The Beachcomber (also called The Vessel of Wrath, after the W. Somerset Maugham story) is a British comedy produced in 1938, starring the incomparable Charles Laughton and Elsa Lanchester, who were actually married. Laughton is a likable, filandering lush lolling around an East Indies island and Lanchester is the spacey missionary who tries to reform him. The main character's performances are perfect, Laughton's facial expressions are unforgettable. The script is good as well, warm and funny.
Some memorable lines:
I suppose I'm jealous of the reckless way he squanders the priceless treasure of life.
Oh, dry up you blubbering monkey.
That old clothesline ties me up in knots every time she comes near me.
You sentimental suction pump.
I suppose there must be some good in a man who is kind to his dog and keeps his mustache tidy.
Friday, May 30
Wednesday, May 28
Football Song
Although I only learned of the Hibernian Football Club yesterday while searching Youtube for a full length version of Sunshine on Leith, this clip makes me want to be a fan.
Reviewlet: The Shipping News
Published in 1993, The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx has been around for a while and even won a Pulitzer prize, but I'd never heard of it. I spied it on someone's bookshelf, absconded with it, was completely engrossed for a week and didn't want the story to end. The language is incredibly vibrant, the characters are believable but memorable and the setting, a fishing town in Newfoundland, is fascinating. The story line is also good, but I think vivid language steals the show. I'd give it 4.5 out of 5 stars. Perfect but for profanity and other adult content."Used to say there was four women in every man's heart. The Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stouthearted Woman, the Tall and Quiet Woman. It was just a thing he said."
"Was love then like a bag of assorted sweets passed around from which one might choose more than once? Some might sting the tongue, some invoke night perfume. Some had centers as bitter as gall, some blended honey and poison, some were quickly swallowed. And among the common bull's-eyes and peppermints a few rare ones; one or two with deadly needles at the heart, another that brought calm and gentle pleasure. Were his fingers closing on that one?"
Tuesday, May 27
Emily D., on trying to find the right words
I found the phrase to every thought
I ever had, but one;
And that defies me, -- as a hand
Did try to chalk the sun
To races nurtured in the dark; --
How would your own begin?
Can blaze be done in cochineal,
Or noon in mazarin?
The thought beneath so slight a film
Is more distinctly seen, --
As laces just reveal the surge
Or mists the Apennine.
Thursday, May 22
Conspiracy Theory
Popeye the Sailor Man was an advertising ploy designed to boost canned spinach sales. How else could anyone conceive the notion of popping the top off of a can of spinach and tossing the putrid green mess down one's throat cold, without butter, salt and a bucket in which to vomit. The stuff is naaaassty.
Wednesday, May 21
A Partial List of What I Like About Today
1. The inestimably fresh smell of cucumbers, strawberries, mint, lemon, ginger, lavender and cut grass.
2. The song of a rose breasted grosbeak.
3. Two red winged blackbirds plummeting and rising in sync like jets in an air show.
4. Swallowtails and fritillaries, the first of the season.
5. Feeling a Friesian's velvety muzzle and ears.
6. Dandelions dotting the face of a green field like freckles.
Tuesday, May 20
Prologue to "The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho
The Alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.
The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who daily knelt beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.
But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.
He said that when Narcissus died, the Goddesses of the Forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
"Why do you weep?" the Goddesses asked.
"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.
"Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."
"But..... was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.
"Who better than you to know that?" the Goddesses said in wonder, "After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!"
The lake was silent for some time. Finally it said:
"I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."
"What a lovely story," the alchemist thought.
The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who daily knelt beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.
But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.
He said that when Narcissus died, the Goddesses of the Forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
"Why do you weep?" the Goddesses asked.
"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.
"Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."
"But..... was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.
"Who better than you to know that?" the Goddesses said in wonder, "After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!"
The lake was silent for some time. Finally it said:
"I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."
"What a lovely story," the alchemist thought.
