tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25698179228406815852024-03-13T08:08:20.367+00:00The External CapsuleAnnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-61292277283286451612010-01-09T11:48:00.002+00:002010-01-09T11:49:03.042+00:00On on to the green pastures of WordPressI have finally done it. Thank you everyone.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-34945029738134872402009-09-27T11:15:00.002+01:002009-09-27T11:43:04.688+01:00Welcoming the arrival of AutumnThe warm, fragrant winds of summer swept me off my feet, whisked me away from The External Capsule, and deposited me, albeit gently, in a place full of things too wonderful to describe presently. I have now returned to The External Capsule and am excited to write again and, with the greatest of hopes, to inspire. However, there are a few things that first need to be done - cleaning out the cobwebs, scrubbing the floors - so that this place will be ready for the imminent arrival of Autumn. Please be patient while I do so. I hope to see you all very soon.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-64676224166219877912009-07-13T03:29:00.004+01:002009-07-13T03:41:13.599+01:00Eternal Summer<span style="font-family:verdana;">Here, one is inclined to think that time only pretends to move; that the ever-changing faces of the many clocks that lie languishing on walls and upon too many wooden desks only serve to remind clockface-gazers of their continued existence. But day does turn into night, and sunrays eventually give way to moonbeams.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So, time must move, must it not? Or has time been confused with life - for how could time possibly be anything but animate when it does not impart a sense of urgency?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Here, life may race forwards but time stands still. As still as the black-and-white men in old and yellowed photographs that line the bottom of a dying man's drawer. Time is still.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Can you hear it?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qVRH8beWkIESfmJB_s6N4ck-iaQPEfBv4QQZs3gTJIZEELjuznLNtaGJ1sGSJAbDumGt21Aq2jxfFCafQeijnA34bj5MNBDaypYrWnLfvlKM7cpmGHvaBwOg0ly-TbSd62bbdIh3q0-X/s1600-h/India+1.jpg"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 247px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357768413901679682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qVRH8beWkIESfmJB_s6N4ck-iaQPEfBv4QQZs3gTJIZEELjuznLNtaGJ1sGSJAbDumGt21Aq2jxfFCafQeijnA34bj5MNBDaypYrWnLfvlKM7cpmGHvaBwOg0ly-TbSd62bbdIh3q0-X/s320/India+1.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuIObhf0vsV_6Kz5VXDJ_6c35gL0dpXCyOKG34Yu9tgJtzbOo1ACXSLRiz_wxa0kYb___Da4jdcDVBZqt9Z8p_mm09Sw-LMHTbAZ0N0vI7r0kzpk9DG_3P4bbIXWDP3vG7pViJluBVkaA/s1600-h/India+2.jpg"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 219px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357768417170568642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuIObhf0vsV_6Kz5VXDJ_6c35gL0dpXCyOKG34Yu9tgJtzbOo1ACXSLRiz_wxa0kYb___Da4jdcDVBZqt9Z8p_mm09Sw-LMHTbAZ0N0vI7r0kzpk9DG_3P4bbIXWDP3vG7pViJluBVkaA/s320/India+2.jpg" /></span></a><br /><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><strong>Photo credits:</strong> Sache and Murray at </span><a href="http://www.harappa.com/"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">harappa.com</span></a></p>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-63726630342578432522009-06-06T13:05:00.009+01:002009-06-06T18:24:23.894+01:00“You remember it. Remember every bit of it, ‘cause we are on the eve of a day that people are going to talk about long after we are dead and gone.”<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Few of the men knew, sixty-five years ago, what their rickety vessels would deliver them to. As their boats cut through choppy waters towards a stretch of the Normandy coast, however, many knew precisely what rested upon their weapon-bearing shoulders.<br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span><p><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 367px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 262px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344185031305026994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR70eKL4w-W-PzLJ6OiiDjJxQ4AfO5S16bMnX_xWWB3cTBIFrogEYC8rMaTqj3ZQs7RzdqLoAInN26FJX3BqY1DBEptVfVKqYXLWVX3QMiHllT560z1s6JjXD_tvADCvtjTSzq7tKMesky/s320/Tribute+2.jpg" /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">They had to work quickly; they had to kill quickly, for lives were at stake. Theirs, or the enemy’s. