Oh, chai!
We're here. Not much of a cushion, but here.
Chai--
I rarely disagree with Osso, but we provide a magnificient cushion with tassels and bells (and for the vulgar, whoopee sound effects). Just say the word and we'll shower you with feathers and foam and heartfelt sympathy.
hey, I didn't mean to make this thread about me. Really, there's nothing much to tell. He's fine. Actually, if I had to tell what leads up to anything with him, it'd be far too long a story.
Back to you noddy.
Chai--
Welcome to The Concern of the Crones. It's a Rite of Passage.
Not to sound like Emily Dickinson, but Death is a thing with tendrils. Sounding like Donne, "No woman is an island."
We care.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes --
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs
The stiff Heart questions, was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round --
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought --
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone --
This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --
Emily Dickinson
and this one by Emily, Ge.
I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the chart were given.
Emily is a good companion for both armchair travelers and actually crossing the bar.
I believe that the sword of Damacles is still dangling over my head. Life is but a pee in the middle of an 8 lane highway. We are making our way through the cow path of life. Moreover one day we shall become that cowpath. :wink:
Bigred--
Check out:
Quote:DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas takes some close reading and some rereading, but he's worth the effort.
