1evd-R2BaOmMUGGsiBs6Wuvhw1QZdq0_zS8jkXBHuMFXYvktcdUXutQIhsJAZucD8YtMVUyT8woOZHwwV6c6fu43VwACufw30/s320/lestermoore.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324706342628873410" border="0" /></a></p> <p align="center"><small>Here lies Lester Moore.</small></p> <p align="center"><small>Four slugs </small></p> <p align="center"><small>From a forty-four.</small></p> <p align="center"><small>No Les</small></p> <p align="center"><small>No More.</small></p> <p><span style="font-size:78%;"> </span></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Boot Hill Cemetery, Tombstone, Arizona</span></p> <p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">For more epitaphs, check out this <a href="http://www.webpanda.com/ponder/epitaphs.htm">cool website.</a></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-63934856820106967112009-04-09T16:39:00.000-07:002009-04-11T09:18:34.277-07:00Poetry Friday: Keeping Secrets and The Old Irish Cemetery<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGifBa1e37uTVtXNWSyCbQw8voQET9DN2XgxFWF_uUgN05Hu8rwRUUaRUCnuQL1IJa09Ko-bFl2PekaIqar6f62H2PVfihWVxdUuCgFhX6yQBRl-dcuBDhAn4Tswvq7k5DLfkSJMQZ6Y/s1600-h/26675-bigthumbnail.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGifBa1e37uTVtXNWSyCbQw8voQET9DN2XgxFWF_uUgN05Hu8rwRUUaRUCnuQL1IJa09Ko-bFl2PekaIqar6f62H2PVfihWVxdUuCgFhX6yQBRl-dcuBDhAn4Tswvq7k5DLfkSJMQZ6Y/s320/26675-bigthumbnail.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322872189039739106" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">This poem, which a friend shared with me many, many years ago<br />is one I find very clever and so very true --<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Keeping Secrets</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">First I put it gen</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">tly in an envelope in my back pocket,<br />but it grew bulky, and sitting on it was uncomfortable for both of us.<br />So I got a bag, one of those that kee</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">ps a quart of ice cream cold,<br />and kept it there until it st</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">arted to swell and leak,<br />and the bottom fell out of the bag.<br />Next I tried a freezer bag with a twist tie,<br />but they're transparent.<br />I knew I needed something bigger and stronger,<br />so I got a shopping bag, with handles,<br />and carried it around with me.<br />That was ok, but my friends all asked me what w</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">as in the bag and got angry when I wouldn't tell them.<br />So I got a carton at the</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> liquor store and stuck it behind the door of my office.<br />That worked for a while, but it got obstreperous,<br />complained all day, insisted on atte</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">ntion when I was trying to work.<br />I took to leaving it in the back seat of the car,<br />but it didn't think much of that either, sulked and chewed up the upholstery.<br />One afternoon on the way home it mooned a state trooper</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">--<br />out of spite I suppose.<br />Christ! I could have been arrested.<br />I built a room onto the garage and brought it breakfast, lunch, and dinner,<br />plumped its pillows and let it do the Sunday crossword puzzle.<br />You think it </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">appreciated that?<br />Fat chance.<br />The last straw came when it kicked in the wall, </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">occupied the garage,<br />refused to let me put the car away,<br />and picked me up and put me </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">gently in an envelope in its<br />back pocket.<br /><br />-- Bruce Petersen<br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * *<br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />I'm thinking about secrets today, because of an incident at the Old Irish Cemetery -- St. Joseph's -- where I usually walk Cooper.<br /><br />We were there today near the little hill where the winter mortuary used to be. Cooper ran over to greet a man we were just about to pass -- the guy had pulled up near where we were walking at the back part of the cemetery.