and its time to think of the future and brighter days.
Nothing personal, I just like it better my way!
Love Comes Running Up That Hill
It doesn’t hurt me.
You want to feel, how it feels?
You want to know, know that it doesn’t hurt me?
You want to hear about the deal I’m making.
You, (If I only could, be running up that hill)
You and me (If I only could, be running up that hill)
And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
Get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could ...more...
Verb [-lating, -lated]
1. to pass or filter through very small holes: the light percolating through the stained-glass windows cast coloured patterns on the floor
2. to spread gradually: his theories percolated through the academic community
3. to make (coffee) or (of coffee) to be made in a percolator [Latin per- through + colare to strain]
This is a new idea that has happened upon a frosty chilled morning in Nashville on a Friday with very little action going on, very little demand on our time and very little to do other than this....coming up with something to do. I have read at least a hundred photoshop tutorials and they were great; but there has to be more. Now there is. Its "Percolating Friday." Its an idea that the The Pensive, It Depends and I will share in...so come on aboard; but let us know you're there or link.
Well this day has been a one that has passed slowly which frees up a lot of graymatter stagnation. What is there to notice, to think about, to consider.... Oh so much. I stare down at the homeless and wonder where they are going on a day, much less the coming night, like this. I see the old newspapers blow across the cold asphalt and wonder how long it actually takes to disintegrate. Al Gore probably knows.
I cant help but wonder with all the cars going by that have no idea I am watching them what they are wondering, what they are worried about, what they dont want anyone else to know. In the shadow of the Batman building, the light shimmers on all that is dark and the coldness keeps it from scampering away before I see it. These blogs that millions of people write and others read are the summation of thoughts, events, feelings and experiences that blow away in the winds of time just like the old newspapers. But yes, some hang around longer than others; i.e. The Constitution, The Bible, The Bill of Rights, etc. Democracy may be not very different than any of these "noble" writings that we attempt to live and govern our society by.
What lerks beneath the surface of mans heart. Look at what surrounds him, observe who he is when he doesnt have to be anyone, and yes, when he doesnt know you are looking. If God were being paid a salary, would he get overtime pay? Is there a "cosmic union" that says how many times he has to give us more chances or how many hours he has to delve out to certain groups? If the future were now; would yesterday have been any different? Where does a blog about percolation go? Anywhere it goes is where it is; isnt that what comes to the surface?
The only question remaining.... are we the coffee, the pot, the cup, the holes or the heat?
Each of us has a hidden place
Somewhere deep within ourselves;
A place where we go to get away,
To think things through,
To be alone, to be ourselves.
This unique place, where we confront our deepest feelings,
Becomes a storehouse of all our hopes,
All our needs, all our dreams,
And even our unspoken fears.
It encompasses the essence of who we are and what we want to be.
But now and then, whether by chance or design,
Someone discovers a way into that place we thought was ours alone.
And we allow that person to see, to feel and to share
All the reason, all the uncertainty
And all the emotion we've stored up there.
That person adds new perspective to our hidden realm,
Then quietly settles down in his own corner of our special place,
Where a bit of himself will stay forever.
And we call that person a friend.
The story of ourselves is ours to serve to others and others to eat. We are jailed by our own fears of others perceptions and judgements of us. Who has the power to open our doors? Can we control that or are some people just destined to do so and we are but helpless victims in the face of destiny? Are our latches visible to others or only to the right ones? Perhaps anyone can turn the handle but only you can give the key....
Shakespeare said it best:
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. --- what does that mean?
“MY OWN WORST ENEMY - Henry Spivey (Christian Slater, “Bobby”) is a middle-class efficiency expert living a humdrum life in the suburbs with a wife, two kids, a dog, and a minivan. Edward Albright is an operative who speaks 13 languages, runs a four-minute mile, and is trained to kill with his teeth. Henry and Edward are polar opposites who share only one thing in common -- the same body. When the carefully constructed wall between them breaks down, Henry and Edward are thrust into unfamiliar territory where each man is dangerously out of his element. “My Own Worst Enemy” explores the duality of a man who is literally pitted against himself. And it raises the question: who can you trust when you can't trust yourself? The series is produced by Universal Media Studios. Jason Smilovic (“Kidnapped”) is the executive producer; David Semel (director of the “American Dreams,” “Heroes” and “Life” pilots) is the director and executive producer. Watch a clip
Here sits Wednesday, full of sunshine and the promise of Fall. The blueness of the sky screams Carribean but this is only Nashville. My head feels a little stuffy but otherwise, I feel great! I had one of those really strange dreams last night that probably means more than I want it to. The dream:
The entire scene was night black, illuminated only by the crests of the rippling water and a full white moon. The next thing I knew there was a huge ship behind my dingy coming right for me. I somehow understood that it was a pirate ship. I knew I was in deep crap! There was no way to outrun it and within moments I would be over run or boarded. Somehow I ended up into the dark cool water, sinking of course. I remember feeling the water filling my nostrils and my breath growing short. I remember thinking "its a dream, wake up now!" It was then that I realized it was a dream inside a dream and it was much harder to control. So I tried to sink quicker and deeper below the surface, my nostrils flaring in my sleep as my mind fought two states of sleeping dreams. "Wake up before you drown," and "Wake up again, you're still dreaming!"
I remember hitting the alarm as I took the last gulp of air mixed with water, violently exiting two dreams at once breathless. The last level of the dream pulled my head back to the pillow and darkness of the morning. I could hear myself thinking about how odd the dream had been; but arent I still sleeping or am I still dreaming? Even after showering, I was still thinking about the odd sensations of being trapped in two dreams at once and how unusually difficult it had been to get myself out of harms way. Typically I can seize control of my dreams; why was this time different? Did all of me make it back?
The day has been almost a fog. I dont feel the dreams anymore; just the fog. I am looking forward to the workout tonite and I hope it will be good. Hopefully the iron will get me completely back. Hopefully my patience will be revitalized. Hopefully I will be normal by then. Usually I can feel the blood sauntering through my veins, my muscles preparing for the end of the afternoon, my thoughts arguing with each other. Today there is only the echo of memories....
Hmm....this blog could go a lot of different directions...
It is the absence of things that provide information of the place they hold in our perceptions and realities. It is as simple as missing the warm embrace of a loved one, the consistency of the norm no matter how good or bad or the vital parts each of us play nonchalantly in everyday life; never quite aware of our importance, purpose or comic relief. Send in the clowns!
I never noticed how scarely Bozo looked before or is it the simplicity of my thought that's missing?
Its all such a divine sadistic.
Woke up this morning, was a chill in the air
Went into the kitchen, your
cigarettes were lying there
Your jacket hung on the chair
where you left it last night
Everything was in place, everything seemed all right
But you were missing
Missing... more lyrics