Friday afternoon, partly cloudy and beautiful, 84 degrees.
I’m having problems getting to sleep again; I’m really hoping that this doesn’t turn into another full-blown episode of insomnia. Last night I dreamed I was having a good conversation with Brett’s partner, Dom. I was telling her how much I missed speaking with Brett. She said that she would tell him . . .
I’m hoping that Corey will spray the bugs around the house soon, so that I can venture outside without adding to my huge collection of bites. Oh well.
Hope you like today’s collection. Enjoy.
My nights lately:
In praise of words:
When you realize . . .
I love this picture. One of my earliest memories of is of my father working on a green car while we were living in Navy housing before going to England.
I really think that it doesn’t rain nearly enough around here . . . not. The only good thing about all of the rain here is listening to it at night as it falls on the tin roof.
Anyway, sorry no post yesterday. I could think of nothing to say. Corey spent the day in bed as it’s his turn to be sick. Honestly, I wonder how long we’ll swap this bug, whatever it is. He’s better today, but he was also better earlier in the week, so who knows . . .
I’m fairly certain that the header quote is a take on Marshall McLuhan’s quote, “All through his life, he swung between the ridiculous and the sublime,” which comes from his famous 1964 book, The Medium is the Message.
(Just an aside here: I cannot believe how many people online think that the word is massage, not message . . . We really need to go back to spelling tests in grade school.)
Pretty good collection today, so enjoy.
More later. Peace.
Michigan ghost apples caused by extremely cold temperatures (found here):
This reminded me of how my old dogs used to try to get on the hammock with me . . .
A little late in getting this post up. Corey has so generously shared his cold with me. He’s getting better, and I, if things go true to form, seem to be on my way to bronchitis. The only good thing is that I actually have a doctor’s appointment next week, just for a check-in, but if my chest goes the way it tends to go, I should be good and wheezy by the time I get to my appointment.
No. I’m not willing it into existence, but seriously . . . I know my body’s response by now. As I sit here in my pajamas trying to will enough energy to bathe, sweat is running down my brow, and it’s not because it’s hot in here.
Just a few minutes ago, I poured my ginger tea into my soda water glass instead of the tea cup, and it took me a minute to realize what was wrong. It’s pathetic, actually. Thank god I don’t need to interact with real people.
I mean really . . . it would just be embarrassing. Anyway, I like my collection for today. I hope you enjoy.
More later. Peace.
I love this. I wonder if Corey would notice if I started flapping a handkerchief at him:
But I love this more:
I never did solve mine:
This is kind of like the guy who invented soft serve ice cream by mistake when the ice cream in his truck began to melt:
And then there’s this accident:
I have a real abhorrence of canned vegetables, except for corn. Weird, huh?
Just a straightforward leftovers post. Spent too much time trying to find the perfect present for Corey, and now my back hurts. My life is so weird……..
The four horsemen of the apocalypse from memesdaily
From Ultrafacts: Perhaps a lesson here?
For youngest son who spent years Rick Rolling everyone in sight:
Also from Ultrafacts:
Today’s poem was written by UK Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy for the centenary of Armistice Day, November 18, 2018 (I know that I’m late). This day is very important to Europeans, but somehow, 45 couldn’t go out in the rain to pay tribute to the fallen. The background on this sonnet can be found here.
The Wound In Time
It is the wound in Time. The century’s tides,
chanting their bitter psalms, cannot heal it.
Not the war to end all wars; death’s birthing place;
the earth nursing its ticking metal eggs, hatching
new carnage. But how could you know, brave
as belief as you boarded the boats, singing?
The end of God in the poisonous, shrapneled air.
Poetry gargling its own blood. We sense it was love
you gave your world for; the town squares silent,
awaiting their cenotaphs. What happened next?
War. And after that? War. And now? War. War.
History might as well be water, chastising this shore;
for we learn nothing from your endless sacrifice.
Your faces drowning in the pages of the sea.