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This just in from the Sports Department here at It's All Straw:
University of South Carolina 44
University of Houston 36
Get details here!
Meanwhile . . .
University of Kentucky 28
Clemson University 20
Get details here!
Tough break, Creegs!
Karen's abusive husband finally turns up - only to be eaten by the taniwha... but not before threatening Karen with extreme violence. She ends up running away (after he threatens her, but before he gets eaten) and for some reason I can't entirely recall, she ends up in prison in Auckland.(Emphasis added).
You remember she took off with the money after Janine's death - well, most likely she was nabbed for passing counterfeit bills (though we toyed with the idea of credit card fraud). I don't think we ever finalised the details - but I know we wanted to subvert the lovers' happy ending at all costs.
Thompson takes her one phone call but dismisses it as another fraudulent Delilah trick. It was going to be cruel, surprising and very, very final. We just thought it was funny at the time and that seemed a good enough reason.
Thompson, of course, settles in Claybourne - probably, we thought, reunited with his wife (though she would have been fun to kill).
I am a Clemson alum, and fan. That game ripped my heart out. I have nothing but bitter hatred towards just about all Cock fans, but I must tell you, your writing and tale of the story was very entertaining, and appreciated. Good luck in the bowl game!
Spring and Fall
to a young child
MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
God’s Grandeur
THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
"More than that, I even consider everything as a loss because of the supreme good of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have accepted the loss of all things and I consider them so much rubbish, that I may gain Christ."
--Philippians 3:8 (New American Bible)
Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle.
Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray;
and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host -
by the Divine Power of God -
cast into hell, Satan and all the evil spirits,
who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls.
Amen.
Let there be chant on earth,
and let it begin with me.
Let there be chanted Mass,
the Mass that was meant to be.
With God as our Father,
singers all are we,
Let me chant with my brothers,
in pure monophony.
Let chant begin with me,
let this be the moment now.
With every Mass I sing,
let this be my solemn vow,
To pray each moment and sing each moment
of Mass, liturgically.
Let there be chant on Earth,
and let it begin with me!
Pes | 10.03.06 | #
No, wait a sec:
With God as our Father,
singers all are we,
Let me chant with my brothers,
at every liturgy.
To pray each moment and sing each moment
in pure monophony...
Let there be chant on Earth,
and let it begin with me!
That's better.
At least 99% of those who protested have not even read the speech as yet. Yesterday [Sept. 29] I took part in a broadcast on Iranian television with two imams, a Palestinian Sunni and an Iranian Shiite. They all told me they had read the speech in Arabic two days after it was given. But this was not true: the translation into Arabic was prepared only eight days later, by a friend who put it on his private site. When I tried to explain the meaning of the entire text, they kept quoting the famous phrase of Manuel II Paleologus, like a script.
Next to go should be those "We are Jesus" hymns in which the congregation (for the first time in two millennia of Christian hymnology) pretends that it's Christ . . . . "Be Not Afraid" and "You Are Mine" fit this category, as does the ubiquitous "I Am the Bread of Life," to which I was recently subjected on, of all days, Corpus Christi — the one day in the Church year completely devoted to the fact that we are not a self-feeding community giving each other "the bread of life" but a Eucharistic people nourished by the Lord's free gift of himself. "I am the bread of life" inverts that entire imagery, indeed falsifies it.
"With God as our Father
(Wonder how that got past the Inclusive Language Police?)
Children all are we.
Let us walk with each other,
In perfect har-mo-nee."
I have never placed my hope
in any other than you, O God of Israel,
who can show both anger and graciousness,
and absolve the sins
of suffering man.
Lord God, creator of heaven and earth,
be mindful of our humiliation.
Received ol' Supes here as a belated birthday present from a co-worker. Another co-worker snapped the picture.
When I think of my mother these days, I think of two things. One is her definition of heaven, one of the wisest and most beautiful things she ever said to me: "Heaven is where all the people you love know each other." The other is the fact that she was such a great cook who loved bringing her family together for a great meal. But her meals were never about linen napkins and fancy place settings with everyone on their best behavior. Whether it was a giant hamburger with everything, shad prepared the Charleston Receipts way, or a huge salad full of fresh vegetables, Mom's meals were all about good people enjoying good food and having a good time. If there wasn't enough room with the grown-ups, you could grab a seat at the kids table or even on the living room couch. Want some more? Help yourself!
Now I believe Mom is in heaven where all the people she loves know each other. Dad is there, Mary Darby is there, and all the people we have known and loved who have gone before us are there. And we are there, too. For I believe Mom has passed out of time and into eternity, where there is no past and no future, but only an eternal now. Therefore, to Mom it seems we are there and have always been there. In a few moments more of time, we too will enter into eternity, and it will seem to us too that we are there and have always been there.
More than once (Mt. 25:1-14, Rev. 19:7) Scripture compares heaven and the Kingdom of God to a wedding feast, the marriage feast of Christ the lamb of God. I believe Mom is up there right now, helping out with that wedding feast, making sure the people she loves are comfortable, happy, and have enough to eat. Maybe she's sharing her recipe for blueberry muffins with the angels! I love you, Mom.
The simple need for some kind of ideal world in which fictitious persons play an unhampered part is infinitely deeper and older than the rules of good art, and much more important. . . Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity . . The poor--the slaves who really stoop under the burden of life-- have often been mad, scatter-brained, and cruel, but never hopeless. That is a class privilege, like cigars. Their drivelling literature will always be a "blood and thunder" literature, as simple as the thunder of heaven and the blood of men.