The Adventures of a Turtle
by Russell Edson
The turtle carries his house on his back. He is both the house and the person of that house.
But actually, under the shell is a little room where the true turtle, wearing long underwear, sits at a little table. At one end of the room a series of levers sticks out of slots in the floor, like the controls of a steam shovel. It is with these that the turtle controls the legs of his house.
Most of the time the turtle sits under the sloping ceiling of his turtle room reading catalogues at the little table where a candle burns. He leans on one elbow, and then the other. He crosses one leg, and then the other. Finally he yawns and buries his head in his arms and sleeps.
If he feels a child picking up his house he quickly douses the candle and runs to the control levers and activates the legs of his house and tries to escape.
If he cannot escape he retracts the legs and withdraws the so-called head and waits. He knows that children are careless, and that there will come a time when he will be free to move his house to some secluded place, where he will relight his candle, take out his catalogues and read until at last he yawns. Then he’ll bury his head in his arms and sleep....That is, until another child picks up his house....
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Bleecker Street
We will not begin with complaints. It is useless in these early morning hours when the sun recently tipped buildings with it's fresh light. When sleepy workers rose for another day of strain, profit, and simple, familiar things. The creak of the subway, the smell of fresh coffee, the harsh winter winds on cheek, the pitter patter of feet familial on the kitchen tile.
New York is an entity unto itself. There, I believe, must not be another place in the world with such pace and drive. The thing I like best is the efficiency with which people walk. Feet flowing through and around traffic, traffic moving about pedestrians, rain boots slipping, children lagging, it doesn't matter--people manage to weave in and out and about. There is no right way to walk. If you're slow, people are savvy enough and unconcerned with you to move about you. There is no feeling of angst or interruption.
Merce Cunningham passed away on July 29th, 2009. His studio is located at 55 Bethune St. in the West Village, quite near Bleecker Street. Nearby, are coffee shops, cafes where one can enjoy fancy food, burrito joints, duane reades, (a typical Manhattan neighborhood?) it seems to be situated in a softer part of town. The brownstone's look so brilliant in late afternoon light. His studio is on the top floor of an artist residency. Walking in, you can feel the thickness of recent death still have a hold. The quiet, somberness, of which is never spoken. It's pretty messy, things strewn about, but in the most artistic fashion. The dressing room is open towards the ceiling and filled with dancer's clothes. There are contented voices echoing, laughing in a studio as they stretch. I get the sense, that people here dance. It is what they do, and there is absolutely no question about it. There is no other way. If they did not, a strange death would take hold.
On the wall is a list of rules by John Cage, Merce's lover and collaborator.
seen here >>>>>>http://www.alisant.net/cca/sitespecific/cage.html
In the studio are well worked floors and gigantic mirrors. A stage and old car seats as chairs. Through the windows, one can see the city skyline. The dancers don't say anything to each other. We speak in the language of our bodies. Open and supple, aware and sincere, concrete and strong. We don't know why we do this, we just know that we must. In this, there is unspoken respect.
What does one lose and gain by pursuing adagios in a time of capitalism? We must survive. We must survive. We must survive. It is no longer a physical survival. We sacrifice the comforts (for which there is no bitterness) and steadily progress onward, content, simple, striving, body limber reaching for high arabesques.
"The only way to do it is to do it."
- Merce Cunningham -
Do we need anymore convincing?
___________on the walls are photographs of an island,
a house which my great grandfather built.
there is lingonberry jam in the fridge
enough coffee to kill a brigade of cats.
robust, viking, keep it to the north.
you were built like an ox. a silent cathedral.
living on a boat, by the seaside, you exist
catching fish and laughing:
a hearty, arctic buddha.________________
Lesson for the day: Find a teacher. Ask lots of questions. Practice. Work hard. Never settle for someone else's standards.
