Pocket Full of Mumbles

What's done is done, and this puppy's done. Visit me over at Pearls & Lodestones

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Location: South East, United States

Sunday, July 31, 2005

Heard on Air:

"Evil is eternal, and [often] implacable..."

--Michael Medved, July 31, 2005. Speaking on Islam, and the lack of rational thought among some of its more "vocal" adherents.

My Comment: A true statement in as far as evil being eternal. When Satan finally gets his in the Lake of Fire, he isn't just going to burn up and die. He's an eternal being. He just won't be able to bother anyone anymore.


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Saturday, July 30, 2005

The Last Twisted Window

My father was perhaps the most creative person I've ever known, dead now these last 10 years. He painted, and sculpted wood, for the most part, and for all the works he finished, I have only a few, including one painting now hanging on my wall. The greatest suprise about this painting is the poem on its back... a surprise because to my knowledge, it's the only poem he ever wrote. It's a bizzare little thing, and the more I read it it's as though it's meaning shines clearer and clearer, yet never clear enough that I can pin it's message down. Perhaps this is the mark of a good poet; the ability to say, in as few words as possible, something so profound it haunts you to the end of your days. The Japanese haiku is very much like this....

Night is held at bay
As fireflies light our path
Hands clasped our hearts race

...in that the whole of idea of 'less being more' is firmly illustrated. But too little, I feel, sometimes leaves too much unsaid. Brevity has its time and place, but what if the vision you have is far too wide a vista for a mere 17 syllables?

It would seem my father questioned his own life, every bit as much as I do mine, perhaps more. Here is his bizzare little poem...


In the tangled clutches
Of shallow dimensions,
A regreening juts up
From the weeds of dissention
And bids me go into
The last twisted window

Leave the old hackneyed script.
Leave it there with your shield,
Plastic facade, now stripped.
Your body's wounds are healed.
Follow your mind into
The last twisted window

D. Ashley, circa 1982



When he died, it was... unnecessary. He simply waited too long to seek help. We buried him on the top of a mountain in West Virgina, with the sound of crying and the wail of bagpipes... years later I wrote a poem for this. Had to. Not like I had much choice in the matter, and though I thought getting it down on paper would ease some of the pain, it hasn't one iota.

The pipes came from a song by Enya, "The Sun in the Stream," and from the liner notes I took my inspiration, and asked my own question.


"Hazels and Salmon"

Pink and crimson armoured true,
Basking in the light of filtered sun and
Caressed by the cool flowing Boyne,
From the sacred pool whence nine hazels drew
All the cares and truth of the world.
Sealing them in their crimson nuts,
Dropping them in season
To 'plash 'neath cool waters
Where feeds the Salmon of Knowledge,
Pink and crimson armoured true,
Upon the cares and wisdom of the world

What echoes hath thou heard?
What pipes calling 'cross mountains cold
In mourning and loss?
Having eaten thy fill on knowledge rich,
What comfort to me canst thou give
And so ease my heart?
What light dapp'ling, what textures known
To thee in thy sacred pool,
While feasting on the food of gods,
Might utter to me one word of hope;
For father and son together once more?

Began late 1997
Finished on one restless night,
092199.0313.1


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Overheard at Work...

"you're better off just buying a hooker, that way you just pay once. Get a girlfriend or a wife and you're paying for God only knows how long..."


In some respects I find myself agreeing [respects I won't elaborate on], but fundamentally, I can't find any merit in the statement. Firstly, I find that if anyone pays [speaking of men in general] it's because they choose to pay. Many men find that the women in their lives are worth every bit of sacrifice made; be it cash, personal liberty, or the occasional dream or two set aside in favor of the woman in question. Lets face it, relationships require some measure of sacrifice, and not just the realtionship between a man and a woman. Every relationship requires some bit of sacrifice. More often than not we make the sacrifice without realizing what we're doing, setting our own desire aside in favor of anothers. And it's not always to gain a favor, or an advantage. Most often it's done selflessly, but as I stated, it's also done unknowingly-- which is probably the primary reason most people perform these selfless sacrificial acts [apologies for that bit of cynicism].

Secondly, I don't like the idea of viewing women as money/power-hungry whores. A few [perhaps] are, but thats not at all an accurate portrait of women in general, or women as a whole. Women sacrifice, and have sacrificed as much and more than have men. When you consider that men have dominated society for thousands of years, the light of a mere 3+ decades old womens movement, while bright, is still very much in its infancy. Women still sacrifice, despite the gains they make each and every day in the family, in the workplace, and in society.

I believe to love a woman a man must sacrifice. But not simply for the plowing of any field, fertile or fallow. There is more purpose to loving a woman than sex. She is so much more, and the woman who appreciates the sacrifices made for her, is worth more than any word of praise, beyond any price, and truly worthy of the man who treats her with respect, first and foremost, and with love.

The trick these days is in the pairing, in a potential couples determination to treat their burgeoning relationship as something sacred, something to be cherished, honored, tended and defended at every turn. They need to be willing to listen as well as hear, and willing to humble themselves for the sake of their partnership, realizing that while in so doing, they sacrifice nothing of themselves, strengthening their bond against those times that will try their commitment to each other. These trials always come, and it's easier to win through if [speaking from a man's point of view] women are not looked upon in such a harsh light.

And I've said my peace...


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3 things I find to be erotic:

1 - Washing a womans hair

2 - The taste of wine on her lips

3 - The sparkle and glisten of her eyes in candlelight


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Lessons in Thinking for One's Self, No.1

Referring to an earlier post, our opinions are of equal importance and relevance to anyone else's, except in regard to actual knowledge of a given subject, i.e., a mountain climber knows more about climbing mountains that one who does not. That person's opinion therefore carries more weight, but only in regard to mountain climbing.

Too many people give away to celebrity their right to a personal, and often more valid, point of view. This is especially true in regard to the media; both those who work in the visual and those who work in print. We all tend to believe what the newspeople tell us because, deep down, we can't imagine they'd ever lie to us. And while it is true that the media is made up of people, just like you and I, they are equally made of the same imperfections we find in ourselves, and therefore not to be fully trusted. You can't rely on someone else to tell you what you should believe. It's enough that they have pointed in a given direction, but it is upon us that the responsibility of finding the truth lies. [an interesting word combination].

Know yourself first, and you will find truth.


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To Reflect or Capture...

What constitutes an "Artist" or "Artisan"? Is a man or woman an artist if they perform music, or perhaps paint? Are they Artisans simply because they craft the artistic? What if all the 'Artist' can do is perform on stage, or paint variations of the same theme/landscape? What do you call someone who is good at many things? Is the single-facet artist on equal par with the multi-faceted artist? Is a one-dimensional diamond as beautiful as a 3 dimensional diamond. The former is nothing more than a mirror to reflect light, while the latter captures light, and creates something infinitely more beautiful.

