I am tripping more than you are. Battling razzberries

[the mingo]

A lot of the northern red oaks do that up here too, get double trunks. Single too but more often than other trees here you'll see them double. I know where some old ones are here and there back in the woods. Always liked the oaks so thanx for the picture. Why was this one you and your grandma's oak ?

[SadLuckDame]

It's over 100 years old, she and I both danced around it as young girls, climbed on it, that sort of thing, she could even recall her twin sisters in the branches. I like to think and picture it all.

Thanks Mingo, share a tree and we'll all be a lil more hippyish for a day, maybees. I'd like to see your double armed red oaks.

[the mingo]

I'll gather up some pics maybe in the spring and post them here for ya.

[SadLuckDame]

Thanks mingo, I've a treat to look forward to if I hang around then.

[the mingo]

Folks come and go it's the way of the world hope ya hang 'round though ... hope ya hang 'round

hope ya hang 'round
hope ya hang square
hope ya hang a triangle over there

[SadLuckDame]

me too, mingo
hope I go around the shapes of things.

[stilltrucking]

My! People come and go so quickly here!

I hope I lose twenty pounds
That's the shape I am hoping to go round.

Back up to 247,
lost my way for a day
the day I spent with baby sister
Chinese food busted my gut
well it was worth it

so today so good so far
last night great nightmares
back at sea again
just me and Jack and Wolf Larsen
On the Ghost

Chewing the fat
the subject was
the sanctity of life.

[SadLuckDame]

I just watched the opening ceremony of the Canadian Winter Olympics, it'll dish up hope on ice-skates, it was gorgeous.
I'd went out tonight to hear a dude on sax, really good mood to the place after that and so went back to my friends' house to watch the Olympics...I thought if Jerry had lived longer he would have made a Grateful Dead show come out that fantastically trippy and breath-taking.
A lot of hope in that performance stirred up.
I wanted to say, and did say to my friends, "A sea of candles, we're all flickering lights on a night." Was good stuff, I thought of more out there than me, and I'd actually thought of humanity--which never happens to a girl like me.

Was a long haul of a week, but it's Friday...a good Friday.

Found myself worrying with vday up and coming, I may have forgotten the art of kissing, if that's believable. Some say it's like riding a bike. I've been kissed within the year, but haven't returned the favor, which is what I'm worried I've lost the know-how in.
Amazing! Vday is a strangeness.

[Doreen Peri]

I watched some of it. It was definitely beautiful! But every time I see such an extravagant display of technology for such an event, I get upset. Honestly. I think, what about the people who are starving? What about the people who are living on the streets? What about the people in Haiti? Etc., etc.

This has been a huge problem with me for years. I just don't GET how people can spend SO much money to create something so lavish and extravagant while people need medical assistance and housing and ... oh crap, don't get me started. How can they be so arrogant to spent money that foolishly!? I really don't understand.

So I have a hard time watching it. As pretty as it is.

As for Valentine's Day, I don't have any idea about it. Is it really like riding a bike? Who knew? It's been years for me.

"You must remember this,
a kiss is just a kiss,
a sigh is just a sigh...."


Below are some parody lyrics I wrote with a friend in 2000... 10 years ago. It's a parody of "My Funny Valentine"...sing it to the tune of that song.... it's called "My Phony Valentine"

Now first... Put the song on and listen to it.... then read our lyrics...

Here's the REAL version ... sung by Tony Bennett

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And here's the "My Phony Valentine" parody I told you about which I wrote with a friend. Haha!

Happy Valentines Day to YOU, Ms. Dame! I wish I knew you better... knew your real name and that you'd accept an invitation to tea.

My Phony Valentine

My phony Valentine
Cruel, phony Valentine
You make me cringe with disgust
Your lines are just a joke
That make me gag and choke
I'm just a victim of your lust

Are your words all lies you speak?
All your phoniness is weak!
They're just lines that smell and reek...
Are you dumb?

So...

Don't waste your drool on me
Or try to fool on me
Scram, phony Valentine....scoot
Or feel my valentine boot!

Would you like a real critique?
I think you're a little geek,
When you use your vile technique!
Are you dense?

So..

Why don't you hit the road?
I'm tired of kissing toads...
Go, phony Valentine....go!
Pack up your fantasy show.

[still.trucking]

Even toads need love.
But I never wanted to get high enough
that I would kiss a toad.

