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Alli

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(no subject) [Apr. 2nd, 2009|03:23 am]
I can't believe Turners Falls High School's best argument for eliminating the chop includes citing Wikipedia.

...no... wait, I can.
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Don't Think Twice, It's All Right - Bob Dylan [Feb. 15th, 2009|05:32 pm]


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Ghosts by Laura Marling [Dec. 24th, 2008|02:47 am]




Isn't it weird when you find a song you can relate to almost completely.
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Me vs the frozen pizza [Dec. 17th, 2008|09:50 pm]
Read more... )
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Happy Halloween! [Oct. 31st, 2008|05:12 pm]
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The Nightingale and the Rose - Oscar Wilde [Oct. 6th, 2008|03:54 pm]
'She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.' 
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

....

'If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.' 

....

     '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?'

....

 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.

....

'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.

....

'What 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.'

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(no subject) [Oct. 5th, 2008|01:18 pm]

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The Story of a Crane Wife [Jul. 30th, 2008|11:48 pm]

Once upon a time, there lived an honest young man in the countryside of Japan.  One day, while he was tilling a paddy field, a crane suddenly came flapping down from the sky.  It was a white crane with truly beautiful feathers.  The bird was apparently wounded, and did not fly away, but came reeling towards the man and weakly fell to the ground.  Wondering, the man checked the crane’s feathers and found an arrow stuck in the base of the wings.  “Poor crane! That’s why you can’t fly!”  So saying, the young man pulled the arrow out and washed the wound clean.  The crane soon recovered and showed its delight by flapping its wings.  “Now,” the man said to the bird, “be careful never to be spotted by a hunter again”.  Thereupon, the crane circled over his head three times as if to express it’s thanks and then disappeared high into the sky after uttering a shrill cry.  The young man resumed his work, deeply contented that he had done a good thing.  At nightfall when the stars began to appear, he returned to his home.  To his great surprise, however, he found a beautiful young woman, whom he never seen before standing at the entrance.  She greeted him, saying, “Thank you for your day’s hard work”.  Startled, he wondered if he was entering the wrong house, but the woman said with a smile, “This is your home and I’m your bride,” “I don’t believe it,” the man shouted.  “I’m so poor no woman will ever agree to marry me.  Besides, I have only enough rice to feed a single person!” “Don’t worry,” the woman replied.  “I have brought rice.” So saying, she took rice out of a small bag and began to fix supper.  The man finally consented saying, “How strange that you should force me to marry you! Well, do what you like!” and thus the woman came to live with the poor young man.  Oddly enough, the small bag the woman had brought always provided the amount of rice they wanted, enabling the couple to lead a happy life.  Time went by and one day, the woman asked her husband to set up a workshop for weaving.  He borrowed money and had a special room built.  Thereupon, the woman entered the room, saying, “Please never look in here for seven days”.  And for exactly seven days after that, only the sound of a loom was heard from within day in and day out.  The man felt as if he were waiting for as long as one or two years, but remembering her request, he did not peep into the workshop.  The seven days passed and the woman came out somewhat haggard.  Held in her hands was a roll of resplendently beautiful cloth such a he had never hoped to see.  “Now,” she said to him, “I have woven a roll of cloth.  Please take this to the town market.  It will sell for 100 “ryo” (a big sum in terms of ancient Japanese coinage).”  The next day, the man went to town and the cloth brought a surprisingly high price just as his wife had said.  Startled and delighted, he hurried home.  Upon reaching home, he found his wife already closeted in the workshop, and only the sound of the loom was heard.  He wondered how she could weave such beautiful cloth apparently without treads.  Soon he could no longer contain his ardent desire to see her, and stealthily peeped into the workshop, breaking his promise never to do so.  To his great surprise, he could not find is comely wife there.  Only a crane was weaving cloth with white feathers plucked from is body.  Promptly realizing that the man was looking in, the crane stopped weaving, staggered towards him and said:  “Well, my dear husband, you have seen everything.  Now that you have found out what I really am, I can no longer stay here, to my great regret.  I am the crane who was saved by you.  To repay your kindness, I have so far served you in the shape of a woman.  But from now on, please regard this half finished cloth as myself and keep it dearly.”  The crane then flew up with her remaining wings and vanished into the sky, never to return to the man. 

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(no subject) [Jul. 18th, 2008|12:59 am]
 
There is a luxuary in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
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