Happy Birthday, Merton

Do not depend on the hope of results. You may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results, but on the value, the rightness, the truth of the work itself. You gradually struggle less and less for an idea and more and more for specific people. In the end, it is the reality of personal relationship that saves everything.

Thomas Merton, born on this day in 1915

Excellent.

An excellent (deserted island) album ...

Happy Birthday, Schubert

Rieder, Franz Schubert, 1825

Franz Schubert was born on this day in 1797.

Jacqueline du Pré, Daniel Barenboim, Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman, and Zubin Mehta perform Schubert's Piano Quintet in A major, D. 667, "The Trout" ... 

The Cure, "Primary"

1986.

Awake.

At the far end of a trip north

In a berry-pickers cabin

At the edge of a wide muddy field

Stretching to the woods and cloudy mountains,

Feeding the stove all afternoon with cedar,

Watching the dark sky darken, a heron flap by,

A huge setter pup nap on the dusty cot.

High rotten stumps in the second-growth woods

Flat scattered farms in the bends of the Nooksack

River. Steelhead run now

a week and I go back

Down 99, through towns, to San Francisco and Japan.

All America south and east,

Twenty-five years in it brought to a trip-stop

Mind-point, where I turn

Caught more on this land rock tree and man,

Awake, than ever before, yet ready to leave.

damned memories,

Whole wasted theories, failures and worse success,

Schools, girls, deals, try to get in

To make this poem a froth, a pity.

A dead fiddle for lost good jobs.

the cedar walls

Smell of our farm-house, half built in '35.

Clouds sink down the hills

Coffee is hot again. The dog

Turns and turns about, stops and sleeps.

Gary Snyder

Happy Birthday, Bellotto

Bellotto, Capriccio with the Campidoglio, 1742

Bernardo Bellotto was born on this day in 1720.

Thank you, Dr. Richardson.

Opposition.

They're all fake. Good guys are getting harder and harder to find.  Do your homework.  They're hoping you won't.

I wish a buck was still silver.

Clear.

Alan Turing's thoughts along the lines of artificial intelligence from his 1950 essay, "Computing Machinery and Intelligence" ...

6. Contrary Views on the Main Question

We may now consider the ground to have been cleared and we are ready to proceed to the debate on our question, "Can machines think?" and the variant of it quoted at the end of the last section. We cannot altogether abandon the original form of the problem, for opinions will differ as to the appropriateness of the substitution and we must at least listen to what has to be said in this connection. 

It will simplify matters for the reader if I explain first my own beliefs in the matter.  Consider first the more accurate form of the question. I believe that in about fifty years' time it will be possible, to programme computers, with a storage capacity of about 109, to make them play the imitation game so well that an average interrogator will not have more than 70 per cent chance of making the right identification after five minutes of questioning. The original question, "Can machines think?" I believe to be too meaningless to deserve discussion.  Nevertheless I believe that at the end of the century the use of words and general educated opinion will have altered so much that one will be able to speak of machines thinking without expecting to be contradicted. I believe further that no useful purpose is served by concealing these beliefs. The popular view that scientists proceed inexorably from well-established fact to well-established fact,never being influenced by any improved conjecture, is quite mistaken. Provided it is made clear which are proved facts and which are conjectures, no harm can result. Conjectures are of great importance since they suggest useful lines of research.

Happy Birthday, Paine

Dabos, Thomas Paine, 1791

As to the learning that any person gains from school education, it serves only, like a small capital, to put him in the way of beginning learning for himself afterwards. Every person of learning is finally his own teacher, the reason of which is, that principles, being of a distinct quality to circumstances, cannot be impressed upon the memory; their place of mental residence is the understanding, and they are never so lasting as when they begin by conception.

Thomas Paine, born on this day in 1737, from Common Sense

Published.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more" ...

Edgar Allan Poe, from "The Raven," published on this day in 1845

Always.

Unbeaten by the rain 

Unbeaten by the wind

Bested by neither snow nor summer heat

Strong of body

Free of desire

Never angry

Always smiling quietly

Dining daily on four cups of brown rice

Some miso and a few vegetables

Observing all things

Leaving myself out of account

But remembering well

Living in a small, thatched-roof house

In the meadow beneath a canopy of pines

Going east to nurse the sick child

Going west to bear sheaves of rice for the weary mother

Going south to tell the dying man there is no cause for fear

Going north to tell those who fight to put aside their trifles

Shedding tears in time of drought

Wandering at a loss during the cold summer

Called useless by all

Neither praised

Nor a bother

Such is the person

I wish to be

Kenji Miyazawa

Analagous.

