![]() |
| Strange days have found us. Strange days have tracked us down. They're going to destroy our casual joys. (The Doors) |
19/03/2022
Strange days
08/03/2022
30/01/2022
Test coming
21/01/2022
National Squirrel Appreciation day 🐿
Ok Barney! Take it away . . .
To whom it may concern
I'm here to learn, not teach. If I want it to be the way it was, I will never understand the way it is.
28/12/2021
Gas prices
The price of gas is the life of the planet.
15/11/2021
Moving on
For now, this is my/our last day in Portugal. Tomorrow at 03h I will go to the airport for my flight to the US.
"Valeu a pena? Tudo vale a pena se a alma nao e pequena."
"Was it worth it? Everything is worth it if the soul is not small."
Fernando Pessoa, Portuguese poet
![]()
"I know not what tomorrow will bring."
He died the next day.
10/11/2021
Pen and pruning hook
They say "the pen is mightier than the sword". True, but not true enough. The pen is a sword, the sword which is sharpened only when I turn it on myself.
Gone are the adolescent dreams of the glory of a tragic death, gone fascination with battles fought, won or lost. The validation of success is a tattered flag limp in the wind's fury. There is no enduring victory, only quiet at the end of things.
They say "beat the swords into plowshares and pruning hooks". The pen is also a shovel and a pruning hook. Dig and uncover the truth of things, the truth within, truth with a small "t". That is the truth that matters. Prune the rest.
22/10/2021
Sung - Conflict
讼
Hexagram 6
Sung - Conflict
Changing lines
/Line Three
He stands on his integrity, no matter what ill winds may blast him. Stand or fall, in the end he will remain exactly who he is.
/Line Four
Realizing the very root of conflict lies within his own heart, he lays down his arms and resolves to accept the things he cannot change.
27/09/2021
Phase One
Phase One” from Bring Now the Angels
by Dilruba Ahmed, 2020
For leaving the fridge open
last night, I forgive you.
For conjuring white curtains
instead of living your life.
For the seedlings that wilt, now,
in tiny pots, I forgive you.
For saying no first
but yes as an afterthought.
I forgive you for hideous visions
after childbirth, brought on by loss
of sleep. And when the baby woke
repeatedly, for your silent rebuke
in the dark, “What’s your beef?”
I forgive your letting vines
overtake the garden. For fearing
your own propensity to love.
For losing, again, your bag
en route from San Francisco;
for the equally heedless drive back
on the caffeine-fueled return.
I forgive you for leaving
windows open in rain
and soaking library books
again. For putting forth
only revisions of yourself,
with punctuation worked over,
instead of the disordered truth,
I forgive you. For singing mostly
when the shower drowns
your voice. For so admiring
the drummer you failed to hear
the drum. In forgotten tin cans,
may forgiveness gather. Pooling
in gutters. Gushing from pipes.
A great steady rain of olives
from branches, relieved
of cruelty and petty meanness.
With it, a flurry of wings, thirteen
gray pigeons. Ointment reserved
for healers and prophets. I forgive you.
I forgive you. For feeling awkward
and nervous without reason.
For bearing Keats’s empty vessel
with such calm you worried
you had, perhaps, no moral
center at all. For treating your mother
with contempt when she deserved
compassion. I forgive you. I forgive
you. I forgive you. For growing
a capacity for love that is great
but matched only, perhaps,
by your loneliness. For being unable
to forgive yourself first so you
could then forgive others and
at last find a way to become
the love that you want in this world.