New York is an entity unto itself. There, I believe, must not be another place in the world with such pace and drive. The thing I like best is the efficiency with which people walk. Feet flowing through and around traffic, traffic moving about pedestrians, rain boots slipping, children lagging, it doesn't matter--people manage to weave in and out and about. There is no right way to walk. If you're slow, people are savvy enough and unconcerned with you to move about you. There is no feeling of angst or interruption.
Merce Cunningham passed away on July 29th, 2009. His studio is located at 55 Bethune St. in the West Village, quite near Bleecker Street. Nearby, are coffee shops, cafes where one can enjoy fancy food, burrito joints, duane reades, (a typical Manhattan neighborhood?) it seems to be situated in a softer part of town. The brownstone's look so brilliant in late afternoon light. His studio is on the top floor of an artist residency. Walking in, you can feel the thickness of recent death still have a hold. The quiet, somberness, of which is never spoken. It's pretty messy, things strewn about, but in the most artistic fashion. The dressing room is open towards the ceiling and filled with dancer's clothes. There are contented voices echoing, laughing in a studio as they stretch. I get the sense, that people here dance. It is what they do, and there is absolutely no question about it. There is no other way. If they did not, a strange death would take hold.
On the wall is a list of rules by John Cage, Merce's lover and collaborator.
seen here >>>>>>http://www.alisant.net/cca/sitespecific/cage.html
In the studio are well worked floors and gigantic mirrors. A stage and old car seats as chairs. Through the windows, one can see the city skyline. The dancers don't say anything to each other. We speak in the language of our bodies. Open and supple, aware and sincere, concrete and strong. We don't know why we do this, we just know that we must. In this, there is unspoken respect.
What does one lose and gain by pursuing adagios in a time of capitalism? We must survive. We must survive. We must survive. It is no longer a physical survival. We sacrifice the comforts (for which there is no bitterness) and steadily progress onward, content, simple, striving, body limber reaching for high arabesques.
"The only way to do it is to do it."
- Merce Cunningham -
Do we need anymore convincing?
___________on the walls are photographs of an island,
a house which my great grandfather built.
there is lingonberry jam in the fridge
enough coffee to kill a brigade of cats.
robust, viking, keep it to the north.
you were built like an ox. a silent cathedral.
living on a boat, by the seaside, you exist
catching fish and laughing:
a hearty, arctic buddha.________________
Lesson for the day: Find a teacher. Ask lots of questions. Practice. Work hard. Never settle for someone else's standards.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
the fluorescence of passive aggressive communications
FLUORESCENCE: SUPERSTRING THEORY: THE THEORY OF EVERYTHING:
EVERYTHING.
To begin, let us analyze a specific instant of passive aggressive behavior that can now only be described as "bizarre" and "unwarranted". A scintillating evening of snowfall has left the day to be fueled by hibernation, coffee, research at cafes, and spicy black bean burritos. Interestingly enough, the West Philadelphian spot of congregating anarchists was the place of choice for today's intellectual and societal activity/obligation. The Satellite Cafe, entered, you are bombarded by streams of body odor and anti-establishment synthesis. The gazes are bitter and protruding. The bodies are self-righteous, vegan, and judging. One cannot help but feel the menacing grip of contradictory anarchistic tendencies seep into the pores and cause the world to shift, or shit, rather, into a disconnected mush of a plane. (surface plane that is)
I digress. DIGRESSION.
I placed my bag down across from a friend at the kids table. Every other chair was occupied. Towards the counter, I speculated on some "WOMANHOOD" tea and a four seed cookie for the late mornings reading on John Cage. Upon returning, a small child in a dapper red jacket had seated himself near the table. I asked him if he wouldn't mind if I slid behind him with my things. He did not respond (out of fear and uncertainty?) Setting up my laptop, his mother approached me and with strong distaste and passive aggressive tones was obviously upset that I had seated myself behind her son. (No, I did not plan to entice him into a van with some candy or fuck him)
NOTE: THE FOLLOWING DIALOGUE IS A REINTERPRETATION OF ACTUAL EVENTS--AS ACCURATE AS POSSIBLE DESPITE THE INEVITABILITY OF MEMORY LAPSE OVER SPECIFICS.