Collective, not creative. Inhumane, unromantic, something analogous to a DJ remixing a record. 

Resurget.

Depends.

Leonardo, Mona Lisa (detail), 1503

Any general statement is like a check drawn on a bank. Its value depends on what is there to meet it.

Ezra Pound, from ABC of Reading

See.

An excellent book ...

The cycle of the seasons, to which poets have so often turned as a reminder that nothing in this world is stable, is in fact one of the great constants in life. In some ways, the thousand years or more that have elapsed since the poems in this book were written have changed our world beyond recognition - but every year, when the blossom springs and the leaves fall, we see what the Anglo-Saxon poets saw. The revolving cycle finds us each year at a different moment in the story of our own lives; the unfolding events of history change us, but the seasons do not change.

Eleanor Parker, from Winters in the World: A Journey through the Anglo-Saxon Year

Yes (sort of), "Into the Lens"

I am a camera!

It's sandwich time.

Built.

We're built for this!

Exprefsly.

Cecil, Burghley House, 1587

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Go.

Hilder, Kentish Oast Houses,1952

WINTER EVENING

The crib stock fothered, horses suppered up,

And cows in sheds all littered down in straw,

The threshers gone, the owls are left to whoop,

The ducks go waddling with distended craw

Through little hole made in the hen-roost door,

And geese with idle gabble never o`er

Bait careless hog until he tumbles down,

Insult provoking spite to noise the more;

While fowl high-perched blink with contemptuous frown

On all the noise and bother heard below;

Over the stable-ridge in crowds,the crow,

With jackdaws intermixed, known by their noise,

To the warm woods behind the village go;

And whistling home for bed go weary boys.

John Clare

Frank Sinatra, "A Hundred Years from Today"

Ozark Mountain Daredevils, "Jackie Blue"

DEVIL OUT!

Discovered.

My father said being an artist is the shortest road to the poor house, claiming "real" work is something you don't like. I ignored him through oppositional behavior, later reasoning that only an idiot sets out to find the poor house, not to mention devote himself to something he does not love. Instead, I discovered an interesting back road to the unknown, and deliberately, without a safety net.

Russell Chatham

Afternoon.

Chatham, January Afternoon, Gallatin Valley, 2004

Well-Distributed.

BAYLEY HAZEN BLUE (source)

MILK TYPE:  Raw Cow Milk

STYLE:  Natural Rind Blue

MILK SOURCE:  Jasper Hill Farm’s Andersonville Herd

FORMAT:  7 lb Wheel

AFFINAGE: 3-4 Months 

TYPICAL PROFILE:  Peppery, Anise, Grassy, With An Umami Roast Beef Backbone.

THE STORY

Bayley Hazen Blue is a Jasper Hill Farm original, and is made from our high-quality whole raw milk. It is named for an old military road commissioned by George Washington during the Revolutionary War. Though no major battle ever took place, the road brought Greensboro its first settlers and continues to be used today.

SENSORY

Bayley has developed a loyal following because of its fudge-like texture, toasted-nut sweetness, and anise spice character. The paste is dense and creamy, with well-distributed blue veins. The usual peppery character of blue cheese is subdued, giving way to the grassy, nutty flavors in the milk.

PAIRING AND SERVICE 

The texture and flavor make Bayley an ideal choice for any lover of blue cheese, but with a balance of flavors that renders it accessible to those new to the style. Try pairing with a fruity red dessert wine, toasty Imperial Stout, or a hunk of dark chocolate. Bayley is also ideal for crumbling over a juicy burger or adding to a salad with spinach, walnuts, and dried tart cherries.

Kurt, try this with Amarone.

Chippewa.

Firchau, Chippewa Nature Preserve, 2012

Standard.

Must.

In remembrance ...

I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must—at that moment—become the center of the universe.

Elie Wiesel, from his 1986 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech

Greatest.

Garanča.

Elina Garanča and some other people perform "Parto, ma tu ben mio" from Act One of Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito ...

 

Ever-Fixed.

116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments; love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come.

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom:

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Best.

Stuart, Portrait of Thomas Jefferson, 1805

The wise know their weakness too well to assume infallibility: and he who knows most, knows best how little he knows.

