Category Archives: Great Literature (quoted or talked about by me)

“He Was In Heaven Before He Died” Lyrics by John Prine

There’s a rainbow of babies
Draped over the graveyard
Where all the dead sailors
Wait for their brides
And the cold bitter snow
Has strangled each grassblade
Where the salt from their tears
Washed out with the tide

And I smiled on the Wabash
The last time I passed it
Yes I gave her a wink
From the passenger side
And my foot fell asleep
As I swallowed my candy
Knowing he was in heaven
Before he died

Now the harbor’s on fire
With the dreams and desires
Of a thousand young poets
Who failed ’cause they tried
For a rhyme without reason
Floats down to the bottom
Where the scavengers eat ’em
And wash in with the tide

Repeat Chorus:

The sun can play tricks
With your eyes on the highway
The moon can lay sideways
Till the ocean stands still
But a person can’t tell
His best friend he loves him
Till time has stopped breathing
You’re alone on the hill

Repeat Chorus:

Thank you to


Eva X Poet of the Month Winner

Poet of the Month Winner.

I may not have a chance to write after this until the end of the week

Below, please find partial lyrics for The Talking Heads’, “What a Day That Was.”

… There are fifty thousand beggars
Roaming in the streets
They have lost all their possessions
They have nothing left to eat…

… I’m dreaming of a city
It was my own invention
I put the wheels in motion
A time for big decisions

And on the first day, we had everything we could stand
Ooh and then we let it fall
And on the second day, there was nothing else at all
Ooh what a day that was…

… Ooh that’s the way it goes
There’s a million ways- to get things done
There’s a million ways- to make things work out…

__________________ Yours in hope, Day3of

Pretending to be irritated Grrr, Revise, Day3of

This Morning’s Commentary

On Last Night’s Rant

Note: This morning’s words are in bold italic. 

Grrrrr. Yesterday was a fun, healthy, normal day. Why can I not provide a more thoughtful reflection of THAT time at THIS time?  Because……that’s why! Why so childish? I don’t know how much was affected by dominant inner child or by perplexed grown woman. I really hate to think I would have injured inner child at this stage of my emotional progress; surely inner child would have been able –although perhaps she did finally find a way to express herself by the end of the post. 

I  want to talk about what is “healthy” for an individual compared to what we may think of as “normal.”

Speculating about my childish behavior is a waste of time, isn’t it.  Unfortunately, I’m not feeling much better yet. I’m working through it as I write; at least, I hope that’s what’s happening. 

Unhealthy feelings of insecurity within oneself and inferiority within society, we probably share in common as human beings; yet during personal bouts of such emotions, we can hardly be convinced that we are “normal, ” probably owing to the sense of isolation inherent in feeling insecure and inferior.  Normal can, after all, be thought of as a condition of maximum affiliation with the wide range of possibilities, aka “the norm”. ///// Within society, we “normally” establish causes to celebrate life with one another…  I’m reminded of  Bible passages about loving our enemies.  The following links to an interesting Wikipedia article about a particular passage from the Sermon on the Mount…. (The issue of celebrating diversity is way beyond the scope of this project. I may write more about that in my next project which will take up “fun”—the subject I had to drop from the current project. And when I do, I want to consider the word “enemy” as well.)

Note: I will probably write SOME THING in a new post to express my joy of the earlier “fun, healthy,” etc. day when I get to feeling better.

Yeah, and maybe I am spineless, masochist, hedonist….and maybe something is torturing my conscence, something that should never have been evil, yet is;  for the vast majority of us, something that brings up the crime from which none of us could ever reform……the original sin………..

Where do insults leave off and psychiatric terms begin? I don’t want to discuss such things with the detachment of an academic; however, what concerns me is how a person can feel genuinely well while also working through the private challenges of experiencing the legacy of mankind.

I don’t honestly believe that I have the right to judge what should or should not have ever been “evil”. I’ll just go ahead and describe myself as “hysterical,” but that’s quite all right. I would rather be an hysterical woman than a repressed one. Expression of energy has to take place. I’d rather wear it on this page, if I must, than on my face. Yet, I did not succeed in drawing out meaning from the experience–that’s the trouble with hysteria. 

The truth is, I wasn’t guilty at all. I was frustrated and sad. I wanted to be happy. But in order to feel happy, there has to be a path from my outer experience to the nugget of soul that defines who I am. Otherwise, “I’m fakin’ it; I’m not really makin’ it (Simon and Garfunkle song).” Speaking of that song, here’s a link to a pretty awesome live performance of it. 

I may be a little schizophrenic. Thank you for your patience.

Now, here’s link to a Jim Croce song. Yesterday, by chance, I came across Ingrid Croce’s biography of Jim at Books-a-Million. May Jim Croce cheer all of us up by and by. This is “A Good Time Man Like Me Ain’t Got No Business Singin’ the Blues.”


I am NOT inspired.  That was yesterday–but still true. And I still can’t talk about it, because all I want to do is talk about it. Not with insight. Not even with the genuine intent to work through my problem.

 A moment ago, I spoke on the phone with my tormentor, my angel. Just now, I’m convinced I’ll ruin the rest of my day crying over the fact that I can’t be sure I’m loved. 

I’m not proud of being a bruised heart–and bold! I believe myself to be innocent– and this is the woman speaking, not inner child. There is a word that I hope people who know me do not believe applies to me; it’s an awful word–in my opinion. The word is “histrionic”. I  mention it because I just don’t think emotions get the respect they deserve. 

Text below is taken from Act IV, Scene 1 of “Romeo and Juliet.”

Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this, 
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it: 
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, 
Do thou but call my resolution wise, 
And with this knife I’ll help it presently. 2420
God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands; 
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal’d, 
Shall be the label to another deed, 
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt 
Turn to another, this shall slay them both: 2425
Therefore, out of thy long-experienced time, 
Give me some present counsel, or, behold, 
‘Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife 
Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that 
Which the commission of thy years and art 2430
Could to no issue of true honour bring. 
Be not so long to speak; I long to die, 
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.

The thought of either of those words brings up unpleasant associations. Tranquilizers and the aftermath of bloody battle.


I confess to being something which—Thank the Higher Power–has lost meaning (at least in academia) . I’m “neurotic”. (Wikipedia has a good article on that word.) I do not mean to minimize my risk of poor health due to stress, nor the concern, mixed with some relief (at my progress) of people who care about me. I can’t help but use the word “neurotic.”

Neurotic reminds me of my Dad’s description of his mom’s personality. But, now I’m gonna stop before I stupidly feign to analyze my sweet grandmother whom I hardly knew. Thing is, though–Dad said she suffered from “neuralgia”, a word I’ve always  thought had similar connotations to neurotic. Neuralgia generally meant chronic pain. “Algia” means pain. “Neuro” means nerve. My grandmother suffered from unexplained neurological disturbances–which caused her pain.

——It should be noted:  Such symptoms, whatever they were, are understandable in the year 2013, though not to her benefit.

I hope my grandmother always felt the comforting hand of compassion in her life. It is my understanding that she did. In fact, had she not, I do believe that my father would have held a grudge—-although as long as I knew him, I personally knew of two grudges in his life, and one of them he had most likely forgiven by the time of his death. Curiously, the possibly forgiven one died of a heart attack quite soon after my father’s demise. The other grudge was almost certainly faked on my father’s part. (The recipient of that attempted grudge of Dad’s disrespected Daddy as being an ornery old man. The circumstances involved Real Property and actual trespass upon Dad’s property, as well as the quiet and sanctity of Dad’s home. But Daddy loved this person. Love can’t hold a grudge. The man remains ignorant of his deep injury to my father, and fares well.) My father was the embodiment of forgiveness.

If reading “embodiment of forgiveness,” you now think of Jesus, I understand. In fact, I hope you do. My dad deserves the comparison as much as anyone who bears the mark of “Holy Spirit” imbued by forgiveness in suffering.

But, I also hope you have an idea of how well I knew my Dad. That’s all. I knew my Dad; and that’s a good thing.  It’s good when life’s challenges bring you closer to the true heart of another.

Poetry by Tupac Shakur and the Definition of “Mood”

Congratulations to our President upon the occasion of his second inauguration. It’s a lovely day here on the outside of where I am.

On the inside, I miss too many people. I also feel anxiety about trying to reconnect with humanity in the form of new acquaintances.  Today, I try to balance longing with resignation; I pray dysphoria is not my destiny.

The days are too short now–yet not cold enough. Sometimes it feels as though the very forces of nature have gone senile. Something forgot the winter freeze. Sometimes, I think I’m the only one who remembers. When I go to the store, routinely hear comments about the weather, but around these parts, climate change is rarely part of the discourse.

I’m a southern girl, sad there will be no freshness in the springtime–buds straining out into the haze. No resurrection on Easter morning because nothing ever really died. Sorry to meander so morosely.

But I’m not giving-in to negativity–not really. This blog is positive project for me. I feel fairly successful in being honest about myself without catching myself and my readers in a trap of my current quandaries. I’ve been susceptible to serial existential crises for some time now.

Below is a link to the Wikipedia article on “Mood”. It’s something for me to think about.

Don’t ask why, ask why not…loneliness, that is

This post will likely slip through the cracks of blog-iety, the same way too many lost souls also slip away. By the way, my heart grieved horribly for the loss of Aaron Swartz who was peculiar in that he died (I believe) a martyr. Very peculiar, especially in the USA. This post is dedicated to all the beautiful people I love, but can’t touch.  Simon and Garfunkel, “A Most Peculiar Man”

To everything under the sun, there is a season…I imagine a seed aches during winter…cries out to be eaten by anything that already belongs. This next link is to a Donovan rendition of a poem by WB Yeats, “Song of the Wandering Aengus.” According to Wikipoedia, Aengus was probably an Old Irish god of love, youth, and inspiration. I’ll post the poem beneath the link.

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,          5
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,   10
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran   15
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;   20
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

A Little (perhaps by Anonymous)

A Little (perhaps by Anonymous)

A selection of poetry for the use of schools, compiled by W. Osborn (1871)

(Google eBook)


There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam
’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold but the land of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way
that he’d sooner live in Hell.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze
till sometimes we couldn’t see,
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one
to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead
were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap”, says he,
“I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you
won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no;
then he says with a sort of moan,
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold
till I’m chilled clean through to the bone
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread
of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
you’ll cremate my last remains.
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed,
so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn
but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day

of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death,
and I hurried, horror-driven
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid,
because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say.
“You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you
to cremate these last remains”.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
and the trail has its own stern code,
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb
in my heart how I cursed that load!
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—
Oh God, how I loathed the thing!
And every day that quiet clay
seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
and the grub was getting low.
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing,

and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
it was called the Alice May,
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here”, said I, with a sudden cry,
“is my cre-ma-tor-eum”!
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared
such a blaze you seldom see,

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like
to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
and the wind began to blow,
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about

ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said,
“I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”.
Then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
and he said, “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear
you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
it’s the first time I’ve been warm”.
There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Note: I copied this from a pdf file found at

From Songs of Innocence and Experience

The Sick Rose


O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Awesome Quotations about Truth

Awesome Quotations about Truth

I hope Melissa and AJ don’t mind me linking to their wonderful site.