Monday, May 19
Film History: The Seventh Seal
The Seventh Seal was filmed in 1957 by Swedish director Ingmar Bergman. A disillusioned knight and his squire return from the Crusades to find their homeland ravaged by the Black Plague. Death literally stalks the land. The knight, Antonius Block, challenges Death to a game of chess. With the time he gains, Block hopes to do something to render his life significant and he seeks to learn if God exists. The movie is characterized by heavy subject matter, slow action and haunting images.
Friday, May 16
Imagine There's No Heaven
I recently read a book in which the author suggested that the new Jerusalem in Revelation 21 is not an eternal resting place, but a description of Christ's bride, the body of His believers. The author's concept of Heaven is a renewed earth; one that is brighter and more beautiful because it has been freed from the shadow of evil.
Although the description of the new Jerusalem sounds like a place to me, complete with dimensions and building materials, I'm willing to accept new possibilities of what might be. After all, St. Augustine conjectured that the universe may exist only in the mind of God and that time does not exist at all. Admitting possibilities like these and acknowledging that we don't have all the answers makes existence more interesting.
Heaven seems more real if I picture it being on this earth. Everything would be familiar, but better than what we're used to. Frankly, I like this picture a lot more than the one where I imagine myself going up, somewhere, to live in an unimaginable place.
Maybe this is because I think Earth could hardly be improved on. Oh, cars and roads and other results of the curse would have to go, but nature itself, what was here to begin with, is ideal. If Chestnut Hill with it's lilacs in blossom, indigo buntings and bluebirds was my eternal home I would be satisfied.
Of course, some fantastical changes would be fun. Rivers flowing with diamonds rather than water. Flowers big enough to sleep in. Seven multi colored moons, that sort of thing.
Oh, and flying. Not the Clarence-the-angel, flap flap, I got my wings kind of flying, but the soaring/floating/hovering of my dreams. Running a short distance, jumping up and off the ground, touching down like a plane, trying again and at last gently lifting. Barely making it over the trees then getting more air under me, being pushed higher and higher to float stilly with the trees far below.
Maybe everyone's Heaven will be a little different. Maybe it will exist only in my mind. If that's the case I won't need streets of gold, because I'm going to fly.
Thursday, May 15
80's Cartoons
My parents believe that watching TV makes young children dumber so we didn't have one until somewhere around 1990. Even then it was only used for movies. I think that was a good decision on my parent's part. My brother and I had to amuse ourselves and we ended up reading a lot.
But when we had opportunities to watch TV-at Ethel's while she and my mom visited, at friend's houses or at a babysitter's-it was like magic. We were transfixed. The memory of those shows still holds a little magic.
Here are my favorites:
Here are my favorites:
Smurfs
Inspector Gadget
G.I. Joe
Transformers
Teddy Ruxpin
Fraggle Rock
He-Man
She-Ra
Wednesday, May 14
Moose Droppings, Muskrat
Frank: Hey Ames, Kenny just brought me a whole bunch of spoor to identify.
Amy: Oh, ummmm...
Frank: Not just a little bit, either. Sometimes it's hard to identify because there's not much but he brought over a whole big pile of it.
Amy: Wow.
Frank: We think it's moose.
Kenny: Yup.
Frank: Yeah, we decided it's not Sasquatch.
Amy: Please tell me you're joking.
Frank: Ha ha ha! I knew you'd appreciate that. (sniffing) That scent you have on is special.
Amy: Thank--
Frank: It comes from a muskrat.
Amy: BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!
Frank: Well, come on now, it does.
Amy: (laughing) Yes...yes
Frank: Musk rats have a scent sack under the tail and when you catch them it smells just like that.
Amy: Ha ha ha! Special like a muskrat...
Tuesday, May 13
Vegans
For about 10 minutes this morning, between breakfast when I had milk with my cereal and when I packed my lunch, I was a vegan. Some friends of mine have gone from vegetarian to vegan and they like the results; or Loralee does anyway. She looks great and says she feels better. Sooooo, I thought, why not give it a try?
