Quotes of the week
“A man that keeps
riches and enjoys them not, is like an ass that carries gold and eats
thistles.” Unknown
“Footfalls echo in
the memory, down the passage which we did not take, towards the door we never
opened into the rose-garden. T. S. Eliot
"Dressing up
is inevitably a substitute for good ideas. It is no coincidence that
technically inept business types are known as "suits."" Paul Graham
The true secret of
giving advice is, after you have honestly given it, to be perfectly indifferent
whether it is taken or not, and never persist in trying to set people right. Hannah
Whitall Smith
Websites of the week
The culmination of millennia of scientific endeavor
This is your life
Poem of the Week
Crossing the Gap
Try asking Ernie Watts, a local bricklayer,
to explain how after a long day of work
and league night at the Lucky Strike
he can glide across the kitchen floor,
Old Style hovering like a ghost on his breath,
bowling shoes slung over one shoulder,
singing fly me to the moon to his wife Cheryl.
And when he dips her over the linoleum
like it was their first homecoming all over again,
ask him to put into words what that sinking is,
that shudder in his chest, as he notices
the wrinkles gathering at the corners of her mouth.
He'd rather tell you about the time they rode
the Tail of the Dragon the year after they'd married,
crossing Deals Gap at the Tennessee state line
on his '77 Triumph Silver Jubilee.
How they heard talk of a young couple
dying on that same stretch of road a week before,
and how hard she held onto him that day—
curve after potentially deadly curve.
Afterwards, in bed, she'll reach for the Virginia Slims
on the nightstand, and he'll open
the windows behind the headboard
as a summer breeze creeps past the lithesome curtains—
wild grass and honeysuckle mixing with the tobacco.
If the drone and flicker of a gathering storm should disrupt
the silence of the room, she'll tighten the wing nut
of her body behind his, so close that when her lips
brush against the nearly imperceptible hairs
on the back of his neck he'll be convinced
there is no other life but this.
to explain how after a long day of work
and league night at the Lucky Strike
he can glide across the kitchen floor,
Old Style hovering like a ghost on his breath,
bowling shoes slung over one shoulder,
singing fly me to the moon to his wife Cheryl.
And when he dips her over the linoleum
like it was their first homecoming all over again,
ask him to put into words what that sinking is,
that shudder in his chest, as he notices
the wrinkles gathering at the corners of her mouth.
He'd rather tell you about the time they rode
the Tail of the Dragon the year after they'd married,
crossing Deals Gap at the Tennessee state line
on his '77 Triumph Silver Jubilee.
How they heard talk of a young couple
dying on that same stretch of road a week before,
and how hard she held onto him that day—
curve after potentially deadly curve.
Afterwards, in bed, she'll reach for the Virginia Slims
on the nightstand, and he'll open
the windows behind the headboard
as a summer breeze creeps past the lithesome curtains—
wild grass and honeysuckle mixing with the tobacco.
If the drone and flicker of a gathering storm should disrupt
the silence of the room, she'll tighten the wing nut
of her body behind his, so close that when her lips
brush against the nearly imperceptible hairs
on the back of his neck he'll be convinced
there is no other life but this.
Song of the Week
Lyle
Lovett: Church
(thanks Lee!)