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivg7-XqP_MvHIAdp73eEIYwBwCLgz7JACaHNRjYl-Z2mt5Ust7UkuqXfo8SsBLm6dJUjXrHcMtyg7LuACDf97xoeWJbU0IoMm5l2wkjHYHTfNTo9E1nXgPDZ1rq4K-3fx8clrS5Igv-XSg/s1600-h/Tribute+1.jpg"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 387px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 272px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344185511202208162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivg7-XqP_MvHIAdp73eEIYwBwCLgz7JACaHNRjYl-Z2mt5Ust7UkuqXfo8SsBLm6dJUjXrHcMtyg7LuACDf97xoeWJbU0IoMm5l2wkjHYHTfNTo9E1nXgPDZ1rq4K-3fx8clrS5Igv-XSg/s320/Tribute+1.jpg" /></span></a></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The sand and sea bore witness to a bloody battle: a torrential rain of deadly bullets poured on the men, drenching uniforms in blood, its crimson warmth cooling further the blood that still ran, icy cold, in their veins.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbaWgL9kx811jG3uTJKB78qx74VXja7M4CARfC7bM4mNYYZD9CsCdqTE85vW67ApVux0siLK5H-_4U0fXLoRlDxmGzMoYStapnRYTTzRPJnGdrBhVJEdrIg0FdVvLwEuulg9E4D8r9Qjvo/s1600-h/Tribute+3.jpg"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 366px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 274px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344186191346976450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbaWgL9kx811jG3uTJKB78qx74VXja7M4CARfC7bM4mNYYZD9CsCdqTE85vW67ApVux0siLK5H-_4U0fXLoRlDxmGzMoYStapnRYTTzRPJnGdrBhVJEdrIg0FdVvLwEuulg9E4D8r9Qjvo/s320/Tribute+3.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> Many thousands perished on that fateful Summer’s day in 1944 and every year, if not every day, we remember them for their immense sacrifice, for changing the course of history, for saving the millions of oppressed souls in war-torn Europe, for saving you and for saving me. Where would I be had The Allies failed in their invasion of Nazi-occupied France? Would I be writing for you in German? Japanese? Would I be even writing at all?</span></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">There were survivors, of course. Survivors who remind us at every opportunity of the events that unfolded on D-Day, on the 6th of June, 1944. Survivors, whose accounts are crucial in our understanding of the past and the present – an understanding, which is essential in depriving the future of the chance to ever repeat history.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"><strong>Title quote:</strong> Rod Steiger in <em>The Longest Day (1962)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Photo credits:</strong> news.bbc.co.uk, Robert Capa at <a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/">metmuseum,org</a>, AP photo at <a href="http://chinadaily.com.cn/">chinadaily.com.cn</a><br /></p></span></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-79525200605413915482009-06-04T12:45:00.007+01:002009-06-04T17:00:18.812+01:00Today's inspiration<span style="font-family:verdana;">I am an ambler. In the city and in the wide, open country. On the polluted streets which greet my feet and on the sterile highways of the internet. Ambling is good for the body, the mind and often, the soul - and it is through ambling (in a truly aimless fashion) that I found this video, which made my heart swell and my spirits soar.<br /><br /></span><p align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/No1MxAnHuJM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/No1MxAnHuJM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></p><blockquote><p align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Thank you, </span><a href="http://girlmeetsnyc.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Susanna-Cole</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"> and </span><a href="http://papercastlepress.com/blog"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Sophie</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"> for bringing this to the forefront of my awareness.</span></p></blockquote><p align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></p><span style="font-family:verdana;"><hr align="center" width="100"><br /></span><p></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;">It isn't always that advertisements as well thought out and very carefully worded as this are made. Very rarely do advertisements make me think, and even more rarely (almost never, in fact) do they inspire me - especially not in the way this has.</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;">It is a challenge - one which very few of us truly seek, let alone embrace - to be different, and it is challenging <em>being</em> different. I would know, for I was once (as the advertisement said) "a misfit, a rebel and a troublemaker. Someone who saw things differently" and I was, as many of the individuals in the video were, "disagreed with" and "vilified".</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;">It wasn't easy for me to be different. And for many years, I carried around a glaring stain on my hide, a result of the many insults that my soul was subjected to, which no one saw. Not even me. But I am one of those lucky ones, for when my being different almost broke me, I met someone who, not only patched me up where I needed to be patched, but also saw that nasty, glaring stain and presented to me the tools and detergents that I didn't know I needed to clean the stain that I didn't know I had.