MMMH, BOY, DO YOU LIKE STARING AT THE FLESHY LUMPS OF FAT ON MY CHEST? YEAH, YOU KNOW IT.
Love as a CurrencyWe price things in terms of love
"I love this thing,
But does the value of its cost
Outweigh the value I, myself
Have placed upon it?"
"I love this person,
But do I love them enough
To do the things for them I'll be expected to
If I tell them?"
The funny thing
Or the sad thing
Is that if the answer is 'no'
We sigh and place our hands on our hearts
As though it tears at us
To simply walk away
And forget about that thing
Or that person
But we do it anyway.
We price things in terms of love
While something everyone has a right to,
Is not a currency everyone understands.
I tell people,
"I love the English language
I love words
I love what they can do."
But I don't think I have a right to that one.
I price things in terms of love
"I love this kid."
"I love this room."
"I love this story, this poem,
This artistic application of twenty-six letters
And however many words,
Gathered to make something
If I were to price things in terms of beauty
Which I do, sometimes
...and out the other sideWhat's the worst part? Arthur asks, carding his fingers lightly through Eames' hair.
He's silent for a long time and it's moments after Arthur resigns himself to not getting an answer before he speaks. His voice is low and tired and full of so much numb pain Arthur can't help but tighten his arms around his shoulders, trying to protect him from harm already done, dealt by himself. The worst part, he murmurs in that broken voice, is believing that if you make it through withdrawal, you're out for good.
Arthur brings his chin down to tuck over Eames' shoulder, eyes closed against the mess of styrofoam cups neither have bothered to tidy. He has nothing to say, so he presses his tight lips against the bare, tattooed skin, neither apology nor forgiveness, but reassurance. I thought you would die, he thinks about saying. I thought you'd given up, he wants to whisper. I thought you'd abandoned me and I was so scared and so angry and you're so infinitely dumb, but we'll face this together, he
Six Weeks and an EternityHe’s going to finish his degree. In six weeks, he’s going to have his final recital and jury. No more touchy Yamaha in a tiny practice room, no more living off Mr Noodle and too-little sleep. In six weeks, he’s not going to be Malorie-Miles’-promising-student. In six weeks, he’s going to be Arthur-Fucking-Goldberg-Like-The-Variations, capitals and profanity present and necessary. Because in six weeks he’s going to perform in front of half the conservatorium. In six weeks, he’s going to be handed offers left and right. He’s going to hammer Mendelssohn, nail Haydn, flawlessly execute Schubert, turn Rachmaninoff from beautiful sound to liquid gold for the ears and effortlessly make Mozart something worth playing. Six weeks.
Mozart hadn’t been his idea, of course. It had been Mal’s.
“Arthur, mon beau, you will play Mozart for your recital.” He recalls the conversation clearly.
“Mal, I’m not going to
The BreadmakerEdith knelt before the bread ovens, pushing limp, sweat-soaked hair back from her forehead to better look through the tiny window at the tiger loaves cracking in the heat. She heard Flavia scolding another cook for burning a loaf, her usually kind voice cracking out under the stress of the incoming orders. Every time the far steel door opened to release the loaves, Edith caught the sound of loud voices and something too happy to exist in her world.
France was celebrating. What, Edith knew not, but that they were was obvious. She imagined the wine connoisseurs were having and even worse time of it. She’d worked in (been sold into) the wine trade once, but they soon found her to be all but useless as a connoisseur, as unable to read the swirling script on the bottles as she was to read the unadorned black letters Flavia read out to the cooks.
The loaves were done. Smoothly, Edit pulled open the oven, feeling the hairs on her arms all but curl from the heat before she managed to rem
The Penrose Girl and the Caspian SeaThe fire licks at her body and he wants to scream, because she can’t. Not anymore. His hands are held loosely in his pockets, one turning a red poker chip over and over. She’d been a gambler, he remembers. Of course he remembers. It was how they’d met. She was a terrible gambler. She made a living from spinning lies, but couldn’t hold a poker face for shit.
A tiny, fond smile pulls at a corner of his mouth as the rest of his face is swallowed with melancholy. His Penrose Girl.
She’d never liked fire, but cremation had been her idea. She loved he sea, but was scared of the creatures in it. A woman of paradoxes. He loves her for it.
A switch is flicked and the flames die away. She is gone. Nothing but ash is left. He wonders numbly how it can happen like that. She was there, but now she’s not. It’s a sudden thing and it makes his old hands tremble as they clutch his walking stick.
Later, when standing on the beach near their home, he wonders when
Why I oppose spankingTW: Mild self-harm
I was spanked as a child. I was a well-behaved youngster who needed little discipline and was generally obedient and respectful to the best of my ability. I can probably count the number of times I was spanked on my fingers. I was not scarred for life by this ordeal, I am well-adjusted, and I have never reacted by being violent to others. To all appearances, I am a testament to the value of the practice of spanking.
And yet, I oppose it. Vehemently.
This was not always so. For most of my life, I assumed that spanking was a generally useful practice that taught kids to expect consequences to their actions. It promoted personal responsibility, I was told, and enforced respect. I fully expected that I would spank my own children (hopefully not often). I further expected that children who were not spanked would likely be unruly, disrespectful, and lack a sense of responsibility and self-control.
