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http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/17/weekinreview/17bell.html?ref=world

http://www.languageisavirus.com/

I really like the Impressionists the best, and although I don't know much aboutart I am starting to appreciate it more as I get older. Do you all think we should start including the discussion of art in our group?What is your favorite type of art and who are some of your favorite artists?

Here's a poem I just posted in my blog, but I never get a lot of views.The Christmas Tree In The DitchYou were loyal to us during your short stayAnd now we have tossed you carelessly awayI can barely look at you lying thereNo ornaments or star cold and bareTonight I'll probably hear your cry in the coldLeft to sail away on a small ice floeYou want to come back inside with the familyBeside the fireplace so majesticallyA rare Virginia snow the night we decorated yeAnd laughed and ate and watched TVAnd the guests all remarked how this might be the bestBut now you're tossed away like a worthless pestAnd tomorrow the giant metal monster will arriveAnd with steel tongs will pick you up and toss you insideAnd you'll be gone from your bed in the ditchForced out in the cold like a lonely snitchYou were so good to us for a half a month or soWhile we ate Macadamias and cookie doughYou trusted us like a true blue friendBut we weren't so loyal in the endWith a flashlight I checked you one last timeAnd found a hidden ornament amongst your twineYou wanted to take it as a souvenirOf your happiness with your new family hereAt least it won't rain I tell myselfThe ditch will be dry though not as swellAs that spot by the manger and roaring fireNow your Christmas magic is New Year's mireStop staring at me I can't take it anymoreI want to run outside and pull you in the doorBut you can't go back to the past againAnd next Christmas we'll have a new fair weather friendI wish I was as loyal a friend as youYour heart is pure your intentions trueYour fir branches have the sanctityOf the legendary Holly and IvyNext year I may buy a live Christmas treeAnd plant it next to the two already there you seeIt pains me much to see a loyal friendLying in that ditch a bitter end

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYBODY!!! HAVE A GREAT 2010!!! Don't forget that there's a BLUE MOON this New Year's Eve!!!

I was outside today picking up sticks and pine cones from our Christmassnowstorm when I heard a rustle in the row of tall pine trees to the left of me.I looked up and was surprised by a huge Hawk flying right over my head. Hiswingspan must have been 5 feet, we have a Summer Hawk and a larger WinterHawk here, and since this was alone like the latter likes to travel I assume that'swhat he was, and he actually brushed through the tops of the pine trees. I don't know if that was by accident or if he was hunting. He then flew in slow motion due south across my yard, and I could see his relation to the prehistoric Raptors in his beak and eyes. John Denver sang about how "I know he'd be a poorer man if he never saw an Eagle fly" andwhile we have an Eagle breeding program here as well, the Hawk can holdhis own as a most impressive bird of prey. I turned my head for a moment and he was hundreds of yards away, deceptively fast and swooping low to the ground.

http://www.salon.com/books/writing/index.html

I thought we could come up with our favorite pieces of Poetry or Prosewritten so far on this site. When I have picked my ten I will post them. What do you all think? Which ten items here are your favorite?

... but how does one follow Nietzsche's gnomic injunction to "become what they are," Writch wonders. ..To become what one is, one must not have the faintest notion what one is ... The whole surface of consciousness - consciousness is a surface - must be kept clear of all great imperatives. Beware even of every great word, every great pose! So many dangers that the instinct comes too soon to "understand itself" - Meanwhile the organizing "idea" that is destined to rule keeps growing deep down ... - from Ecce Homo, (trans. W. Kaufmann), p2 s9 Writch looks to writing, as he oft does: Does our writing facilitate a limit-experience that needs to convey true earnestness and sincerity in writing-for-art's-sake, or is our writing merely automatic writing from the Ghost In The Machine? So, Writch asks: What dust motes of "Great Imperatives" have we got stuck on the Mirror of ourselves? Have we become so accustomed to the scum that we are confusing that superfluous layer with our own personally perceived image of ourselves or are at least some of us polishing our mirror regularly? Are you? Reflect, and tell Writch how...