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">He was out of the car and stretching -- 6'2", about 38 years old or so, and handsome in that windblown way some preppy lawyers cultivate --longish dark hair streaked with a little gray, suit pants, but not jacket and a</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> rumpled (but not too rumpled) chambray button-down shirt. There was a combination of charm and good looks about him that most intelligent women recognize and avoid just because you know there's going to be trouble down the road.<br /><br />Cooper ran over to greet him, and just as he </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">reached down to pat him, I saw the heavy gold wedding ring.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I knew right away he was there for a tryst.<br /><br />Sure enough, not ten steps after I passed him, </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">a blue Toyota pulled past us driven by an extraordinary woman -- long brown hair, flawless skin, and an open, smiling face -- absolutely beautiful. She smiled at me and Cooper as she passed, but it was clear she only had eyes for this blueblood. She must have been all of 26 years old.<br /><br />Cooper and I kept walking. For a while they were out of the car -- that's about all I could tell without wal</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">king backward and staring. Eventually I heard a car door close, and I could see they were now both in the Toyota.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjf5t3WJChck-5SN62OcqrkPAKpK_6T3YfMBtMBPe-MxI11DD48UKE8Axyf0NbFo3vIOgqsDI6hv9UiJzA93lfc4-BtjXY-y8fy8m8mAKNeMEinM5p2D4NN3rLeHy5ReOpyvX8XjLy2IQ/s1600-h/kissin'+in+car+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjf5t3WJChck-5SN62OcqrkPAKpK_6T3YfMBtMBPe-MxI11DD48UKE8Axyf0NbFo3vIOgqsDI6hv9UiJzA93lfc4-BtjXY-y8fy8m8mAKNeMEinM5p2D4NN3rLeHy5ReOpyvX8XjLy2IQ/s320/kissin'+in+car+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322873050215864658" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I usually do a couple of turns around the cemetery, an</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">d I considered not walking my usual route past them, but I then I thought -- what the hell? Why should I change my plans? It wasn't like I'd be staring through the car window at them -- my path was taking me about 30 feet away.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">As a general rule, you don't see married couples canoodling in cemeteries. Trust me. I know these things. I've walked this cemetery just about every day for the past two years, and it's about the sixth illicit liaison I've happened upon. These two were making out like teenagers.<br /><br />Generally, these things don't bother me because I'm not particularly judgmental. Cheating to me is not a moral issue --it's a fairness issue. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">I was bothered by this, however. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">I wanted to dope slap them bo</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">th.<br /><br />Instead, other little imaginings presented themselves. Maybe I'd tap on the car window and tell them -- in no uncertain terms, of course -- to leave the holy ground. That made me laugh -- that's what eighty-five year old women do.<br /><br />Then I though about how fun it would be to just stand five feet away from the drivers' side. And just stare. That made me laugh, too. That's what crazy people do.<br /><br />I wondered ho</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">w long it would have taken them to notice me standing there claiming to not be passing judgment.<br /><br />In the end, I just kept walking. They left when they saw me making my way past their parking spot for the third time.<br /><br />Ha! At least I got in my 10,000 steps for today.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://carolwscorner.blogspot.com/"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdC7eEsuCsl-V7eHyy7OU7M-6lI83j71DCYe9E_apWIyGdNSn20n_88lFLe7Mp3LyaZPJUoXqa8hn37LAI8PA4X3eQYyMMlCJdcMciHrTiwNrFunCq8g7GeVXeGOWUaQWHd0ZLhH5wLs/s320/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322871771823254786" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Today's Poetry Friday is being hosted by Carol over at her <a href="http://carolwscorner.blogspot.com/">corner</a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-33503725672457528392009-04-02T18:11:00.000-07:002009-04-03T04:58:54.165-07:00Poetry Friday: Pangur Ban<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGXzRpX_uakteiHnsl769oz0TrGhHQE2_arN9h1BXvIbpiU4zL4kSohf1pSpbWUGe2VIx0nZmogKEkjNqeiPZpUZA5P27XMKJilvTRFuWti2pLH-h7tGP99NBhUP3MpdLKGXfxGjkI1w/s1600-h/pangur+ban+manuscript.