You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.'
O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter.
This nothing's more than matter.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted.
There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when ... they say he made a good end. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
How horribly unjust of me would it be to categorize a man who crosses my path called Doctor J. I wish I was more like Lord Henry who said; "I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters and my enemies for their brains, and consequently they all appreciate me." Let's say he's a kindred spirit, very much different from myself. We met online, myspace I think, which leads to an interesting train of thought. It often happens that the real chances in life occur in such an inartistic manner that they almost shame us by their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of emptiness, and we revolt against that by charging it with meaning. Sometimes, however, a chance encounter that has artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. If these elements are true, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. It becomes a play, and we are both spectators and players. We watch ourselves being watched by the other and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthrals us.
We risk reducing our friendship to the memory of a single encounter. It could become stout and tedious, and all talk could go at once into reminiscences. That awful memory! It's a fearful thing, and it can only reveal an utter intellectual stagnation. We should absorb the colour of life, but never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.
Put in a crude way, it's all in the bigger picture.