Lady (not a lady): "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"
Me- look up in confusion."What do you mean?"
Lady: "my son was sitting there and i am very confused as to why you would sit there"
Me- "Oh, I didn't know"
Lady: "He was sitting there. It's really inappropriate that you would creep in behind him".
Me- "Oh, okay. Well, I can move"
Lady: "No no, no, I just find it really inappropriate what you just did"
Me- "Okay. Sure"
Lady proceeds to turn to her small child and say obtrusively so that all cafe visitors can hear "well, it looks like we'll have to set up our chess game on this chair here".
CONTINUE____AWKWARDNESS INCREASES.
soon....exponentially.
Lady: "I just want to apologize for the way I was speaking to you, but I just felt that what you did was very bizarre and if you had children you'd understand."
Me- "Okay. I didn't-"
Lady: (interrupting) I am apologizing but I thin it was really inappropriate and I was, again, finding it very bizarre what you did.
Small boy: BIZARRE?
Me- "Okay, maybe it was bizarre and maybe I do have a kid"
Lady: "you have a kid?"
Me- "No, but you assumed much abo-"
Lady: (INTERRUPTING again) It was just inappropriate, that's all I'm saying. You shouldn't sit here at the kids table and especially not intrude on my child's space"
Me- "okay"
Universally, we will probably face people like this on a daily, constant basis and so I see it of great importance to learn how best to handle situations like these. Disagreements between two level headed people can lead to very beautiful things. However, when one party is only speaking to and not listening, it seems doomed to failure.
When we are misunderstood in specific situations or by what we belief, how we live, what we do, what we choose to do in a days time, we must learn not to argue with folks who are walls. Folks unreceptive. It is like convincing a newborn baby the importance of Newton's laws of physics. Rather, you must change their diaper, adhere to their whinings, indulge their every fancy.
HOW WOULD YOU HAVE HANDLED THIS SITUATION>>>>?
QUANTUM PHYSICS_____________
the theory of everything.
I don't know if feelings exist.
Yours truly,
Planck's Constant
EVERYTHING.
To begin, let us analyze a specific instant of passive aggressive behavior that can now only be described as "bizarre" and "unwarranted". A scintillating evening of snowfall has left the day to be fueled by hibernation, coffee, research at cafes, and spicy black bean burritos. Interestingly enough, the West Philadelphian spot of congregating anarchists was the place of choice for today's intellectual and societal activity/obligation. The Satellite Cafe, entered, you are bombarded by streams of body odor and anti-establishment synthesis. The gazes are bitter and protruding. The bodies are self-righteous, vegan, and judging. One cannot help but feel the menacing grip of contradictory anarchistic tendencies seep into the pores and cause the world to shift, or shit, rather, into a disconnected mush of a plane. (surface plane that is)
I digress. DIGRESSION.
I placed my bag down across from a friend at the kids table. Every other chair was occupied. Towards the counter, I speculated on some "WOMANHOOD" tea and a four seed cookie for the late mornings reading on John Cage. Upon returning, a small child in a dapper red jacket had seated himself near the table. I asked him if he wouldn't mind if I slid behind him with my things. He did not respond (out of fear and uncertainty?) Setting up my laptop, his mother approached me and with strong distaste and passive aggressive tones was obviously upset that I had seated myself behind her son. (No, I did not plan to entice him into a van with some candy or fuck him)
NOTE: THE FOLLOWING DIALOGUE IS A REINTERPRETATION OF ACTUAL EVENTS--AS ACCURATE AS POSSIBLE DESPITE THE INEVITABILITY OF MEMORY LAPSE OVER SPECIFICS.
Lady (not a lady): "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"
Me- look up in confusion."What do you mean?"