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGXzRpX_uakteiHnsl769oz0TrGhHQE2_arN9h1BXvIbpiU4zL4kSohf1pSpbWUGe2VIx0nZmogKEkjNqeiPZpUZA5P27XMKJilvTRFuWti2pLH-h7tGP99NBhUP3MpdLKGXfxGjkI1w/s320/pangur+ban+manuscript.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320278766532965682" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Myself and Pangur, cat and sage</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Go each about our business;</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />I harass my beloved page,</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />He his mouse.</span><p style="font-family: georgia;"> Fame comes second to the peace<br />Of study, a still day<br />Unenvying, Pangur's choice<br />Is child's play.</p><p style="font-family: georgia;"> Neither bored, both hone<br />At home a separate skill<br />Moving after hours alone<br />To the kill</p><p style="font-family: georgia;"> When at last his net wraps<br />After a sly fight<br />Around a mouse; mine traps<br />Sudden insight.</p><p style="font-family: georgia;"> On my cell wall here,<br />His sight fixes, burning,<br />Searching; my old eyes peer<br />At new learning,</p><p style="font-family: georgia;"> And his delight when his claws<br />Close on his prey<br />Equals mine when sudden clues<br />Light my way.</p><p style="font-family: georgia;"> So we find by degrees<br />Peace in solitude,<br />Both of us, solitaries,<br />Have each the trade</p><span style="font-family:georgia;"> He loves: Pangur, never idle</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Day or night</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Hunts mic</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">e; I hunt each riddle</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />From dark to light.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"> -- Unknown 9th Century Irish Monk</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"> <br /> translated from Irish by Eavan Boland</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLngsxWkYexdrm-vB3w49sne_qabobBScFyb41Q4oRX6uEwVgQr3ZIIFp5f3_eKnM0saIc8an_u6rof7xViy3t1OjFFfoyGt4yovs6ffycV_AgEDczM6UJeKxKkkdvAMfzygV-hSs3aFg/s1600-h/pangur+monk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLngsxWkYexdrm-vB3w49sne_qabobBScFyb41Q4oRX6uEwVgQr3ZIIFp5f3_eKnM0saIc8an_u6rof7xViy3t1OjFFfoyGt4yovs6ffycV_AgEDczM6UJeKxKkkdvAMfzygV-hSs3aFg/s320/pangur+monk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320276864994645890" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">There are ma</span><span style="font-family:georgia;">ny translations of this poem, written by an Irish Monk in the Monastery of St Paul, Carinthia, Austria. It was written in the</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> margins of an illuminated manuscript.</span> You can find the original Irish version <a href="http://homepages.wmich.edu/%7Ecooneys/poems/pangur.oldirish.html">here</a>. <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><br />Pangur Ban means white cat.<br /><br />Another monk, </span><span style=";font-family:arial,helvetica,verdana,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >Bartolomaeus Anglicus (Bartholomew the Englishman), a 13th c. Franciscan monk and encyclopedist who wrote</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> this entry describing, in part, the <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.fisheaters.com/pangurban.html">cat</a>.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial,helvetica,verdana,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >And hath a great mouth and saw teeth and sharp and long tongue and pliant, thin, and subtle. <br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial,helvetica,verdana,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >And lappeth therewith when he drinketh... And he is a full </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial,helvetica,verdana,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >lecherous in youth, swift, pliant and merry, and leapeth and rusheth on everything that is before him and is led by a straw, and playeth there</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial,helvetica,verdana,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >with;<br /><br />and is a right heavy beast in age and full sleepy, and lieth slyly in wait for mice and is aware where they be mor</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial,helvetica,verdana,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >e by smell than by sight, and hunteth and rusheth on them in privy places.