ahhhhh what a fresh breath of air. to once again breath in the essence of sweet contemplation; to share my thoughts with the rest of the world on this 2x4 inch box of ubiquitous texty goodness. it has been along time mr blog, far too long i must say. aw like it was in the days of yore when thee and i had many a sweet and lofty correspondance. thought we were going to take over the world you and i,yes we did, one word at a time. unfortunately things didnt turn out as expected(as if anything ever does) and we parted ways you and i did. we were once bitter, blind, and without hope. now we see, at least i do you don't because you don't have eyes, but nevertheless you have ears and so hear this. . . i was initially inending to just write a short blog on. . .*sigh* wow i don't really care anymore and it was rather stupid in the first place. I mean, i t wouldn't have made a shred of sense anyway.

 London is my new favorite place. i even loved it more than paris! i will live there some day(mark my words). . . as i was saying, i was walking through camden and i purchased a five dollar t-shirt. meanwhile my friend purchased a shirt of similar size and color. Now, his decision was set upon one bearing reference to Trainspotting. We had both seen this shirt and wanted it. However none of us had the money(europe drains your pockets). it was at this point i borrowed a few pounds from a very close "friend". So i opted to buy. Immediately, my friend measuring the current circumstances borrowed some money too. Needless to say, he bought the shirt and i bought one with reference to A Clockwork Orange.

Numerous artists and writers living in France during the late 19th and early 20th centuries were noted absinthe drinkers and featured absinthe in their works. These include Vincent Van Gogh, Manet, Guy de Maupassant and Toulouse-Lautrec. Van Gogh spent a good deal of time painting in cafés but feared the bohemian lifestyle was damaging. During a fit in 1888, Van Gogh cut off his ear lobe and gave it to a brothel wench. This fit has often been said to have been absinthe-induced; nevertheless, there is no evidence to suggest this. According to Gauguin, Van Gogh had been acting in an unstable manner almost a week before the incident and had flung the only absinthe Gauguin had seen him order, instead of drinking it. Art historians still debate the exact cause or causes of Van Gogh's behavior. Degas' painting "L'Absinthe" (1876) portrayed grim absinthe drinkers in a cafe. Years later, it set off a flurry in the London art world. The grim realism of "L'Absinthe", a theme popular with bohemian artists, was seen as a disease by London art critics and a lesson against alcohol and the French in general. Picasso depicted absinthe in different media, including the paintings "Woman Drinking Absinthe" (1901) and "Bottle of Pernod and Glass" (1912), and the sculpture "Absinthe Glass" (1914). Oscar Wilde has been quoted as saying, "What difference is there between a glass of absinthe and a sunset?"[18] [19] In Ernest Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls, disappointed with the quality of other liquor available, Robert Jordan turns to absinthe while fighting with the loyalist guerrillas. Hemingway himself was an avid absinthe drinker.

i bled tears
for all the fears
that came and went
through all the years
to walk that lane
trough the pain
and find the one they call insane
there i stare
and see the mare
they call Night.

 

            The day was gray with a canopy of dark clouds covering the expanse above. It was that point in the day where it is neither day nor night. An erratic breeze was blowing through the maple trees sending dead leaves across my path. The path was ancient. An accumulation of pounded granite over the centuries had built up this solemn road which cut its way through this dark foreboding forest. The cold rattled my bones as I continued walking.

            This forest was not friendly. There was nothing beautiful about this timberland during this part of the day, which resembled more of an abode of the dead than the living. The earth was dank with an earthy smell. Nothing could be heard except the wind whistling through the bony branches of the gnarled maples and the crunch of stone beneath my feet.

            The air was getting colder; as I pulled up my jacket collar I suddenly spotted something a distance off in the corner of my eye. My heart jumpedthump, thump! I could have sworn what I had seen had human form. I stopped, the wind was still blowing, nothing but the autumn hued leaves flowing through the trees. I frantically looked in every direction. Again the mossy musk of the ground filled my nostrils. Something isnt right, I say to myself. I hear myself say it again but it isnt me. Its as if the breeze carried the whisper of what I said back to me. A shiver runs up my spine as my skin begins to tingle. My initial reaction is to flee, but I decide to keep walking for fear of bringing attention to myself. The lighting of the forest takes on an ethereal feeling and appearance.

I try to make sense of it all but I cant remember. I dont know why Im in this forest, where it began, or where it ends. Suddenly everything stops. The wind, the leaves, the trees, just stop; even the crunch of stone underneath my feet. Dead. Thump, thump, thump. I stop and look around. Nothing. Then I hear a familiar crunch of rock. I frantically turn around. Im horrified with what I see. Its face staring at me. Its me but its not me. The face is grotesque, sunken, and pale. The flesh under its eyes sag and its hair is putrid and pressed against the skull. The eyes are dilated with pure black centers piercing straight through me.  Paralyzed with terror and wonder I gaze as this phantom as it opens its mouth ushering forth a darkness unsurpassed by its eyes. I become enveloped by this utter blackness of the most tenebrous degree. I see nothing yet I hear the faintest whisper, something isnt right. I feel my surroundings. Im trapped! Im closed in by what feels to be a sepulcher. Again I smell the damp earth. I claw at my surroundings desperate for fresh air. I can feel my nails rip off my fingertips, but I dont care. I shout to no avail. There is only silence interrupted by my fainting heartbeatthump, thump, thum--.     

it was a good nap. what else are sundays for?

Today was a good day. I've been sick the past three days, leaving me home-bound. Today i was lucky enough to witness an act only a few get to appreciate. From my boundless memory i pulled out a topic regarding the travel of  the itsy bitsy spider. Or rather the self-tranportation of small species(or babies) of spiders. Yes, as i was in the backyard i witnessed a rather small spider merely float away upon a slight breeze. It appeared to have developed a parachute constructed of webbing, which in turn carried  the spider along its vacillating path to the unknown. Of coarse, it must be presumed that many people know of this phenomenon and have perhaps seen it on television, but it is a rare treat indeed to see it in real life. 

Rain does weird things to people..............