Lady: "my son was sitting there and i am very confused as to why you would sit there"
Me- "Oh, I didn't know"
Lady: "He was sitting there. It's really inappropriate that you would creep in behind him".
Me- "Oh, okay. Well, I can move"
Lady: "No no, no, I just find it really inappropriate what you just did"
Me- "Okay. Sure"
Lady proceeds to turn to her small child and say obtrusively so that all cafe visitors can hear "well, it looks like we'll have to set up our chess game on this chair here".
CONTINUE____AWKWARDNESS INCREASES.
soon....exponentially.
Lady: "I just want to apologize for the way I was speaking to you, but I just felt that what you did was very bizarre and if you had children you'd understand."
Me- "Okay. I didn't-"
Lady: (interrupting) I am apologizing but I thin it was really inappropriate and I was, again, finding it very bizarre what you did.
Small boy: BIZARRE?
Me- "Okay, maybe it was bizarre and maybe I do have a kid"
Lady: "you have a kid?"
Me- "No, but you assumed much abo-"
Lady: (INTERRUPTING again) It was just inappropriate, that's all I'm saying. You shouldn't sit here at the kids table and especially not intrude on my child's space"
Me- "okay"
Universally, we will probably face people like this on a daily, constant basis and so I see it of great importance to learn how best to handle situations like these. Disagreements between two level headed people can lead to very beautiful things. However, when one party is only speaking to and not listening, it seems doomed to failure.
When we are misunderstood in specific situations or by what we belief, how we live, what we do, what we choose to do in a days time, we must learn not to argue with folks who are walls. Folks unreceptive. It is like convincing a newborn baby the importance of Newton's laws of physics. Rather, you must change their diaper, adhere to their whinings, indulge their every fancy.
HOW WOULD YOU HAVE HANDLED THIS SITUATION>>>>?
QUANTUM PHYSICS_____________
the theory of everything.
I don't know if feelings exist.
Yours truly,
Planck's Constant
Sunday, February 7, 2010
six p.m. and the art of keeping engagements.
Dear 'my grandmother's watch',
six p.m. is a great time to drink espresso.
six oh two p.m. is a great time to reevaluate the haircut that you received last Saturday
six oh seven p.m. is a great time to kiss the gods and thank them for your mother (whether or not you ever met your mother)
yes, we are alive in this helter skelter, man made, corn cob of a dream.
we have spoken before, of supposed indecision. it is like this, lying about, wondering what it is you shall do with your time. you cannot decide and it is that you should maybe fill your belly with something cold or warm, depending on the season, or that you may need to create some piece of art or prepare for the 9-5 job that is your sustenance. there is no indecision. it is a thing of falsity that masks itself in odd behaviors. you must be decisive, and you have it in you. to wake and make the best of that which you choose should exist.
a timely blizzard has made its way up the east coast and dumped piles of frozen beauty onto the streets and the rooftops of homes. Sunday morning was spent finishing the shoveling of yesterday's snow inflicted laziness. No one went to dance class, the studio was closed. I came back to the city and snowshoed about with a friend. We clamored about at La Colombe and watched a particular NY times reader read each section and fold it indiscriminately. We watched young babies swaddled in wintery clothes sit with dad at the rickety window table and ask questions about the wonders of the world. i took off the wrist watch that i don't have and wrote down some select salutations in a letter to a friend whom I haven't seen in almost two years.
It's leading me to discuss the importance of meeting, drinking coffee, and breaking bread with friends on Sunday mornings. The art of doing nothing is an art which I have succeeded in successfully partaking. Sitting and letting the sun warm the bones through cafe windows. Walking with each foot following after the other like one does breathe. But we have projects and jobs and degrees to achieve and when we leave each other for individual advancement it seems strange to me that we do not work together towards something prosperous. Our survival in these times constitutes a vicious need to be isolated and pursuing our own pursuits. If we do not, we will be lost in the shuffle and drown in the movement is the energy of the city. So I say, "I am doing this, or I am doing that and it is of great importance". And it is of great importance if it sets your soul ablaze or if it makes you live more heartily. Just do not do because you feel you must do by the rhythm of external sources. Take your time, young thing. Life is long (they said it was short) but these lazy afternoons stretch it about like taffy eaten at a picnic on the seaside.