But when I told my mom she disuaded me. "Fish is good for you", she said. "It's brain food. Jesus ate a lot of fish." Oh, yeah. It hadn't really registered in my mind that being vegan would mean not eating fish. That would be really hard now that I've got tuna sandwiches nailed down. Add capers, dill and a dash of lemon juice, in a wheat pita with lettuce, tomatoes and cheddar cheese (optional). Yes, please.
So the vegan lifestyle was even shorter lived than my usual whims and fancies, which doesn't make my resolve look very good, but at least I enjoyed a great lunch.
Film History: Nosferatu
Nosferatu, the first vampire movie, was released in 1922. Although the music, silly special effects and jerky motion of the reel make it laughable, it has some genuinely creepy moments. And some memorable lines.
"Is that your wife? What a lovely throat!"
"Blood! Your precious blood!"
"That same night in Bremen, in a somnambulistic dream..." (I'll bet that word hasn't been seen or heard in a movie since).
"Is that your wife? What a lovely throat!"
"Blood! Your precious blood!"
"That same night in Bremen, in a somnambulistic dream..." (I'll bet that word hasn't been seen or heard in a movie since).
Monday, May 12
Tip of the Day
Your barking dog recording isn't fooling anyone, neighbor. All it's doing is annoying me, so you might as well turn it off and reduce your electric bill.
Friday, May 9
Why My Mom Rocks
1. My mom has a great imagination and has always encouraged creativity.
She believes trees have feelings and spirits. One of her crusades is liberating trees from nails and other hardware. “Did you hear her?” she says after pulling out a nail, “She gave a sigh of relief.”
She is convinced that our dogs could talk if she trained them.
To get me to brush my teeth when I was little she said I had bugs crawling around my mouth that only she could see. It worked.
My mom would point out little hollows in tree trunks or other habitable looking nooks in the woods and say forest people lived there. If Andy or I doubted their existence, she wouldn't back down, but said "They might be real. Who knows?" She also left the door open for believing in Santa Claus, saying that his spirit existed so in a way he did, too. I think that's a generous gift to give a child, to whom Santa Claus is tantamount to God.
Another gift she gave me was believing my stories, or at least pretending she believed. When I fabricated grand tales without the least shred of truth and claimed them as personal experience, instead of calling my bluff she listened calmly, said "uh-huh" and encouraged me to put it on paper.
She is one-eighth Micmac and used to pretend that she knew the language. “Haya hoo clemenocho”, she’d say, “That’s Micmac for come inside and get cleaned up." I was impressed.
2. My mom has a highly developed sense of adventure.
She went swimming during the tail end of hurricane Andrew and convinced me to go with her. Even the surfers in their wetsuits hung back looking afraid, but my mom ran into the 9 foot surf, yelling, "Isn’t this fun!" and miraculously, we were not swept away.
During one of my birthday sleepovers she bravely suggested taking the whole group of adolescent girls for a midnight walk. Wearing our pajamas, we giggled our way to a graveyard down the road and had a grand time scaring ourselves silly. Some of the girls’ parents pitched a fit when they heard about our excursion, but that party beat my peers' birthday parties hands down.
A trip to the beach turned into a late night when our car got locked inside Parker Wildlife Refuge on Plum Island. My mom got my brother and me excited about sleeping under the sky, being lulled to sleep by the waves and even rationing food. I think we were all disappointed when the marine patrol came by around midnight and let us out.
3. My mom had a relaxed, common sense approach to mothering.
She allowed Andy and me to play all afternoon in the woods, the swamp, by the stream, on King Rock or with other kids in the neighborhood as long as we were home before dark. I don't remember her questioning us much, either, when we absconded with the supplies necessary for our activities. A box for treasure, boards, hammer and nails for making swords, a magnifying glass for burning ants: my mom didn't worry unnecessarily about material things.
She didn't make a big fuss over minor injuries, either. My mom's stock response to bloodied knees was, "It's just a scratch. Rub it." Once, I received a bad scrape while I was playing at Lindsay's house. I clearly recall the sense of pride I felt when, without any falderal, I washed my wound off with a hose and Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Holland kindly admired my bravery.
