Stuck in a Rut

You've Changed 32% in 10 Years

Ah, the past! You may not remember it well - because you're still living in it. While you've changed some, you may want to update your wardrobe, music collection and circle of friends.

How Much Have You Changed in 10 Years?

Happy Birthday, K!

Happy Birthday, K!
From the crime fighting boys of Mi-A-Mi. ;)

John Keats...again

I often revisit Keats' poetry, which makes me want to honor him--his life ended much too soon. Soon it will be autumn -- time for my favorite of all his poems; but for now, a little beauty and truth.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

Thou still unravished bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flow'ry tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal -yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

She Should've Been a Screenwriter...

Well, after having a wierd dream last night, I woke up thinking, "I should be a screenwriter instead." LOL.

I dreamt that I'd come to the very important revelation that what TV most needs is a new show that would be an instant hit and run for years. You know, a new Mash, Cheers, or Friends.

That's when my subconscious came up with the brilliant solution (warning: I'm dating myself here). An updated . . . Nanny and the Professor.

Anyone remember that show? It was on in the late 60's or early 70's, and I think it was part of the line up with the original airings of Brady Bunch and Partridge Family on Friday nights. In my dream, I was going to create a newer hipper version. But, I needed to go to England to find a British woman to play the nanny -- this probably all comes from thinking about Kate yesterday (a fellow writer and wonderful lady, who happens to have that very accent).

So, I went to England, but ended up riding a giant farm cart over rocky hills that were purpley-pink and covered with animals that were a cross between pigs and chickens. After bouncing around on that terrain, unsuccessful in my actress hunt, I woke up and realized that I should've been a screenwriter. Yea. Right. I couldn't even find a good nanny. LOL.

Back to revisions on Part One of my real writing endeavor . . .