Oh a picnic at the seaside sounds nice.
The song of the day is a piece by Brahms: Piano Concerto no. 1 in D Minor, Op. 15- 2nd Adagio.
Listen. Go the cafe ten minutes before it closes and they start turning off the lights as you sit down to reach a conclusion. So you keep your sweater wrapped tightly and consider that there will not be any conclusion today, nor tomorrow, but you keep doing that which makes you feel alive.
She was wearing a red coat. curdled blood in the snow. there was a creek that wound in accordance with the etchings of pi. your room took on a different shade of pleasantry and chaos.
Lesson learned today: it is of great importance that you communicate your plans. the hour of your arrival. the time of your departure. if I say to meet you at 2:30, I arrive 2:35--just late enough so that you know I couldn't find the appropriate shade of lipstick for the afternoon.
always. keep. your. engagements. (make them few)
'''''''''''''''''''' ''''''''''''''''''''
With admiration for Sunday's sweet solitude.
dearest.
six p.m. is a great time to drink espresso.
six oh two p.m. is a great time to reevaluate the haircut that you received last Saturday
six oh seven p.m. is a great time to kiss the gods and thank them for your mother (whether or not you ever met your mother)
yes, we are alive in this helter skelter, man made, corn cob of a dream.
we have spoken before, of supposed indecision. it is like this, lying about, wondering what it is you shall do with your time. you cannot decide and it is that you should maybe fill your belly with something cold or warm, depending on the season, or that you may need to create some piece of art or prepare for the 9-5 job that is your sustenance. there is no indecision. it is a thing of falsity that masks itself in odd behaviors. you must be decisive, and you have it in you. to wake and make the best of that which you choose should exist.
a timely blizzard has made its way up the east coast and dumped piles of frozen beauty onto the streets and the rooftops of homes. Sunday morning was spent finishing the shoveling of yesterday's snow inflicted laziness. No one went to dance class, the studio was closed. I came back to the city and snowshoed about with a friend. We clamored about at La Colombe and watched a particular NY times reader read each section and fold it indiscriminately. We watched young babies swaddled in wintery clothes sit with dad at the rickety window table and ask questions about the wonders of the world. i took off the wrist watch that i don't have and wrote down some select salutations in a letter to a friend whom I haven't seen in almost two years.
It's leading me to discuss the importance of meeting, drinking coffee, and breaking bread with friends on Sunday mornings. The art of doing nothing is an art which I have succeeded in successfully partaking. Sitting and letting the sun warm the bones through cafe windows. Walking with each foot following after the other like one does breathe. But we have projects and jobs and degrees to achieve and when we leave each other for individual advancement it seems strange to me that we do not work together towards something prosperous. Our survival in these times constitutes a vicious need to be isolated and pursuing our own pursuits. If we do not, we will be lost in the shuffle and drown in the movement is the energy of the city. So I say, "I am doing this, or I am doing that and it is of great importance". And it is of great importance if it sets your soul ablaze or if it makes you live more heartily. Just do not do because you feel you must do by the rhythm of external sources. Take your time, young thing. Life is long (they said it was short) but these lazy afternoons stretch it about like taffy eaten at a picnic on the seaside.
Oh a picnic at the seaside sounds nice.
The song of the day is a piece by Brahms: Piano Concerto no. 1 in D Minor, Op. 15- 2nd Adagio.
Listen. Go the cafe ten minutes before it closes and they start turning off the lights as you sit down to reach a conclusion. So you keep your sweater wrapped tightly and consider that there will not be any conclusion today, nor tomorrow, but you keep doing that which makes you feel alive.