Do I, as an artist, wish to merely reflect, or do I want to capture and create beauty?


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Friday, July 29, 2005

Fair Warning: I Aim to Rant

In Regard to my previous post...

    Look. The whole point of attaining citizenship is to become an American, or a Briton, or an Australian [notice I chose English speaking democratic nations], and upon attaining said citizenship it is then incumbent upon you, the one seeking citizenship, to adopt our language, our laws, many aspects of our culture, and a willingness to adopt our causes, which rarely encompass anything other than Freedom.

    You're welcome to contribute. We want you to contribute! But we expect you to become Americans, Britons, Australians. If you think being a citizen of a free society means you can use that freedom to sow discord, chaos, and, in a word, terrorism, then you really don't want to be an American, a Briton, an Aussie. In which case, we don't want you. Go somewhere else.


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Heard on Air:

"First come religion, then your country..."

--Unnamed British Muslim
   CBS Evening News, 07/29


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On Melodrama, Lies, & Hypocrisy





White House press
corps member
Helen Thomas had
this to say about
the unlikely -- as in,
"ain't gonna happen"
-- white house bid of
V.P. Dick Cheney:

"The day Dick Cheney [decides] to run for president, I'll kill myself. All we need is one more liar. I think he'd like to run, but it would be a sad day for the country if he [did]."

Really!? Make sure you validate your soul with God before checking out. As to this liar crap, everyone lies, including you. Oh, and how convenient you don't include your precious Bill Clinton, who lied about a good many things while in office to include lying to the Federal Grand Jury. Your hypocrisy astounds me!

And by the way, those words in brackets within your quote are me correcting your grammer and word usage. You need an editor.


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Maxim:

"Two rarities combined call for close attention."

--Masuri


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Thursday, July 28, 2005

*The Poetry of War

We all lie still
In the poetry of war
We all lay slumped or draped
And do not move anymore
Strike a pose macabre
A pose more resolute
Than lines drawn is shifting sands
The fields our lives pollute
The eyes that cloud
In an opaque glassy stare
Do not see the dogs that feed
Upon our carcass' bare
Of life. That spark is gone
Robbed by the poetry of war
Humbled, frail, broken, torn
We do not move anymore

E.L. Ashley
121795.02-03.1


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To Know Collapse

"Everything can collapse. Houses, bodies, and enemies collapse when their rhythm becomes deranged."

--Miyamoto Musashi, 1584-1645

Including political parties, cultural morality, and societies themselves...


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Questions to Consider

Every sin committed by man, at its core, can be attributed to selfishness, but is every act of selfishness a sin?

What is it about Celebrity that the word of those who have it is given more weight than those who do not?


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Wednesday, July 27, 2005

*Driving On

It floated in the water, her body
We drove over the bridge to holiday
Over the spot where she lay
Immersed and discarded
Another bit of flotsam
Carried on the tides…
It swelled and drained of color, her body
We laughed and counted car tags
While she lay cold, forgotten
        Not even worried about
In some small corner of the world…
She floated; eyes glassed dead and staring
While we took photos
        New England leaves dying beautifully
Giving color to a world
Growing cold ~ her body;
Hair spread like a fan
Mouse brown and sodden, her mouth open
Surprise written on her face…
And grandmother’s surprise
Arms spread wide to receive our little ones
Her hugs smelling of love and pumpkin
But where is Susie?
Days late and not a call
So very like Susie ~ so inconsiderate…
But mother,
She will call if she needs help
Doesn’t she always?

Her body floated
Not so much as worried over
Evil spoken of
        “So inconsiderate…”
We were so close
We could have looked out our window
We could have seen her floating there
Her body ~ discarded, forgotten
        …but we drove on


24 February 2002
E.L. Ashley


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Tel & Elder are still on the mountain...

...but their predicament is becoming increasingly clear; as is the resolution. The writing should go smoothly once it's all worked out, despite Eric's Axiom No. 1


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5 Quotes from an Amazing Article

"End of an Innocent Age"
by Janet Albrechtsen

PERSONAL NOTE: This theme appears to have become a trend. I must nip it in the bud. Later, perhaps.


"...when boys, born in British hospitals, develop allegiances that demand death to their countrymen, you know that the utopian vision of multiculturalism, urged on us with the best of intentions, has not gone as planned."

"...the West's multiculturalism created conditions that encouraged the West's fanatical enemies. We were so busy being inclusive, denigrating our own culture, that we were not noticing what was happening."

"...more than a few people are saying that tolerance is not as safe as it seems. That too much of the stuff can be a problem because it suggests to those who detest our values and our societies that we will not make judgments about what is right and what is wrong."

"Now, even long-time supporters of multiculturalism, ...wonder aloud whether it is time for us to lay down some ground rules for those from different cultures who wish to live side by side with our culture."

"When Muslim imams claim special exemptions... claim[ing] democracy and Islam do not mix, let us say no to that. Democracy is a core value and if you do not believe in it, please leave."


Final Note: Anything in brackets are additions of my own for clarity's sake.


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What Results of Indifference...

"The penalty good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men."

--Plato


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Tony Blair Gets It Right / 3 Quotes


Prime Minister Tony BlairPosted by Picasa

"Let us expose the obscenity of these people saying it is concern for Iraq that drives them to terrorism. If it is concern for Iraq, then why are they driving a car bomb into the middle of a group of children and killing them?"

"Whatever excuse or justification these people use, I do not believe we should give one inch to them, not in this country and the way we live our lives here; not in Iraq; not in Afghanistan; not in our support for two states, Israel and Palestine; not in our support for the alliances we choose, including with America."

"In America, it could have been 30,000 instead of 3,000, and they would prefer that. My entire thinking changed from Sept. 11..."

----
Kudo's to Boortz for the impetus for this post.


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*A Contextual Bit 'O Prose

...especially in light of my last post.
As much as I recognize the necessity of war, I find it nonetheless to be among the worst of human proclivities. Here then is my apology for dropping not one, but two atomic bombs on Japan in the summer of 1945. Admittedly, I know little of Japanese culture; what is appropriate, what is not, so it's likely I may owe yet another apology.