My mom enabled me to laugh at certain childhood boogey men, like fear of the dark. "There's nothing there that can hurt you", she would say. And wild animals? "They're more afraid of you then you are of them."
When I was in the 6th grade my class went to the kind of camp where one "encounters" nature. One of the encounters involved finding our way back to the cabins after dark from a trail in the woods. We couldn't get lost because there was a rope to follow, but some of the kids broke down. I mean, they were immobilized and had to be rescued by teachers with flashlights while I, thanks to my mom, could have spent the night out there.
4. My mom is a good citizen.
For approximately 10 years she has picked up litter on the stretch of road between our house and Klondike Corner. That's two miles round trip, at least half of a plastic grocery bag per trip, about five days a week, rain or shine...I don't know how much trash that amounts to, but it's more than her fair share. That makes her a hero in my eyes.
5. My mom really moves.
Walking, swimming, cycling, dancing, hiking, yoga-ing and pumping iron are her regular activities. She's an inspiration and a great example of wellness. She's the reason I appreciate exercise.
6. My mom is passionate about nature.
Another gift my mother has given me is an appreciation for nature. She can name wild flowers. She protects and cherishes certain plants on our property, like lady's slippers, as if she knows them personally. My mother is putting the chestnut back in Chestnut Hill. Literally. I know what winterberries taste like because of my mom. I can't count the number of times we've hiked Plum Trail or down to the Pulpit. Enjoying nature and the outdoors is one of life's greatest pleasures. And I love enjoying it with my mom.
7. My mom knows proper etiquette.
She refers to the bible of etiquette, an Emily Post guide from the 50's, for manners protocol. She knows the correct way to use a spoon and she always sends thank you cards. At one time our family was involved with a home schooling group. Some of the parents taught classes--geography, math, science. My mom taught etiquette. She had students practice walking with books on our heads for good posture, taught us how to set a table properly and how to get in and out of a car while wearing a skirt. Most of the math, science and geography I learned flew the coop long ago, but I sure do remember those etiquette lessons.
8. She just does.
She believes trees have feelings and spirits. One of her crusades is liberating trees from nails and other hardware. “Did you hear her?” she says after pulling out a nail, “She gave a sigh of relief.”
She is convinced that our dogs could talk if she trained them.
To get me to brush my teeth when I was little she said I had bugs crawling around my mouth that only she could see. It worked.
My mom would point out little hollows in tree trunks or other habitable looking nooks in the woods and say forest people lived there. If Andy or I doubted their existence, she wouldn't back down, but said "They might be real. Who knows?" She also left the door open for believing in Santa Claus, saying that his spirit existed so in a way he did, too. I think that's a generous gift to give a child, to whom Santa Claus is tantamount to God.
Another gift she gave me was believing my stories, or at least pretending she believed. When I fabricated grand tales without the least shred of truth and claimed them as personal experience, instead of calling my bluff she listened calmly, said "uh-huh" and encouraged me to put it on paper.
She is one-eighth Micmac and used to pretend that she knew the language. “Haya hoo clemenocho”, she’d say, “That’s Micmac for come inside and get cleaned up." I was impressed.
2. My mom has a highly developed sense of adventure.
She went swimming during the tail end of hurricane Andrew and convinced me to go with her. Even the surfers in their wetsuits hung back looking afraid, but my mom ran into the 9 foot surf, yelling, "Isn’t this fun!" and miraculously, we were not swept away.
During one of my birthday sleepovers she bravely suggested taking the whole group of adolescent girls for a midnight walk. Wearing our pajamas, we giggled our way to a graveyard down the road and had a grand time scaring ourselves silly. Some of the girls’ parents pitched a fit when they heard about our excursion, but that party beat my peers' birthday parties hands down.
A trip to the beach turned into a late night when our car got locked inside Parker Wildlife Refuge on Plum Island. My mom got my brother and me excited about sleeping under the sky, being lulled to sleep by the waves and even rationing food. I think we were all disappointed when the marine patrol came by around midnight and let us out.