<br /><br />And when he taketh a mouse, he playeth therewith, and eateth him after the play.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtLtrTWPQX1q92G_fnsGZDjBtwjvpIYDp7KdFuVbbV6ZOhMBO8UeP8_7vGoxpzbQnPOWog6_y_XbhelckdJ7bbMDVXB8lDNsupahSxlmez_TsGOeXlI05MZqjpq-U1WtizMF7xz2RzhF0/s1600-h/pangur+ban+stalking.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtLtrTWPQX1q92G_fnsGZDjBtwjvpIYDp7KdFuVbbV6ZOhMBO8UeP8_7vGoxpzbQnPOWog6_y_XbhelckdJ7bbMDVXB8lDNsupahSxlmez_TsGOeXlI05MZqjpq-U1WtizMF7xz2RzhF0/s320/pangur+ban+stalking.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320276177713673874" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />The illustrations pictured above are not from that manuscript as far as I know, but you can read more about <span style="font-style: italic;">Pangur Ban's </span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">history <a href="http://www.fisheaters.com/pangurban.html">here</a>.</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBL-_pB2HJYs805PLwi4qlrQ4c1TN89lfpTuwklglqy2ZhhB6pdykavf4j7e-XNUqb1-3HFFR-7lnq0-gVM3NDJa_tmHJLadBhtRsnVKbHILdOVbjozVKPZwn33SxD56HC8PrtGUcxH9A/s1600-h/poetryfridaybutton.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBL-_pB2HJYs805PLwi4qlrQ4c1TN89lfpTuwklglqy2ZhhB6pdykavf4j7e-XNUqb1-3HFFR-7lnq0-gVM3NDJa_tmHJLadBhtRsnVKbHILdOVbjozVKPZwn33SxD56HC8PrtGUcxH9A/s320/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320277902706008546" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Poetry Friday is being hosted today by Amy over at <a href="http://ayuddha.net/2009/04/03/poetry/#comments"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Ayuddha</span></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-73836732575722665002009-03-30T16:46:00.000-07:002009-04-13T06:47:54.505-07:00Illustrator Chris Sheban<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXHN-NBZyvdhHDRcEjUvvsVe-2xRp3Qhh0MFQVcs453vd_hwtOpwWa3njiAhGL6k9-yPVBRcsPRsyIvIH9zuAZtt5OvUYutP7ag3FO5qY6qZTgnUHnB8Kcs_wGGNCa-jszUx2pdeQNBo/s1600-h/chrisshebanhunting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXHN-NBZyvdhHDRcEjUvvsVe-2xRp3Qhh0MFQVcs453vd_hwtOpwWa3njiAhGL6k9-yPVBRcsPRsyIvIH9zuAZtt5OvUYutP7ag3FO5qY6qZTgnUHnB8Kcs_wGGNCa-jszUx2pdeQNBo/s320/chrisshebanhunting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319135682906701170" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Chris Sheban is one of my favorite illustrators -- among his books, <span style="font-style: italic;">Catching the Moon, Red Fox at McCloskey's Farm, </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">Story of the Seagull and the Cat Who Taught Her To Fly.</span><br /><br />His work has a certain quality of light I enjoy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXqQDpAdMSIwaVasWUZ-xIe1LS5523_t8llT7apTec7DqQQawlAwRxY5RNBfBtiogE-lAqv_rDn8A7-ZinjSE8_5_ev_oorkDvRiG1SooC39gakbknv4GPzW7ffQ0e8Nk1zI-atKllX8o/s1600-h/chrisshebanfoxnchickens1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 253px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXqQDpAdMSIwaVasWUZ-xIe1LS5523_t8llT7apTec7DqQQawlAwRxY5RNBfBtiogE-lAqv_rDn8A7-ZinjSE8_5_ev_oorkDvRiG1SooC39gakbknv4GPzW7ffQ0e8Nk1zI-atKllX8o/s320/chrisshebanfoxnchickens1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319135556630319330" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheuD2UYSrRYHrAX3HxlO7lvlYd_tIfTb31VQoERvTi7_p3bRNuuRy2yOtxGAJr-ELSKzyfaDAda2swkJ1RaUo0Bm82gSmCfqd0dgZW3O5LBZR44gQe_btAJxoO7pdnv1wjt-dPlFdw04Q/s1600-h/chrisshebanchickenncab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheuD2UYSrRYHrAX3HxlO7lvlYd_tIfTb31VQoERvTi7_p3bRNuuRy2yOtxGAJr-ELSKzyfaDAda2swkJ1RaUo0Bm82gSmCfqd0dgZW3O5LBZR44gQe_btAJxoO7pdnv1wjt-dPlFdw04Q/s320/chrisshebanchickenncab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319133759690134978" border="0" /></a><br />Plus, he's funny as heck.