Friday Leftovers . . .

Went on a mad cleaning binge that carried over into Saturday, so I forgot to post this, even though it was ready . . . whatever . . .

Desperately. Need. This………………

Oh Bill O’Reilly, you just slay me, you silly old dinosaur . . .

This is so spot on that I can’t believe no one did it before now (especially Van Eyck):

Scrubs and the Muppets:

And now, for those of you who may be at a loss for words, I have the perfect solution: This handy-dandy word selection device showed up in my spam. I cannot imagine why . . .

{I have|I’ve} been {surfing|browsing} online more than {three|3|2|4} hours today, yet I never found any interesting
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I {couldn’t|could not} {resist|refrain from} commenting.
{Very well|Perfectly|Well|Exceptionally well} written!|
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“Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for [her] and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.” ~ Vladimir Nabokov, from The Real Life of Sebastian Knight

“Homing” (nd, ink on paper)
by Zhu Naizheng

                   

Continuing on a theme: Wings aloft

From Section V of “La Brière of Saint-Nazaire”

It turns out, what we thought of as the soul
is mostly sound;
not song, but like a memory of birds
or running water,
the churn of a paddle, the flicker and dip
of an oar,
narrow boats butting the land
on the quiet tethers,

so death will be a slower, surer fade
than any we imagine;
no mere extinction, like the evening’s hush
before the ducks come, dipping to the marsh
in threes and fours, to find the darker ground,
no moment’s pause, but absolute decay
where absence is a form
of generation.

~ John Burnside

                   

Music by Lee DeWyze, “Blackbird’s Song”

It shouldn’t be allowed for real memories to get mixed up in the flimsy structure of dreams because the pain it causes is unbearable. ~ Agnès Desarthe, from Chez Moi

“O’Neil’s Wharf” (1913, oil on composition board)
by Edwin Dickinson

 

                   

How come we live several different lives? Maybe I’m generalizing a bit. Maybe I’m the only one who feels like this. I will only die once and yet, during the time I’m allotted, I will have lived a series of related but clearly distinct existences.

At thirty, I wasn’t the same person I am now. At eight, I was a very individual little thing. I see my adolescence as quite autonomous in relation to what followed. The woman I am now is rootless, unattached, incomprehensibly alone. I used to have lots of people round me. I had become very sociable. Initially I was shy, then reserved, then sensible . . . finally mad.

 ~ Agnès Desarthe, from Chez Moi