- Sep 9, 2017
I always thought chili was a salsa.
Reminiscent of this sonnet by John DonneNearly forgot
"That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die"
Abdul Alhazred.....or was it Lovecraft
In my entire life I've never had any trouble with a person who smokes a pipe. Have I met posers who smoke a pipe, yes. But they normally don't have any inclination to associate was other pipers or the want to interact on such forums.The other angle here is an assumption of like-mindedness.
We here are like-minded only in that we enjoy the tobacco pipe.
Beyond that, we are all over the chart, just like every other sample group.
The same people that you have trouble spending time with in real life, you're likely to have trouble interacting with here when the topic strays from that one common bond.
Fortunately, our hosts do a fine job in keeping the worst of it pruned away.
The world's shortest poem?
Adam had 'em.
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I concur. The big problem, in my opinion, is the "manufactured" outrage coming from media and a few fringe organizations (in both directions, politically).In my entire life I've never had any trouble with a person who smokes a pipe....
I have had maybe five people cough as I walked by smoking my pipe. I have traveled quite a bit, and I have yet to find a Starbucks that doesn't allow me to smoke at their tables outside, most restaurants also. Overwhelmingly, I hear praises for pipes when I am out and about with mine.I concur. The big problem, in my opinion, is the "manufactured" outrage coming from media and a few fringe organizations (in both directions, politically).
I agree with everything you wrote, Jay. I was hoping to avoid that here...but I guess I'm just going to have to look the other way if I'm going to enjoy this forum. Thanks.I concur. The big problem, in my opinion, is the "manufactured" outrage coming from media and a few fringe organizations (in both directions, politically).
I know I begin to tread dangerously in actually discussing national problems, but life is all interconnected.
Two generations ago, men and women of reason and opposed philosophies went into a room and stayed there until they found the workable solution for everyone.
A few loud, stingy, whiny fucks in each camp decided we all HAD to be thin skinned, easily offended drama queens over EVERY THING.
The media focused on these worst elements, as media always does and the wingnuts on both ends continued to froth and flail until they got their "movement".
Most civilized humans lived closer to the well adjusted center before this mass brain washing occurred and we were able to shake hands, look one another in the eye and find enough common purchase for accomplishment.
Now, we've devolved into mimicking chimpanzees flinging poo and screeching at one another, from the top offices of the land to the average person on the street.
Once we figure out how to disenfranchise this mindless 2 party opposition that the founders warned us of, we might get back to the business of the pursuit of happiness.
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BY WILFRED OWEN
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
* * * * *
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,—
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
* * * * *
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
* * * * *
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
* * * * *
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
* * * * *
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
Anthem for Doomed Youth
BY WILFRED OWEN
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.