3. My mom had a relaxed, common sense approach to mothering.
She allowed Andy and me to play all afternoon in the woods, the swamp, by the stream, on King Rock or with other kids in the neighborhood as long as we were home before dark. I don't remember her questioning us much, either, when we absconded with the supplies necessary for our activities. A box for treasure, boards, hammer and nails for making swords, a magnifying glass for burning ants: my mom didn't worry unnecessarily about material things.
She didn't make a big fuss over minor injuries, either. My mom's stock response to bloodied knees was, "It's just a scratch. Rub it." Once, I received a bad scrape while I was playing at Lindsay's house. I clearly recall the sense of pride I felt when, without any falderal, I washed my wound off with a hose and Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Holland kindly admired my bravery.
My mom enabled me to laugh at certain childhood boogey men, like fear of the dark. "There's nothing there that can hurt you", she would say. And wild animals? "They're more afraid of you then you are of them."
When I was in the 6th grade my class went to the kind of camp where one "encounters" nature. One of the encounters involved finding our way back to the cabins after dark from a trail in the woods. We couldn't get lost because there was a rope to follow, but some of the kids broke down. I mean, they were immobilized and had to be rescued by teachers with flashlights while I, thanks to my mom, could have spent the night out there.
4. My mom is a good citizen.
For approximately 10 years she has picked up litter on the stretch of road between our house and Klondike Corner. That's two miles round trip, at least half of a plastic grocery bag per trip, about five days a week, rain or shine...I don't know how much trash that amounts to, but it's more than her fair share. That makes her a hero in my eyes.
5. My mom really moves.
Walking, swimming, cycling, dancing, hiking, yoga-ing and pumping iron are her regular activities. She's an inspiration and a great example of wellness. She's the reason I appreciate exercise.
6. My mom is passionate about nature.
Another gift my mother has given me is an appreciation for nature. She can name wild flowers. She protects and cherishes certain plants on our property, like lady's slippers, as if she knows them personally. My mother is putting the chestnut back in Chestnut Hill. Literally. I know what winterberries taste like because of my mom. I can't count the number of times we've hiked Plum Trail or down to the Pulpit. Enjoying nature and the outdoors is one of life's greatest pleasures. And I love enjoying it with my mom.
7. My mom knows proper etiquette.
She refers to the bible of etiquette, an Emily Post guide from the 50's, for manners protocol. She knows the correct way to use a spoon and she always sends thank you cards. At one time our family was involved with a home schooling group. Some of the parents taught classes--geography, math, science. My mom taught etiquette. She had students practice walking with books on our heads for good posture, taught us how to set a table properly and how to get in and out of a car while wearing a skirt. Most of the math, science and geography I learned flew the coop long ago, but I sure do remember those etiquette lessons.
8. She just does.
Rockin' & Rulin'
They say that man is mighty,
he ruleth land and sea
he wields a mighty scepter o'er
the lesser powers that be
but a greater power and stronger
man from his throne has hurled,
for the hand that rocks the cradle
is the hand that rules the world.
I read this poem long ago and memorized it but I don't remember who wrote it. Maybe it's a variation on the original by William Rose Wallace which you can read here: http://theotherpages.org/poems/wallace1.html
he ruleth land and sea
he wields a mighty scepter o'er
the lesser powers that be
but a greater power and stronger
man from his throne has hurled,
for the hand that rocks the cradle
is the hand that rules the world.
I read this poem long ago and memorized it but I don't remember who wrote it. Maybe it's a variation on the original by William Rose Wallace which you can read here: http://theotherpages.org/poems/wallace1.html
Thursday, May 8
Queen Mab & Dostoevsky, or What I Did from 9 to 10pm
What an introspective mood I'm in! After reading for 30 minutes or so I could no longer focus on the book and had to put it down. Thoughts are whirling around my mind like dervishes. Like energy pent up in tight muscles, the desire to write is almost physical. I can practically feel the keyboard beneath my fingers but curses; I left my laptop at home.