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I haven't been able to find out much about his life, although I do know he's kind of young.<br />You can see Chris's website by clicking <a href="http://chrissheban.com/CHRIS_SHEBAN/HOME.html">here</a>.<br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/Owner/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-45749881752700503222009-03-27T05:18:00.000-07:002009-03-27T05:34:25.657-07:00Poetry Friday: I Meant To Do My Work TodayI meant to do my work today,<br />But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,<br />And a butterfly flitted across the field,<br />And all the leaves were calling me.<br />And the wind went sighing over the land,<br />Tossing the grasses to and fro,<br />And a rainbow held out its shining hand,<br />So what could I do but laugh and go?<br /><br /> -- Richard LeGallienne<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghm1u7QVD_9YX_XKEAUm6ymGqafdgRmfsqy9fD0OHZkTly9b3paZ356TeCrxYgaTCGxDmsrxpWOuMgvQIMy_Ht_vbXJk10_ckO0CuzV6KKVaPEwpObw3FnFD8TCWnQv3m_1KCW6fTDr9Y/s1600-h/appletree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghm1u7QVD_9YX_XKEAUm6ymGqafdgRmfsqy9fD0OHZkTly9b3paZ356TeCrxYgaTCGxDmsrxpWOuMgvQIMy_Ht_vbXJk10_ckO0CuzV6KKVaPEwpObw3FnFD8TCWnQv3m_1KCW6fTDr9Y/s320/appletree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317843192322567954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I've been thinking about work and self-discipline this week. This is a poem that's been a favorite since I was a kid. Right now I have lots of projects I'm working on. I would love to just laugh and go, but for now, I can only read this poem. For another poem about work, visit <a href="http://www.thewritesisters.blogspot.com/">The Write Sisters here</a>.<br /><br />Poetry Friday is being hosted by Julie Larios over <a href="http://julielarios.blogspot.com/">here </a>at <a href="http://julielarios.blogspot.com/">The Drift Record</a>. Check it out!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-79472043775712935732009-03-21T06:18:00.000-07:002009-03-21T06:39:03.367-07:00Poetry Friday: Bellbirds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-XUWH0NUR3hC4wnbWm6Zb7-zoqHaS1BbMq1XfBmz47L73kjhslOGONNxdemd15mGLX1Lfbhv0T_LK573DWgcb4G07xgUxhvrRritolCKzcFHQdlvfHtjRJjSZkJY7CV8vpAgPzaR0Y8/s1600-h/melissaellisonflickr.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-XUWH0NUR3hC4wnbWm6Zb7-zoqHaS1BbMq1XfBmz47L73kjhslOGONNxdemd15mGLX1Lfbhv0T_LK573DWgcb4G07xgUxhvrRritolCKzcFHQdlvfHtjRJjSZkJY7CV8vpAgPzaR0Y8/s320/melissaellisonflickr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315630396813402114" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,<br />And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling<br />It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges<br />Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">These lyrical opening lines are from a poem by Australian poet Henry Ken<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaD39Gplktfg_TFZ_9_EwDV23V66Gfiqib3h9SKuQHzQa4D-3EduKcZc4RIiW7Uog4xOBCqhUch1Opwtx4kW9X4byatRkzpTyQnpzDz5-dKMR5SKRC_A0u71oLiZn8elN1zAFqr__rLKw/s1600-h/bellbirds.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaD39Gplktfg_TFZ_9_EwDV23V66Gfiqib3h9SKuQHzQa4D-3EduKcZc4RIiW7Uog4xOBCqhUch1Opwtx4kW9X4byatRkzpTyQnpzDz5-dKMR5SKRC_A0u71oLiZn8elN1zAFqr__rLKw/s320/bellbirds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315634151836123762" border="0" /></a>dall, who lived in the mid 19th century. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Bellbirds </span><span style="font-size:85%;">is an iconic poem of Australia. I found it many years ago, and put just these lines in my poem journal. You can read the rest <a href="http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/2001/kendall0101.html">here</a>.<br /><br />These are bellbirds</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdXp3DyDie08yOK284bRiPWXVwBpkOVAKpvRLo_MDWAZKkm4ivKQr8_UGHJ-7Re8vzgjMI60cBypAeXzNVYFkzgHyQKLFpnq_gwuUuLBszeXq1ro0pB8QFmGiYT6OBkzYCe_-Nh2yHb0/s1600-h/bellbird1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 98px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdXp3DyDie08yOK284bRiPWXVwBpkOVAKpvRLo_MDWAZKkm4ivKQr8_UGHJ-7Re8vzgjMI60cBypAeXzNVYFkzgHyQKLFpnq_gwuUuLBszeXq1ro0pB8QFmGiYT6OBkzYCe_-Nh2yHb0/s320/bellbird1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315633425256133378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The beautiful photograph of the waterfall was taken by Australian photographer, Melissa Ellison. You can see the rest of her Flickr photostream <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/melellison/2746337204/in/photostream/">here</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-49473716813622014342009-03-17T12:50:00.000-07:002009-03-17T12:57:34.777-07:00Happy St Patrick's Day!Irish Step-Dancers are a real treat! The person who tagged the title on this video got it wrong. These are step-dancing chimps, not monkeys. They are Irish, however, so he or she at least got <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> right . . .