"Deflowering the Crysanthemum"

        She was led to a small stage prepared for just that moment, the moment they would demonstrate to the world the limit of their power over a nation, through one woman. It wasn’t enough to destroy her cities, ruin her people, her friends and family, now they would mock and shame her. But this is the way of all victors. The victorious delight in examples, believing even their own propaganda, that they are righteous, and more deserving of victory, that their actions are somehow necessary. But she went willingly. Up three steps of aged and polished wood, probably stolen from a decimated temple… and where had they found the shoji screens? …their paper windows intact and the purest of whites.
        They had made her paint herself in the traditional paints of a geisha, but they were ignorant and so made her paint her entire body. She did not argue. They did not understand. Her hair and her pubic mound made a stark contrast to the gleaming white of her skin and she thought, how beautiful. They robed her in a kimono, crimson with yellow dragonflies, and briefly she smiled. They laughed and barked like dogs to one another; their tongues shaped about rough words, their meaning a mystery.
        Chosen from among the victorious were three men, stripped to the waist of their olive uniforms, ringed about the spot where she was to kneel before a gathering of white faces and strange eyes. She looked out and over their heads to the ghost of a city, its once proud buildings, the temples, the gardens, all gone, blown to ash in the blink of an eye, and scattered upon atomic winds. How many dead? Thousands? She began to cry -- tears drawing lines down the planes of her face, and then steeled herself. The victorious needed this display, garish and brutal as it was. What did it matter if they performed their little Noh play upon the charred bones of an entire city, an entire nation; once proud, now fallen to earth like cherry blossoms in spring…
        But this is summer. The end of summer. She looked to her left and saw an ensemble of taiko drums, drummers all but naked. None would look upon her; they understood her shame, and shared it. A Shakuhachi player stood with flute in hand, his head bent and eyes cast downward. His breathing was rhythmic, his kimono dirty, but the flute… ahh, it was magnificent. She turned to her countrymen and bowed slightly, then turned back to her audience.
        They were a strange people -- prideful, uncouth, and so utterly ignorant. They shaped the world to their purpose rather than shape their lives to the world about them. Their cities were ugly, and nothing about their culture held any sense of tradition. They were upstarts. Children. But children with powerful toys. And they’re eyes… so foreign.
        A man in uniform rose from his seat in the front row and turned to face the gathered. He raised his voice and spoke in his rough language. He used his hands expressively but the tone of his voice was dogmatic, and said he held her and her nation in contempt.
        “We are the defeated,” she softly spoke, and one among those that ringed her whispered brokenly in her tongue.
        “Forgive us Hiroshima, forgive us Nagasaki.”
        Another of the three grunted harshly and the first fell silent.
        “It is easy to ask forgiveness when there is no consequence to face.” She replied softly. “I will forgive you when the dead do.” And though she couldn’t see it she felt him bow his head to her.
        The speaker quickly finished and motioned to the drummers. As one they struck their drums, building a rhythm she could sing to. Their bodies soon began to glisten with sweat, and the power of their drumming grew, intent on stirring the victorious. The Shakuhachi player raised his flute and began to play a mournful dirge in counter to the beat of the drummers, yet his own rhythm matched them. They played perfectly, beautifully, but the assembled did not appreciate this, it was clear on their faces. It was alien to them.
        She knew the words she was to sing. The song had been written for her, by aliens, and memorized in the long hours between dawn and that very moment, but she would not sing it. They knew little of Japanese, and would not know what she sang. The man directly behind her undid her deep black hair, removing the long bamboo pins that held it, and she felt its weight as it fell long to her waist. She felt the first tug of the shears at the nape of her neck. My hair! They are cutting my hair! It had taken years to grow… She began to cry once more. Through her tears she saw the child in the first row, a very young girl. What kind of people brings its children to such a spectacle? Barbarians!
        The little girls eyes were the lightest shade of blue… the child’s hair -- a contrast to her own -- was a lighter shade of yellow than the chrysanthemum she held in her tiny hand. She wore a dark blue dress and her shoes shone bright and new. She stood close to her mother who held her hand.
        There was a final tug, then release, and she looked about to see her beautiful black hair lying around her. The men to either side of her barber took hold of the crimson kimono’s collar and drew it open, exposing her breasts. Their hands tugged at the sash and they stripped the fabric entirely from her, letting it drop to the platform to cover her hair. She sat kneeling, hands folded in her lap. She shone like polished bone, entirely covered in the white paint.
        Some in the crowd turned their heads, embarrassed to look upon her nakedness, others seemed to gloat, but all held an air of ambivalence. None but the child looked saddened. Then she felt the hands on her, wet with water as they began to make a show of washing her clean. There was symbolism in this of course, the drummers could see it, the Shakuhachi player could see it, and she began to sing.
        It was a song to stir souls, had the victorious possessed such. It was a beautiful melody. The song trembled deep in her throat and crashed out over the audience. Few of the assembled understood any word of Japanese, but they understood the melody, understood its pain and suffering, and they understand in its cry a longing for a way of life now gone. Whether they realized it as such or not, they also understood that with two swift, cowardly blows, they had managed to decimate not only two cities and countless lives, but an ancient culture as well. But again, that is what victors do. They tear down the temples and the shrines and the theaters and the houses and reshape the land to their own liking. What changes will they bring? What new ideas to supplant the old?
        Her song rose and fell as hands washed her. She felt them move over her breasts, her stomach, to her thighs and the dark place between. She could feel their fingers move over her skin, but she could not sense a desire in them, they did not grope or fondle, only wash. Her face her neck, her shoulders, her back. They lifted her arms and she held them out like the very image of their crucified god on its hideous totem. They delight in torture; yet revere the god they killed! It’s not unusual to feel great respect for a vanquished foe, but worship? Never!
        If she were in the bathhouse she might have felt desire for these men whose hands touched what no other had, but not here, this was her shame; to be stripped of her mystery, a Noh play devoid of tradition, performed for barbarians. The hands cupped and lifted her breasts, moved under her arms, down her back to her buttocks, and lower. The drummers drummed, the Shakuhachi player played and she sang as the men shamed her.
        When at last their hands left her, she finished her song and looked about her. The stage was washed in white, the pretty kimono ruined, and her hair… The men stood and left the stage, leaving her where she sat, their hands and arms now white. The speaker rose again to speak many words, none of which she understood. The drummers were led away. The Shakuhachi player followed. When the speaker finished, the men who had led her to that place, mounted the stage to help her rise, and led her down the same steps of aged and polished wood, leaving white prints upon their dark surfaces like the footprint of ghosts.
        Movement dark and swift caught her eye and she looked to see the little child break away from its mother and run to her. The girl stopped shyly and looking up into her face, smiled and held out the chrysanthemum. She bowed deeply to the child and took the offered gift.
        The girl said something in her beautiful voice; her eyes held sympathy and embarrassment, a genuine sorrow for the painted woman.
        “Thank you, little one.” She said, bowing deeper. “I will remember your kindness.”
        A soldier led the girl back to her mother, who began fussing over her, admonishing her for her bravery. Would the child remember? Will she understand what she had done in years to come?
        They did not clothe her, but led her naked back to where they had held her, where they had prepared her for this spectacle. Her escort did not touch her, but directed her with their grunting, and pointing, back and forth in their savage tongue. Soldiers gawked at her, countrymen bowed to her, averting their eyes. She would, of course, commit suicide; her shame was too great. No more parties on the palace lawn, no more plays, no more poetry, no more cherry blossoms in spring. The victors had stolen it all. But she would compose a poem for her death, though none would ever hear it.
        They came at last to the tents that were her prison. They would take her inside and allow her to wash and clothe herself before escorting her back to the palace, but she could not go back now. She could not bear the look of shame in her father’s eyes, or bear to hear her mother weeping. She would be a reminder to them, of their own shame… better to die, with honor. So she would run! She would find a place untouched by their hideous weapon and perhaps find a shard of glass to cut her wrists, and compose her death poem.
        And as if thought were motion she leaped away from her captors and ran, ignoring their shouts. She heard them begin to chase and she ran harder. The sound of their boots fell farther and farther behind. Pain shot up from her feet as rocks and glass cut at her soles, but she ignored it… there was only running, the pound of blood in her ears, and the beat of her heart. There was only running, breathing… and the sound of thunder crashing through the sky, thunder so powerful it ripped the breath from her, and threw her hard upon the torn earth.
        There was little sound, a loud hum over the shouting of men, the feel of their boots shaking through the ground as they neared her; her own breath, heavy and labored, the beat of her heart, and the feel of blood draining from the hole in her chest… they had shot her... not thunder at all…
        Lifting her head she looked over the ground to the ruined city, to the ghostly survivors picking through the rubble, and there lay the Chrysanthemum. The world about it seemed colorless, but the flower was a bright dusty yellow, the color of pollen. It layed in her dimming sight a stark contrast to the desolation that framed it, and reaching for it she pulled the flower to her breasts. Her lips moved with her last breath and shaped the words of a poem.
        “What was it she said?” Asked one voice.
        The gunman knelt at her side, brushed a spill of hair from her eyes, and spoke,

