I was at this concert.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Monday, December 17, 2012
Question
Why didn't God stop the tragedy in Newtown from happening?
Twenty little kids. Twenty. God had the power to stop it allegedly, but didn't.
What a fucking douchebag.
Twenty little kids. Twenty. God had the power to stop it allegedly, but didn't.
What a fucking douchebag.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Mr. Omen
Found some dead birds in the furnace. I'm pretty sure that means we're going to have seven years good luck. Or something. Go us!
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Some things can't be stopped
We all have to eventually return to a normal life, don't we? The world doesn't care about money or death or dentist appointments. Suns keep shining on, Moons keep floating by, and our children play with their toys without a care in their precious universes. In the darkness, my son is a bright light. The last two weeks have been difficult for our family. Lynette's mother was taken from us unexpectedly too soon. But James reminded us all of two very important things: We can't ignore the days, and we can't fear the nights. The planets rotate for whatever reason and therefore so must we. How we handle the celestial dance is the ONLY thing we have any control over.
Great Things Have Happened
By Alden Nowlan
We were talking about the great things
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, "Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time." But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn't mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I'm sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived
who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.
"Is that all?" I hear somebody ask.
Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness
and, under our windows, the street-cleaners
were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and
everything was strange without being threatening,
even the tea-kettle whistled differently
than in the daytime: it was like the feeling
you get sometimes in a country you've never visited
before, when the bread doesn't taste quite the same,
the butter is a small adventure, and they put
paprika on the table instead of pepper,
except that there was nobody in this country
except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder
of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.
We were talking about the great things
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, "Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time." But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn't mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I'm sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived
who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.
"Is that all?" I hear somebody ask.
Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness
and, under our windows, the street-cleaners
were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and
everything was strange without being threatening,
even the tea-kettle whistled differently
than in the daytime: it was like the feeling
you get sometimes in a country you've never visited
before, when the bread doesn't taste quite the same,
the butter is a small adventure, and they put
paprika on the table instead of pepper,
except that there was nobody in this country
except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder
of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.
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