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Nov. 21st, 2011
Training Cats??
Nov. 21st, 2011 06:51 amCat shows? And cats running through an obstacle course? I never would have dreamed of such a thing. Even after reading the article, I am not a believer.
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between a mow and the rain
Nov. 21st, 2011 07:19 amI was afraid today might turn out to be a contest between a mow and the rain. Going out to get the newspaper and checking the weather, it is faintly drizzling.
I cannot say I am terribly disappointed at the prospect of being rained out, since I am not really feeling up to mowing.
Though, this can still clear up by morning's end, without really muddying the grounds worse. And I would love to knock out that chore, especially since I have the cats inside now.
I cannot say I am terribly disappointed at the prospect of being rained out, since I am not really feeling up to mowing.
Though, this can still clear up by morning's end, without really muddying the grounds worse. And I would love to knock out that chore, especially since I have the cats inside now.
Operation Mow Stalled
Nov. 21st, 2011 10:32 amCripes, I step out and feel the grass a little and see that we are good to start Operation Mow, but by the time I'm dressed up and ready to begin, I see that we got a little spray of rain, just enough to botch the operation, while keeping alive the possibility that we might be able to take another shot at in the late afternoon, if the precipitation stops, without so much as a misting.
Satanic Joy
Nov. 21st, 2011 11:17 amA comment to Sister Mary Fuck:
I wish to thank you for the daily pleasures of this site - every entry is worth viewing and contemplating! I am a satanist by nature and have found nowhere else that is so full of what I was taught to call "Satanic Joy" - joy in sex, in power, in perversion and in blasphemy. I hope it encourages people to explore their diabolic selves by all of those wonderful mechanisms.
She answers:
I can only hope the same ;) Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts!
Not very affirming for me is it? I wonder if the commenter is actually a Christian trolling Sister Mary Fuck.
I wish to thank you for the daily pleasures of this site - every entry is worth viewing and contemplating! I am a satanist by nature and have found nowhere else that is so full of what I was taught to call "Satanic Joy" - joy in sex, in power, in perversion and in blasphemy. I hope it encourages people to explore their diabolic selves by all of those wonderful mechanisms.
She answers:
I can only hope the same ;) Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts!
Not very affirming for me is it? I wonder if the commenter is actually a Christian trolling Sister Mary Fuck.
Pop comes home with a turkey. I was hoping he was just going to buy the pre-cooked deal.
Well, he has always done a pretty good job with it, though there is always the stress about trying to get him to cook at a higher temperature than the prescribed 350 degrees. But I don't really know. Maybe he is even right.
It's funny that he has felt a need to recognize Thanksgiving. We don't do Christmas or birthdays. Somehow Thanksgiving turkey seems an essential part of family life to him. Though, if I recall correctly, even this is a new discipline for him, begun only a few years ago, for reasons known only to him and are probably forgotten.
Well, he has always done a pretty good job with it, though there is always the stress about trying to get him to cook at a higher temperature than the prescribed 350 degrees. But I don't really know. Maybe he is even right.
It's funny that he has felt a need to recognize Thanksgiving. We don't do Christmas or birthdays. Somehow Thanksgiving turkey seems an essential part of family life to him. Though, if I recall correctly, even this is a new discipline for him, begun only a few years ago, for reasons known only to him and are probably forgotten.
Operation Mow
Nov. 21st, 2011 04:05 pmWe took a good little shower in the noon, and I thought that was going to be it for my plans to mow, even if the shower only lasted a few minutes. However, checking the mail, I see the grass is fairly dry. Beautiful wind, too. It's not fully overcast, but a lot of clouds. So, I think I am going to give it a go.
Operation Mow
Nov. 21st, 2011 05:54 pmWell, I am really behind on my blogging, but I got Operation Mow out of the way. And what a dirty job it was. It wasn't because of today's little precipitation, though it obviously could not have helped. I noticed yesterday when I stepped out back to take out the trash how fresh and moist the mud looked, even though I think the storm was, like, last week. But at least it was a cool mow, and the job is done and behind me.
Pop's Tacos
Nov. 21st, 2011 07:00 pmAs I put on the oven to pre-heat it before taking my shower, Pop asked if I wanted some tacos, which he was just beginning to prepare. He must have been surprised when I took him up on his offer. I always say no, and I ams surprised he still asks. I feel like I must have had an addition ten IQ points, because it was clearly smarter and more socialable, and I got to give Swanson a night off, and the dishes were for Pop to wash. Like I said, smarter.
I think they even tasted a bit better than mine. I wonder if this is because he uses fresh rather than frozen meat. Maybe the bounce from frozen to thawed takes a little something away from the meat.
I think they even tasted a bit better than mine. I wonder if this is because he uses fresh rather than frozen meat. Maybe the bounce from frozen to thawed takes a little something away from the meat.
1984 (2,2) 'Now,' He Whispered
Nov. 21st, 2011 09:54 pmFinally, enough of foreplay.
_ _ _
'Look!' whispered Julia.
A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, almost at the level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Winston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether after all there was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He and Julia had spoken only in low whispers, and it would not pick up what they had said, but it would pick up the thrush. Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, beetle-like man was listening intently -- listening to that. But by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of his mind. It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and merely felt. The girl's waist in the bend of his arm was soft and warm. He pulled her round so that they were breast to breast; her body seemed to melt into his. Wherever his hands moved it was all as yielding as water. Their mouths clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces apart again both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright and fled with a clatter of wings.
Winston put his lips against her ear. 'Now,' he whispered.
'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Come back to the hide-out. It's safer.'
Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him. They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her body gleamed white in the sun.
-- 1984
_ _ _
With a gallant show of discretion, we will close out this chapter with this, understanding that Julia and Winston have indeed consummated their little revolt against Big Brother: “Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act.”
A political act? Orwell is such a romantic, isn’t he?
_ _ _
'Look!' whispered Julia.
A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, almost at the level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Winston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether after all there was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He and Julia had spoken only in low whispers, and it would not pick up what they had said, but it would pick up the thrush. Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, beetle-like man was listening intently -- listening to that. But by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of his mind. It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and merely felt. The girl's waist in the bend of his arm was soft and warm. He pulled her round so that they were breast to breast; her body seemed to melt into his. Wherever his hands moved it was all as yielding as water. Their mouths clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces apart again both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright and fled with a clatter of wings.
Winston put his lips against her ear. 'Now,' he whispered.
'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Come back to the hide-out. It's safer.'
Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him. They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her body gleamed white in the sun.
-- 1984
_ _ _
With a gallant show of discretion, we will close out this chapter with this, understanding that Julia and Winston have indeed consummated their little revolt against Big Brother: “Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act.”
A political act? Orwell is such a romantic, isn’t he?