A Wedding Speech...

The Edge...

SEARCH THIS.

Wikipedia will never replace an Encyclopedia.

The Dog Stars...

I love reading the first page of a book and knowing that I'm going to blow through it in a week.
Even at this hour, a late start is a good start to my small comforts.

And the fucking author writes like me.

Fucked up-like. Fragmented and shit.

"I keep the beast running."

i didnt do it on purpose

i told you that I shouldnt have this shit around here

TRUST...

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.” 
― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

Fat Free Milk

Way back in 2002, I was fiddling around here. RIGHT HERE. There was a company called Pyra Labs that provided Fat Free Milk (me) access to default templates, back-end-system-fiddling-around-ease-of-use and instant publishing gratification for a measly $8.95 a month, or something like that. This seemed pretty expensive back in the day but I came from the era of "Web Pages". One page. Like

Dude - I'll finish this later...

Today...

I did everything.

"All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade."

George Died...

"Fuck all of this shit, I never wanted everybody to have a big fucking thing."

12 years of conversations with George.

I've never had such a great buddy.

I will always miss you, you hard-ass-bastard-with AN AMAZING HEART.

Everybody that you knew after your wife died - you knew through me.

You fought in Korea. Wined, dined and died with your ladies.

You were a tough fucker but had a heart of gold.

You were always on my side.

I gave you water, transported you to various beds and held your hand.

You hated this and a lot of shit since I met you.

I'm glad that I was here for you, buddy and you were, so HERE for ME in all of those years.

I'm so glad that you're gone.

You told me and thanked me repeatedly for being with you through all of these years and especially through all of the recent bullshit and I thank you for being my best friend. Just fucking ANYWAY.

And now what, George?

The Ghost George isa comin', methinks...

Hell help us both.