Happy Holidays to all our members around the world from snowy Virginia,that's right snowy Virginia, as we are being hit by The Blizzard of 2009. Who would have guessed it, although near my daughter's house about45 minutes North they have a foot of snow, and here nearer the coast wehave only rain so far, but that will change overnight? Well, I will overeat and watch College Bowl Games and television andplay the guitar and keyboards and sing Christmas Carols (White Christmascomes to mind) and take naps and play with my dogs. That's a pretty good day if you ask me.

rolef thought you would be interested in this story: The Fat Alien Sings: A Klingon-Language Opera

The Next Evolution In Chess Chess has stagnated in the last decades due to a dearth of new ideas. In this intellectual void I have worked out my new theory of chess. I give to the chess world the next evolution in chess… Ultra –Hypermodern Chess. This game was justly hailed for its revolutionary ideas. Though in reality it is more evolutionary. Both Steinitz and the great Nimzowitsch saw the truth of this new system. Those great thinkers could not take the next step and let go of their ideas that were rooted in the false teachings of their predecessors. The evolution of this theory began truly with Paul Morphy. Though he never espoused it in words or print his games clearly showed he understood a revolutionary idea. That idea was to attack weaknesses. He showed that rapid and purposeful development could be used to attack weaknesses. This allowed him to easily defeat the best player of his day. It took many years for the world to begin to understand his theories. Then a new giant strode into the chess arena, Wilhelm Steinitz. He took a world that barely understood Morphy and turned it upside down. In his games and his writings he showed what a weakness was and why it was a weakness. He took Morphy’s attack weaknesses and moved it on its evolutionary course. Steinitz said tempt/.provoke a weakness then attack it, and if there is no weakness you have no reasonable attack. This seemingly obvious step took more than twenty years to make. Steinitz was horribly ridiculed when he stated what everybody should have seen. A half century later another great thinker was finding himself the butt of jokes. Aron Nimzoitsch created his now justly famous system. One of the key points of his system was protect and even over-protect weaknesses. Now eighty years later I, Doan Pizmeov am fighting against the small minds of the chess establishment. I looked at the progression of chess theory and because of my great and free mind was able to take it to its final step. Here is the progression: 1. Morphy Attack weaknesses 2. Steinitz Provoke weaknesses 3. Nimzowitsch Protect/over-protect weaknesses 4. Pizmeov Create no weaknesses I can hear you all saying, “But of course! That is the truth. Why did not anyone see this before?” Then you think, “It is easy for such a great player like Pizmeov to create no weaknesses, but how can I do such?” That is why I have decided to make my system available to you. (Just order on-line at www.doanpizmeov.com it’s available for only $49.95). The following game illustrates the truly revolutionary system at work. It has been hailed as the Ultra-Hypermodern Immortal Game, also as the perfect game. W: GM Doan Pizmeov B: IM A. Patzer 1. Nf3! Following Nimzowitsch’s great theories I stake my claim in the center. 1. … Nf6! My honorable opponent has also read the great Nimzo! He answers my provocative move in the hyper-modern fashion. 2. Nc3!! I develop and take control of the center! He can not hope to occupy the central squares now. This is where R. Reti erred and made his weakening move 2. d4?!?. For over a hundred years the great masters and teachers have made the observation that most games are lost due to an erroneous pawn move, yet they had not made the obvious leap in thinking that makes my system great. All pawn moves are weakening! 2. … Nc6!! My opponent has studied my games and correctly makes the best move. He creates no weaknesses. A pawn move here would create a target for my developed pieces, and with skillful play I would undermine then take the newly weak pawn and eventually the game. 3. Ng5!!! This move goes against the classical (and erroneous) theory of the game. The “rule” do not move the same piece twice in the opening. I can ignore this “rule” for two reasons; 1. As I have no weaknesses I am free to attack Black’s weakest point--f7. 2. I am a great player! 3. … Ne5!!! Black full up on the latest theory (mine!) he overprotects his f7 pawn. 4. Nce4!!!! This move is brilliant! Not 4. d4?!? As this will become a target. 4. …Nd5!!!! Simply astounding! A player who understands my theory. He centralizes and creates no weakness in his position. 5. Nh3!!!!! It took a great mind (mine) to find this move. I overprotect my f3 pawn. The classical player would have been tempted to make a pawn move on one of the last few moves. The ultra-hypermodern system knows that every pawn move either is a weakness or causes one. 5. …Nc6!!!!! The threat to his f-pawn is relieved he returns his knight to its best posting. 6. Ng1!!!!!! Seeing that Black may start actions against my e-pawn I overprotect it. 6. …Nf4!!!!!! This shows the greatness of my play he now attacks my e-pawn as I knew he would, but now it’s overprotected! 7. Nc3!!!!!!! I overprotect my e-pawn. 7. …Nh5!!!!!!! I had not anticipated Black seeing the depth of the position and making the correct move. 8. Nf3!!!!!!!! Computers are incapable of play this deep. My knight occupies a square to control all play in the center! 8. …Nf6!!!!!!!! Black makes the only move to keep the game in balance. ½-½. Draw. Theorists have long speculated whether a perfect game would be a draw or a win for White. That question has now been answered. The above game shows that when each player makes perfect moves the result is a draw.

