Filed under: DAY by DAY
I first remember spotting him in a Fashion television show: I was mortified. I cannot put it in any more plain terms: he scares me with his excessively pale skin and his powdery white hair, and, above all, that dreadful expression of his. He seems to have fashionably risen from the grave. Everything about him seems so calculated, that I cannot help it– I imagine him lying lifeless on a white mattress and an entourage of elite professionals dressing him. Instilling life. And it naturally follows, that undressed he is dead.
That being said , I have this burning desire to make his acquaintance, and get to know him intimately.
It’s all so strange. I want to laugh. I am laughing. I’d presume this is what happens when image takes precedence over person–it’s all so comical!
Poor puppy. I wonder what he is thinking? (or is it a doll)
Filed under: DAY by DAY
http://mhpbooks.com/mobylives/?p=8386
HILARIOUS!!
Filed under: DAY by DAY
Love is in the air. Can you feel it? From poets to fortune tellers, writers to musicians, artists to filmmakers, philosophers to sculptors the topic of love has been scrutinized—inside out. However, not only is love the domain of artistic souls, it also appeals to the everyday man and the everyday woman…as they go about their days, searching for their other halves, knights in shining armor , sultriest of goddesses. Being one of them, I have also expressed this innate desire to know, and, consequently, I turned to poets, authors, philosophers and artists for an answer! Only to come out of it empty-handed, well, love is elusive I concluded, it just is!
Not so fast, missy! There is one avenue you have yet to explore, I thought to myself. What do the social psychologists have to say? So, today, I got to hear in two hours and forty five minutes: what love is, according to social psychologists, that is?
And…I came out of the classroom full-handed, clutching my umbrella, purse and Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, but otherwise empty.
Filed under: DAY by DAY
Some say love’s a little boy,
And some say it’s a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that’s absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn’t do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It’s quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I’ve found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn’t over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton’s bracing air.
I don’t know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn’t in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
WH Auden