There has to be some scrap paper around here. I found some lying on top of a stack of old office supplies. Typewriter paper-what a relic! I hope this isn't one of Mrs. M's late husband's effects, something she wants as a keepsake. It's odd paper, kind of like parchment paper and not all that good for writing on. The pen, on the other hand, is my favorite kind: Uniball grip, fine point, blue ink. None of that gel stuff for me.
What was I going to write about, anyway? Queen Mab?
The field off the front porch was beautiful at dusk. The grass was such an intense green that it seemed to permeate the air. Green rising above the trees, fading to evening shade blue where the lights of Manch dot the horizon like low-lying stars.
Queen Mab keeps going around in my head, driving her hazelnut cart pulled by--what was it? Dust mites? Termites? Ha! Poor Shakespeare, over and over in his grave. I picture her with a sword or scepter no bigger than a needle, her hair flying back like Nike's, the spires of her crown ending in spheres. Surely that's an Arthur Rackham illustration. I didn't just come up with it on my own...
What a fever! If I could write the whole world and all of human experience I would start now, tonight. The raccoons would creep out under cover of darkness, the birds would settle among the branches of fir trees, flowers would close their faces to the night and I would write. In the morning the deer herd would come to eat and leave when the lid of the great fuchsia eye lifts, shooting the field with color. I would go on writing, still except for my pen while life moved around me.
I wonder how the literary canon would be altered if people had always had electric light to write by.
Dostoevsky said he expressed himself fully in The Brothers Karamazov. I wonder if he ever changed his mind. Like on his deathbed, did he say, "I want to add one more thing." Is it possible for anyone to express himself fully? There is so much to say, I don't think I'll ever say it all.
It's like music. There's an infinite combination of notes, right? Is it possible that one day every tune will be taken? Whenever I hear a new song on the radio I am freshly amazed at human creativity. To think that a mind put that combination of notes together, creating something no one has ever heard before.
Writing is like that. The material is not infinite but the combinations are. I don't know if I could ever fully express myself...
Once I tried to capture the entire ocean on 4 salt water splattered pages of notebook paper. What chutzpah! But I was 11 or 13 and I didn't doubt that it could be done. Maybe I was older then, as Bob Dylan sang. Now I'd never even attempt it.
I wrote about the ocean while onboard the Coronet. After roaming the ship above and below deck, fore and aft, and delighting in the Coronet's beauties (mahogany paneling, skylights, nook & cranny berths) I leaned over the side, mesmerized by the action of the ship cutting the waves, or waves breaking around the ship. I was mesmerized but I was energized, too, with something like an introspective fever.
Getting my hands on some notebook paper, I scribbled for most of the remainder of the trip in an attempt to describe the ocean and identify the longing it filled me with. I still don't understand that feeling...
What am I going on about? Human experience, wonder? I feel like I'm on that salad spinner ride that demonstrates centrifugal force by pinning people to the wall. Or a giant waterfall is pouring on my head so hard I can hardly stand upright. It's not painful. If the water is life, the motion and force on my body is joy and excitement. All I can do is laugh as the water pounds me...
I have no idea what Dostoevsky was talking about. I really must write about Mab.
Wednesday, May 7
Hearts & Bones
"You take two bodies and you twirl them into one
Their hearts and their bones
And they won't come undone"
Tuesday, May 6
Tip of the Day
Thinking of leaving your house wearing shorts, calf high white socks and black sneakers? Just say no.
Contentment
You may own an Audi TT, Mr. Professional, but you're on your way to work and you have to wear a suit. I'm out here walking in comfy clothes and sneakers. Sunshine, oxygen and the beauty of created life is coursing through me and I don't have to be anywhere for four hours. I might trade places with you if you begged me, but only on a rainy day.
Boo-yah!
Sinatra knew where it was at!
Once in love with Amy, always in love with Amy
Ever and ever fascinated by her,
sets your heart on fire to stay.
Once you're kissed by Amy,
tear up your list it's Amy
Ply her with bonbons, poetry, and flowers,
moon a million hours away.
You might be quite the fickle-hearted
rover so carefree and bold
Who loves a girl and later thinks it over
and just quits cold.
