At home. Far away.

Sitting on an ottoman (foot stool). Shirtless.

I saw a man bare his soul tonight, with a raspy voice that didn't fit his face. Simple was the theme. Soul searching was the plot. 38 and in love only twice. So much to learn, too much to learn.

I heard a man died from a shot to the chest. He had been traveling, discovering and contributing to his killers. They say the villians, the Vandels were drugged: high on cocain. He died soon after. The thoughts in those last moments are secrets forever.

But these are really words for you... i can't sleep. i can't see. i can't make it happen, bring it to fruition. Whatever "it" is.

From the land of countless four-leaved clovers, there: terra is dusty and brown. The hills have only shrubs and scrub, whence the fogs pour down. Sun is constantly watching, reminding you of your space. The moon's waxing and waning, in gentle winds of grace.

The horns are relentlessly reminding, morning in cool air. Apollo's towing a glowing crown, burning images of there.
I suppose it is rather pointless, ignoring all extremes. Yet slight of logic, happy of heart, I replay it in my dreams.

One person can change the world.

Dr. Petersen, you are being missed.

I don't want to believe it.

http://www.burlingtonfreepress.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050815/NEWS01/508150305/1009

why would we play?

I've been on this damned computer most of this rainy Sunday.

I miss this about Maine:

In mid-August, you could always sense the summer coming to a close. You were so in touch with the land, the air, the pitch and strength of the sun, the flora and fauna. No one had to tell you when it was, you knew it like you know to blink or draw in breath, it was mid-August. The sun was going down a tad ealier. The nights, they were a bit cooler. The fields were turning a golden yellow from their previous lush green, the stalks tall and the whole world was dry and sweet smelling.

The apple tree on the hill was baring fruit: sour, small globes. The cat tails are fat now, perched atop slender green towers. The corn is high, the tomatoes ripe.

The car is always hot with trapped sun. The road is liquid and the horizon distorded.

The clouds are a billowing up into the stratosphere in the day. You lay out at night and see every star that could, you believe, ever exist. You could never count them all, though, every night, you try.

The forest is thick and dark green. The maples have leaves bigger than your hands. The pines are coneing and smell of ptich, which gets all over your hands.

During supper your father is content, eating boiled corn at the end of the table, his back to the picture window. The sun, you notice, is turning the line of pines accross the street a strange, but beautiful orange. You know that this will happen earlier each night, the pine tree's tall spires will turning like the maples and oaks.

Soon summer is over.

Finally sitting down.

Relax. Have a seat. Get something done by writing something down. So you've finally endevored to ask yourself the difficult questions, good for you.

In this book, How the Irish Saved Civilization-I've listened to at least 15 times in it's entirety- Thomas Cahill, the author, uses the life and works of Augustin to illustrate classical life. His brief biography of this "classical man" not only serves Cahill's purpose: to contrast the classical world-an epoch filled with deep culture, order and academics- with the chaotic, harsh and, most importantly, illiterate Middle Ages. But it also gave a glimpse of Augustin as a monumental figure in literature, religion and latin. He was the first person to say the word "I" and mean what we mean today.

This part of the book was most powerful for me, most moving, because it introduced me to Augustin as a young man. Augustin was Romanized African whose father was a petty official. When he was young- my age- he settled in Carthage, the largest city in Roman Africa. In his autobiography, called "Confessions", he tells us that his soul was unsettled, restless, constantly searching for... something. A translated verse from Cahill, "I carried inside me a cut and bleeding soul, and how to get ride of it I just didn't know. I sought every pleasure: the countryside, sports, fooling around, the peace of a garden, friends and good company, sex, reading. My soul floundered in the void and came back upon me. For where could my heart flee from my heart..."
Amazing. This encapsulates my feelings so utterly, so completely, that I am brought to the edge of emotion...