Man arrested for toad tripping

David Theiss, 21, of Kansas City, Missouri, was arrested for keeping a pet toad with the intent of licking it to get high. The skin and venom glands of Colorado River toads produce powerful hallucinogens called tryptamines. Theiss was released on bond, but the toad remains in police custody. From KBMC.com:

The Colorado River Toad

I ain't been kissed since Jimmy Carter was president. Oh but I have lusted in my heart too.

A little know fact. Nietzsche was a great admirer of Hank Williams Sr.

Poor old Nietzsche he never got a kiss.

[SadLuckDame]

Hey Doreen, ya got it right, enjoyed that take on Vday.
I'd meet ya for tea, just let me know when and where. I'm no body to look up though, just a girl chat. Let me knows it.

Jack, my Dad always sang Hey Good Lookin' to my Mom, didn't know it was a Hank Williams tune.

We'll be high on hallucination. Poor toads, they got it coming.

I've been reading this extraordinary poem, it's lengthy, but some great moments in it from John Keats, the one he did up with the Greek Mythology. Guess he loved her and wanted that kiss, wrote the whole thing smacked full of her. I'm almost done reading it.

Kiss and tell.

[stilltrucking]

He was what, 29 when he died? Cold morning in west virginia dead of winter. In the back of his Cadilac. I am in the mood for it this morning cause I am tripping more than you.

A dam fine joke on me dame. Oh yes I got a sense of humor. And so does G d.

I always gets whats coming I never had to ask.
Thirty years of love
gone with the wind
I have pondered wondered and wandered
why I stopped kissing

at the tender age of 39.

In truth it was vanity
yes Virginia there is a santa claus
and faint heart never won fair lady

Decadence is when bachelors live like married men
nothing decadent about me.

that's my rambling jack for today
what's it all about
it beats me
I lost out
I deserve my Darwin award
"Tell me who you love and I will tell you who you are" A.K. by L.T.

[SadLuckDame]

I loved him, Jack, I loved him, but gone with the wind and he's gone.

Some notes to myself...
A wailing willow was withering
a young sister pressed her heart
pressed oranges and her comforting thoughts
"willow, willow what withers you so?"
such little pleas and goings on she showed
though the sister sings
a ring of flowers crowning her curls
what to unlace for her
what to show
and give for a song,
for her pressed chest against the bark
anything for a heart?

MY Grand Listener!
She faired well, she feared and sat tormented
but with blushed cheek, cursed...yes
especially so in her lonesome
in absence and quiet
maintaining her structure to be up like the trees
to reach with statue strength arms
except it was foggy
never could she become accustomed
on what lurked there in the cloud
spooning what she'd hoped she'd spoon
looming beyond sight
Sweet as a child a Barrymore in her
shined ringlets of golden glit
shears within the pocket
a turquoise circle played her finger
and she'd gone the length in the foggy weather
she'd faint.


I changed it to this by tying in a dream too, just wanted to update it here and not only there.

See with me where
a wailing willow is withering;
the young sister pressed her heart,
pressed oranges and her comforting thoughts,

"Willow, Willow, what withers you so?"

Such little pleas
and goings on she showed
"I, with a little red bird
in my breast,
and I must, and I must."

Though the sister sings,
ring of flowers crown her curls;
what to unlace for her,
what must show
and give for a song,
for the maiden's pressed chest against the bark,
anything for a heart?

My grand listener!

She faired well,
by fear and sitting tormented
but with blushed cheek,
cursed...yes
especially so on her lonesome
in absence and quiet
maintaining her structure to be up like the trees
reach with statue strength arms.

How it was foggy,
never could she accustom herself
in what lurked there in the cloud
spooning what she'd hoped she'd spoon
looming beyond sight.

Sweet as a child--
a Barrymore in her
shined ringlets of golden glit
shears within the pocket
a turquoise circle played her finger
and she'd gone the length in fogged weather.

It chirped within--
what a sound it made
of haply verge and urges yellow
O! unhappy girl you've a like for it
for broken and clipped
of feverish strokes
not to be spared his severity
even that, just to last
a third night
faint on feathered halo.

[SadLuckDame]

See Polly See

It was just to prove that you'd in-fact really had visited me and I'd wanted to say I woke up sure beyond a doubt of it. Urgh! Men are a frustrating lot. I took a camera and captured the color of my eyes after waking and there, fine you'd gotten to me, now I feel a jumble.

[stilltrucking]

Oscar Wilde had my number.
But I can only hope to use both of my brains at this late date in my life.

From The Nightingale and The Rose
...
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame- coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."

But the girl frowned.

"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.