Feb. 1st, 2009

apocalypticbob: (Default)
May the sacred stream of amity flow
forever in my heart,
may the universe prosper
such is my cherished desire.

May my heart sing with ecstasy
at the sight of the virtuous,
and may my life be an offering
at their feet.

May my heart bleed at the sight
of the wretched, the cruel, the poor and the irreligious,
and may my tears of compassion
flow from my eyes.

May I always be there to show the path
to the pathless wanderers of life,
but if they should not hearken to me,
may I bide in patiently.

May the spirit of goodwill
enter all our hearts,
may we all sing together in chorus
the immortal song of human concord.

the immortal songs - gurudev shri chitrabhanuji - 1950's

What can I add to that except amen?
apocalypticbob: (Default)
Mmmm...build-your-own-tacos and Super Bowl commercials. I work tomorrow in the morning teaching Spanish. It's disturbing how much Spanish I picked up living in Texas all those years.

Interception and a 100 yard run for a touchdown? I don't care who you are, that is impressive.

Budweiser commercials are always my favorite.

3-D stuff at the Super Bowl. I remember when they did that back in the late 80's/ early 90's. Looking forward to Chuck in 3-D tomorrow.

Wow. Extreme close-up of Bruce Springsteen's crotch when he slid too far and racked himself on the camera. Funny. He looks and sounds old. Certain people aren't supposed to age, and Springsteen is one of them. Makes me feel old.

*yawn*

Mom has potato skins in the oven. Yum.

Geeky Coke commercial is cute.

How much do I love the Budweiser Clydesdales? So very much!

Blah, blah football. The score hasn't budged in ages. Sadly, that is why the big games are sometimes less exciting. It's all flags and fouls and no moving of the ball.

Oooh...exciting at the end!

And now it is over.

Muse

Feb. 1st, 2009 10:01 pm
apocalypticbob: (Default)
She speaks softly to me in metaphors: words of silk on velvet
She speaks clearly to me in similes: words like puzzle pieces sliding into place
She speaks powerfully to me in cliches: words to set the world on fire.
She traces her finger around the curve of my ear and across the back of my neck, trespassing on the territory of lovers. I press my head to the pillow, and hear the pounding of my own heart in one ear and her voice in the other.
She complains that I never write about her, as minutes of morning tick by on my alarm clock. I assure her I will, if she'll just let me sleep, but no dice.
She complains that I have never named her, and I refuse, for to name something is to give it more power than I would give her.
She always has the last word. It is often in the middle of the night, hours that start with two and three and four, that I will hear the gentle yet insidious sound of her clearing her throat, and I know that sleep, for me, is finished. I deny it, of course, curling into my tight fetal position with my hands tucked beneath my chin. I hope if I ignore her that she'll leave me alone, but she will be heard.
She is insistent.
She is persistent.
She is a little bit of a bitch.
She is my muse, and I'd be lost without her.

There, Muse.

Happy?

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