I’m not satisfied with this but it’s early in its life. It is sure to change, but I thought that it would be interesting to post one that I have not finished and see what input it gets. Please comment feel free to change and edit this work. I would like to see what happens. The Concert From atop a darkened stage One guitar screams out its rage. As the echoes slowly fade, Light cuts dark like a razor blade. There onstage the band is shown. Standing in the light’s bright cone. Amid the crowd’s deafenin’ roars One sharp note takes wing and soars. Followed by the beating drums Another guitar quickly strums. Then a voice in plaintive wail. Sings out a distressing tale Of his love, and its loss. Of its pain, its painful cost. He sings feelings, he sings them true I know because I’ve felt them too. Song following song. They played Each song a memory made. They sing the songs Of rights and wrongs Of good times and of strife. They sing the soundtrack of my life.

The Dead The dead, while aloof, are happy with the unseen barrier and they lord it over the living, making no bones about it The dead have been known, on occasion, to be excessive in their demands on us; we don’t know why this is, but we have our suspicions Generally though, the dead are kind to a fault; they have learned to live and let live The dead don’t insist that we wear black in their honor. They have moved on to more important concerns They will hold a grudge if their is no viable alternative They are surprisingly happy, given their present situation The dead like it here, and plan to return, despite global warming The dead are not known to cheat, as a general rule They have no use for lawyers or bungee jumping or short stacks or cigarette boats The dead, usually unpretentious, know that they are not perfect and sometimes regret their hands are tied They have fine memories, and go with the flow because they feel no sense of urgency The dead aren’t as dead as you may have been led to believe The dead don’t actually hover, nor do they harbor delusions of self importance They have been known to eavesdrop, but try not to make a habit of it The dead like to attend school, for they realize there is much they don’t know The dead keep busy, and aren’t particularly worried about what others think The dead enjoy a good wheat beer now and then They want to come back, and will when the time is right they only died because they were supposed to The dead do not lose sight of their goals and feel no compunction to gamble, or to compete for the affection of others The dead would like us to remember them The dead can speak for themselves, but as a rule we can’t hear them. They are perfectly capable of ignoring requests for interviews all by themselves The dead enjoy being all they can be The dead work at being happy. Upon further review, this is not so strange The dead are self sufficient The dead do not speak in tongues, though they could if they so desired The dead know they are only temporarily dead; this makes them happy as well In other words, the dead aren’t really all that dead, and they love you. Unless they don’t The dead do not need to earn a living As it turns out, the dead are concerned about how they look, and keep themselves up The dead have no illusions about who they are The dead know they can do better They know they will forget everything when they return, but they secretly think they will remember what it’s like to be dead. They won’t The dead do not see the big picture, but they see a much bigger picture than we do Someday, we will be dead. This is unavoidable, and somewhat regrettable At times, we wake up in the night and worry about it We don’t need to worry about it, the dead try to reassure us We should rest assured, when ever possible This is more possible than we think The dead are surprisingly flexible Although the dead have been known to fool themselves about what is possible, not unlike the living The dead are alive in a funny kind of way But mostly, the dead are dead They truly appreciate the days of the dead. They want us to know this The dead are in control of their fate, to a certain extent The dead are patient, and would like to take this opportunity to remind us to give the dead their due The dead are not easily impressed, and do not suffer fools gladly Contrary to popular belief, the dead cannot dance While they are not known for their mirth, they are generally grateful It’s been said dead man tell no tales. This is categorically untrue The dead are ready to make nice, and are ready to back down on a moment’s notice should the situation warrant it The dead pull their own weight which admittedly is not much Long live the dead

