Peredhil

Hmmm. I haven't time to follow the link but... [rant] The implication you give with your subtitle is that if you read that and don't agree that it was brilliant, you are closeminded. Isn't that closeminded, to judge someone on whether they agree or not? Given the very title of the post, the implication from the word 'Atheist' is that the closeminded person will be someone who is not "against God" (the definition of atheist. I've noticed that those who sling around the term closeminded tend to mean, "if you have any absolute standard at all, you have closed yourself to all other standards and are closeminded. You must accept that anyone could be right." On the surface, this is prolly closeminded of me, but I have an absolute standard that within one-quarter mile of the Earth's surface, gravity will cause a human body to fall. Why is this closeminded? Because people such as Einstein have argued that gravity doesn't exist - it's an external manifestation of some other force which we don't yet understand. The effect is the same, whether I'm right or Einstein is right. I'm very closeminded when it comes to people's rights. I definitely limit their right of Free Speech (which is often used to mean "right of freedom to say whatever they want without consequence") around my mother. If someone wants to talk to her in certain ways, with certain words, I *will* correct them. I'm closeminded and impose my absolute standards on other things. By the openminded standard, anyone's right to act as they want is just as right as any other, it's a personal choice. I limit the right of others to rape my friends, male or female. That's a personal absolute standard. I'd be very wary of calling anyone else closeminded... And I definitely resent the implication that if I disagree with an author, they may closemindedly ignore MY opinion, and MY belief because I've disagreed. [/rant]

Your answer can be found at a wonderful Middle Earth reference site.

There is a currently unpatched Internet Explorer trojan horse worm speeding around the internet. It exploits three vectors, two of which Microsoft has already released patches (run windows update) and one which they haven't. It infects web sites with malicious code, and when you hit the web site, it infects your computer. The payload captures keystrokes and sends them to a Russian site. Normally this sort of thing looks for credit card numbers, account numbers, etc. Work around - disable JAVA in your Internet Explorer, or use Mozilla for a while. A Hong Kong site conducted an experiment where they loaded a machine fresh from disk and put it on the internet. The longest it took for some type of malicious code (worm, virus, malicious cookie, etc) to hit the machine was sixteen minutes. Get a firewall (Zone Alarm from Zonelabs is still free for the home version. Black Ice looks better, but has some things it thinks it blocks but doesn't - which is a Bad Thing). Get a virus scanner. Run all the updates and patches for your Operating System. If you use Microsoft Office, make sure you go to the *Office* Update site and run all THOSE patches. People forget these, much to hacker's delights. *hugs* Hope y'all feel better. -P

hugs and ditto what Jareena said.

Written by a member of Fleetwood Mac

Hugs Welcome back. It's rough and raw - and right from the heart. I'd rather see you spill heart's blood into ink than onto a floor. hugs again Peredhil

Wonders how Deg can leave if he hasn't begun to establish roots or bud yet.

Beatles "Tomorrow Never Knows". For someone who loves the Beatles as I do, that's a gimme. Linking to the words "shining" in yours, I present this verse in the chain of lyrics.

Getting into the Average U.S of A. citizen suit, he puts his finger on his dimple and smiles vacuously, Canada is to the NORTH! Nods emphatically have made his point, and wanders away...

Happy Birthdays!

I sit inside the Pen's gate and sigh Watching the ones who snarl and pass by Admission is free, but they have to walk through the door We just don't drag them in any more. We blow our own horns! We clash symbols! We require accounts to avoid spamming porn! We have a wall with a gate, Just manuever on through If you're even slightly Polite We'll happily welcome you. That which is given away which is free Is quickly tossed away when obtained cheaply A bit of work and sweat, a requirement to grow Help avoid contention, lack of confidence and woe I'll never tire of writing; I write because I must And I sit here wondering why you've fussed. Why you want everyone else to change to accommodate? What's right? Shake the head; it's getting too late. Such talent prowls in the cold outside But it's warm inside where I abide Hopeful that pride and stubborness will not collide But your write to protest simply cannot be denied.

I think, but only occasionally, that all this comma, grammar related rule stuff is really, really, really somewhat confusing to understand sometimes...