</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;">The stain is almost gone now and as the last molecules of dirt await obliteration, from my hide and from my memory, I accept more and more the fact that I <em>am</em> different, that I am indeed "a round peg in a square hole". And very soon, if not already, those who did vilify me will see that I was far from crazy: I was, and remain to this day, a genius.<br /></span></p>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-52212335554662772712009-05-23T09:49:00.002+01:002009-05-23T09:54:46.055+01:00Scrabble, chess and cake<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPpll79ZxI8XS7yqMXha9-rfG0c9DhJgWXCHcvlIknnPT6ugCWQffLNGX-qghHNe6UYTXNfMzVsOz2RUBAkBPH0YYn7oCW_xwFo0Ey9rUfPHQRBjRaKdSnGBDSLUqIGOTazGltKSHTiFa/s1600-h/Chess+and+Matcha+2.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338939212137943442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPpll79ZxI8XS7yqMXha9-rfG0c9DhJgWXCHcvlIknnPT6ugCWQffLNGX-qghHNe6UYTXNfMzVsOz2RUBAkBPH0YYn7oCW_xwFo0Ey9rUfPHQRBjRaKdSnGBDSLUqIGOTazGltKSHTiFa/s320/Chess+and+Matcha+2.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJmLWpGl8QR0UYa_jYUECiXsmSoeHu6IsILYGv5hBTtZiLgFt9N5kNlC7u4RIX1g8zv8YR3K001ObKi10S_fyU2XU49PaFov0MD9mfSDN6W3MPkMZv3dFWJtSLQbj9vd1IeSMtTJlIOOP/s1600-h/Chess+and+Matcha+3.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338939219458133250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJmLWpGl8QR0UYa_jYUECiXsmSoeHu6IsILYGv5hBTtZiLgFt9N5kNlC7u4RIX1g8zv8YR3K001ObKi10S_fyU2XU49PaFov0MD9mfSDN6W3MPkMZv3dFWJtSLQbj9vd1IeSMtTJlIOOP/s320/Chess+and+Matcha+3.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-66492099557299924352009-05-13T19:19:00.002+01:002009-05-13T19:22:55.121+01:00Just briefly<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">While it would have been immensely satisfying to write about magnificent blue skies and heightened spirits, and glorious weather and fleeting fantasies of lazy, Indian summers, I do not at all regret my failure to sit down long enough to chronicle the arrival of May. The reason for this is simple: life demands, with child-like impatience, that it be lived. And live I have since the last time I wrote. Living and discovering, uncovering, unearthing. As I write this, the clock tick-tocks away, reminding me of the time that I am wasting; of the experiences that I am forgoing. But I need this – to write, to put things into perspective.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I have had a wonderful afternoon, filled with sugary delights and thought-provoking conversations (some of which I will develop into lengthy articles, should you have the time and inclination to read). I shall stop here for now, but hope to write again tomorrow or the day after. I hope you have had a good start to the week and may the next couple of days be full of inspiration.</span></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-79879809266532837052009-04-21T11:52:00.004+01:002009-04-21T12:09:22.632+01:00A Little Heartwarmer<span style="font-family:verdana;">I love early mornings. I love throwing the door to my little patio open; letting out the staleness that my flat is wont to accumulate in the night, letting in the cool but oh-so-refreshing Spring morning. I love how I somehow manage to <em>expand</em> my mind in the mornings: how I learn of and warm to things I never thought I liked.<br /><br />It was during one of these mornings not too long ago that I discovered the wonders of Chopin and the person whom I believe interprets his compositions best, Arthur Rubinstein.<br /><br />This morning, while traversing the </span><a href="http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Telegraph blogs</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">, my gaze fell upon a name. One which wasn't completely unfamiliar and yet did not seem to associate itself with anything that my mind was aware of: Susan Boyle.<br /><br />Out of curiosity, I followed the link. And I was glad I did.<br /><br />I could, and would, provide a short commentary, but I fear that doing so would spoil the </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxPZh4AnWyk"><span style="font-family:verdana;">experience</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> for you. (I did make an honest attempt to embed the video here, to make life just slightly easier for you, but I believe this has been disallowed by the video's owner[s].)</span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-64162674673385580332009-04-10T20:25:00.005+01:002009-04-10T20:40:16.581+01:00April Showers<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">It had to rain eventually, and when it did, I was glad that the wondrous spell, which Spring has casted upon this truly wonderful city, was not undone. As I left my flat to make the short, pleasant journey to the gelateria on Bute Street, a smile found its way to my face. It was surprisingly warm and, reasonably protected as I was from the rain, didn't feel too different from the beautiful days we had had - only a little wetter.