But once in love with Amy,
always in love with Amy
Ever and ever sweetly you'll romance her,
trouble is the answer will be
That Amy'd rather stay in love with me.
Monday, May 5
Waterfall
I recommend going behind waterfalls whenever possible. I've been behind two waterfalls and wowzer, it's an awesome experience. Getting there might be rough. One time I nearly died a thousand deaths slipping on rocks and my feet were practically torn to shreds, but it was worth it.
The wind generated by a good-sized waterfall is powerful. Standing right behind the water, I saw bubbles floating upward as if there were no gravity. That was mind bending. I felt like I was standing on my head or the world was upside down because bubbles ought to float downward.
That alone was worth the foot agony, but I also got to see the world from behind a sheet of water. It was mesmerizing and a little surreal. The scene is familiar yet changed by the flashing stream separating the observer from the outside. The space behind a waterfall is so set apart that time feels stilled as you watch it go by outside. I wonder if that's how aliens feel...
Anyway, if the chance to go behind a waterfall presents itself, take it.
The wind generated by a good-sized waterfall is powerful. Standing right behind the water, I saw bubbles floating upward as if there were no gravity. That was mind bending. I felt like I was standing on my head or the world was upside down because bubbles ought to float downward.
That alone was worth the foot agony, but I also got to see the world from behind a sheet of water. It was mesmerizing and a little surreal. The scene is familiar yet changed by the flashing stream separating the observer from the outside. The space behind a waterfall is so set apart that time feels stilled as you watch it go by outside. I wonder if that's how aliens feel...
Anyway, if the chance to go behind a waterfall presents itself, take it.
Saturday, May 3
dovesingles.net
A mourning dove flew into one of our picture windows and died. The dove had been pecking at fallen seeds when a falcon swooped down, scattering the assortment of small animals around the bird feeder. The dove must have panicked. It flew in the wrong direction--right into the window.
I wasn't home when it happened. When I heard about it later, I regretted that the bird died, but didn't think much about it until my mom said, "They mate for life, you know."
Just then I was looking outside. Beneath the bird feeder was a solitary dove. It occurred to me that one usually sees doves in pairs, not alone. A single dove is the very picture of loneliness.
I began to feel sad. I like doves. They have a sweet, gentle look. They walk with a cute little bobbing motion that's half stately, half comic. I could easily imagine the soft, haunting sound that earned them their name emanating from a deeply melancholic bird.
As I was about to plunge over the brink of despair, my mom broke the spell.
"He'll have to find another mate", she mused. "I wonder how they do it. They can't advertise."
I wasn't home when it happened. When I heard about it later, I regretted that the bird died, but didn't think much about it until my mom said, "They mate for life, you know."
Just then I was looking outside. Beneath the bird feeder was a solitary dove. It occurred to me that one usually sees doves in pairs, not alone. A single dove is the very picture of loneliness.
I began to feel sad. I like doves. They have a sweet, gentle look. They walk with a cute little bobbing motion that's half stately, half comic. I could easily imagine the soft, haunting sound that earned them their name emanating from a deeply melancholic bird.
As I was about to plunge over the brink of despair, my mom broke the spell.
"He'll have to find another mate", she mused. "I wonder how they do it. They can't advertise."
Friday, May 2
Mystery Man
I found this guy in my first car. Now he lives in the glove box of my second car. Naturally, he will be a fixture in all my future cars. But who the blue heck is he?
Thursday, May 1
Amytime!
I enthusiastically welcome May with open arms. I'm always glad to say good-bye to April's ambiguity. Fickle April never knows if she wants to be warm, cold, windy or pleasant, but May is one month closer to the heat.
Also, some of the most beautiful days in the history of the world have fallen in the month of May. I remember two of them distinctly.
But the most convincing and obvious reason for appreciating this month is it's name. Rearranged, it spells Amy. Know what that means?
May is Amytime!!!!
Tip of the Day
ER doctors refer to motorcycles as "donorcycles." The brain cannot be replaced. Wear your helmet, tough guy, or start looking for someone to feed you applesauce and processed squash.
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