I've moved to FLANUER
http://amflaneur.blogspot.com/
Friday, January 22, 2010
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
To my truest friends in the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson:
Whoso goes to walk alone, accuses the whole world; he declareth all to be unfit to be his companions; it is very uncivil, nay, insulting; Society will retaliate. Meantime, this retirement does not proceed from any whim on the part of these separators; but if any one will take pains to talk with them, he will find that this part is chosen both from temperament and from principle; with some unwillingness, too, and as a choice of the less of two evils; for these persons are not by nature melancholy, sour, and unsocial, — they are not stockish or brute, — but joyous; susceptible, affectionate; they have even more than others a great wish to be loved. Like the young Mozart, they are rather ready to cry ten times a day, "But are you sure you love me?" Nay, if they tell you their whole thought, they will own that love seems to them the last and highest gift of nature; that there are persons whom in their hearts they daily thank for existing, — persons whose faces are perhaps unknown to them, but whose fame and spirit have penetrated their solitude, — and for whose sake they wish to exist. To behold the beauty of another character, which inspires a new interest in our own; to behold the beauty lodged in a human being, with such vivacity of apprehension, that I am instantly forced home to inquire if I am not deformity itself: to behold in another the expression of a love so high that it assures itself, — assures itself also to me against every possible casualty except my unworthiness; — these are degrees on the scale of human happiness, to which they have ascended; and it is a fidelity to this sentiment which has made common association distasteful to them. They wish a just and even fellowship, or none. They cannot gossip with you, and they do not wish, as they are sincere and religious, to gratify any mere curiosity which you may entertain. Like fairies, they do not wish to be spoken of. Love me, they say, but do not ask who is my cousin and my uncle. If you do not need to hear my thought, because you can read it in my face and behavior, then I will tell it you from sunrise to sunset. If you cannot divine it, you would not understand what I say. I will not molest myself for you. I do not wish to be profaned.
Whoso goes to walk alone, accuses the whole world; he declareth all to be unfit to be his companions; it is very uncivil, nay, insulting; Society will retaliate. Meantime, this retirement does not proceed from any whim on the part of these separators; but if any one will take pains to talk with them, he will find that this part is chosen both from temperament and from principle; with some unwillingness, too, and as a choice of the less of two evils; for these persons are not by nature melancholy, sour, and unsocial, — they are not stockish or brute, — but joyous; susceptible, affectionate; they have even more than others a great wish to be loved. Like the young Mozart, they are rather ready to cry ten times a day, "But are you sure you love me?" Nay, if they tell you their whole thought, they will own that love seems to them the last and highest gift of nature; that there are persons whom in their hearts they daily thank for existing, — persons whose faces are perhaps unknown to them, but whose fame and spirit have penetrated their solitude, — and for whose sake they wish to exist. To behold the beauty of another character, which inspires a new interest in our own; to behold the beauty lodged in a human being, with such vivacity of apprehension, that I am instantly forced home to inquire if I am not deformity itself: to behold in another the expression of a love so high that it assures itself, — assures itself also to me against every possible casualty except my unworthiness; — these are degrees on the scale of human happiness, to which they have ascended; and it is a fidelity to this sentiment which has made common association distasteful to them. They wish a just and even fellowship, or none. They cannot gossip with you, and they do not wish, as they are sincere and religious, to gratify any mere curiosity which you may entertain. Like fairies, they do not wish to be spoken of. Love me, they say, but do not ask who is my cousin and my uncle. If you do not need to hear my thought, because you can read it in my face and behavior, then I will tell it you from sunrise to sunset. If you cannot divine it, you would not understand what I say. I will not molest myself for you. I do not wish to be profaned.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
When your dream became mine,
it was a sunday morning,
and we were all there with you
and you were quieter than usual.
Then at your lounge chair,
hands clasped at the knuckles,
old, indestructible knuckles
like the knots of trees,
you began to tell
a dream.
Back in the cockpit of a B57 bomber
flying low,
so low you nearly clipped the tops of the trees
of a thinly wooded tundra.
I knew exactly what it looked like.
But, Grandfather, it was so silent,
there was no sound,
you and I were sailing in the sky.