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Walking a little of the way home after some gelato and espresso, I noticed the flowers that have managed to free themselves from the confines of lifeless-looking branches. They were beautiful (in fact, I stopped to look at a bough full of pink flowers, hoping I could put a name to them).</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSsoisuyD6SQjRWnbo36s5mBM2dD4V3yp0EWG18WyZs9VCPry3u5_ndnzkLR_vhW-tpsi5G9XhQaaA9ItwCnxvHKtMqzuA4jwy3NDC-Vn4xw2_aKO4o-cJ_V57GwklS-D5dvzbXiGU9Uy/s1600-h/Flowers"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSsoisuyD6SQjRWnbo36s5mBM2dD4V3yp0EWG18WyZs9VCPry3u5_ndnzkLR_vhW-tpsi5G9XhQaaA9ItwCnxvHKtMqzuA4jwy3NDC-Vn4xw2_aKO4o-cJ_V57GwklS-D5dvzbXiGU9Uy/s320/Flowers" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323147663378967394" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I am not the biggest fan of rain and perhaps, the reason I tolerate it as much as I do is the sturdy </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.muji.eu/pages/online.asp?V=1&Sec=6&Sub=30&PID=3155">umbrella</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I'd invested in some months ago. However, today was strange in that not only did I appreciate the light shower but, as I breathed in the mild but comforting scent of rain for the first time since I came to live in this city, I also felt (and continue to feel) that had it not been as wet, the day would not have been half as good.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">If today were a cake, then the flowers would have been the cake itself. And the rain? The rain would have been the frosting. For it was the rain that ultimately lifted my mood, whispering promises of better days to come.</span></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-2350148069677470222009-04-08T20:15:00.004+01:002009-04-08T20:30:35.918+01:00Good afternoon!<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">I can't claim to know entirely the purpose of the next few paragraphs. But I have been injected - to the point of saturation - with zest and zeal, and I feel that I must share this with you as it was, very easily, the best laugh I've had all week.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >Barbra Streisand's Smile playing in the background</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"This is supposed to be one of those songs that you listen to when you're depressed, to make you feel better... and less depressed about life. But the music is so melancholic that it makes you want to just... (and here I made a gesture, which I hoped was sufficient to render the actual saying of 'kick off' unnecessary.)"</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >More Barbra Streisand in the background.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"Yes, I'm beginning to think how I could use this fork (light gripping of fork, which was covered with a healthy amount of frosting and cupcake crumbs - a feeble attempt at theatre) to... (and here, hand movements that one would normally associate with wrist-slitting)"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A lot of laughter.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"This could be one of those songs that you listen to while you slit your wrists!" I laughed very, very hard.</span><br /><br /></span><hr style="height: 3px;font-family:verdana;" width="100" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">A rather macabre, morbid subject to laugh about, I completely agree. In my defence, however, when you're under the influence of the devil('s food cupcake) and a good game of Scrabble, anything has the potential to be of great comedic value.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Thank you for a fantastic Wednesday afternoon.<br /></span></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-27293305953499355962009-03-30T00:13:00.005+01:002009-03-30T00:50:51.082+01:00On eating<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia,bookman old style,palatino linotype,book antiqua,palatino,trebuchet ms,helvetica,garamond,sans-serif,arial,verdana,avante garde,century gothic,comic sans ms,times,times new roman,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">"One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">" </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">(Pavarotti)</span></span><br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLEcRqEKfTa3mBLwS1Lec0npw-ypgelxB9_bR9RPybOFZBW1qb7mCbk7oLKUaOzl0SBn46r0qfJJ5hVfTKtJFGW_1WvXCM0SOpYRQJmVOVxZP6MyrQIHm7rO_vC1n-XbWu6fugpMhvRUKT/s1600-h/IMG00042-20090325-1403+%283%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLEcRqEKfTa3mBLwS1Lec0npw-ypgelxB9_bR9RPybOFZBW1qb7mCbk7oLKUaOzl0SBn46r0qfJJ5hVfTKtJFGW_1WvXCM0SOpYRQJmVOVxZP6MyrQIHm7rO_vC1n-XbWu6fugpMhvRUKT/s320/IMG00042-20090325-1403+%283%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318752407665947666" border="0" /></a></div><br /><hr width="100" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I enjoy long lunches, with friends or, sometimes, without. To just sit down and think (or talk) about the world, about life; to watch the passing of the hour, the passing by of people on the cobbled street below or the pavement ahead; to just contemplate.