Those Pesky Red Lines


Hey, Obama, this one’s for you.

Mideast: Tehran told U.S. diplomats to tell Israel to “await the consequences” for killing one of its generals. This is the radical state that our gangsta-in-chief thinks will abandon nuclear weapons development.  Tehran’s Deputy Foreign Minister Hossein Amir Abdollahian, while speaking to the official Iranian news agency on Tuesday (January 27, 2015), said sarcastically, in a reference to  Obama’s called bluff on chemical weapons in Syria, “the Zionist regime has crossed our red lines.”


Now make sure I look really mature and presidential in this one, okay?

C’mon … why all the fuss?  Just because we have a president with no real interest in the job?  What’s wrong with having a ceaseless appetite for celebrity adulation, endless vacations, and a lifestyle that royalty could only dream of?

I never thought I would live in a country where the so-called “commander”-in-chief would actually degrade the Office of the President by hangin’ with his hoodies and getting in on some selfies.

I’m so glad that he’s planning to (someday) “degrade” those ruthless Muslim animals in the Islamist State.  They’re going to be so humiliated when this clown gets done “degrading” them.

It’s going to be a very long two years.


What Is Beauty?

Beauty waits until the patience and depth of a gaze are refined enough to engage and discover it. In this sense, beauty is not a quality externally present in something. It emerges at that threshold where reverence of mind engages the subtle presence of the other person, place, or object.

~ John O’ Donohue

Maksymilianna — Not just a beautiful child—but a beautiful name as well.



What we call Nature’s beauty is simply a result of God using our (His) Earth as an artist’s palette.


The Flagship Niagara. An object. But a complex object—built by man—but created by God through the talent that He gave them. And certainly a beautiful thing to look upon.





Perhaps God uses people more than any other medium to exhibit absolute, heart-rending beauty—the kind that causes the breath to catch, the heart to skip a beat, and the eyes to tear.

Our souls long to absorb pure beauty so that it becomes a part of us; we ache because we cannot become a part of it.   We reach out for it with our minds, our souls … and we wonder—in frustration—why we cannot hold it.  Instead, we are allowed to glimpse upon only a portion; the rest will not come to us until we are with God in heaven.

For we must be pure in order to comprehend, absorb, fully appreciate, and become a part of something that is pure.

~ Eric Uhland


From the book by Elisabeth Toll, SYSTRAR – Four Sisters the Last Day of March. When God creates beauty like this, we yearn in our souls for something more—though we don’t even know what it is.

Music—any kind of music that touches a person’s soul—can make the heart ache and the tears well up.






Jitterbug Boy

So you ask me what I’m doin’ here …

Holdin’ up the lamppost,

Flippin’ this quarter, tryin’ ta make up my mind …

If it’s heads I go to Tennessee, tails I buy a drink,

If it lands on the edge I keep talkin’ … to … you …

—Tom Waits, from Jitterbug Boy

Set a pen to a dream …

Things seen by the inward sight, like those flashing visions which come as we drift into the blankness of sleep, are more vivid and meaningful to us in that form than when we have sought to weld them with reality.  Set a pen to a dream, and the colour drains from it.  The ink with which we write seems diluted with something holding too much of reality, and we find that after all we cannot delineate the incredible memory….  To shape these things on the wheel of art, to seek to bring some faded trophy from that intangible realm of shadow and gossamer, requires equal skill and memory.  For although dreams are in all of us, few hands may grasp their moth-wings without tearing them.

—Robert H. Barlow, The Night Ocean

I’m Sorry, I Apologize, I Take Full Responsibility, I …

The age of the apology is clearly upon us—and it is not just about being polite.  It has become de rigueur, an almost reflexive response among leaders to a mistake or, worse, a true crisis.  The art of the apology has become a carefully choreographed dance: Say you are sorry, show vulnerability, tell everyone you are “taking responsibility” and then end with, “I hope to put this behind me.”

Andrew Ross Sorkin


Rural Funerals

… it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape …


When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems of a … gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress; and if flowers were strewn they were of the most melancholy colors.  Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651) is the following stanza:

                         Yet strew

               Upon my dismall grave

               Such offerings as you have,

                             Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe;

For kinder flowers can take no birth

Or growth from such unhappy earth.



There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks from contemplating; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those refined associations which it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty.


Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate!

file0001875043591There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited—every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never—never—never return to be soothed by thy contrition!

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent—if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth … if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;—then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul—then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant upon the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.


Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

—Washington Irving  (1783-1859)

Excerpts from Rural Funerals, published in the Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. (published 1819 – 1820)  (A reflection on grief, and an observation of rural English customs during the early 19th century.)

I Shall Not Care


When I am dead and over me bright April

Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,


Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,

I shall not care.


I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful

When rain bends down the bough;


And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted

Than you are now.


 — Sara Teasdale  (1884 – 1933)

The Moving Finger

moving finger

The Moving Finger writes;

and, having writ, Moves on

Nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it

—Omar Khayyám

Omar Khayyam


Omar Khayyám was a Persian polymath, mathematician, philosopher, astronomer, physician, and poet.  He wrote treatises on mechanics, geography, and music.

—Blogger’s Commentary:

Each day of our lives is lived.  Period.  We weren’t given a choice about being here, and so … here we are.

Can we change any of it?  We might be able to undo some things, right some wrongs, or kiss and make up.  But it doesn’t change what happened.

You can plead with God (promising to be a good person from now on), but it doesn’t work that way.  You can scheme and plan and strategize in an attempt to outsmart your destiny.

But the past never returns.  And crying about your past won’t make it disappear.

And so, having writ, Moves on … see you tomorrow …