I just went for a 40-minute walk and as I was out in the fresh air the sunburst through the clouds like a glimmering Supernova, it was so bright I couldbarely squint through the glare piercing my soft contact lenses amid mychronically hayfever-ridden eyes. We have had record rains here in Southeastern Virginia since November 11th, when Tropical Storm Nor-Ida pounded the region for days upon end, only to be followed up by several more rain events, in fact the month here that is often the driest has had more rain than any November in the last 100 years, and it is dragging into December. The gorgeous amber rays shone off the quartz and rocks and bits of tiny glassof the road like a giant prism, but instead of a rainbow even more yellow-goldlight was emitted from it, and the sky quickly turned a deeper aqua blue. As the cold front came through the temperature started to drop from an overnighttemperature of 70 degrees to 55, yet the warm glow of the sun seemed to offset this, creating a strange contrast of confusion. As I walked by one of the few hills in this town I saw the water runoff intotwo drainage ditches, surprisingly much prettier than their name, it remindedme of those days as a boy when we would play by the streams near that AirForce Base in Montana and try to catch tadpoles for hours and time never seemed to end. I didn't see any tadpoles, but as I walked further I saw small, thin worms on the edge of the road, struggling for survival. What a life, I thought, should I brush them to the grass with my feet, or will I do more harm than good? Is there some sort of Star Trek Prime Directive in nature, or arewe humans obligated to intercede with animals whenever possible? The sun picked up another notch as it cleared a white, fluffy cloud, a cloudthat seemed whiter and fluffier than most, was this the sun and clouds clearing the darkness from my brain that sometimes feels like rain inside my head, or wasit really this strange weather combination that so rarely happens? The groundis literally so saturated it sinks below my feet, a rare happening in the hard clay of the Virginia Coast, where we gardeners must amend heavily with compost and add sand to increase drainage. I walked by the five horses in the field right around the corner, how bizarre,right here in NASA suburbia a last bastion of the country, the owner refusing to sell, the smell of manure annoying the neighbors with their cookie-cutter lawnsand cookie-cutter cars. Four large horses, a brown mom and her baby, a whitehorse that always looks a little underfed even though he eats constantly, and a speckled gray horse that always comes to the fence to let me pet him even if the others snub me, my lone reliable adopted pet, and one mini-horse, a tinything not two feet high with a chubby belly and a sassy attitude. The sun goes to a third level and the horses even seem to wince and revelin the beauty of its shine, like a crystalline diamond dream in my and their simplesatisfied minds. The Air Force planes roar overhead and seem to just miss a giant Winter Hawk as he searches the wet ground for a tasty mole, vole, or rabbit. I say goodbye out loud to my friends and look around, hoping nobody heard me, and head for home. The UPS driver drops off his assistant with a load of packages, two arrive at my house, including a square Christmas Wreath, I amlukewarm at best to the concept. A driver in a van from an HVAC company pullsaround the corner, and I step down toward the ditch to avoid the splash, hisbuddy drives by in a souped-up pickup and honks, and I snap out of my LucidWalking Daydream, the spell has been broken. As I cross the road and head towards my driveway the sun envelops theentire road one last majestic time like an alien ship devouring the highwayas it shimmers off the pools of rainwater behind me, and I smile and think that's the best walk I've had in years. It started at AM11:21 and ended at 12:01PM. Can the sun ever wash away the rain? At 12:02PM I log-in to Chess.com and begin to type this post, wondering if the walk ever really happened at all.