</span></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-82365010876470206302009-03-24T17:17:00.010+00:002009-03-24T23:01:08.663+00:00A discovery<p style="margin: 0in;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Perched on a stool, in a restaurant in the further reaches of Notting Hill, I exhaled a quiet sigh of relief as the weight upon my shoulders evaporated in fragments as multitudinous as the Chinese characters that adorned the ceiling. It was a busy night and I was glad for the abundance of unknown characters; thankful for the absence of familiar faces.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Upon the stool, with an interrupted view of the world, I created a temporary abyss of calm, an impermanent temple of respite from troubled thoughts fuelled by the incessant demands of life - that entity with which I have a love-hate relationship. From upon that stool, I accepted offerings of little bamboo steamers, which I hoped were (carefully) filled with the answers to the little problems of my life. How delighted I was when, within, I found not only what I sought, but also ecstasy for my palate and prozac for my soul.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ah, yes. Dim sum.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaa67UN8xzoyBn9UFXgHNapQh0-6IvTdAUNzQ9r0sMudix3eVAnXE0KnGXqyIjDPaZkuC9T0uiV_ovCD3beAL8OyRygvfqTQmpoLbj-c_qY3m1lig5yDEGNqx77Ft0wfAWvSqA8S4yRLA/s1600-h/Dim+Sum.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaa67UN8xzoyBn9UFXgHNapQh0-6IvTdAUNzQ9r0sMudix3eVAnXE0KnGXqyIjDPaZkuC9T0uiV_ovCD3beAL8OyRygvfqTQmpoLbj-c_qY3m1lig5yDEGNqx77Ft0wfAWvSqA8S4yRLA/s320/Dim+Sum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316806206910928978" border="0" /></a><br />There is a certain je ne sais quoi about dim sums, those small, flavourful packets, which, if well-made and eaten in the correct environment - lights not too bright; an opus of voices resonating in the background - envelope you in an aura of calm contentment. Even on those days that are determined to have you uprooted and thrown completely off balance.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Tea is not the solution to life's little problems as the English (and Irish) are wont to believe. Dim sum is.<br /><br /></span></p><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: verdana; font-size: 11pt;"> </p><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style=""><br /></span><br /></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-66252073713387248982009-02-23T14:55:00.002+00:002009-02-23T14:56:58.466+00:00Appetiser<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Life tastes better</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">in a series of appetisers.</span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-57966009384432181962009-02-15T22:33:00.002+00:002009-02-15T22:43:01.229+00:00New layout!<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Because Spring is almost here.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Excuse the excitement (!)</span></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-10775139383317042162009-02-11T11:40:00.005+00:002009-02-11T11:47:14.787+00:00Silence<span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:100%;" >They are fairly quiet today. Perhaps still fast asleep, or hidden and curled up with a good book. They do not want attention - for now. But one: "</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;font-size:100%;" >C'est pas si grave</span><span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:100%;" >" (It is not that bad).</span><br /></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-16456265618934433982009-02-06T19:55:00.004+00:002009-02-06T20:16:52.652+00:00Death<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">To understand</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">to comprehend</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">to elucidate</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">the meaning of</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Death</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">without a name</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">is but a noun.</span></span><br /><hr style="height: 3px;font-family:verdana;" align="center" width="100"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />There was an attempt to compose some paragraphs of accompanying prose. However, my thoughts about death are scattered over too large an area for me to collect and mould into words with ease. Perhaps in the future, near or distant, there will be an article on the macabre subject of death on this page, but for now a glimpse of the aforementioned attempt must suffice:</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >"Often, death parades itself before our life-inebriated eyes as digits - numbers - which run to and from our television screens. Or as well-orchestrated rows and columns of ink on the front page of newspapers, before it is sent packing to its less glamorous retirement home in the 'World News' section a day or two after."