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earwaxboy16
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Name: matt
Birthday: 1/30/1986
Gender: Male
Interests: SPORTS: there's only one true sport, soccer
PLACES: London, the UK, Italy
MUSICIANS: John Mayer, The Fray, All-American Rejects, Coldplay, Jack Johnson, Relient K, The Starting Line
WRITERS: David Eddings, William Carlos Williams, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tolkien
Occupation: Student
Industry: Education/Research
Message: message me
Member Since:
9/23/2004
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| i'm going HOME tomorrow!!!
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| Rest in Peace
Madeleine L'Engle
29 November 1918 to 6 September 2007
A friend from afar whose words were the constant companions of youth.
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| we got our funding! i'm going to England Sept 11-17 to present at the International Tolkien Society's conference in Oxford!
edit:// make that the 18th :)
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| Apple Economics
--for A.B.F.
Edison Jennings
Though livid and salacious, supermarket Red Delicious
don't deserve the name. But after bagging two or three,
I think of old-stock Staymans that grew behind our house
in weather-beaten, bee-infested rows no one ever pruned,
and all we had to do was reach. I must have eaten bushels' worth
while balanced in the highest limbs. With one hand full of apples,
the other swatting bees, I watched swallows tip
and skim the tree-rimmed skies already hinting cold,
the windfall left ungathered, the fallow years that followed,
and now this bag of garish fruit my memory grafts to vintage
among the rows of grocery aisles that green to fields of praise.
(from http://www.slate.com/id/2168652/)
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| A Man Doesn't Have Time In His Life
Yehuda Amichai
A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything. | | |
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