Feeding the Animals My dog knows she is the dog. She is very doglike in that she obeys and tries to please me. My cat, while very catlike, is another matter entirely. Damnable wretched beastly cat. I don’t know why I’ve put up with him all this time. So ungrateful. I put him out at night, and he resents this. He shouldn’t; he’s a cat. He should be happy. He gets to kill things. He kills mice and rats and regrettably, birds and occasionally squirrels. But at night, he always wants in. He lurks by the back door, and sometime around 2:00 AM he entices the dog over and begins, through the door, to tell dirty jokes while smoking cigarettes and performing card tricks. He spits and swears. He makes up words. He yowls, of all things. It gets my dog agitated and she begins to whimper and cry. She might have to go, after all, so I let her out and the cat bolts in. I track the cat down and put him out but the dog’s run off so I either wait up which is ridiculous or crawl back into bed and sleep poorly because I’m such an ogre and I’m worried about the dog and finally I get up and she’s back and when I let her in the cat bolts in again and I track him down and put him out again and by this time I am thoroughly awake and unable to sleep at all. Or I can leave the cat in because I refuse to chase him. I go back to bed and of course they have what they wanted all along and they start fooling around banging and roaring up and down the hall and then it is daylight and time to get up. They do it just to annoy me. But now, everything has changed. There’s been a terrible storm. After weeks of rain of biblical proportions the soil became saturated and the trees have relaxed their grip. Then there came a big wind out of the north with arctic air and heavy snow. It’s very cold out. All the lines are down, trees are uprooted and smashed everywhere and no one can get through and I’m completely cut off, without so much as a phone. There are a million and a half people without power in a four county area down valley and in the plains below. I’m up here alone at the end of a circuit. It could be weeks. This is very unfortunate, because I’ve accidentally stabbed myself in the knee and I hobble badly. In fact, today I can hardly put weight on the leg. I’ve got my game face on-I have to keep the fire going. I try not to look at the swelling. I cleaned the wound and dressed it but it’s infected. I need help and help is not forthcoming. The cat’s been looking at me with bright eyed interest - sitting up even - as I stiffly lurch into the front room. My dog believes she is my pet, but I see her looking at the cat now for cues. She finds it all too easy to morally waffle. I’m disappointed in her. My pets communicate in that unspoken language of knowing. I think that’s rude. The dog is confused. The cat watches my deterioration. I hope he is not the shameless opportunist that he appears to be... Now, I am frightened. The cat has taken to comfortably licking his paw as I struggle into the room. In other words, he is ignoring me. This is very bad. He ignores me the way he ignores wounded mice. With mice, he looks away, lost in the bliss of the kill, seemingly forgetting them as they struggle to their death, savoring the end, wishing they’d recover, so he could kill them again. He likes the ineffectual scrambling, the futile attempts to escape, under the calculating aloofness of his steely gaze. Sometimes, in the summer, when the windows are open, I can hear little things scream. I fix myself dinner. I have my polar fleece and a wool hat and a down coat. I have my radio, which I don’t turn on much as the batteries grow weak. The crews are making progress but not fast enough, I think. There is a quarter inch of ice on the inside of the windows now. I shiver near the stove. Even though the fire is out, it seems warmer near it. I busted up the few chairs and the table with my axe, and even the cabinet doors, but that’s all gone now. I haven’t been able to build a fire at this point for two days, as I can’t get out and get firewood. I’m having cold beans and slightly moldy bread. It’s pretty good. Tomorrow, I’ll have cheese and soda pop. There’s an almost full pack of Lipton’s onion soup left. The day after that I will have Tang and soybeans. I have licorice, and a couple of onions that still have good hearts, unlike my pets. Of course, three days from now, I will have to start on the dog food, if I can still make it to the pantry. There is a quarter bag left. Better that than the cat food. After that I don’t know. My pets, with their fur coats are content, knowing that one way or another, I’ll be there for them.

Heyo! Sorry I haven't been on this group for a while, I've been kinda busy. :-) But I just wrote this song, so I thought I'd share it. What do you think? :-) Could We? I’m struggling to think of something to write Nothing I rhyme seems to come out right Could this be the last of the songs? Could I have been doomed all along? The words don’t seem to want to flow What it’s all about I do not know Could you help me figure this out? Could there be a way past this doubt? Could we make it through the past? Could we make the feelings last? Could we move on to something more? Could we find a way to unlock this door? The lines I write don’t fit together I hope I’m not stuck here forever Could there be another verse? Could this be a blessing or a curse? There are ideas flying around in my head If I can’t get them all out I might end up dead Could I find the words I need to say? Could I tell you the words to make you stay? Could we get through this storm? Could we get back to the norm? Could we stay right here together? Could we stay in this moment forever?