</span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-5130713080066664282009-02-02T19:37:00.006+00:002009-02-02T20:22:57.096+00:00Snow white<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br />The barricade of epitaphs and frosted trees<br />made certain sound did not dare enter<br />and the bold whispers which did penetrate<br />found their fate<br />in the snow<br />below which lay the dead.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewqt5u1Nc5lLz_VovZxT0m2YwguLQiSajOyAqu8Uo1i18KCb-LI9AhtUf2_lMoaLtLI4kM_JZ4EVUDTzxPxAZ6krvD1fmiq4p73yPgQIWk06SgDPqF08nF3nQ1n6vsF_ele3D3Q5quwuU/s1600-h/Cemetery.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewqt5u1Nc5lLz_VovZxT0m2YwguLQiSajOyAqu8Uo1i18KCb-LI9AhtUf2_lMoaLtLI4kM_JZ4EVUDTzxPxAZ6krvD1fmiq4p73yPgQIWk06SgDPqF08nF3nQ1n6vsF_ele3D3Q5quwuU/s320/Cemetery.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298288276138265778" border="0" /></a><br /></div><hr align="center" width="100"><span style="font-family:verdana;">The city, which I (only last week) thought so uninspiring in the days between Autumn and Spring, has had all its blemishes and flaws swept under the carpet in the course of 24 hours. Aided by gusts of cold, Vodka-swigging wind from Russia, London has transformed into the beautiful city it was intended to be. Here's hoping for more cold fronts from Russia the benevolent.</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDonez1Sa-W7lIAdyoOMyGAAD6SgzPr-Sq23Jh4qGSKzCDCPNB7YMufPucNVPpV_zOUzwUZ_xPPBh8G1jxUHNm3WJ3eQXxn3H5gnFnw9FFC_Vt7DIIiM-eftLBJi8OmoKy-SBy4Ob8l80D/s1600-h/Stranded+bus.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDonez1Sa-W7lIAdyoOMyGAAD6SgzPr-Sq23Jh4qGSKzCDCPNB7YMufPucNVPpV_zOUzwUZ_xPPBh8G1jxUHNm3WJ3eQXxn3H5gnFnw9FFC_Vt7DIIiM-eftLBJi8OmoKy-SBy4Ob8l80D/s320/Stranded+bus.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298295885796998466" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4MzfQMFBDgIqCH9Ga9XpSRd_HHQhsMaEtHyKvfwHrYOliqRF7tcmEZnXqH853TpytxBexOiBoF7ZiahQtoKMJPLPw8hY8YBaG2DxqbFHy2HWUhdQECKLc49yfo6lgA2yRsI8H1kjd3IhS/s1600-h/Bicycles.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4MzfQMFBDgIqCH9Ga9XpSRd_HHQhsMaEtHyKvfwHrYOliqRF7tcmEZnXqH853TpytxBexOiBoF7ZiahQtoKMJPLPw8hY8YBaG2DxqbFHy2HWUhdQECKLc49yfo6lgA2yRsI8H1kjd3IhS/s320/Bicycles.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298295893818783042" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo9-NsY6cZx68yn6_Cxa3zSxkTCBowP-vJtp9jGpaJgOCA0NIEH9IVf_Hc6UTBh_kOuHv9B6DbLkvC6DeaRO8EKn412xlbESiw95q2jL-cIQjp2j249CC9GeN7JXXelT34KZROMjzGCtWQ/s1600-h/Notice.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo9-NsY6cZx68yn6_Cxa3zSxkTCBowP-vJtp9jGpaJgOCA0NIEH9IVf_Hc6UTBh_kOuHv9B6DbLkvC6DeaRO8EKn412xlbESiw95q2jL-cIQjp2j249CC9GeN7JXXelT34KZROMjzGCtWQ/s320/Notice.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298295892666871698" border="0" /></a>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-19587204280491196862009-01-29T19:27:00.008+00:002009-01-29T19:45:29.646+00:00For Mrs H.B.<span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >Once in a while, you meet someone who you know you will remember for the rest of your life. Mrs H. B. is that someone for me, and this is for her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A spot</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">not a stain</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">but a spot</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">nonetheless.</span><br /><div style="padding-left: 10px; font-family: verdana;">A pattern<br />woven where it should<br />into the cloth</div><div style="padding-left: 40px; font-family: verdana;">this cloth!</div><div style="padding-left: 10px; font-family: verdana;">this incomplete piece of cloth<br />by the calloused hands<br />of life.</div><div style="padding-left: 20px; font-family: verdana;">But remove this spot</div><div style="padding-left: 100px; font-family: verdana;"> this pattern<br />this pulchritudinous pattern</div><div style="padding-left: 20px; font-family: verdana;">for the heart wants it elsewhere.</div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-57585271051398455002009-01-17T17:13:00.006+00:002009-01-17T17:38:12.975+00:00It is not fear<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >I</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">t is not fear that you see in her eyes</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">left exposed by lids which would not close.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It is not fear that trembles her thin lips</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">in the corners creased by time's daily feasts.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It is not with fear that her small hands shake</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">each fine movement betrays joints hacked away.