I could see every detail below me
and as far as possible in the distance.
I was listening far more closely
than you could imagine.
For I could hear the images
across the boundaries of time and memory.
God, that thing just hovered there.
No wind, no turbulence
no sound.
The silence of understanding.
it was a sunday morning,
and we were all there with you
and you were quieter than usual.
Then at your lounge chair,
hands clasped at the knuckles,
old, indestructible knuckles
like the knots of trees,
you began to tell
a dream.
Back in the cockpit of a B57 bomber
flying low,
so low you nearly clipped the tops of the trees
of a thinly wooded tundra.
I knew exactly what it looked like.
But, Grandfather, it was so silent,
there was no sound,
you and I were sailing in the sky.
I could see every detail below me
and as far as possible in the distance.
I was listening far more closely
than you could imagine.
For I could hear the images
across the boundaries of time and memory.
God, that thing just hovered there.
No wind, no turbulence
no sound.
The silence of understanding.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Remembering The Clientele
I started listening to this group as I was finishing high school in Evansville, IN. Their provocative, poetic lyrics will absolutely immerse the listener. The vocals themselves are just louder than a wisper and have this beautiful distant haziness like early mornings. I was reminded of them when they came up on my iTunes again. I still can't get over them and would highly suggest checking them out.
Porcelain - The Clientele
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Heart Attack Food
I keep finding myself eating at places
that I consider to serve heart attack food.
Faithfully the paramedics arrive on time.
I hold the sides of my face,
should I do something to help?
The paramedics leave without a gurney.
They must have been too late.
It is always a sad story
where they serve heart attack food.
Exept for the paramedics who decide to grab lunch.
These are the only places I see them.
The enigma of shameful diet.
I don't care what the numbers say,
heart attack food is a tragic killer.
Bodies of fathers, mothers, sons and daughters
disappear before they can get the electrodes
through the front door.
My patty melt and o-rings deceivingly smile up at me.
I want to ask the boyish cashier
how many he has seen walk in the door and never leave.
But he has seen too much already.
And laments that he must watch it all for his wage.
There I am. Alone with man's greatest problems.
Dreaming out the window with my food.
As we insist upon eating heart attack food,
we will continue to die this deplorable death.
The paramedics will become mentally unstable,
from all of the life that they see disappear,
lunch break after lunch break.
We might as well start calling ambulences hurses,
and marriages divorces.
These civil servants come winged
and down on my knees I am in awe.
Fighting the nations greatest domestic enemies,
They continue on in the face of defeat.
But I, plagued by human weakness,
continue to where they serve heart attack food.
And the paramedics always come.
Now I see them leave, coke and bag in hand.
Preciously, I trail behind.
Still struck, I utter a hopeful
Thank you
that I consider to serve heart attack food.
Faithfully the paramedics arrive on time.
I hold the sides of my face,
should I do something to help?
The paramedics leave without a gurney.
They must have been too late.
It is always a sad story
where they serve heart attack food.
Exept for the paramedics who decide to grab lunch.
These are the only places I see them.
The enigma of shameful diet.
I don't care what the numbers say,
heart attack food is a tragic killer.
Bodies of fathers, mothers, sons and daughters
disappear before they can get the electrodes
through the front door.
My patty melt and o-rings deceivingly smile up at me.
I want to ask the boyish cashier
how many he has seen walk in the door and never leave.
But he has seen too much already.
And laments that he must watch it all for his wage.
There I am. Alone with man's greatest problems.
Dreaming out the window with my food.
As we insist upon eating heart attack food,
we will continue to die this deplorable death.
The paramedics will become mentally unstable,
from all of the life that they see disappear,
lunch break after lunch break.
We might as well start calling ambulences hurses,
and marriages divorces.
These civil servants come winged
and down on my knees I am in awe.
Fighting the nations greatest domestic enemies,
They continue on in the face of defeat.
But I, plagued by human weakness,
continue to where they serve heart attack food.
And the paramedics always come.
Now I see them leave, coke and bag in hand.
Preciously, I trail behind.
Still struck, I utter a hopeful
Thank you
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