<!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> Obsession You walk in the door and glance around the room, and suddenly your eyes fall upon grey blue eyes, light brown hair cut nicely around that face, high cheekbones, pale white skin, long and lean muscular body, 5'7”, soft scent of musk and spring rain, makes you want to faint. Soon enough your staring, can't let your eyes and mind off him, seems as if the only thing you want is to just be right next to him. He walks up to you and gives you a warm greeting, introduces himself as Aaron. Angel, Aaron, rhymes, you think. No wonder, to have such grace. Asks you if you would like to sit by him. Oh, if you wouldn't. But you keep your cool, politely accept, sitting there next to him, can't help but feel the body heat off of him, the feeling of hurricanes in your stomache. No, not butterflies, but hurricanes. You excuse yourself abruptly and run out in fear your going to throw up, You get a drink of water and calm yourself down. You look and your whole body is in tremors. What happened to you? Your stronger than that, he's just a guy, right? ….no, no, this is no guy, this is an angel, an unhuman being, thats got you entranced, you walk back into the room, he asks you whats wrong, you blush beet red, feel the heat in your cheeks, don't know what to say, you stammer and say, nnothin, just got queasy there for a sec. He acts like he buys it and bows his head and starts working again, you just sit and stare, watch that angelic face, somebody else is speaking to you, you snap out of your trance, its somebody you don't want to be around, she says, oooh, you like him? Hell yes, I'm obsessed with him. You don't say that, you just casually say, nah, just a friend. She retorts and says, you two look like your fit for eachother. You think, really? You think so? Then you snap out of it and just want to say, shut the hell up. You dont, you just say, uh, yah, well, we're just friends, just met, actually. She mmhmms you and walk off to spread her bullshit gossip. But its soo true, your into him, definitely. But how? You don't even know him, right? Gotta be careful, dont know what trouble he might bring, what hurt or pain. You don't care. Break comes and he asks you out for a walk. You kindly accept, and your walking along, he makes small talk and says flirty things, its soo entrancing and cute, he's gorgeous on top of it, you desire just to soak in his presence, to never leave. But its time to go, time to leave my dear angel. You think, oh, I totally can't wait to see him again. Skip ahead about 3 months. Your on the phone, and making small talk, as normal, flirting a little, having fun. Some things come to your attention, and soon enough, you declare yourselves boyfriend/girlfriend. He's asked you to prom at the end of the year, and you float higher than the heavens, how could I deserve such a saint? So happy, I have him ALL to myself, and he wants me, I'm so happy, can't ruin my mood for anything. He's all I think about, all I talk about, I swear I'm in love. Things change, school starts, you go different paths, and you never hear from him again. Your flirted with constantly, chased and chased but you hesitate every time, because that guy is in your head the whole time. You dream of him at night sometimes, think of him by day daily, no matter how hard you try to forget him. At first its really hard to cope with, you just feel broke down, but then you realize, its not his fault, he just went on another path. Who knows, get a hold of him, maybe nothing changed. But you live your life, and don't try. So who's to blame? Move on or stay and sulk in his memory? I sulk. Still. Women. We're weak, no matter how strong we are. There's always ONE.

<!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> This isn't written like poetically or anything, it just flowed out. ~Your In Love~ Lie there, pleading with your soul for forgiveness because you know you've lost the one thing that made you whole, the one thing that you know you can't live without, the one thing you desire most in life, the thing that you became jealous of from others, something you crave, can't get enough of, no matter how hard you try to deny it, Your in Love Kneel down and just let it out, cry out to the one person you think can heal, the one that knows you most and can take away the hurt, the pain, the one that can make you happy again, heal your soul, heart, mind, reenergize you again, pleading with him for forgiveness, as you plead with your soul asking for a sign, an answer to those prayers you send each night but none come because the answer is in front of your eyes, Your in Love Kick and scream, fuss and fight, storm out the door, swear you'll never look back, but you come runnin back, begging him, kiss and make up, smile and feel again, the pain goes away for a while as he holds you in his arms, but as soon as he lets go, the fear, the isolation, the piercing shatter of your heart because its all just a memory, a long and distant memory of what you thought you'd have forever, but he left you stranded, just dumped you there, with no word, no looking back, Your in Love His tender touch, the soft gentleness of his fingertips on your skin, he says your name and your heart flutters like a butterflies wing, he caresses you and you feel like an angel, wishing the feeling would never end, but he gets up and walks away, you call and call, but he never answers, the tears come. Your left alone, he's ran after something larger than you have to offer, publicity, fame, popularity, socialization, all the dreamy things you couldn't give, he left your love for that, for nothing Your still in Love, and you know it. You swear its nothing anymore, your over him, he was a loser, but you know the truth held deep inside, you can't get over him, his touch, his taste, his smell, his figure, face, eyes, hair, nothing leaves your memory. Asleep at night, and visions of him of what you wanted to be, come flashing before your eyes, you wake up in a cold sweat and become reminded of his betrayal, but you can't hate him for it, for some reason unexplainable, you just,...understand. Your in Love.