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A decade's passed since she was afraid last</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">but it is not courage in place of fear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Only, she has forgotten to remember.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></span><br /><hr align="center" width="100"><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Man is beautiful. Peculiar, but beautiful. The beauty of man and all his peculiarities and complexities can be felt so profoundly at times that the eyes glaze with fresh tears. I could write an elaborate essay, but perhaps this should be saved for a different time and place.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Happy Birthday, Pappa.</span></span><br /></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-7432735807263119122009-01-03T23:49:00.012+00:002009-01-04T11:20:15.404+00:00An Appeal (A city besieged)<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Humanity</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">does not breathe</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">in vessels of safety</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">when cruelty</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">masquerades as peace</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">and the powers that be</span><br /><div style="padding-left: 10px;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;">agree<br />agree<br />agree<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">with the absence of mercy</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">in a city</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">besieged.<br /><br /></span></span><hr align="center" width="100"><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >Who decides that your life is worth more than mine?<br /><br />Here's an idea: instead of using your plastics in the acquisition of sales items, why not use them to save lives? Please donate generously to the <a href="https://donations.islamic-relief.com/signin.asp">Palestine Gaza Strip Appeal</a>.</span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-91794020953500829672008-12-31T11:28:00.005+00:002008-12-31T11:47:10.817+00:00A tiny face<div style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >A tiny face<br />through misty panes<br />peered.<br /><br />A tiny face<br />from misty panes<br />turned.<br /><br />A tiny face<br />by misty panes<br />walked.</span><br /><br /></span></div><hr style="height: 2px;font-family:verdana;" align="center" width="100"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">It is time for personal reflections. Or so we have been conditioned to think when the end of the year is but hours away. How has 2008 been for you?</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);font-family:verdana;" >Happy New Year.</span></span><br /></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-20196312579869183162008-12-25T16:28:00.004+00:002008-12-31T11:48:01.851+00:00Life/Art<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Upon canvas lie</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">seemingly meaningless strokes</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">in hues aplenty.</span><br /><br /></span><hr style="height: 3px;font-family:verdana;" align="center" width="100"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">There is a strange, therapeutic quality to the scrutinising of abstract paintings. It is surreal how a painting of apparently nothing can clear thoughts made cloudy by the debris of life. Thank goodness for art.</span></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-1263733964809198262008-12-22T20:31:00.004+00:002008-12-22T20:39:06.061+00:00Sonnet I: These words in my head<span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">Monosyllables plant their little selves,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">In the convoluted folds of my mind,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">Wherein they are nurtured by sights and smells,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">That the body had met in space and time,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">With certainty they grow and multiply,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">Consuming conscious thought and overwhelming,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">They linger through darkness's grip on the sky,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">To warm the soul with the kindest of kindlings,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">These words within the confines of my head,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">Ripen with the scents of life and death,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">Eager they are to be printed and read,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">They seek emancipation with great stealth,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">But I perceive their treacherous plot,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;">In my mind they shall stay - like it or not!