Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Collector
Monday, June 21, 2010
Lady Sings The Truth
Them that's got shall get
Them that's not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own
Yes, the strong gets more
While the weak ones fade
Empty pockets don't ever make the grade
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own
Money, you've got lots of friends
Crowding round the door
When you're gone, spending ends
They don't come no more
Rich relations give
Crust of bread and such
You can help yourself
But don't take too much
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own
He just worry 'bout nothin'
Cause he's got his own
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQgzEQhtTm4
Friday, June 11, 2010
Breaking up is like a death
It's okay for your heart to break.
it regenerates itself-
like a lizards tail or a star fish. If you cut off one of a sea star's legs, it will grow back. If you cut all 5 off, each piece will generate a whole new star fish and the nubby center does too! So there was a coastal town trying to control their over population of star fish; they captured a bunch, cut them in half and threw them back... The population doubled.
what is my point?
I don't know.
maybe something about an abundance of love in the universe...
I'm exhausted and trying to come to terms with the self induced only socially acceptable psychosis we call Romantic Love.
We have made of romantic love a beautiful picture in a frame encrusted in rubies and diamonds. Never forget that those rubies are your blood and those diamonds are your tears.
(A course in miracles)
Ephemera -- William Butler Yeats |
„Your eyes that once were never weary of mine | |
Are bowed in sotrow under pendulous lids, | |
Because our love is waning.“ | |
And then she: | |
„Although our love is waning, let us stand | |
By the lone border of the lake once more, | |
Together in that hour of gentleness | |
When the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep: | |
How far away the stars seem, and how far | |
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!“ | |
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves, | |
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied: | |
„Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.“ | |
The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves | |
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once | |
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path; | |
Autumn was over him: and now they stood | |
On the lone border of the lake once more: | |
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves | |
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes, | |
In bosom and hair. | |
„Ah, do not mourn,“ he said, | |
„That we are tired, for other loves await us; | |
Hate on and love through unrepining hours. | |
Before us lies eternity; our souls | |
Are love, and a continual farewell.“ |