Thomas Jefferson, from his Batture Pamphlet, The Proceedings of the Government of the United States, in Maintaining the Public Right to the Beach of the Mississippi, adjacet to New-Orleans, against the Intrusion of Edward Livingston, prepared for the use of Counsel, February 25, 1812

Happy Birthday, Mozart

Lange, Mozart, 1782

It is a mistake to think that the practice of my art has become easy to me. I assure you, dear friend, no one has given so much care to the study of composition as I. There is scarcely a famous master in music whose works I have not frequently and diligently studied.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born on this day in 1756

Katy Woolley, horn, Bogdan Bozovic, violin, Mark Holloway and Rosalind Ventris, violas, and James Barralet, cello, perform the Horn Quintet E flat K407  ...

Eternal.

Means.

In every country where man is free to think & to speak, differences of opinion will arise from difference of perception, & the imperfection of reason. but these differences, when permitted, as in this happy country, to purify themselves by free discussion, are but as passing clouds overshadowing our land transiently, & leaving our horizon more bright & serene. that love of order & obedience to the laws, which so considerably characterizes the citizens of the United States, are sure pledges of internal tranquility, and the elective franchise, if guarded as the ark of our safety, will peaceably dissipate all combinations to subvert a constitution dictated by the wisdom, & resting on the will of the people. that will is the only legitimate foundation of any government, and to protect it’s free expression should be our first object.

Thomas Jefferson, from "Thomas Jefferson to Columbia, South Carolina, Citizens, Washington Mar. 23. 1801"

Thomas Jefferson statue removed from New York City Hall after 187 years. pic.twitter.com/KAZUeIxYq9

— Historic Vids (@historyinmemes) January 26, 2024

I tolerate with the utmost latitude the right of others to differ from me in opinion without imputing to them criminality. Both of our political parties, at least the honest portion of them, agree conscientiously in the same object—the public good; but they differ essentially in what they deem the means of promoting that good. 

Thomas Jefferson, from a letter to Abigail Smith Adams, 1804

Happy Birthday, Burns

Nasmyth, Portrait of Burns, 1787

EPISTLE to J. LAPRAIK, an OLD SCOTTISH BARD

While briers an' woodbines budding green,

An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,

An' morning poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my muse,

This freedom, in an unknown frien',

I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin,

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;

And there was muckle fun and jokin,

Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin

At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,

Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,

That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife;

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,

A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,

What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;

Thought I "Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark?"

They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,

An' sae about him there I speir't;

Then a' that kent him round declar'd

He had ingine;

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

It was sae fine:

That, set him to a pint of ale,

An' either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,

Or witty catches-

'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,

Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke-back,

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,

To hear your crack.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,

Amaist as soon as I could spell,

I to the crambo-jingle fell;

Tho' rude an' rough-

Yet crooning to a body's sel'

Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense;

But just a rhymer like by chance,

An' hae to learning nae pretence;

Yet, what the matter?

Whene'er my muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,

And say, "How can you e'er propose,

You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,

To mak a sang?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools-

Your Latin names for horns an' stools?

If honest Nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars?

Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,

Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes

Confuse their brains in college classes!

They gang in stirks, and come out asses,

Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus

By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire,

That's a' the learning I desire;

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire

At pleugh or cart,

My muse, tho' hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,

Or Fergusson's the bauld an' slee,

Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,

If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,

If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,

Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few;

Yet, if your catalogue be fu',

I'se no insist:

But, gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel,

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends, an' folk that wish me well,

They sometimes roose me;

Tho' I maun own, as mony still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,

I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!

For mony a plack they wheedle frae me

At dance or fair;

Maybe some ither thing they gie me,

They weel can spare.

But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair,

I should be proud to meet you there;

We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,

If we forgather;

An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware

Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,

An' kirsen him wi' reekin water;

Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,

To cheer our heart;

An' faith, we'se be acquainted better

Before we part.

Awa ye selfish, war'ly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,

Ev'n love an' friendship should give place

To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms

Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,

Who hold your being on the terms,

"Each aid the others,"

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle,

As my auld pen's worn to the gristle,

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,

While I can either sing or whistle,

Your friend and servant.

Robert Burns, born on this day in 1759

Dreams.