<br /></span><br /><hr align="center" width="100"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlVNuhpuZP_V_tsi880_s61mLPknBzXMm3aDGHBSh8EofidX2TGRn0e7wXD5EFZMwXMquH6nOOfMx3vQ9hQVHFBHvIbuHlRtpbOZrpY3xOcSvv56_oHKpyGNjUzc7pMdKMeX_Xo0BLWqw/s1600-h/Selected.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlVNuhpuZP_V_tsi880_s61mLPknBzXMm3aDGHBSh8EofidX2TGRn0e7wXD5EFZMwXMquH6nOOfMx3vQ9hQVHFBHvIbuHlRtpbOZrpY3xOcSvv56_oHKpyGNjUzc7pMdKMeX_Xo0BLWqw/s320/Selected.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282715694027319426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hark, the season of sharing and giving (and receiving), friends and family, and homebaked treats has finally arrived. Don't you just love it?</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Have a very Merry Christmas.</span></span><br /></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-80158687197152720422008-12-07T22:30:00.005+00:002008-12-07T22:41:37.971+00:00Night<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Eerily they toll,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">alone they chime</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">as a new day turns old.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Not a minute ahead nor a second behind.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The man in the pink-coloured shirt and polka dot tie</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">has shed his brightly-coloured skin</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">and has descended into inconspicuousness.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">He now awaits the arrival of an old, true friend.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Hands - black and thin, its movement precise -</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">captivated the woman</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">who captivated in a pink-coloured blouse and a polka dot scarf.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">An unfamiliar silence shrouded a place which she thought so familiar</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">as her thoughts turned to memory.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Clatter, mild chatter filled moments just passed.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A pink table cloth,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> upon which four hands rested,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">and napkins polka dot</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> of silk and linen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The hands once again:</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Black and thin, its movement precise,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">but lackadaisical then as it moved left to right.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A sigh, a glance.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A smile and a skipped heartbeat</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">when, in the horizon, appeared a pink cadillac with polka dot seats.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A steady, gloved finger,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">thin and slender.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">With movements precise</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">it battled the darkness with small clusters of light</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">and brought smiles to faces, both large and slight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The hands, don't forget, they continued to move.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">They knew no respite</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">and onward they marched to midnight.</span></span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2569817922840681585.post-75154449813171303682008-11-26T22:34:00.006+00:002008-12-11T11:14:55.977+00:00Time travel<span style="font-family:verdana;">How blissful to be</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">no more than six and 4 inches and 3 feet.</span><br /><br /><hr align="center" width="100" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">What do we do when the good old days are long gone? We bring them back, starting with a box of children's cereals if you, like me, have had it banished from your pantry for some reason or other. W</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">e wake up plenty of mornings, grappling with our identities - unsure about the present, apprehensive about the future; what better than to throw all caution to the wind and travel with mind and soul to those times when happiness was absolute.<br /><br />(Don't let snowstorms delay your flights).</span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13908735752154845852noreply@blogger.com3