of the seven deadly sins, the eighth and worst by far is emotional blackmail ... the diligent practise of this subtle and ancient art creates a constantly evolving darwinistic moral vacuum in which the brightest new manipulative ideas and stratagems flourish ... and which only you, or i, can fill !
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
tree tops
dave okonski asked about the tree tops i photographed the other morning
i'm not sure what kind of tree they are, or if the clumps are "built" nests
looking again this afternoon, it appears that the boughs were pollarded, then whole dense bunches of new twigs sprouted, and finally all sorts of dead leaves and twigs have got caught up
they'd certainly be colonized by nesting birds, but such nests are usually devastated by predatory magpies
cheers, dave
i'm not sure what kind of tree they are, or if the clumps are "built" nests
looking again this afternoon, it appears that the boughs were pollarded, then whole dense bunches of new twigs sprouted, and finally all sorts of dead leaves and twigs have got caught up
they'd certainly be colonized by nesting birds, but such nests are usually devastated by predatory magpies
cheers, dave
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Shakespeare in Winter
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
thin ice
the loved one arrived home very late from an exhausting day at the office to be greeted by this question ...
"have you spent your day dreaming up new ways to make me happy ?"
"have you spent your day dreaming up new ways to make me happy ?"
Friday, December 16, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
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