          “…Chrysanthemum pure
        Amid fields of wide ruin
         ~ Its lovely hair shorn.”

----
ELAshley
Written in one sitting
September 1, 2001
10 days before 9/11


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Tuesday, July 26, 2005

3 Quotes From...

"What The World Owes Palestinians and The Left"
by Dennis Prager

First, a contextual topic sentence:
"We need to thank Palestinians for their major contribution to humanity -- religiously sanctioned mass murder of innocents through suicide. Prior to the Palestinians, this did not exist."

Now, to the quotes:


"Palestinian Muslims -- no Palestinian Christians have committed a suicide bombing -- have created a religious and moral basis for mass murder and did so within a worldwide religion with a billion adherents."

[To the anti-Israel Left] "Why is it all right for Muslims to blow up Israeli children, but not Russian children? Israeli buses, but not British buses? Jews in Israel, but not Muslims in Iraq?"

"Without the Left around the world, the Palestinian God-based mass murder through suicide would have been an isolated phenomenon, universally condemned as the evil it is."


Personal Note: Hypocrisy abounds on the left. That, and a blind eye -- and heart -- to truth.


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Monday, July 25, 2005

What is it about chickens....






...that attracts lightning? Hmmmmm. Okay, so it's not the chickens themselves, it's the chicken houses! Can you say, "Surge Protector"?

To go any further with this post would be to add strange to strangeness.


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Amended: 2005 "Must See" Movie List

In addition to the others previously listed, I have added several more films that fall into the "must see" category. Here's the list... (This post is rough. It will be polished /ea)

The Island - Hmmm... a film about an island that doesn't exist... Hmmmm. Still, looks like lots of fun. Pithy review to follow... Update: July 30, 2005.
Had my doubts about this one, but as it turned out this was one
Fantastic movie. It was very reminiscent of Logan's Run, but much cooler, and a story, surprisingly, with few holes. there were times, especially during the big freeway chase where I actually flinched, repeatedly! Loved it! Definitely on my DVD purchase list.

Night Watch - can you say, "Constantine meets The Matrix on crack? It looks awfully twisted, if not thought-provoking [righhhht]. Pithy Review to follow... 7/29/05

Stealth - Jamie Foxx, lots of Hi-Tech, a babe... looks worth the price of admission. Pithy Review to follow... UPDATE: July 30, 2005
I've chosen, for now, to not see this. The reviews are all very consistently bad, and while that has rarely deterred me in the past, after seeing "The Island" I didn't want the possibility of a mediocre film detracting from a great one. If it's still in theaters 2 weeks from now, I may give it a go.


Mirrormask - This looks... WOW!!! Go figure, it's Jim Henson Studios. Pithy Review to follow... 9/30/05

Aeon Flux - Loved the Liquid Television shorts, the MTV series. This, I know, will never match up, but it's Charlize Theron, and that alone is enough for me to give it a go. Besides, she won anacademy award for "Monster" didn't she? 'nuff said. Pithy Review to follow... 12/02/05


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3 Quotes From...

"Back to you, Mr Blair"
by Osama Saeed,
spokesman for the Muslim Association of Britain


"The position of Muslim organisations and mosques has been consistent for years. Killing civilians is murder, and a crime in Islam. We have consistently said that Muslims must help the police to track down those responsible."

"If there is any thought that Muslims are fine but their religion can take a hike, then Mr Blair should know that we will never be "...in the corner, in the spotlight, losing [our] religion." "

"...a handful of individuals have eschewed [politically engagement] to carry out the attacks in London. You can regard these acts as part of Islam, or as an irrational reaction to injustice taking place in the world. If it's the former, you have to explain why this started only 12 years ago and not 1,400."

_______________________
Personal Note: Terrorism as we know it began just 12 years ago???? Mr. Saeed, with respect, you are engaging in Intellectual Dishonesty.


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Queen Goes Country?

A very sedate, yet cool version of "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Grey DeLisle, from the CD "Iron Flowers", was heard on RadioIo.


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Thursday, July 21, 2005

Songs Worth Acquiring --

"Shine it all Around"
--Robert Plant

"Empire" (Feat. Bomb the Bass)
--Sinead O'Connor

As heard on RadioIo this afternoon. Awesome Station!


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Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Spice Rack --Wish List


Grains of Paradise Posted by Picasa


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If Dark Chocolate is Beneficial,

it stands to reason the real "raw" deal is equally, if not more beneficial.
here's a website that sells raw, edible, organic cocao beans.