BOOK XIX. SEA-DRIFT] } Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,Out of the Ninth-month midnight,Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot,Down from the shower'd halo,Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive,Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears,From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist,From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,From the myriad thence-arous'd words,From the word stronger and more delicious than any,From such as now they start the scene revisiting,As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,A reminiscence sing. Once Paumanok,When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing,Up this seashore in some briers,Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together,And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown,And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbingthem,Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. Shine! shine! shine!Pour down your warmth, great sun.'While we bask, we two together. Two together!Winds blow south, or winds blow north,Day come white, or night come black,Home, or rivers and mountains from home,Singing all time, minding no time,While we two keep together. Till of a sudden,May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate,One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest,Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next,Nor ever appear'd again. And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea,And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather,Over the hoarse surging of the sea,Or flitting from brier to brier by day,I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird,The solitary guest from Alabama. Blow! blow! blow!Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore;I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me. Yes, when the stars glisten'd,All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake,Down almost amid the slapping waves,Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. He call'd on his mate,He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men know. Yes my brother I know,The rest might not, but I have treasur'd every note,For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding,Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts,The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,Listen'd long and long. Listen'd to keep, to sing, now translating the notes,Following you my brother. Soothe! soothe! soothe!Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close,But my love soothes not me, not me. Low hangs the moon, it rose late,It is lagging--O I think it is heavy with love, with love. O madly the sea pushes upon the land,With love, with love. O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?What is that little black thing I see there in the white? Loud! loud! loud!Loud I call to you, my love!High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,Surely you must know who is here, is here,You must know who I am, my love. Low-hanging moon!What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?O it is the shape, the shape of my mate.'O moon do not keep her from me any longer. Land! land! O land!Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would,For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. O rising stars!Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. O throat! O trembling throat!Sound clearer through the atmosphere!Pierce the woods, the earth,Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want. Shake out carols!Solitary here, the night's carols!Carols of lonesome love! death's carols!Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea!O reckless despairing carols. But soft! sink low!Soft! let me just murmur,And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea,For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,So faint, I must be still, be still to listen,But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. Hither my love!Here I am! here!With this just-sustain'd note I announce myself to you,This gentle call is for you my love, for you. Do not be decoy'd elsewhere,That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice,That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray,Those are the shadows of leaves. O darkness! O in vain!O I am very sick and sorrowful O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea!O troubled reflection in the sea!O throat! O throbbing heart!And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!In the air, in the woods, over fields,Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!But my mate no more, no more with me!We two together no more. The aria sinking,All else continuing, the stars shining,The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing,With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling,The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching,The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying,The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting,The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing,The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering,The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying,To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd secret hissing,To the outsetting bard. Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul,)Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me?For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard you,Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die. O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you,Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night,By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within,The unknown want, the destiny of me. O give me the clue! (it lurks in the night here somewhere,)O if I am to have so much, let me have more! A word then, (for I will conquer it,)The word final, superior to all,Subtle, sent up--what is it?--I listen;Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? Whereto answering, the sea,Delaying not, hurrying not,Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death,And again death, death, death, deathHissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous'd child's heart,But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet,Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over,Death, death, death, death, death. Which I do not forget.But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach,With the thousand responsive songs at random,My own songs awaked from that hour,And with them the key, the word up from the waves,The word of the sweetest song and all songs,That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,(Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet garments, bending aside,)The sea whisper'd me. } As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life 1As I ebb'd with the ocean of life,As I wended the shores I know,As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the land of the globe. Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender windrows,Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide,Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses,These you presented to me you fish-shaped island,As I wended the shores I know,As I walk'd with that electric self seeking types. 