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oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 5, 2008 - 9:38pm


MonkeyPod

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Location: Florida
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 31, 2008 - 5:25pm

 oldviolin wrote:


 
I don't get the point!


Isabeau

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Location: sou' tex
Gender: Female


Posted: Oct 31, 2008 - 5:19pm

 oldviolin wrote:
 
LOVE IT!

oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 31, 2008 - 5:13pm


oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 24, 2008 - 7:16pm

"When I was a boy I was told that the Lord fashioned us from his own image. That's when I decided to manufacture mirrors. Security, tranquility, a well deserved rest. All the aims I have pursued will soon be realized. Life is a state of mind."



MonkeyPod

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Location: Florida
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 18, 2008 - 4:13pm

 Lazy8 wrote:
 MonkeyPod wrote:
Wasn't it McCain that said you can't control the actions of a few hundred crack-pots that show up to a every rally (of a few hundred supporters) ?

If you get to blame McCain for the behavior of everyone in his audience then Obama gets the blame for you, romeotuma, hippichick, servo, exo, and every crackpot posting on DailyKos and Huffington post and Democratic Underground and MoveOn. Fair enough?
 
If that's the way you feel then go with it.  At least you have the guts to name names and not act like a passive-aggressive wimp!

Lazy8

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Location: The Gallatin Valley of Montana
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 18, 2008 - 3:44pm

 MonkeyPod wrote:
Wasn't it McCain that said you can't control the actions of a few hundred crack-pots that show up to a every rally (of a few hundred supporters) ?
If you get to blame McCain for the behavior of everyone in his audience then Obama gets the blame for you, romeotuma, hippichick, servo, exo, and every crackpot posting on DailyKos and Huffington post and Democratic Underground and MoveOn. Fair enough?

MonkeyPod

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Location: Florida
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 18, 2008 - 3:32pm

 manbirdexperiment wrote:
          McCain's Walk of Shame
 
Wasn't it McCain that said you can't control the actions of a few hundred crack-pots that show up to a every rally (of a few hundred supporters) ?

Manbird

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Location: ? ? ?
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 18, 2008 - 3:22pm

       
          McCain's Walk of Shame




arighter2

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Location: dubuque
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 10, 2008 - 5:22pm

 emeraldrose63 wrote:
Try to smile

  {#Mrgreen}


emeraldrose63

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Posted: Oct 10, 2008 - 5:18pm

Try to smile
Manbird

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Location: ? ? ?
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 10, 2008 - 11:38am

 oldviolin wrote:

Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has
been, I have great faith in a seed.  Convince me that you have a seed
there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.
-   Henry David Thoreau

 

 
I like seedless watermelon.
13 
cookinlover

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Location: Auckland, New Zealand (former Boston native and Atlanta transplant)
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 10, 2008 - 11:19am

 oldviolin wrote:

Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has
been, I have great faith in a seed.  Convince me that you have a seed
there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.
-   Henry David Thoreau

 



 
I once lost a bag of broccoli in Concord, MA.  Does that count?

oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 10, 2008 - 11:13am

Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has
been, I have great faith in a seed.  Convince me that you have a seed
there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.
-   Henry David Thoreau

 


oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 9, 2008 - 7:25am

 

Part To Part

Echoic minnesingers of the spirit realm
Left the taste of rusty iron
On the tip of my tongue
Stayed by the bright sufferers
And their broken arrows
Embraced by the fear in autumn skies
Enhanced by none but the weary

When we dine by candlelight
When we part to part the night
With the gift of life in sight
Such fear finds the means to an end
Victory contrasts the shades of grey
Till there illumes a new day
Bound by no one, and nothing

Frozen

Back before the clock struck 1942 I was a nine-year-old boy, my brother eight, and my sister twelve. We lived a life protected from the war by a dirt road and endless pine trees.
The soldiers from Ft. Bragg were always training in the deep woods and were a comfort, since in my imagination I could see rows and rows of black boots goose stepping toward our house to gather us up for a long trip. We didn't know then about where those trips went.

The war was on the lips of the older ones; and in the shadows and the open spaces where all the older boys used to stand, walk, and run.
It was in the way we used to save our toothpaste tubes and roll tires up to the depot on collection day.

There was another war in those days, as I recall; or as recalls me.
That dirt road was our world in a nutshell. We knew every tree, fencepost and ditch.
We rode our bikes up to the pavement and down to the invisible borderline that separated
what I was to learn about impoverished spirits from skin color and hair texture.

My brother and I relished the insults hurled at the colored kids, especially that older girl,
who passed through our territory on the way to their school, just up and over from our house.

In our world they had their own doctor, their own school, their own church, and their own cemetery, where mysteriously a headstone or two would occasionally be toppled over.

The fact that they shared the same dirt road, the same patched clothing, and the same stream for water never occurred to us. I doubt that it would have made any difference anyhow.

One day my brother and sister and I were riding our bikes. My brother was riding on my handlebars and we were chasing our sister down the road. An old truck came sliding around the corner and ran over our sister, right before our eyes. My brother jumped off and ran home screaming, but I just stood there, frozen in time.

The old colored man got out and stumbled around in front of his truck, and fell to his knees; sobbing and holding my sisters head in his hands.

The next hour or so was a blur; my mother running up, crying. My oldest sister and her boyfriend yelling at the old man....to much noise to recall.

The old man just stood there, as did I, alone, also frozen in time.
My uncle was the county sheriff and showed up with his deputy and I remember them asking him a lot of questions and putting him in their car.
All he said to my Mama was, "drunk."

I never saw him again except in my frozen nightmares.
He took from me the one person in the world that represented sweetness, and hope for something besides this dusty road and the war in my little nine year old head.