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We've Heard if Before, but...

...it's Chocolate!!!

Researchers from Tufts University and Italy conducted a study on hypertension -- published in the Journal of the American Heart Association, which concluded that a daily dose of dark chocolate, or rather the rich bounty of Flavonoids found therein, can significantly reduce high blood-pressure. It also appears to be helpful in dropping the level of LDL [bad cholesterol] in the blood.

As with everything, "all things in moderation."


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The Face of News No. 2


Contour Cheating the Sports Guy Posted by Picasa

"I did, after all, lift pen from page..."


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Tuesday, July 19, 2005

It Would Seem...

...I am obsessed with the idea of "Dancing", though I define the dance differently than most. In regard to the traditional idea of dance, I am unaccomplished and brutish, and may always be, but dreaming being a worthwhile endeavour for all men [generically speaking], perhaps a beautiful woman will take the pleasure of teaching me to heart.

The world would be a much better place were I to learn.


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"Untitled" ...for now

We are still young
Yet while it's true that
Youth is wasted on the young
We are wise enough to see it
But young enough to know
      There is still time
Perhaps not for all our dreams
But time enough
For the ones that matter
Time enough for the ones that
Rarely see the light of day
The ones we perpetually
Tuck into bed
      "Shhh now, go to sleep little one,
            Your time will come..."

And when that time comes
Will we throw open the windows...
Let our dearests
Drink in the fresh, bright day?
Will we encourage our dearests
To run through the grass
      And play?
Will we sit back
And let our hearts desire
Have its day in the sun?
Or will we
In our wise, age’d youth
Caution prudence
And tuck our dreams
      Safely back in bed?


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Congratulations!!!

You are the 101st post to this Blog! Be our guest to an all expenses paid trip to Dr. Johnson's office in 5 and a half hours for your quarterly check-up, and meds tweak!!! You'll be amazed at how quickly you get in and out, after all, yours is the first appointment! So, Congratulations, and we'll see you at 201!!! Goodnight, everyone!


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Speaks With New Tongue, says...

Learn to speak Lakhota, and help preserve a rich & beautiful culture.

I'm adding this one to my list of languages to learn. German is on my plate at present. Next will come the re-acquisition of Spanish, followed by either Lakhota or Japanese, though most assuredly both; only the order is in question. My goal is to become a polyglot.


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Sunday, July 17, 2005

Don't Like the God of the Bible? Try Ours!!!

Share-international.org is boldly proclaiming that the Messiah is here living among us and goes by the name Maitreya. Oddly enough, I found a link to share-international on the website of a liberal news outlet. Go figure. Fair Warning though... you won't find God at this website, or in the person of Maitreya.


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Saturday, July 16, 2005

Question to Consider

"If the eyes are the windows to the soul," as da Vinci once said, then everything our waking eyes see enters our soul; shaping, changing, edifying, or corrupting us at the very core of our existence. This is perhaps the greatest danger we face, and yet very, very, very few of us take care to guard our most precious of selves against anything that would stain us.

Considering "the Fall," and our resultant inability to wash said stains clean, do we have even the power to prevent that which would stain?


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The Politics of Dancing

Aside from the obvious reference...

"To live is to dance, to dance is to live..."

...encompasses all aspects of life and living. Simply put: My Political/Ideological/Sociological bent and direction -- as well as yours -- are but a few measured steps in the grandest of dances; namely, the Dance of Life. It is the dance began in each of us at the moment of our conception. It is the dance also that ceases when life itself ceases in us.

Enjoy your time at the dance, learn to do it well and with passion, for this is the only dance to which we've been invited.


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I swore to myself I'd not get political here,

But, here are a few excerpts from...

The Rove-Is-A-Traitor Meme, by Thomas Lifson

Democrats are increasingly desperate, and in increasing numbers have moved from uttering the merely ridiculous to shouting self-destructive rhetoric from their media rooftops...

To the FundieDems, President Bush must be stupid. If he were admitted to be a Yale and Harvard-educated student of strategy, a visionary seeking to transform domestic and world politics, they would have to take seriously the arguments he makes and respond on a sober level...

Psychology teaches us that when people fear their own imperfections, they project them upon others, attributing their own dark impulses to those who alarm them most. Rove’s electoral successes make him the scariest boogieman the Left has seen in decades...

Most rank-and-file Democrats, like most Americans, are indeed patriotic folks. But there is a group among them which would rather see America face reversals, military, diplomatic, and economic, than see George W. Bush and the GOP get credit for successes...

The Democrat death-spiral continues. The FundieDem cult has taken the initiative, and become the public face of the Party, and Party officials, anxious to keep the donations from them rolling in, dare not confront them. By their failure to upbraid their supporters' excesses, they condemn themselves to minority status...


Great Article!!!


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Pithy Wisdom...

"Tales become too heavy to carry to their ends when plots are carved in stone."

--ELAshley


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Pithy Review: Fantastic Four

Cool Effects, couldn't keep my eyes off "the Thing's" orange body of rock. Everything else was hackneyed, nothing to marvel over -- to include the story, which was far from "fantastic".

Definitely NOT on my DVD purchase list. Actually, the coolest part of the whole film were the coming attractions before the film started, which included the trailer for "Serenity". ULTRA cool!

12:45 showing,
Saturday, July 16, 2005


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Friday, July 15, 2005

Truth in Music No. 1

As demonstrated in the news every single night...

"Plenty of People will kill you
  For some fanatical cause."


"Lock and Key" by Rush
From the CD Hold Your Fire 1987


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Thursday, July 14, 2005

3 Quotes From...

"Terrorists' aim is to end western civilisation, says ex-Mossad head"
by Rupert Steiner

"We are in the throes of a world war, raging over the entire globe, and characterised by the absence of lines of conflict and an easily identifiable enemy..."

"The aim of the enemy is not to defeat western civilisation but to destroy its sources of power and existence, and to render it a relic of the past."

"For a while - too short a while - we are engrossed with the sheer horror of what we have seen and heard, but with the passage of time our memories fade and we return to our daily lives, forgetting that the war is still raging out there and that more strikes are sure to follow."


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Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Congratulations!!!

Pat Thomas, Mayor-Elect of Dothan, Alabama.
Sorry to see you go Chester [You had my vote].


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Received in Email...

CONSTITUTION

They keep talking about drafting a Constitution for Iraq. Why don't we
just give them ours? It was written by a lot of really smart guys, it's
worked for over 200 years, and we're not using it anymore.


