Saturday, 7 January 2017

Cruel and unusual weather in Sarasota FL leads to drastic measures



Home made Beef Stew for me!

Thursday, 5 January 2017

January 6th: Epiphany, or Little Christmas, or Fiesta de los Tres Reyes .

THE JOURNEY OF THE MAGI as read by the poet himself, T.S. Elliot.
Click on this to hear T.S.E's reading.

Here is the text.

The Journey of the Magi

'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

Tuesday, 3 January 2017

The tears of the world

“The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.” 

― Samuel BeckettWaiting for Godot

Sunday, 1 January 2017

To make you groan, or giggle, or both

From The Independent Newspaper  (London U.K.)

Thanks to Moose Allain for this:
"‏Some people like it when an object has displaced just enough water to equal its own original weight. Ah well, whatever floats your boat."
To Glenny Rodge ‏for this:
COMPUTER: "Enter password."
ME: [types "14days"] 
COMPUTER: "Your password is two week." 
ME: "Uh?" 
COMPUTER: "Computer do joke. Computer funny."
And to Namey McNamename ‏ for this:
"Today seems like a good day to bury bad news. It was a stupid name for a hamster anyway and he died over three weeks ago."
Tom Freeman ‏was unimpressed by George Osborne's proposal that students should study maths up to the age of 18:
"We already have to study maths up to age 16, and that's quite enough. There's no reason to add an extra three years." 
Moose Allain ‏again:
"I've just bought my friends a new boiler and complete central heating system, as a house warming present."
And again:
"Greg! Greg! Greg! Ian! Greg! Ian! Ian! Greg! Greg! Ian! Ian! Greg! Greg! Ian! Ian! Ian!"
Gregorian chant.
And finally, also from the mighty Moose: 
"Quick reminder: April Fool’s Day has been moved to 2 April because of the leap year."

"Hard Times Come Again No More". (Sadly they have, and they will)

Words by Stephen Foster

Sung by Thomas Hampson.

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh! Hard times come again no more.

'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard Times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh! Hard times come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh! Hard times come again no more.

There's a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away,
With a worn heart whose better days are o'er:
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day,
Oh! Hard times come again no more.

'Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh! Hard times come again no more.