About a year later, that older colored girl walked up our road as always with her little brothers and sisters as usual. We hated them even more now, and we threw rocks at them and called the usual taunts.
Through my tears I screamed "You killed my sister! You killed her!"
She yelled back "well, she shouldn't have been in the road!"

I was so angry that I screamed as loud as I could "NIGGER!!!"
She turned around and glared at me and gave me the middle finger and said;
"what is you, but that?"

...Some wounds never heal. Never.
Slavery of the spirit will follow a course along a dry river bed; through a treeless forest;
into a birdless sky; within a vengeful heart.

As the poet said, "Life goes on within you, or without you."

B
 

oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 7, 2008 - 8:57am

 

"
Show me where it hurts," God said,
and every cell in my body burst into tears before His tender eyes.
- ~ Rab'ia ~



God is the Self of the world, but you can't see God for the same reason that, without a mirror, you can't see your own eyes, and you certainly can't bite your own teeth or look inside your head. Your self is that cleverly hidden because it is God hiding.

You may ask why God sometimes hides in the form of horrible people, or pretends to be people who suffer great disease and pain. Remember, first, that He isn't really doing this to anyone but Himself. Remember, too, that in almost all the stories you enjoy there have to be bad people as well as good people, for the thrill of the tale is to find out how the good people will get the better of the bad. It's the same as when we play cards. At the beginning of the game we shuffle them all into a mess, which is like the bad things in the world, but the point of the game is to put the mess into good order, and the one who does it best is the winner. Then we shuffle the cards once more and play again, and so it goes with the world.

Alan Watts






oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Oct 6, 2008 - 8:31am

CHAPTER 1 - LOOMINGS

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago-never mind how long precisely -having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off-then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs-commerce surrounds it with her surf.

Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall northward. What do you see?-Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks glasses!of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster-tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand-miles of them-leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues, -north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Herman Melville



oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Sep 26, 2008 - 6:52am

INTRODUCTION

In the winter of 1901-02, while rummaging an old closet in the
shed-chamber of my father's house, I unearthed a salt-box which had
been equipped with leather hinges at the expense of considerable
ingenuity, and at a very remote period.  In addition to this, a hasp
of the same material, firmly fastened by carpet-tacks and a catch of
bent wire, bade defiance to burglars, midnight marauders, and
safe-breakers.

With the aid of a tack-hammer the combination was readily solved,
and an eager examination of the contents of the box disclosed: —

1. Fish-line of braided shoemaker's thread, with perch hook, to
   which adhered the mummied remains of a worm that lived and
   flourished many, many years ago.

2. Popgun of pith elder and hoop-skirt wire.

3. Horse-chestnut bolas, calculated to revolve in opposite
   directions with great velocity, by an up-and-down motion of the
   holder's wrist; also extensively used for the adornment of
   telegraph-wires, —there were no telephones in those days, —and
   the cause of great profanity amongst linemen.

4. More fish-hooks of the ring variety, now obsolete.

5. One blood alley, two chinees, a parti-colored glass agate,
   three pewees, and unnumbered drab-colored marbles.

6. Small bow of whalebone, with two arrows.

7. Six-inch bean-blower, for school use—a weapon of considerable
   range and great precision when used with judgment behind a
   Guyot's Common School Geography.

8. Unexpended ammunition for same, consisting of putty pellets.

9. Frog's hind leg, extra dry.

10. Wing of bluejay, very ditto.

11. Letter from "Beany," postmarked "Biddeford, Me." and expressing
    great indignation because "Pewt" "hasent wrote."

12. Copy-book inscribed "Diry."

The examination of this copy-book lasted the rest of the day, and it
was read with the peculiar pleasure one experiences in reviewing
some of the events of a happy boyhood.

Jan.  1, 186-Had an awful time in school today.  me and Cawcaw Harding
set together.  when we came in from resess Cawcaw reached over and hit
me a bat, and i lent him one in the snoot, and he hit me back.  we was
jest fooling, but old Francis called Cawcaw up front to lick him.
i thought if i went up and told him he wood say, noble boy go to
your seat, i wont lick neether of you.  anyway i knew that Cawcaw
wood tell on me, and so i told old Francis i hit Cawcaw first, and
old Francis said Harry i have had my eye on you for a long time, and
he jest took us up and slammed us together, and then he wood put me
down and shake Cawcaw and then he wood put Cawcaw down and shake me
till my head wabbled and he turned me upside down and all the
fellers looked upside down and went round and round and somehow i
felt silly like and kind of like laffin.  i dident want to laff but
coodent help it.  and then he talked to us and sent us to our seats
and told us to study, and i tried to but all the words in the book
went round and round and i felt awful funny and kind of wabbly, and
when i went home mother said something was the matter and i told her
and then i cried, i don't know what i cried for, becaus i dident
ake any.  father said he wood lick me at home when i got licked at
school and perhaps that was why i cried.  ennyway when father come
home i asked him if he was a going to lick me and he said not by a
dam sight, and he gave me ten cents and when i went to bed i got
laffin and crying all to once, and coodent stop, and mother set
in my room and kept her hand on my forred until i went to sleep.
i drempt i was fiting all the time.  when i get big enuf there is
going to be a fite between me and old Francis, you see if there aint.

Henry Shute from The Real Diary Of A Real Boy

A book that I must have read 20 times as a kid...often under the covers
with a flashlight. I understand it all quite differently today.

oldviolin

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Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Sep 22, 2008 - 10:07pm


Manbird

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Location: ? ? ?
Gender: Male


Posted: Sep 19, 2008 - 10:32am


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