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Monday, October 31, 2011

Inhuman unbeings (cummings)

All over a so-called world, hundreds of millions of servile and insolent inhuman unbeings are busily rolling and unrolling in the enlightenment of propaganda. So what? There are still a few erect human beings in the so-called world. Proudly and humbly, I say to these human beings:

"O my fellow citizens, many an honest man believes a lie. Though you are as honest as the day, fear and hate the liar. Fear and hate him when he should be feared and hated: now. Fear and hate him where he should be feared and hated: in yourselves."
e.e. cummings

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Saturday, October 29, 2011

The trade (Frazier)

The way they get you is, you trade your freedoms for entertainment.
Charles Frazier, Nightwoods

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Friday, October 28, 2011

Try your best (Frazier)

You try your best to love the world despite obvious flaws in design and execution.
Charles Frazier, Nightwoods

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Tuesday, October 25, 2011

6

New poems. Posted.

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Monday, October 24, 2011

Baked stuffed winter squash

From this recipe.

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Thursday, October 20, 2011

Patriotism (Barnes)

The greatest patriotism is to tell your country when it is behaving dishonorably, foolishly, viciously.
Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot

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Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Mac and cheese

Tried out a new macaroni-and-cheese recipe, this one with leeks.

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Tuesday, October 18, 2011

5

I've posted 5 new poems.

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Monday, October 17, 2011

On purpose

The purpose of humans is to create purpose.

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Sunday, October 16, 2011

Sesame Soba Noodle Salad

From this recipe.

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Saturday, October 15, 2011

On creating

One who struggles to please will always be a third-rate creator. One who sets out to displease, however, is reprehensible and unworthy of attention.

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Saturday, October 08, 2011

Sausage and sauerkraut paprikash

From this recipe:


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Thursday, October 06, 2011

Chicken braised with ancho chiles

From this recipe:

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Poems

I've posted 9 more poems.

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Tuesday, October 04, 2011

The Poet (Gibran)

The poet is the mediator between the power of invention and humanity. He is the cable that transfers what the world of the soul conceives to the world of research, and what the world of thought determines to the world of retention and writing.

The poet is both the father and the mother of language; language travels the same roads he travels and stops to rest where he stops to rest, and if the poet dies, language sits on his grave crying over the loss, wailing until another poet passes by and extends his hands to it. And if the poet is both the father and the mother of language, the imitator is the weaver of its shroud and the digger of its grave.

By poet, I mean every inventor, be he big or small, every discoverer, be he strong or weak, every creator, be he great or humble, every lover of pure life, be he a master or a pauper, and everyone who stands in awe before the day and the night, be he a philosopher or a guard at a vineyard. The imitator, on the other hand, is the one who does not discover or create anything, but rather the one whose state of mind is borrowed from his contemporaries, and his conventional garments are made from the tatters of garments worn by his predecessors.

By poet, I mean that farmer who plows his field with a plow that differs, however little, from the plow he inherited from his father, in order that someone will come after him to give the new plow a new name; I mean that gardener who breeds an orange flower and plants it between a red flower and a yellow flower, in order that someone will come after him to give the new flower a new name; or that weaver who produces on his loom patterns and designs that differ from those his neighbors weave, in order that someone will give his fabric a new name. By poet, I mean the sailor who hoists a third sail on a ship that has only two, or the builder who builds a house with two doors and two windows among houses built with one door and one window, or the dyer who mixes colors that no one before him has mixed....

As for the imitator, he is the one who travels from place to place on the roads that a thousand and one caravans have traveled, making sure he does not deviate from his course for fear he will get lost; he is the one who earns his living, eats, drinks, and wears the clothes of a thousand generations before him, and so his life remains a mere echo, his whole being a mere shadow of a distant truth he neither knows anything about nor cares to know.
Khalil Gibran

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Saturday, October 01, 2011

New poems

I've posted 7.

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Michael C. Rush (aka M. C. Rush)
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(Site was originally called @ Wit's End, then
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Defender of Truth & Justice since (approx.) 1973!