She was wearing a red coat. curdled blood in the snow. there was a creek that wound in accordance with the etchings of pi. your room took on a different shade of pleasantry and chaos.
Lesson learned today: it is of great importance that you communicate your plans. the hour of your arrival. the time of your departure. if I say to meet you at 2:30, I arrive 2:35--just late enough so that you know I couldn't find the appropriate shade of lipstick for the afternoon.
always. keep. your. engagements. (make them few)
'''''''''''''''''''' ''''''''''''''''''''
With admiration for Sunday's sweet solitude.
dearest.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
59 dead cows and a feminist manifesto.
Dearest dearest,
It is about that time of night when the sound of a train eases even the most anxious babe. If we are to feel caught in supposed indecision, it is in the hours of the evening that one may fight their lives with a solo fist and fail to die a death of ten thousand words. There are ladies and men in top hats. There are small children eating late afternoon cakes in cafes. There are laptop computers decorating every which corner and strange men lurking in search of changed colors of iris. They may offer to by you a sandwich, and in doing so, expect you to reach your hand in their pants and give a little squeeze. Expectations. Grandiose expectations.
No. I reach my hand out to shake yours and it is not enough for your desires and so I shrug off my coldness with a brutal flip of the hair, catching a light before the subway departs, and now it is that one shall get to the point.
Of a pointless existence, we partake. Yet there are things which one wishes to discover and convey in the words that are written. Save yourself from another self absorbed blogger ranting and raving over the times and the times that were and the times that could be. Not another environmentalist, a cross cultural guru, a fanatical artist. There are things which need to be discussed here that plague the free time of the masses with moss like growth. If led into summation, the particulars will be failed. But to begin, one must, well, simply, begin. And if we are not to begin, we will always be meandering about the possible caves. Breeding impossibilities in the logical determination with which we are so in tune. It is said, "we" in the obvious fact that there is not another I, nor another you which exists. Maybe you grew up in a house that was cold, maybe you did not grow up in a house. Maybe you had to patch your clothes, or maybe mommy and daddy bought you a new party dress every which way the wind blows. These are all things that only slightly matter. If you exist, your crises, observations, expenditures all matter to the greatest extent.
The topics of this shop of poetics hold a broad range (think Montana). However, the parallels which we can draw are only as compact and well trodden as the city streets of New York. We start with particulars, tangibility, and extend into the universal, the philosophical. We compare the intrinsic and aesthetic values of moral convictions alongside that of a well made pair of footwear.
Let us first discuss a happening in the news today. A farmer in upstate New York woke to his usual farming obligations to, instead of completing his chores, decided to take a rifle and shoot all of his 59 cows in the brain. Then, he wrote a note which said to "not enter and call the authorities", after which he entered his kitchen, sat down on his (possibly) favorite chair and shot himself in the head. Apparently, the times were too hard for a man in a profession known for hard work and resilience. Take the extent of the following punctuation for a memorial:
-----------------------------&
In other news, Haiti, Haiti Haiti, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Obama is was whatever will be.
CHRIST.
More importantly:
my stockings have a run in them
THIS: http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/02/04/coyote-on-ice/
there is a wine made by Benedictine monks in Scotland (Buckfest tonic wine) that contains an exorbitant amount of caffeine and its bottle is many times out of 10 used in violent crimes in Scotland.
Mother Theresa had severe dry spells in her spirituality. (exposed in letters she had written, now in print)
So it is about being a woman in a time of capitalism and adagios. A time when we are expected to move at light altering speeds and that when a man holds the door or gives up his seat on the bus for a lady, the feminists release their armpit hair and cry out at overt displays of masculinity. Handing out their manifestos like creeps hand out candy. Let us come down from our high posts, come out of our self righteous lairs, our disciplined downward dogs, our diets of lettuce and water...we are in a recession. I believe it time to let ladies be ladies, to let men be men, to let men who want to be ladies be ladies and ladies who want to be men be men. Let there be no quell of desires. Keep spending your hard earned dollars so the economy does not die, work harder still. Do what you intend, question everything you see, explore every slight fancy, and whatever happens, it's not bad enough to kill all 59 of your cows.