All humor is based on some type of pain, according to Heinlein. If you think about it, that's a pretty sound foundation. Humor as pain, or the threat of pain, such as surprise. About the only thing which avoids that are terrible puns - but then, the pun is setting up an expectation and then twisting it. If the poem had been an American commercial about a fat man who's wife bailed him out of his thoughtless unwise action - it prolly would've passed without comment. Most cultures have blind spots like that. Look at the joke thread in the Cabaret and really analyze the jokes - are there any which could hurt someone if they applied it as a reality to them? I thought this was written as an attempt at humor, and took it as such. Actually, my first reaction was to remember Queen's "Fat bottomed Girls" and Sir Mixalot's "big butts" song (which after watching Shrek forever has a dragon associated with it). Laugh at pain and it cowers...

I thought Joe had three legs, just like his dog... And they both liked to play fetch. Funny ole Joe

That third line was meant to provide an implicit bridge between the internal intestinal imagery and the external acknowledgement of fascade when read in that context. The internal had hopefully not only evoked eating, but memories of anyone who's had the nausea of nerves, the ache of stomach pains, the stomach bending revulsion of reality as presented, etc. The transition is meant to move from the inner perception of the person's mind/body interface, to the perception of the outside and others - and slipping into the "lies" which bound up the end of the first stanza, the image of cool confident "no-weakness here to exploit" which is presented to the world, like a well-worn coat. This then moves into the buttoning up of the image and adjusting the collar, so to speak, in the last stanza - checking the fit before facing the world. Maybe I tried to work a few too many levels into this short piece, but I love poetry which reads in many ways...

I liked the clever pun on the word "lead".

How do I know that the killer won't just kill us all? If it's a given that they're Lawful Evil and therefore might honor their word, I'd have to go with the child - children are the genetic future.

Peredhil wishes happy birthdays in all of Xaious' times.

It is, like, totally odd. The red-lensed glasses make the green leaves orange and the whitish-pink bark brown. And the stop sign just fades into a black outline against the rising sun. you were right. No drugs, just dawn and glasses. I love the rising day, the sky before the sun crests, the way the world just, like, totally takes this BREATH and there's a note like the two notes just before the Moody Blue's "Dawn is a Feeling" song, ya know? Like, the whole world is just cosmically in tune and there isn't a soul to share it except you and nature pure and just totally awesome. No! I didn't mean I want you to go. Loser! Like, grow up and don't be so sensitive all the time. No, I still want the glasses for now. You can have them when the sun is up.

A couple lived near the ocean and used to walk the beach a lot. One summer they noticed a girl who was at the beach pretty much every day. She wasn't unusual, nor was the travel bag she carried, except for one thing; she would approach people who were sitting on the beach, glance around furtively, then speak to them. Generally the people would respond negatively and she would wander off, but occasionally someone would nod and there would be a quick exchange of money and something she carried in her bag. The couple assumed she was selling drugs, and debated calling the cops, but since they didn't know for sure they just continued to watch her. After a couple of weeks the wife said, "Honey, have you ever noticed that she only goes up to people with boom boxes and other electronic devices?" He hadn't, and said so. Then she said, "Tomorrow I want you to get a towel and our big radio and go lie out on the beach. Then we can find out what she's really doing." Well, the plan went off without a hitch and the wife was almost hopping up and down with anticipation when she saw the girl talk to her husband and then leave. The man walked up the beach and met his wife at the road. Well, Is she selling drugs?" she asked excitedly. "No, she's not," he said, enjoying this probably more than he should have. "Well, What is it, then? What does she do?" his wife fairly shrieked. The man grinned and said, "She's a battery salesperson." "Batteries?" cried the wife. "Yes," he replied. She sells C cells by the sea shore.

agression = aggression. I like the urgency of this piece; it sweeps the eye right along. Velvet revolution? I've watched too many movies I think, I flashed onto an inappropriate mind picture of Austin Powers (but that's prolly just my odd sense of humor). Good to see you posting again!

Pressure mounts behind my cheeks, Pushing toward reluctant eyes. Feels like it's crying time again; I've grown tired of all the lies. Spasms siege my stomach walls: With bile erupting into throat. Reality's often hard to swallow - Shrug it on, a well-worn coat. No tears allowed to rain down face, No doubling cramps: pain shows when curled. My smile: an impenetrable shield, Turn and laugh, then face the world... It's Show Time again.

