this week's words-of-the-week were ...

epitome
coital
haberdasher
coy

please, no pathos, my friend! anyway, did you observe the ritardando? an inspiration, eh? yes, and now you tolerant man, let the sense of this ritardando touch you. do you hear the basses? they stride like gods. and let this inspiration of old Handel penetrate your restless heart and give it peace. just listen, you poor creature, listen without either pathos or mockery, while far away behind the veil of this hopelessly idiotic and ridiculous apparatus the form of this divine music passes by. pay attention and you will learn something. observe how this crazy funnel apparently does the most stupid, the most useless and the most damnable thing in the world. it takes hold of some music played where you please, without distinction, stupid and coarse, lamentably distorted, to boot, and chucks it into space to land where it has no business to be; and yet after all this it cannot destroy the original spirit of the music; it can only demonstrate its own senseless mechanishm, its inane meddling and marring. listen, then, you poor thing. listen well. you have need of it. and now you hear not only a Handel who, disfigured by radio, is, all the same, in this most ghastly of disguises still divine; you hear as well and you observe, most worthy sir, a most admirable symbol of life. when you listen to radio you are a witness of the everlasting war between idea and appearance, between time and eternity, between the human and the divine. exactly, my dear sir, as the radio for ten minutes together projects the most lovely music without regard into the most impossible places, into respectable drawing rooms and attics and into the midst of chattering, guzzling, yawning and sleeping listeners, and exactly as it strips this music of its sensuous beauty, spoils and scratches and beslimes it and yet cannot altogether destroy its spirit, just so does life, the so-called reality, deal with the sublime picture-play of the world and make a hurley-burley of it. it makes its unappetizing tone-slime of the most magic orchestral music. everywhere it obtrudes its mechanism, its activity, its dreary exigencies and vanity between the ideal and the real, between the orchestra and ear. all life is so, my child, and we must let it be so; and, if we are not asses, laugh at it. it little becomes people like you to be critics of radio or of life either. better learn to listen first! learn what is to be taken seriously and laugh at the rest.

poetry roundup

ideal.eyes

ocd101

la sonrisa inspiradora

your shampoo has fallen in love with your soap

ruine'd,i

one year has passed

proud?

i am the number one Google result if you search for the words:

run your course my feverish child

i'm not sure how i feel about this ...

trust me (again or for the first time)

a great song, by a wonderful Canadian band