However, as I began to
Haiku Theory Part 1 -2009-A Lot of Words About A Little Poem
An Introduction to Haiku Structures
A haiku poem cannot be defined according to the number of syllables and lines it contains (nor by the number of syllables in each line). Although I do not wish to go into the reasons why at this point (I will save that for a later discussion) the form of modern English haiku, as Haruo Shirane writes, is a short poem, usually written in one to three lines. (in Gilbert, 2009) At this point our definition sounds very vague. If the number of syllables and lines do not define a haiku poem, then what does? And if a haiku poem is simply a short one, two or three-line poem then what separates it from other forms of Western short-verse or, in the case of one-line haiku, a sentence?
Patricia Donegan writes, in agreement with the Western haiku community at large, that syllable counting... is not the important thing for haiku in English. Haiku is an experience, not an act of co
Brushing Up Against HistoryNovember 1963
I'm eight years old and sitting in class (I strangely recall that my seat was in the middle of second row, on the side away from the window), when the principal comes in to tell us that the president has been shot.
I do not know
what it means, but I know
that it scares me.
My mother meets Senator Robert F. Kennedy while he is campaigning in San Francisco and gets his autograph. I live with my father in a small town in Michigan, where every year leading up to Memorial Day, I sell paper poppies for the VFW.
blood of soldiers on the field
war has come home
I watch the news and see the body count, arranged like a scorecard. The numbers say we are winning, but one of those numbers is from our town, the only casualty that week. I don't know him, but I see his picture on the cover of Life Magazine.
I turn 17 the next month
and try to join the Marine Corp
my father will not sign
As a small-town b
Twilight Sparkle Wants to 'Please' You
Animated ponies make wonderful lovers;
They want to have sex with you (and others).
Can Christians Like Dragons?In other words, can a Christian morally have a love for dragons? The logic behind the question is that dragons by Biblical standards seem to be evil creatures. Therefore it should be incompatible to follow Jesus Christ and love dragons at the same time, right? This is what I've been accused of many times, being a firm holder to Truth yet having a soft spot for dragons. I would like to answer in detail these accusations, thus the reason for this article.
Let us look at dragons from every angle, starting with what The Sacred Scriptures say. In The Holy Bible the Hebrew word used for dragon(s) is 'tanniyn' and shows up 29 times in The Old Testament. But, do note that dragons are not always referred to under that word in Scripture, so the count is higher. I've divided these verses up into groups, mainly general and specific cases.
**Dragons in general
--in The Bible we see that dragons are often used by God as curses. Examples are the Babylonian Empire (Isaiah 1
Mirror, MirrorI can't stand the sight of my reflection.
Every time I see her, I cringe. Look at her - the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the slumped shoulders, the half-empty gaze that stares back at me. She's disgusting. She's a monster.
But is she real? Am I real?
I don't know.
Maybe she's the real one and the reason she looks the way she does is because she always sees me and is terrified that something horrible will happen. Maybe I'm the real one and I'm terrified that she's going to let that something occur.
Or maybe we're just the same person and I'm letting my thoughts become too unraveled. There's no such thing as another side to a mirror. It's just a piece of glass that reflects that which is in front of its surface. But then again, what do I know? Not much, if I'm being completely honest.
There are times where I'll pass my reflection and stop, stare at her, and the urge to do nothing more but take her hand and say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I've said t
Freedom(Open-mindedness is not a power.)
Hold up your hand.
Straighten it and make a fist. That arm is a solid structure, a column of cells, a staff.
It's simply a cylinder, and that is all.
(Open mindedness is not a force.)
Go up to a trashcan, place your hands on its side, and shove as hard as you can.
Try it. Watch the trashcan fly, its lid clanging open and its guts spilling over the pavement.
You did that. Notice the veins bulging from your arms.
Do you feel at peace?
(Open-mindedness is not a form of knowledge.)
These I know to be true: the sky is blue, blood is red, and the Earth is round.
"Do you deny sunsets, then? Do you expect only oxygen, and disregard calculus?"
i dont want to be wrong, its embarrassing
Now go outside.
Imagine yourself immersed in sky, wrapped in the great blue blanket.
There are thousands of clouds above you, some heavy with rain and others bursting with sunshine, and seagulls dip and dive around yo
Octopi as a Metaphor (article)
Octopi (belonging to the class Cephalapoda) have the ability to change colour. It is generally assumed that they do this for camouflage underwater or to make them appear less palatable to predators but this is in fact only part of the story.
Octopi are molluscs - they diverged from our own evolutionary line 700 million years ago and are related to the Escargot family (snails). Since they have no backbone they are not classified as vertebrates. However, Octupi are considered a wonderful example of parallel evolution because their optical system is very similar to the mammalian optical system. The reason for this is thought to be that they evolved in an reef environment that is as dense and rich in environmental signals and visual stimuli as is also found in the heart of a rain forest where primates and proto-hominids evolved.
An Octopus is soft bodied which means that it can not only change its colour but it can also change its outer surface texture from smooth and rubbery, to bumpy or