Thanx Jillian

I'm surrounded by people who can't see that they no longer live in the United States of America as expressed and founded by the above mentioned "really smart guys", Jillian and a relatively small segment of our ailing society notwithstanding.

But I said all that to say,

"Truer words were never spoken."


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*Long From Her Garden

         She is never firm, my lover. She is often violent, and equally so when calm, but when she is all I can see in any direction, I am humbled by her magnificence. I become insignificant before her enormity. She does not love me, but is jealous of me nonetheless. She will never let me go, but I do not care. She is the most beautiful place I know, and I have been away too long.
         I met her years ago, when I was but a child. Gibraltar rose up from her like a shard of age-old bone. I heard her whisper as she washed my feet and swamped the ruins of the last Great War that marched, forgotten, down the Spanish coast. Ocean is what my father called her, and I felt enthralled as though under the spell of a siren's song. She was wet and warm, and bitter to taste-- a wonder and no small mystery to an even smaller boy. As a child of the military, and a camp follower perforce, our paths converged and drew apart many times. From Libya to the Azores, with their black volcanic sands, to the pebbled inlets of Massachusetts, and the white baking strands of Florida, we were never parted for very long. Each time I came to her, I heard her voice, but she never spoke my name. I would not have understood, so she held it in wait for the day I might return, a child on the cusp of manhood. And on the day I came to her at last, I felt her smile in my heart. She made me welcome and bade me learn of her.
         She revealed herself to me in subtle ways. On the deck of my first vessel I saw for the first time what sailors of old feared most-- the loss of terra firma over the edge of the world-- "Here there be monsters," the ancient maps declare of those seas uncharted --and I felt my throat close and my chest constrict. She was rarely the mirror I had envisioned; she was chaos, an unchanging constant ever in motion. Men-of-war rose and fell upon her every sighing swell, only seeking the refuge of her depths when she grew to rage. Porpoise mothers pushed their newborns to her foaming boundary to take their first breath and catch a glimpse of golden sun. Stars intaglioed across the night sky made their circuit to morning, so bright beneath a new moon I could read by their light. I grew to love her, but being a child of the shore, our paths diverged once more.
         It has been nineteen years since I left the sea-- Ocean, as my father named her --but I have carried her voice with me. I have heard her sing and heard her song chorused in the cry of gulls wheeling in the sky. It haunts me to this day. She learned my name years ago and has not forgotten it, calling me by name, often whispering to me as I sleep, sighing, "Return to me, you have been away too long."
         "Can I trust you?" I ask.
         "Never. I am fickle and easily angered."
         "Will you hurt me?"
         "If I can."
         "Why then should I return?" I ask.
         "Because you are mine and I have written my name in your heart. I am Scylla and Charybdes. I am Tsunami and Leviathan. I will destroy you if I can, but I will give you something the shore cannot."
         "What?" I ask.
         "Longing."
         And I have longed for her ever since. I have been too long from her garden. I know she is violence, yet I am drawn to her. Though she be calm above, yet am I turmoil within, without her. She is my lover, and I hers. She longs for me to lay furrows across her back with any ship I can find, and looking back, watch her smooth my wake without enmity. She smiles to know I long for her, to ride her swells, to feel her breath on my face and taste the salt of her tears. I awake each morning with that longing, wondering if our paths again will converge. But she is patient, if not always forgiving; she knows my heart is not my own, and that all things return to her in time.


E.L. Ashley
November 2700
Final Revision:
041401.021245.1


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On Eyes & Falling


"What do the eyes I could fall forever into look like? Would
they fall as deeply into mine?"


A small sliver from a portrait I once made of an image deep in my imagination.
     ELAshley
     Circa 1992-1993


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Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Suzanne Vega on Abuse

Heard a song I haven't heard in more than a decade. "Luka" by Suzanne Vega. It sent chills all through me. A beautiful yet dark lyric, and I was reminded of a poem I wrote a few years ago.


"Abuse"

Hand raised in rape, clenched tight
Stealing dignity,
Tearing down the walls of self-esteem
Words raised, couched to inflict
Raping the soul
Erasing the spirit…
Anger
Resentment
Frustration
Filling the tiny room I’ve retreated to
Her lips move. Her words chafe
But I’ve retreated
Hid myself in a corner darkened…
This is my safe place, this tiny room
"Pound at the door if you will
I will remain quiet"
    ~ Perhaps she’ll go away
Allow my bruises will heal;
Scars grow less tender,
And my spirit, reverted to childhood,
Safe now in the tiny room…

Here are walls she can’t tear down
Where simpler times,
Memories of love and child-like joy
Adorn the walls
Their edges, like old photographs
Curled and leeched of color
This room was meant for sunshine
But I have locked the door
From her

There was a voice once
    ~ Gone now
Who showed me how to throw open windows
To resist the upward swing of clenched fists
And words leveled on a child
Alone and forgotten
The voice once rang clear and true
Encouraging me to open my soul
Learn to love again
But all I hear now is the rapist
Laughing
Mocking
Delighting in my loneliness

Now…
Softly…
"Where is your precious Voice now?"
Through the keyhole I see tears…
"I will love you, I will never leave you
Come, open the door"
And I succumb
Wanting to believe, I turn the latch
And there she stands
Sympathy melts away
Tears becomes quicksilver
Poisonous
Deadly
Run! I scream to my soul
Hide!
But she is in
And the tiny room
Too small

She takes me again
Raping and destroying everything
    ~ The voice, the lovely voice
A distant memory
Forgotten now in the pummeling abuse
Falling down like rain…
Soaking abuse,
Staining like blood
What remains of my soul
And I wonder
As my spirit lay dying
"Is this all there is?"


E.L. Ashley
031602.121600.1


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Clarifying an Earlier Post

Free Speech, quite simply, is speech that should cost the speaker nothing in recompense, consequence or retaliation. And yet this is never the case. Free Speech is an animal on par with Unicorn's and Dragons. Simply put it doesn't exist.

Having said that, if Speech -- however free -- can be "Hate" speech, it can also be treasonous. And if Hate Speech is prosecuteable in a court of law, Treasonous speech certainly is as well.

The dilemma lies in what is deemed, or judged to be Hate or Treasonous Speech. Since few in this country think for themselves it is the media that decides what is and is not hate, or treason. Media decides what is acceptable and what is not, and who gets away with what. And since Media's motives are far from pure, Evil is allowed its day, and we, those few of us who actually think for ourselves, are all but powerless, as individuals, to right the many wrongs media insists we accept as rights. As though they alone are the rightful purveyors of moral judgement.

One mind alone can change nothing. But link a multitude of like minds and the world itself could cease its turning.