The MORES

Far spread the moorey ground a level scene

Bespread with rush and one eternal green

That never felt the rage of blundering plough

Though centurys wreathed spring's blossoms on its brow

Still meeting plains that stretched them far away

In uncheckt shadows of green brown, and grey

Unbounded freedom ruled the wandering scene

Nor fence of ownership crept in between

To hide the prospect of the following eye

Its only bondage was the circling sky

One mighty flat undwarfed by bush and tree

Spread its faint shadow of immensity

And lost itself, which seemed to eke its bounds

In the blue mist the horizon's edge surrounds

Now this sweet vision of my boyish hours

Free as spring clouds and wild as summer flowers

Is faded all - a hope that blossomed free,

And hath been once, no more shall ever be

Inclosure came and trampled on the grave

Of labour's rights and left the poor a slave

And memory's pride ere want to wealth did bow

Is both the shadow and the substance now

The sheep and cows were free to range as then

Where change might prompt nor felt the bonds of men

Cows went and came, with evening morn and night,

To the wild pasture as their common right

And sheep, unfolded with the rising sun

Heard the swains shout and felt their freedom won

Tracked the red fallow field and heath and plain

Then met the brook and drank and roamed again

The brook that dribbled on as clear as glass

Beneath the roots they hid among the grass

While the glad shepherd traced their tracks along

Free as the lark and happy as her song

But now all's fled and flats of many a dye

That seemed to lengthen with the following eye

Moors, loosing from the sight, far, smooth, and blea

Where swopt the plover in its pleasure free

Are vanished now with commons wild and gay

As poet's visions of life's early day

Mulberry-bushes where the boy would run

To fill his hands with fruit are grubbed and done

And hedgrow-briars - flower-lovers overjoyed

Came and got flower-pots - these are all destroyed

And sky-bound mores in mangled garbs are left

Like mighty giants of their limbs bereft

Fence now meets fence in owners' little bounds

Of field and meadow large as garden grounds

In little parcels little minds to please

With men and flocks imprisoned ill at ease

Each little path that led its pleasant way

As sweet as morning leading night astray

Where little flowers bloomed round a varied host

That travel felt delighted to be lost

Nor grudged the steps that he had ta-en as vain

When right roads traced his journeys and again -

Nay, on a broken tree he'd sit awhile

To see the mores and fields and meadows smile

Sometimes with cowslaps smothered - then all white

With daiseys - then the summer's splendid sight

Of cornfields crimson o'er the headache bloomd

Like splendid armys for the battle plumed

He gazed upon them with wild fancy's eye

As fallen landscapes from an evening sky

These paths are stopt - the rude philistine's thrall

Is laid upon them and destroyed them all

Each little tyrant with his little sign

Shows where man claims earth glows no more divine

But paths to freedom and to childhood dear

A board sticks up to notice 'no road here'

And on the tree with ivy overhung

The hated sign by vulgar taste is hung

As tho' the very birds should learn to know

When they go there they must no further go

Thus, with the poor, scared freedom bade goodbye

And much they feel it in the smothered sigh

And birds and trees and flowers without a name

All sighed when lawless law's enclosure came

And dreams of plunder in such rebel schemes

Have found too truly that they were but dreams.

John Clare

Within.

Childhood and Romanticism alike put the mind's own life at the heart of experience.  Wordsworth writes of his childhood ways of thinking as "the hiding places of my power" and says that the paths to them seem "open" until he approaches, at which point they close, tantalizingly, so "I see glimpses now."  As ifonly in those brief moments when the guards are off duty can he nip back to the light.  But Romanticism finds too often that this way (of thinking) has been barred and padlocked, no way through, and those who try to cross over are mocked and attacked like Wordsworth and Coleridge, despised and ignored like Blake, or Keats or Ibsen.  John Clare found the TRESPASSERS WILL sign nailed up in his own mind, as so completely does he identify with his land that the paths on the ground are fused with the pathways of his mind, the tracks of his memory.

On paths to freedom and to childhood dear

A board sticks up to notice "no road here."

Novalis thought of fairy tales as "that homeland which is everywhere and nowhere."  Where is that?  Right inside the mind, in the cosmic trespass of imagination.  This is the heart of it: this is why Romanticism comprehends what is perennially important, beautiful, valuable and good in the human condition, and finds those treasures within us all. 

Jay Griffiths, from A Country Called Childhood: Children and the Exuberant World

Enriched.

 A 24-hour marathon reading of Moby-Dick at the New Bedford Whaling Museum ...

