Monday comes to a close.


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Quiet sunset


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Renaissance Faire !

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Happy Friday!


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Tonight’s movie

The Amazing Spider-Man 2
Andrew Garfield, Emma Stone
DVD release: Aug 19, 2014
PG-13, 2 hr. 22 min.

Sent from Flixster, the top movies app,

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Weekend end


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本当にあった怖い話 今夜の映画

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On Trying New Things

Society says it is honorable and good to learn new things.  

Why then does attempting new things often cause a feeling of embarrassment resulting in a quick give up or not trying at all?  

I like to learn new things and am recently attempting digital painting.  Yet, there is this unseen force, a pressure on me that wants me to give up, tells me I cannot do it.  It is like the bad angel on your shoulder who is getting the upper hand on the good one atop the opposite shoulder.  

I thought about this today and wonder what could cause these things.  Surely it must be learned as young children are quite eager to try just about anything put in front of them.   

Could it be society?  From a young age we are also graded by teachers and our efforts compared against our peers.  Should we not be in the top rankings we would naturally consider ourselves “bad” at the task assigned to us.  To add to this pressure the classroom has grown much larger.  With the internet we now have all of humanity in which to compare and rank ourselves.  Even writing this post I recall the daily onslaught of articles from very talented writers in my RSS feed and that same dark force tells me to just quit and erase this post.  

Turning on the TV we see shows such as “America’s Got Talent” where a major factor in the draw of that show is the ridiculing of the participants!  The other shows don’t seem much of an improvement as they are filled with sarcasm, snark and more ridicule since these seem to be part of the “secret sauce” that is driving viewership in the USA.  

I find it hard to tell if the shows are simply reflecting popular culture or if it is the other way around.  Who was, snarky and unpleasant first?  In any case it seems they feed on each other.  

How about age?  Sometimes the dark angel whispers that I’m too old to try new things.  If I look around younger people are so much better at this or that then I’ll ever be.  Why embarrass myself?  The dark angle is a formidable enemy.  

Could it possibly be our friends, family and acquaintances?  All of these people have set expectations of us and should we act or behave any differently we run the risk of seeming ‘strange,’ or ‘not being ourselves.’  Our friends and family could in fact be a limitation!  There is a reason people write anonymously.  They do it so they can write freely without any disruption to their social lives.  By writing anonymously one can express his true opinion!  Just as a politician building up his reputation in a political party would be unable to agree with the view of the opposing side even if he agreed with it, we ourselves, in our own individual lives have a very hard time doing something that would be out of line with social reputation that we’ve all worked so hard to build.  For example, say I wanted to become a mime.  I’m sure once I began practicing a solid majority of the people I know would think I’m developing a mental problem.  

For me, the only way to beat the dark, negative thoughts that try to stop me from trying new things is to forget everything and everyone, to go alone and be alone.   I don’t want their opinion and I don’t want to share it with them.  Funny that I write that in a blog post that is shared with the entire internet.  But the internet is not real, it is not a person.  The internet is just words, images, ideas, videos swirling around where the majority of participants do not have very long attention spans.  They want to see pictures of cats, or share some mindless delight, or share pictures on their social network, or make some trite statement, or watch a slideshow of something, or read a list such as 10 reasons why everything is awesome.  

I write the blog for me and for the future internet, certainly not the present.  I rarely read what I’ve written.  I don’t want interaction on my posts and have grown tired of the overemphasis on “being social.”  No matter what we do on the internet now days we see the ubiquitous share button.  Hell, even porn videos have a share button.  Who in their right mind would share that with their social networks?  

So now, we’re not only still ranked and stacked among all of humanity but now we are slowly being coerced into sharing our mediocrity with the world?? 

This blog is my home on the internet.  It is closed to outside commentary but you may peek through my windows if you must.  


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East Coker – T.S. Eliot

I’m fascinated by this poem.  I heard a few snippets of it from this music and had to know where it came from.     Grasscut – Blink In The Night

“East Coker,” from *The Four Quartets*


In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur, and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotized. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not reflected, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.
In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.


What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns

That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hope for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebitude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.


O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again,
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.


The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.


So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.



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L’automne est arrivé

I have always loved the autumn season.  The temperature cools, the leaves change color and a new chapter opens.

The year begins with a rebirth of sorts, recognized by a litany of New Year’s pledges and the excitement of having passed midway through the ice and chill of winter.  Before long the grass starts to grow, the flowers begin to bloom and the world is again alive with color.  Soon after, we become accustomed to warm days, water parks and cookouts on the patio.  Summer is a fickle fille de joie, she comes quickly, almost unexpectedly and entices us with trips to the beach, days at the pool and for the young, an end to school.  In this reverie, we lose track of time and are jolted awake by the start of school, the first chilly winds and the quickening pace of the falling leaves.  Summer has left us without even a note, let alone a fond farewell.  

It is the autumn season I find the most profound.  Unlike the carefree and thoughtless days of summer, autumn is a time for reflection.  The children are made back to their studies and briefly forgotten routines reestablished.  The young find themselves in a grade one more advanced and adults note that the year has progressed much too fast; it is life that has progressed much too fast.

One more year, almost over.  Were the pledges made at the beginning kept?  Did the year turn out to be prosperous or is it one we would rather see quickly fade away?  In autumn the year has formed its character, its personality has been established and there is nothing left but for these traits to crystallize into the ice of winter.

Transition always brings with it a degree of excitement.  We quickly forget the decadent days of summer, replacing them with the excited anticipation of the holiday season.  Halloween is on the distant horizon!  It too comes quickly, like a ghoul in the night that soon will be pounding on our door in the forms of witches, superheros and vampires demanding sweetened sustenance.

It is a contemplative experience to sit on the porch swing in the cool air and listen to the rustle of the fallen leaves.  Life is to be savored and the bouquet of autumn is elegant indeed.

31 10 2013 - 1



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