2As I wend to the shores I know not,As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,A few sands and dead leaves to gather,Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift. O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth,Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I have not once had the least idea who or what I am,But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd,Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath. I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object, and that no man ever can,Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon me and sting me,Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all. 3You oceans both, I close with you,We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing not why,These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all. You friable shore with trails of debris,You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot,What is yours is mine my father. I too Paumanok,I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been wash'd on your shores,I too am but a trail of drift and debris,I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island. I throw myself upon your breast my father,I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,I hold you so firm till you answer me something. Kiss me my father,Touch me with your lips as I touch those I love,Breathe to me while I hold you close the secret of the murmuring I envy. 4Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,Endlessly cry for your castaways, but fear not, deny not me,Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you or gather from you. I mean tenderly by you and all,I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we lead, and following me and mine. Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,(See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random,Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out before you,You up there walking or sitting,Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet. } Tears Tears! tears! tears!In the night, in solitude, tears,On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand,Tears, not a star shining, all dark and desolate,Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head;O who is that ghost? that form in the dark, with tears?What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch'd there on the sand?Streaming tears, sobbing tears, throes, choked with wild cries;O storm, embodied, rising, careering with swift steps along the beach!O wild and dismal night storm, with wind--O belching and desperate!O shade so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and regulated pace,But away at night as you fly, none looking--O then the unloosen'd ocean,Of tears! tears! tears! } To the Man-of-War-Bird Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm,Waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions,(Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st,And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,)Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating,As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee,(Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast.) Far, far at sea,After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks,With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene,The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun,The limpid spread of air cerulean,Thou also re-appearest. Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,At dusk that lookist on Senegal, at morn America,That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul,What joys! what joys were thine! } Aboard at a Ship's Helm Aboard at a ship's helm,A young steersman steering with care. Through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,An ocean-bell--O a warning bell, rock'd by the waves. O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place. For as on the alert O steersman, you mind the loud admonition,The bows turn, the freighted ship tacking speeds away under her gray sails,The beautiful and noble ship with all her precious wealth speeds away gayly and safe. But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship!Ship of the body, ship of the soul, voyaging, voyaging, voyaging. } On the Beach at Night On the beach at night,Stands a child with her father,Watching the east, the autumn sky. Up through the darkness,While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,And nigh at hand, only a very little above,Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades. From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,Watching, silently weeps. Weep not, child,Weep not, my darling,With these kisses let me remove your tears,The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine. Then dearest child mournest thou only for jupiter?Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars? Something there is,(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)Something there is more immortal even than the stars,(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous JupiterLonger than sun or any revolving satellite,Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades. } The World below the Brine The world below the brine,Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle openings, and pink turf,Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the play of light through the water,Dumb swimmers there among the rocks, coral, gluten, grass, rushes, and the aliment of the swimmers,Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, or slowly crawling close to the bottom,The sperm-whale at the surface blowing air and spray, or disporting with his flukes,The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard, and the sting-ray,Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in those ocean-depths, breathing that thick-breathing air, as so many do,The change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by beings like us who walk this sphere,The change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres. } On the Beach at Night Alone On the beach at night alone,As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future. A vast similitude interlocks all,All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,All distances of place however wide,All distances of time, all inanimate forms,All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd,And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them. } Song for All Seas, All Ships 1To-day a rude brief recitative,Of ships sailing the seas, each with its special flag or ship-signal,Of unnamed heroes in the ships--of waves spreading and spreading far as the eye can reach,Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing,And out of these a chant for the sailors of all nations,Fitful, like a surge. Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid sailors,Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never surprise nor death dismay.Pick'd sparingly without noise by thee old ocean, chosen by thee,Thou sea that pickest and cullest the race in time, and unitest nations,Suckled by thee, old husky nurse, embodying thee,Indomitable, untamed as thee. (Ever the heroes on water or on land, by ones or twos appearing,Ever the stock preserv'd and never lost, though rare, enough for seed preserv'd.) 2Flaunt out O sea your separate flags of nations!Flaunt out visible as ever the various ship-signals!But do you reserve especially for yourself and for the soul of man one flag above all the rest,A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate above death,Token of all brave captains and all intrepid sailors and mates,And all that went down doing their duty,Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains young or old,A pennant universal, subtly waving all time, o'er all brave sailors,All seas, all ships. } Patroling Barnegat Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running,Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,That savage trinity warily watching. } After the Sea-Ship After the sea-ship, after the whistling winds,After the white-gray sails taut to their spars and ropes,Below, a myriad myriad waves hastening, lifting up their necks,Tending in ceaseless flow toward the track of the ship,Waves of the ocean bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying,Waves, undulating waves, liquid, uneven, emulous waves,Toward that whirling current, laughing and buoyant, with curves,Where the great vessel sailing and tacking displaced the surface,Larger and smaller waves in the spread of the ocean yearnfully flowing,The wake of the sea-ship after she passes, flashing and frolicsome under the sun,A motley procession with many a fleck of foam and many fragments,Following the stately and rapid ship, in the wake following.