“The marathon is a way to read the book with more structure and purpose,” said Dotson, who was taking the opportunity to explore Moby-Dick for the first time since he left school.

“To really get immersed in it.”

You heard that refrain in every corner of the New Bedford Whaling Museum: Moby-Dick is spectacular, hilarious, misunderstood, sonorous, and psychedelic. You will be enriched as a person by experiencing it, and you must ignore those who gripe about its quirks. This is where I must admit that I, too, have never read Moby-Dick, so I can say with confidence that if you are the least bit curious about the book, and require a gentle push to take the dive, then nothing will convince you more of its majesty than to sit on the deck of the Lagoda—amid a panorama of oceanic bric-a-brac and reclaimed nautical artifacts—watching the Nation of Melville burst into hysterics.

Happy Birthday, Zander

Robin Zander was born on this day in 1953.

"Way of the World"

Memories.

Agge, On the Yardarm of the Viking, 1920

Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs.

Herman Melville, from Moby-Dick

Happy Birthday, Manet

Manet, White Lilacs in a Crystal Vase, 1883

It is not enough to know your craft – you have to have feeling. Science is all very well, but for us imagination is worth far more. 

Edouard Manet, born on this day in 1832

Begin.

What is the first business of him who philosophizes? To throw away self-conceit.  For it is impossible for a man to begin to learn that which he thinks that he knows. 

Epictetus, Discourses, Book II, Chapter 17

Warm.

The WOOD-PILE

Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,

I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.

No, I will go on farther -- and we shall see."

The hard snow held me, save where now and then

One foot went through. The view was all in lines

Straight up and down of tall slim trees

Too much alike to mark or name a place by

So as to say for certain I was here

Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.

A small bird flew before me. He was careful

To put a tree between us when he lighted,

And say no word to tell me who he was

Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.

He thought that I was after him for a feather --

The white one in his tail; like one who takes

Everything said as personal to himself.

One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.

And then there was a pile of wood for which

I forgot him and let his little fear

Carry him off the way I might have gone,

Without so much as wishing him good-night.

He went behind it to make his last stand.

It was a cord of maple, cut and split

And piled -- and measured, four by four by eight.

And not another like it could I see.

No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.

And it was older sure than this year's cutting,

Or even last year's or the year's before.

The wood was gray and the bark warping off it

And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis

Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.

What held it though on one side was a tree

Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,

These latter about to fall. I thought that only

Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks

Could so forget his handiwork on which

He spent himself, the labor of his ax,

And leave it there far from a useful fireplace

To warm the frozen swamp as best it could

With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

Robert Frost

Sound.

Innes, Winter Evening, 1887

Winter solitude —

in a world of one color

the sound of wind

Bashō

Frank Sinatra, "I've Got the World On a String"

Eagled.

Fuzzy Zoeller just eagled 18.

Barry White conducts the Love Unlimited Orchestra ...

Will.

Last of all you old sea dogs

Who travel after whale

You'd storm the gates of hell itself

For the taste of a mermaid's tail

Who come from long lines of skippers

Whose duty was fulfilled

In the words of a warrior's will

And protocol

Gordon Lightfoot, from "Protocol"

Vernor's.

Gordon Lightfoot, "Minstrel of the Dawn"

Happy Birthday, Buchholz

Francis Buchholz was born on this day in 1952.

"Lovedrive"...

Cocteau Twins, "From the Flagstones"

Performed forty years ago, this week ...

Thank you, Michelle.

Tuggin'.

Firchau, Home, 2020

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,

A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam

Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind,

An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.

It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,

How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;

It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,

Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;

Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;

Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then

Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;

And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part

With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart:

The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore

Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door.

Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh

An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;

An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,

An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.

Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,

Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;

An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories

O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these.

Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,

An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;

Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year

Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear

Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run

The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;

Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.

Edgar Albert Guest

RUSH, "Force 10"

Look in —

To the eye of the storm

Look out —

For the force without form

Look around —

At the sight and the sound

Look in look out look around —

It's sandwich time.

Scream.

Let out a scream and don't be afraid to give 'er!

Forever.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness

John Keats from "Endymion"

Happy Birthday, Cezanne

Cezanne, View of L'Estaque Through the Trees, 1879

Paul Cezanne was born on this day in 1839.

Finds.

Execupundit reminds us ...

Lethargy often finds paths that diligence and hard work overlook.

As a sixth grade teacher, I see this innovative approach successfully at work each and every day.