NASA Image of the Day

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Small silhouettes

Fragile little hands
Reaching, reaching, reaching
.....towards hurting iron.

Come, dear hearts, and run with me, for just a moment again,
Among the flower's petals,
Imagining ourselves whole.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Sexy Meets Sensitive: The New Conscience of the Affluent

Somewhat cynical about the showbiz industry, I have quietly observed, much to my joy, the kind of leadership in human kindness I have always hoped for in politicians. The source? The "Sexiest Men Alive" Club: specificallly, "Silver Fox" Harrison Ford, "Godfather" George Clooney, "Love Warrior" Brad Pitt - possibly the world's coolest Dad (except for mine, of course), and "Boss Cause" Matt Damon. Their work, together, has literally changed the fate of hundreds of thousands of the dispossessed, the forgotten, the abandoned, and the downtrodden in this life - and they use their own hardwon success as a tool to remind the elected, trusted leadership of all nations of instances where need requires action. They have made Sexy simply sensational.

John John Kennedy would be proud:they have done so with the kind of compassionate caring which sets a standard of "dash and flash" which also demands a sidewinder grin, a genuine heart, and a sense of Knightly which we have almost forgotten. God Bless them, everyone....makes you want to exercise. And I hate exercising. Dancing, yes: exercising...blech. I feel like I'm never really GOING anywhere, and constantly think about the mound of things waiting for me to do, while I'm mindlessly counting to whatever the hell I'm doing. Dancing just doesn't seem like such wasted effort. Maybe it's because I'm actually subconsciously trying to create a routine in my head, while doing it, or something...that manic sense of being organized, that you can never turn off, really, when you have any kind of conscience.....

I can't get at the headset and read the screen, at the same time as I'm doing counting "flingabouts", or whatever the hell that thing is called where I try to reduce what used to be attractive in Jane Russell...remember when a gentle rounded swelling below the belly button suggested an actual figure? Now it automatically means excessive carb intake - and I love carbs, dammit. Plus, too many angles mean you jab people when you bang into them. I kind of like the thought of them gently bouncing off, with a slightly sheepish grin, and no injuries. Who wants to sharpen their extremities as a form of self-defence?

Anyway, all this conscience with debonaire pinache makes me want to exercise - and usually I'm afraid of exercising myself. What happens if I get mixed up, and miss, or something?

Ah well: I suppose the layers of sensitivity built up by ingesting reactions to world situations, with all this realized actuality in hopefulness, shall just have to disappear, along with a sense of insurmountable impossibility in attitude and lack of progress, geopolitically speaking.

Led by Harrison Ford's understated response and support of a new movement to leave a legacy of "angel footsteps" which Bruce Cockburn dreams of, when he speaks of "no footprints when we go; only where we've been, a faint and fading glow", they have established a new pattern of "expectation" for successful men, in an industry where the surface - in all its forms - and the speed with which it, and its popularity, changes, in as quick an instant as the latest pop tart's fan. And, darn it - selfdeprecation aside - this moving hum in my heart appears to be responding, despite myself. Wink.

Cheeky lot.....and me such a tough, demanding, not-easily- impressed-by-cologne-or-swish steel bird. I feel my wings, again: strangely...suddenly - and they're rather disturbingly soft, again, somehow...