It is about that time of night when the sound of a train eases even the most anxious babe. If we are to feel caught in supposed indecision, it is in the hours of the evening that one may fight their lives with a solo fist and fail to die a death of ten thousand words. There are ladies and men in top hats. There are small children eating late afternoon cakes in cafes. There are laptop computers decorating every which corner and strange men lurking in search of changed colors of iris. They may offer to by you a sandwich, and in doing so, expect you to reach your hand in their pants and give a little squeeze. Expectations. Grandiose expectations.
No. I reach my hand out to shake yours and it is not enough for your desires and so I shrug off my coldness with a brutal flip of the hair, catching a light before the subway departs, and now it is that one shall get to the point.
Of a pointless existence, we partake. Yet there are things which one wishes to discover and convey in the words that are written. Save yourself from another self absorbed blogger ranting and raving over the times and the times that were and the times that could be. Not another environmentalist, a cross cultural guru, a fanatical artist. There are things which need to be discussed here that plague the free time of the masses with moss like growth. If led into summation, the particulars will be failed. But to begin, one must, well, simply, begin. And if we are not to begin, we will always be meandering about the possible caves. Breeding impossibilities in the logical determination with which we are so in tune. It is said, "we" in the obvious fact that there is not another I, nor another you which exists. Maybe you grew up in a house that was cold, maybe you did not grow up in a house. Maybe you had to patch your clothes, or maybe mommy and daddy bought you a new party dress every which way the wind blows. These are all things that only slightly matter. If you exist, your crises, observations, expenditures all matter to the greatest extent.
The topics of this shop of poetics hold a broad range (think Montana). However, the parallels which we can draw are only as compact and well trodden as the city streets of New York. We start with particulars, tangibility, and extend into the universal, the philosophical. We compare the intrinsic and aesthetic values of moral convictions alongside that of a well made pair of footwear.
Let us first discuss a happening in the news today. A farmer in upstate New York woke to his usual farming obligations to, instead of completing his chores, decided to take a rifle and shoot all of his 59 cows in the brain. Then, he wrote a note which said to "not enter and call the authorities", after which he entered his kitchen, sat down on his (possibly) favorite chair and shot himself in the head. Apparently, the times were too hard for a man in a profession known for hard work and resilience. Take the extent of the following punctuation for a memorial:
-----------------------------&
In other news, Haiti, Haiti Haiti, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Obama is was whatever will be.
CHRIST.
More importantly:
my stockings have a run in them
THIS: http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/02/04/coyote-on-ice/
there is a wine made by Benedictine monks in Scotland (Buckfest tonic wine) that contains an exorbitant amount of caffeine and its bottle is many times out of 10 used in violent crimes in Scotland.
Mother Theresa had severe dry spells in her spirituality. (exposed in letters she had written, now in print)
So it is about being a woman in a time of capitalism and adagios. A time when we are expected to move at light altering speeds and that when a man holds the door or gives up his seat on the bus for a lady, the feminists release their armpit hair and cry out at overt displays of masculinity. Handing out their manifestos like creeps hand out candy. Let us come down from our high posts, come out of our self righteous lairs, our disciplined downward dogs, our diets of lettuce and water...we are in a recession. I believe it time to let ladies be ladies, to let men be men, to let men who want to be ladies be ladies and ladies who want to be men be men. Let there be no quell of desires. Keep spending your hard earned dollars so the economy does not die, work harder still. Do what you intend, question everything you see, explore every slight fancy, and whatever happens, it's not bad enough to kill all 59 of your cows.
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