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Monday, July 11, 2005

At the Mercy of Whim

From high above and looking down
With dispassionate curiosity
I kick the hill
Surveying the damage
on haunches rocking
I wonder at their efforts
Seemingly without organization
Yet in the end
If I wait long enough
All will have been made right

If they could voice their indignation
If they had hands to clench
Would fists be raised?
And shaking said fists
In demonstration of their defiance
Are they then resolved?
Determined to not be deterred?
Pondering these questions
I rise
And kick the hill again

ELAshley
071105.073027.6


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Bed-a-bye Time

"Lullabye"

Evening falls
And stars rise up
Moon awakes
That he might sup
Clouds roll in
To fill his cup
Sleep, Darling, sleep

Darkness toils
Upon her loom
Weaving dreams
To fill thy room
Holding baby
In her womb
Sleep, Angel, sleep

Dream sweet dreams
Thy heart now free
Drifting on
The timeless sea
Morning longs
To waken Thee
Sleep, Baby, sleep


ELAshley
071107.0159.1
"For the child I may never have..."


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There is no other Troy for you to burn....

Watched the last 30 minutes of Troy on HBO. Never wanted to see this or rent it because of the Brad Factor. Just couldn't picture him as Achilles, but I'm a sucker for period pieces and Peter O'Toole. It was hard to concentrate on the fall of Troy with Legolas running about with his elven bow. What I saw looked very well done. But rather than praise it here I think I'll read the Iliad again. It's been a long while and I'm sure I'm a bit rusty on my Homer. I'm taking the "wait & see" approach for now.


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Sunday, July 10, 2005

The 4400

Cool, cool, episode. I was beginning to think this 2nd season would never live up to the very short 1st season. Tonight dispelled all such thoughts. Can't wait to see where all this is going!


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*Revisiting Fanaticism

Tonights episode of 60 Minutes featured a piece on Ayan Hirsi Ali, the author of the play "Submission". It was this play that "earned" Theo van Gogh a violent death at the hands of a practioner of that irrational faith known as Islam.

Attached is a post from a previous incarnation of this Blog on Mssr. van Gogh's murder.

--------

Tuesday, November 02, 2004 -- 1:39 pm

Theo Van Gogh - - Radical Islam's Latest Victim


AMSTERDAM, Netherlands Nov 2, 2004 — A Dutch filmmaker who had received death threats after releasing a movie criticizing the treatment of women under Islam was slain in Amsterdam on Tuesday, police said.

A suspect, a 26-year-old man with dual Dutch-Moroccan nationality, was arrested after a shootout with officers that left him wounded, police said.


Filmmaker Theo van Gogh had been threatened after the August airing of the movie "Submission," which he made with a right-wing Dutch politician who had renounced the Islamic faith of her birth. Van Gogh had received police protection after its release.

...[One] witness told Dutch Radio 1 the killer arrived by bicycle and shot Van Gogh as he got out of a car. "He fell backward on the bicycle path and just laid there. The shooter stayed next to him and waited. Waited to make sure he was dead."

The slain filmmaker was the great grandson of the brother of famous Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh, who was also named Theo. In a recent radio interview, Van Gogh dismissed the threats and called the movie "the best protection I could have. It's not something I worry about."

...[Van Gogh's] television film "Submission" [that] aired on Dutch television in August, enraged the Muslim community in the Netherlands.

It told the fictional story of a Muslim woman forced into a violent marriage, raped by a relative and brutally punished for adultery.

The English-language film was scripted by a right-wing politician who years ago renounced the Islamic faith of her birth and now refers to herself as an "ex-Muslim."

----------------------
Excerpted From www.ABCNews.go.com's

Dutch Filmaker Theo Van Gogh Murdered:
Theo Van Gogh, the Dutch Filmmaker Who Chiticized Islam, Slain in Amsterdam
--Associated Press --


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Out to CBS...

...at 5:30 for the CBS Evening News. Cut-ins at the top and bottom of each hour.


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Heard on Air:

Conner concurs --

"This storm was very odd..."

Conner Vernon, Meteorologist


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As a Result of Dennis...

...it's still unclear whether local elections will go as scheduled on Tuesday. My guess is they will. Up for grabs is the Mayor's seat, and several city commissioner seats as well.


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Heard on Air:

"This has been a very odd storm from the get-go..."

--Ashley Brand, Meteorologist


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Heard on Air:

"Can I make a quick statement before you cut me off?"

--Ray Philips, Dale co. EOC


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Dennis...

Plans to go to CBS confirmed. To be followed with intermittent cut-ins, culminating with a standard 10 pm news broadcast. No word yet as to how long we'll have to stay thereafter.


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Dennis...

Power never went out at the house, nor did cable, so the VCR should record "The 4400" at 8.
How bizarre is that!? Thousands are waiting out the storm and I'm worried about missing an episode of "The 4400"!


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Per Katie:

Wall to wall will end at 5:30 pm when we will go to the CBS Evening News, followed by 60 Minutes and regular programming. Periodic cut-ins to follow. Still unclear as to whether or not a 10 pm news will be produced by us, though I have heard that it will be over for us by 11. Good news!

Of course, all this is subject to change at any given moment.


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Dennis...

105 mph, Category 2 storm. Gusts to 125.

Wind speeds in Dothan: 22 mph sustained, 40 mph gusts


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Dennis: Interesting Note

Thus far not a single tornado has been spawn from this hurricane. Most unusual.


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Dennis...

Tonya - Our girl on the street; Surveyor of damages great and small
Brad - Newsroom; The snippet guy
Carlos via Satellite [Though not necessarily Live] - Blue Water Bay, FL
Mike [the Animal] Gurspan - Live at the EMA in Bonifay
Deborah - "Ridin' the Storm Out" in Ozark & at Dale Co. EMA
Erika & Lauren - Tag teaming the Houston co. EMA
Me/Luvenia - Audio Board. It's going to be a long day
Ben & BJ/David - At the Deko
Joe/Jonathan - Director's chair
Barry/Heidi/Tiffany - Producers
Earl/? - Tapes
Tony/"God only knows who else" - Camera's
Ashley/Conner/Oscar [alphabetically] - Weather. Blame them.

Special Thanks to Philippe [sp?]


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Dennis...

The Eye has pretty much disintegrated, and is half on/half off of the shoreline.

Winds @ 120 mph, Category 3. Gusts to 165.


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Dennis...

Eye wall is making landfall between Pensacola & Ft. Walton. Santa Rosa Island.


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Dennis...

Wall to wall began at approximately 9am. I woke at 10 in my own bed. Slight winds. Back at station by 12:15, and back on the audio board at 1:30.

after projections of Mobile, Perhaps Gulfport, now it's east of Pensacola. Straight shot to Ft. Walton beach.


