“There’s Room In Our Soul”
*****************
You Are the Dreamer and the Dream
Come Join the EVER and FLOW IN THIS STREAM
There’s Room In Our Soul
As as we just LET GO
MIND, BODY, SPIRT
Is the Place To be
Combine them together to complete the thee
FLOWING HORIZONS we can ever spend
Eye’s 5 º from center to join the bridge of “send”
ALONESS to combine LAYERS brings AL ONE NESS
Then in that Moment of AT-ONE-MENT this is one to bless
There are many levels of LOVE to SEE … One must say
Narcisstic, Romantic, Philio and Agape
So … Clusters of Crimes weave thru this nest of doves
So we re-discover
this is WHY WE LOVE
------------
so the to-do list I just made is three feet long, but at least I have one. I've been hiding in a cloud of avoidance ever since I ate turkeys. (yes, I got into more than one.) but turkeys are not to blame. it takes a while to reconcile with one's lot, so to speak. and when one is re-conciliating, one cannot simultaneously strive. one is not built that way. does one ever reconcile? does one reconcile too much or too little? does one reconcile too much where little is called for and too little when much is called for?
Say, what gives? On my old Vox blog—you know, the one they don’t let me use any more for no apparent reason—I could embed a small widget (as can all of us) on the sidebar. I used mine to promote Lucire:
So, logically, since this Vox blog is named for the magazine, I should use the same code and do the same thing.I got the code, and copied and pasted it in to the embed field. This is the code, which is no real secret:
<a href="http://lucire.com/2007/subscribe.shtml"><img src="http://lucire.com/2009/0906-lucire27-63.jpg" width="63" height="90" border="0" alt="Subscribe to Lucire"></a>
Here’s what results:
That is certainly not what the code has in it, as anyone with a day’s knowledge of HTML will tell you. Is Vox taking the piss?I tell you, this service is getting weirder by the day.
- 00:12 @MrsSarahWeaver i'm going for this: www.parliamentofreligions.org/ it ought to be interesting. a zoo, but interesting. #
- 00:13 @EffervescentG dictionary.reference.com/browse/twee #
Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter
When I had a Monday-Friday job, Saturday was naturally laundry day. Every week I would have to ask Mr FD to carry the laundry hamper downstairs for me, as it was often too heavy for my back. May I repeat, EVERY Saturday I had to ASK Mr FD to bring down the laundry hamper from our bathroom.
Now, I don't have a Monday to Friday routine, and I do laundry during the week, trying to leave the weekends free. You know, just in case the last threads of our sanity tear and we give in to spontaneity, heaven forbid!
NOW that I no longer do laundry on a Saturday, every Saturday without fail, WITHOUT A REQUEST, Mr FD brings down the laundry hamper and places it with pride in the middle of our small laundry. It sits there like a dog poop on your priceless heirloom rug. I say nothing, trying to ignore it, but oddly enough it makes me want to rip his throat out.
I do not do the laundry. It sits there until the day I do, in the meantime, our dirty clothes mount up on the floor of our bathroom. I prefer not to say anything as when I am back in the work force I will no doubt want him to bring that damn laundry hamper down each and every Saturday again.
I just want to know - does he know what he is doing? Is he playing games with me - stirring the lizard he calls it. Passive aggressive games of marriage...sigh. Or did he just finally get the message through his damn thick skull and is now probably wondering why I am not postulating myself at his feet in gratitude?
Is it him, or is it me? I know, it's him. It is always him.
I've been watching a lot of old B&W movies lately. They all involve murder. I just realized that Hitchcock's Sabotage is based on Conrad's Secret Agent. The latter is my favorite of Conrad's novels. The film is not as haunting as the novel, largely because there is no detective (maybe there is--I read it many years ago--but it's not important) in the novel. The line that has stuck in my mind goes something like this: life does not stand much looking into. That is the horror: there is no detective in life.
I ate my first papaya today. I must have had papaya before, but this is the first one I cut open. It's odd that I have never had one before this. Even this one was given to me by someone else. I don't have anything against papayas. In fact this is the first time I've noticed the faint aroma and the mild favor of its flesh. Its blandness is intriguing. I think I've never had it before because it falls somewhere between a melon and a pear and therefore through a mental crack. Now it has finally found a place in my symbolic order.
What else? I am tired, despite a day spent in doing almost nothing. I bought things like toothpaste and supplements at the drug store. I do not like my own recorded voice or moving image. I am running out of This American Life episodes for the road.
I don’t know why I bother checking Vox every day under the old Jack Yan account. It blocked me for a full 24-hour period over Thursday and Friday, and it is still down now, though I managed to get in a couple of posts this morning.
Part of me wants it to continue because I have it linked from a lot of places, and it is “my” space, rather than Lucire’s.
And since we said nice things about the second-generation Toyota Prius in Lucire in 2004, it almost seems inappropriate to post the following on the first-generation model (as I did to Tumblr today):