<br /><br />I'm off to downtown Manchester this afternoon for a couple of pints of Guinness. Enjoy!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/44Y-_JAjAwE&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/44Y-_JAjAwE&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-4394226671903539978.post-10129434469104977692009-03-13T12:01:00.000-07:002009-03-13T05:23:51.214-07:00Poetry Friday: High Flight<dl><dd><br /></dd><dd><span style="font-family:georgia;">Before you read this, you will want to watch the astonishing Wing Suit video in the post directly below this one. What a rush! Don't miss it . . .<br /></span></dd></dl><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >High Flight</span><dl><dt><br /></dt><dd>Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth</dd><dd>And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;</dd><dd>Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth</dd><dd>of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things</dd><dd>You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung</dd><dd>High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,</dd><dd>I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung</dd><dd>My eager craft through footless halls of air....</dd></dl> <dl><dd>Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue</dd><dd>I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace</dd><dd>Where never lark nor even eagle flew—</dd><dd>And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod</dd><dd>The high untrespassed sanctity of space,</dd><dd>Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.</dd></dl><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><br /> -- John Gillespie Magee, Jr.<br /><br />If you'd like to read more about Magee's tragically short life and this poem, check out a brief <a href="http://www.skygod.com/quotes/highflight.html">biography</a>.<br /><br /><br />There are some great still aerial images of Boston.com's featured photographer <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.boston.com/community/photos/raw/Birds_of_a_feather.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.boston.com/community/photos/raw/2008/09/photographer_of_the_week_brian.html&usg=__fEVbfWSCO32ak1jl-ewnCo7_1ws=&h=913&w=609&sz=95&hl=en&start=41&sig2=y4y1Oi-Zno5pyZyqrsiMVA&tbnid=LveumAB2-Ox59M:&tbnh=147&tbnw=98&ei=pqW5SaP7N46qsAP4i_Q3&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dwing%2Bsuits%26gbv%3D2%26ndsp%3D18%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26start%3D36">Brian Buckland</a>.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9WV4IEUzxxoshShEaK9Wn3Vv3iXeH-LUVFqNaTIwbicLEKjJUO5B1yK-RUi_uzBxgp6vls0RdMs3vXLqE1HrD2cNCWcJ-MnkKkGp4vuyuBihikX4cmL12BGDqiXqCAEey8hvxvgXe-k/s1600-h/poetryfridaybutton.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9WV4IEUzxxoshShEaK9Wn3Vv3iXeH-LUVFqNaTIwbicLEKjJUO5B1yK-RUi_uzBxgp6vls0RdMs3vXLqE1HrD2cNCWcJ-MnkKkGp4vuyuBihikX4cmL12BGDqiXqCAEey8hvxvgXe-k/s320/poetryfridaybutton.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312453789303080530" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Thanks to Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect for hosting today's Poetry Friday. Click <a href="http://missrumphiuseffect.blogspot.com/">here </a>to see this week's offerings.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4394226671903539978.post-16100260490691174142009-03-11T17:12:00.000-07:002009-03-14T05:11:34.350-07:00Wing Suit Base JumpingI haven't had a good flying dream in a very long time. Watching this video sort of makes up for it. Amazing stuff. Just amazing. <br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ttz5oPpF1Js&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ttz5oPpF1Js&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0