Welcome back! One thing I want to point out, other than the melancholy subject matter - You used correct spelling and punctuation all the way through!!! It made it MUCH easier to follow. Huggles Reminds me of reading of reading the book of Ecclesiastes. It's not the duration of the flower's growth which matters, it's the beauty of the bloom and the scent of the perfume. -P

So I'm walking briskly down the hall, wanting to get OUT of the hospital, as I've completed the interview. I dislike hospitals even as I cherish and appreciate those who heal and who are healed. They just seem to reek of old pains which stain the walls like a subtle scent that one can't track. So I'm walking past the rooms, avoiding people in white and soldiers in camouflage, as they stride purposefully with clipboards and IV bags and other implements of healing. My boots are making an annoying squeaking noise every time my right foot hits the ground, and I find my thoughts silently chanting cadences to the rhythm produced. As I pass open doors, I glance in curiously, always wondering if I'll see someone I know, yet hoping not. So I'm peering into this one room and I stutter-step in surprise. There are bright crayon drawings all over the walls and a young man lying propped up against starched white pillows in the bed. But what catches my eye is the short blond with the ponytail lying sideways across the bed where his legs should be. The sleeve of his left arm is neatly folded up and secured with a "hair scrunchy", one of those wide stretchy fabric things that girls and women use. The scrunchy is pink with red and white hearts and matches the band tying the girl's ponytail into place. He smiles over her intent form - her attention is totally absorbed in meticulously creating another crayon masterpiece. He rumbles a bass, "Heya, Sarge, how're you?" "Fine," I reply. "Nice scrunchy!" "Yeah," he laughs. "When my battle buddies see it, they'll razz me to no end. I've got two more on the pajama legs that you can't see. Specialist, who's one of my nurses, has been taking her down to the Shoppette and letting her buy sets of four - three for me and one for her." He beams happily down at his child. "How'd it happen, soldier?" I've found that most of them appreciate honest curiosity. They know their life has changed, and pretending all is peachy is annoying. "IED, ya know, an Improvised Explosive Device? This one had bolts and nails in it. I was on a dismounted patrol and I happened to be the one in front of the alley. "Bummer." "Naw, I'm blest. My wife is still over there, Stop-loss in effect so we don't know when she'll come back, and this way I'm home with Amber. Plus I'm alive, that's a huge bonus when you have an angel like mine." "How's she taking it?" He reaches down with his right hand, careful of the IV, and nudges Amber. She looks up in annoyance. "What Daddy?" "Sarge wants to know what you think of Daddy's Owies." She turns and stiffens when she sees me. "Three chevwons and two Wockers are a Sawgent Fiwst Class Daddy! Not a Sawge," she corrects severely. Turning a high wattage smile on me, she pipes, "Good Afternoon, Sawgent Fiwst Class." "Good afternoon, Miss Amber." Her eyes are the green of an old Heinekein beer bottle. She has bits of green crayon on front teeth from helpful chewing in the creative effort. "What are you drawing?" "I'm dwawing for Mommy. We mail Mommy evewy day. Its a twuck, cause she dwives one." She holds it up for my scrutiny and looks at me proudly. I nod my approval and point out some details I like - and am pleasantly surprised when she knows the nomenclature and model of Mommy's truck. "So what do you think of your Daddy's Owies, Hon'?" "Well, they'weh bad, but it's okay. God left him his hugging ahm, and he w'ites with it too. And Mommy and I have all ouw hands so we can help him. And I fit just wight on his bed now to keep the bad dweams away fwom him." She pauses and then nods, as if she's decided she has met all requirements in her report. "It was good meeting you, Sawgent Fiwst Class, but I've got to finish this befouh mail call." She turns back to her drawing and my eyes meet her Dad's over her back. "Pretty smart girl you have there," I say, my voice a bit thick. "Yeah," he replies looking down at her. He looks up and continues, "Sometimes I think I'm the luckiest man in the world." So we exchange nods again. He thanks me for stopping to talk and I'm on my way. The quiet "just-so" positive attitude I keep encountering in this place is inspiring. I just wish the circumstances which bring it out weren't so harsh. So, I guess I'm done with this story.

Hmm. I got it right off too, Appy. Maybe it's not intelligence, just looking at the world through rose-colored glasses...