Where does the good go

Archive for October, 2009

Suicide is selfish

Monday, October 26th, 2009 by Dawn Summers

But I still don’t think it’s always the wrong answer.

Not so random thoughts

Monday, October 26th, 2009 by Dawn Summers

You realize your priorities really fast when you spill cranberry juice on your cream colored Beamer interior and IMMEDIATELY take off your Patriots jersey, open your emergency bottle water and clean it up. You then take your Mets shirt off to dry it all up. You then realize the security guard in your building probably has seen way more of you than will ever make eye contact possible again.


Monday, October 26th, 2009 by Dawn Summers

Can somebody please inform KJ that he CANNOT stop talking to me because I have already stopped talking TO HIM! So he is just being NOT talked to, he is not NOT talking.
Also, tell him that he is stupid and most definitely NOT a madult. AND that he’s totally NOT Obama.

I would tell him these things but I am NOT talking to him. FIRST!

Oh and Mary is a lucky seat stealer.

That is all.

Note to self

Saturday, October 24th, 2009 by Dawn Summers

Never ever give Mary the keys to my home or Beamer.

Quote of the Day

Friday, October 23rd, 2009 by Dawn Summers

“I am irreplaceable. #endofstory. I am going to right… To the right.” -KJ

Not so random thought

Thursday, October 22nd, 2009 by Dawn Summers

I know I’m getting old because I’ve never heard the whole “Poker Face” song, but I am randomly singing the chorus out loud. My mom used to do this with Nelly’s “Hot in Herre.”

If I’ve never heard of your school…

Thursday, October 22nd, 2009 by Dawn Summers

you’re getting ripped off.


Thursday, October 22nd, 2009 by Dawn Summers

Funny post and twist on the Meggie Mac melodrama.

No more words

Wednesday, October 21st, 2009 by Dawn Summers

This is, simply put, one of my favorite poems.
Maybe my second favorite poem of all time.
I’ve read it so many times, I no longer remember where or when I first read it. I was reluctant to choose it because if anyone dislikes it, I shall die. Or I will kill them. I’m kidding. (No she’s not. -Ed.)
This poem, which to my surprise is called “Ode *on* a Grecian Urn,” and not “Ode to a Grecian Urn,” as I’ve been saying for many, many years to my now, utter humiliation, is about…um…an Urn.
In my mind’s eye, I picture the urn to be one of those clay relics sitting under a display case in that fancy London museum. The urn, with its hieroglyphic pictures, and colorful tints tells its own stories; is its own poetry. The urn is the ode within the ode about the ode on the ode. Or something.
I love a million and one things about this poem, but since I try not to outwrite the length of the poem, I’ll focus on a couple of things.
First, I love that the Urn is unchanging. 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!
These characters will always be there, frozen for all eternity. No, the lovers will never kiss; but they’ll never grow old and bitter and fight over whose Clay Aiken album that was. The kid lounging beneath the tree will never be able to get up and go watch the Patriots game with his friends, but that tree will never wilt and gnarl and decay until its branches fall off and crush his parents’ minivan.
Everything on the Urn is as it always will be.
Second, the notion that, as Keats writes: Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard/Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on, is quite comforting. The urn’s power lies in its ability to stir our own imaginations. We hear the songs and see the lovers’ courtship, yet the urn utters not a sound. It’s Keats’ fancy schmancy way of saying a picture is worth a thousand words.
Lately, I’ve been struggling with an utter inability to communicate with these English words of ours. I write and write, in what I believe are cogent, thoughtful, persuasive sentences; yet, the reactions I receive more resemble those one would expect if one has accused anothers mother of fornication for cash. I suppose every writer, accustomed to relying on this craft, hits a wall at some time or another, that words simply cannot elocute away. And at those times, there is Keats, right there with ya, shrugging his shoulders and saying: Sylvan historian, who canst thou express/A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme.
Or, in modern-day lingo. Pull up a seat, kid. I wrote a little poem about an Urn, wanna hear it? Here it goes:

Ode on a Grecian Urn – John Keats
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thou express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunt 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 endear’d,
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 enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
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 this 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 say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

We’re gonna let them chop off their wives’ heads?

Tuesday, October 20th, 2009 by Dawn Summers

Pope creates plan to lure Anglicans back to the church.