May 21, 2007
| Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.
— Kurt Vonnegut
I am so disgusted I had to blog my feelings. Everyone is talking about the beating of a 91 year old gentleman and, of course, sensationalizing the video clip by showing it over and over again. But my disgust was gut felt when I realized a whole group of people watched and didn’t even lift a finger to call for help, let alone intervene. What would it take to be a human or show a glimmer of intelligence? These individuals displayed a whole new level of low life. It’s off the charts scummy. There is no question this man is in desperate need so not wanting to get involved, or even more deplorable, not caring is evil. As Elie Wiesel said,
“Of course, indifference can be tempting — more than that, seductive. It is so much easier to look away from victims. It is so much easier to avoid such rude interruptions to our work, our dreams, our hopes. It is, after all, awkward, troublesome, to be involved in another person’s pain and despair. Yet, for the person who is indifferent, his or her neighbor are of no consequence. And, therefore, their lives are meaningless. Their hidden or even visible anguish is of no interest. Indifference reduces the other to an abstraction.”… “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.
To all of the people responding to the video with racial slurs – you have merely placed yourself next to those who are indifferent by using such a hideous crime to vent your narrow minds equipped singularly with ignorance. This situation is about people…if you hold such great hate that race defines your life’s confines, you are a lost soul and need to search your own heart to find the strength to realize your dreams and desires. No one is to blame for your situation in life but you.
in honor of Mother Poem A Day: from Poets.org
I found the poem to at first turn me off, not what I expected to something truly thought provoking and intriguing. I love the last stanza especially.Mother
by Herman de Coninck
translated by Kurt Brown & Laure-Anne Bosselaar
What you do with time
is what a grandmother clock
does with it: strike twelve
and take its time doing it.
You’re the clock: time passes,
you remain. And wait.
Waiting is what happens to
a snow-covered garden,
a trunk under moss,
hope for better times
in the nineteenth century,
or words in a poem.
For poetry is about letting things
grow moldy together, like grapes
turning into wine, reality into preserves,
and hoarding words
in the cellar of yourself.
…as I was reading John Connolly’s, Dark Hollow:
“An Old Man walks through the lush August grass with wood in his arms, brushing away loose bark with a gloved hand; an old man, tall unbowed, with a halo of white hair like an ancient angel, a dog stepping slowly beside him, older, in its way, than the man himself, its grey-beard muzzle flecked with foam, its tongue lolling, its tail swinging gently through the warm evening air. The first patches of red are showing in the trees, and the clamor of the insects has begun to subside. The ash trees, the last to unfurl their leaves in spring, are now the first to let them fall to the ground. Pine needles decay on the forest floor and the black berries are ripe and dense as the old man passes by , at one with the rhythms of the world around him…”
The next paragraph describing the ax in his hands, splitting wood, and I was there wishing for when that rhythm will resonate with us as people from away learning to be of Maine.
…the need for fewer clothes covering the body. Having already begun the cleaving of pounds process, I needed to address my body image. Most of the time I hide in large sizes thinking I look better than exposing my curves to the general public. Wrong…I watch the shows that give women makeovers, the Oprah shows on looking your best no matter what your size, etc. I now only own one or two black outfits and have fallen in love with scarves, 3/4 sleeves (oldie but a goody), and bright colors in flattering solids or “non-expanding” designs. I’m willing to stop wearing tents but polka dots and horizontal lines are for more slender people, they do nothing but make me look larger. Jackets, jean or otherwise, with curve appeal – not boxy and square but slightly fitted, are my saving grace. I can wear something sleeveless but don’t feel undressed or exposed and my lumps are covered but my curves are accentuated.
To top it all off, I started my own Arbonne business. A few weeks ago I blogged about my friend’s business and how wonderful the Arbonne skin care system felt. It was so good I had to join her team and spread the word. Since it is more beneficial than any product I ever tried in my life, and that’s a lot, I felt a desire to be a part of the company. In a sense the Arbonne opportunity was presented to me at a time when it was actually an answer to my prayers. How lucky I am to not only begin getting younger looking skin but to be making money helping others do the same as well!
There are baby/children and mens products that I have just begun to use from Arbonne as well as a weight loss system that I thought I’d try with a before and after picture of myself.
If you’d like a sample and want more information, check out suissebeaute.myarbonne.com
Email – SwissSkye@myarbonne.com
William Shakespeare (approx. April 23)
Some of my favorite words to live by:
“My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.”
Hamlet (III, iii)
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-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering 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.
…begins the poem Consider the Hands that Write This Letter
by Aracelis Girmay (email@example.com)
Which leads to all sorts of stories. I always liked the country song about Daddy’s hands because it made me think of my grandfather’s big gnarled hands that so gently held my hand, taught me to drive the tractor, and made such beautiful pieces of furniture. Arthritis had made them nearly immobile in many ways but it never stopped him from participating in life to the fullest. He taught me to always count my blessings and I do as I consider his hands…