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Saturday, July 09, 2005

Dennis Update No. 1

Un-eventful. Rain. Cut-ins every 30 minutes. Storm's track appears to be moving more to the west. Great news! Makes the whole "boarding-up-the-windows" thing seem less than worth-while, but still glad I did it.

My turn at the wheel ends at 3:30am. No strong winds expected, so I'll head to the house to sleep and gather sandwiches & meds, and get back to station before winds get too fierce -- aproximately 10am -- which leaves 5 hours of downtime before sundays 11 hour turn at the wheel begins.


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War Begins!!!

And so, the long slog against Dennis begins. Wall to wall coverage at WTVY begins somewhere around 4am tomorrow morning (Sunday)... and she picks now to start a fight with me???


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Friday, July 08, 2005

Political Correctness Changes the "Treasonous" to...

..."Protected Free Speech".



The Statement made by George Galloway in response to the terrorist bombings in London is further proof that the idiocy of the Liberal Ideology is not strictly an American phenomenon. Traitors abound on both sides of the pond.


"Let there be no equivocation: the primary responsibility for the bloodshed this morning lies with those who carried out the acts.

"“But it would be utterly crass to ..separate these acts from the political backdrop against which they took place.

"They did not come out of a clear blue sky, any more than those monstrous mosquitoes that struck the twin towers and other buildings in the United States on September 11, 2001."

MP George Galloway
July 8, 2005



Finding sympathy for the Islamofacists rather that those innocents whose lives were taken by these self-same Islamofacists?

Looks like England has at least one Kennedy of their own. My condolences to the British.


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A Tale of Two Dennis-es

I can think of one Dennis I'd love to see, and another I'd just as soon go somewhere else


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Thursday, July 07, 2005

You Have no Control...

...over History's Direction. Neither do I. But that's not to say our actions do not shape history. We simply have no control. Not with 7 billion + pairs of hands on the controls!

In truth, we're only along for the ride.



...my prayers are with you Mother England


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Book of Interest?

"The Trivium"
by Sister Miriam Joseph


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3 Quotes From...

"An Iranian Bomb Will Split Radical Islam"
By James Lewis

"The feeble European effort to talk the radicals into giving up nukes has failed."

"When – not if – Iran explodes its bomb in the next two years, it will not threaten Israel and the West nearly so much as the Sunni regimes, from Egypt to Morocco."

"...once the Saudis and Egyptians stare national death in the face, the need to control their own fanatics will become a lot more obvious to them."


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As heard on "The Savage Nation"

"I'd rather be free than Wahhabi."

Michael Savage
July 7, 2005


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Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Where Could I Possibly Take This????

I remember Miraboe. I remember the day she learned my purpose in the whole mad affair; that last deadly war with ThoseWhoSow. Of course, she wouldn't believe it. It was too fantastic, so beyond belief, and her gray eyes round as full moons in the cream sky of her skin.

I was knelt over the great body of SheWhoSows. At long last I was to get the code that would put an end to all my work. It was best to get codes from the living, of course, but that would not have been possible with this one.

She was so curious, my Miraboe. I had put the genap to the casing behind the Sowers eyes and punched through the exoderm and into its brain case.


Miraboe: What is that device? For the past nine terms you've been using that thing on every being we acquire. What does it do?

I: It is called a Genap...

Miraboe: A Genap? Genome mapper? (she was very perceptive. i think that is why i am so fond of her memory)

I: Yes.

Miraboe: And the star samples? The planetary samples? You've been mapping those as well?

I: Yes.

Miraboe: For what reason? It sounds too much like what TheyWhoSow do. (i remember i smiled at that. she was so close to finally knowing it all, and i knew she would not believe it)

I: For Freedom, Miraboe.

Miraboe: No such universe exists. (i could not help but laugh)


[Plate 1, lines 121-184]


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The Face of News No. 1


What else am I to do during weather? It's 2 and a half minutes of downtime!


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Snippet Short & Sweet No. 6

Carry me softly
To thine heart and bed
Kiss my lips,
Suckle my throat
'til flesh is flushed with red

Then cradle me gently
'til my soul finds peace
Where scent of breath,
And beat of heart
joined in love will not cease


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Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Sushi Samples No. 1



Fish motif from the
curtain separating
the Kyoto Sushi's bar
from its kitchen.
Dark blue background
with the fish in white.
Batik. Very Nice.


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Saturday, July 02, 2005

* Washing the Room

I have lit my room with candles
With incense ~ jasmine and myrrh
I have stripped my bed of yesterday’s linen
Given my desire solely to her
I’ve washed my room with golden light
Chilled the wine ~ laid two glasses by
Threw open windows to let in the sea
Accompaniment for my lovers’ sigh
I have freshened the pillows
Scented their coverlets with pear
I have yearned for the warmth of her porcelain skin
The silken beauty of her hair
I have poured her bath ~ its waters hot
Laced their depths with perfume and oil
And will lather the soaps with my own two hands
Wash her body of worry and toil
Then wrap her in linens, and wet with desire
Carry her dripping to the bed I have made
Kiss her throat and the swell of her lips
And feed her from the spread I have laid…

The room is now ready and so I await
In patience ~ born in love and fire
Awaiting the sound of her key in the door
The room washed in light, my being with desire
Her skin as soft as ever I imagined
Lovelier by far than fantasy or dream
Her eyes, her smile, her kiss, her touch
Her bud ~ a fountain flowing with cream
Her silken depths, our bodies entwined
My tongue a press on her delicate folds…
Ah, But for now I wait, wet and wanting
For the promise of love and the union of souls


ELAshley
Began on: 071801.113030.6
Finished on: 072001.103312.1
Polished: 072101.112212.6


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Epilogue

Opening our eyes to a brand new day
To sleep the sleep of the innocent
Learning to live while finding our way
With glimpses through the glass intransient
And looking back, once through, still questioning
And looking back, beginning anew


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Question to Consider

What do we have for the road not taken?
Not satisfaction for milestones reached
Not gratification for labors' reward
Nor appreciation for lessons learned
If anything, we have remorse, regret,
And a wistful desire to go back
And hope we would choose differently


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* BLOG NOTE

For those interested. Approximately 97% of everything posted here comes from the advertised "Scraps I find in my pocket at the end of the day..." The remaining 3% is filler, and in the future I will designate such filler with an asterisk [See this entry's title]...

Also, each post will be dated using a specialized system of my own design, which some might say reflect anal tendencies, the veracity of which I will neither confirm nor deny.

070205.112607.6
[translation:]
July 2, 2005. 11:26:07. PM


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