this place is kinda like those big percussive installations on the playa,
with people climbing all over it
and little words shooting off in the din
easier to get a cohesive groove in person
Random thoughts...
Although Hunter S. Thompson declared his search for the American Dream "a lame fuck-around, a waste of time" in his classic "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"-- in the same work, earlier, he seems to indicate that he may very well have found it, the American Dream. In the section of that work transcribe directly from tape, Dr. Thompson gets directions from a number of people for a place which had, at one time, been called the American Dream. A place which changed ownership, function, and name numerous times. In the end, what he finds is a fire scorched lot, overgrown, in ruins. It seems that the American Dream had burned down mere years before the book was written-- which would place its death very close to that of Bobby Kennedy.
Why is it I seem to be able to express myself in writing better than in person? Probably because I have more time to think when writing.
One of my co-workers is getting me mad at her because, it seems, she is mad at me for not letting her boss me around as much as she seems to think she should be able to. She claims she is taping our radio (and possibly other) conversations so she can use them against me. The weird thing is, as far as I can tell, what she doesn't like about those conversations is probably that I get tired of her constantly repeating the same thing over and over (rather like George W. Bush does when explaining something), and I eventually tell her that she doesn't need to keep telling me the same thing, or asking me the same question. I really don't know what she thinks she can prove. Also, our radio conversations are sometimes monitored anyway.
I wonder what management would have to say about her taping?
On Sunday the temperature was 44 degrees F for the daily high-- that night it dropped into the low single digits...
Today it got all the way up to the low double digits-- and started snowing! Tomorrow the temperature is supposed to back to the low single digits during the day, and the low negative single digits for the night.... I wanna retire and move somewhere warm!
Why is it I seem to be able to express myself in writing better than in person? Probably because I have more time to think when writing.
One of my co-workers is getting me mad at her because, it seems, she is mad at me for not letting her boss me around as much as she seems to think she should be able to. She claims she is taping our radio (and possibly other) conversations so she can use them against me. The weird thing is, as far as I can tell, what she doesn't like about those conversations is probably that I get tired of her constantly repeating the same thing over and over (rather like George W. Bush does when explaining something), and I eventually tell her that she doesn't need to keep telling me the same thing, or asking me the same question. I really don't know what she thinks she can prove. Also, our radio conversations are sometimes monitored anyway.
I wonder what management would have to say about her taping?
On Sunday the temperature was 44 degrees F for the daily high-- that night it dropped into the low single digits...
Today it got all the way up to the low double digits-- and started snowing! Tomorrow the temperature is supposed to back to the low single digits during the day, and the low negative single digits for the night.... I wanna retire and move somewhere warm!"Nothing is withheld from us which we have conceived to do.
Do things that have never been done."
--Russell Kirsch
Do things that have never been done."
--Russell Kirsch
Joy claims she was joking about it. I tried to tell her that is not the kind of thing to joke about, and that a co-worker who had been there didn't know if she was serious or not. I don't think that did any good. I guess we will see what happens. (I did email the person I emailed earlier and told her that Joy says she was joking, and had said it was about that she "doesn't like the way I come across on the radio" sometimes. So... 
)
)"Nothing is withheld from us which we have conceived to do.
Do things that have never been done."
--Russell Kirsch
Do things that have never been done."
--Russell Kirsch
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mdmf007
- Moderator
- Posts: 5340
- Joined: Wed Mar 08, 2006 7:32 pm
- Burning Since: 1996
- Camp Name: ESD
- Location: my computer
Heres some randomness for you
So the wife and I are looking at houses as its a good time to buy and we need more room already.
Just looked at one that was absolutely shithoused inside. I bet there is 40 yards of garbage inside this place - the previous owner (foreclosed on) took it upon himself to remove the lights, stair treads, cabinets, kicked hiles in the walls and painted "Fuck Key Bank" in spray paint all over the place. I was sensing a bad vibe at this place, so we moved on.
The more i saw the place, the more i started to feel the pain and frustration this guy must have felt. Is this a sign of things to come? people getting booted from million dollar homes at christmas time -
Situations like the above are going to drive grown, reasonable and normal adults over the edge into who knows what - robbery, homicide, suicide? who knows.
Weanwhile the Fed goes on whistling dixie like this is a bump in the road. sticks its head in the ground pretends nothings wrong.
Bailout for you, bailout for you - Sorry none for you (your union crippled you - your bad) heres some dough for you guys over there. This just cheapens our dollar more in the world market.
Dont forget - all the easy oil is gone we have peaked so all of our infrastructure is a house of cards anyways.
at least ill be dead when my grandkids have to deal with no fuel, 12 billion people and the inevitable famine to follow.
later all
So the wife and I are looking at houses as its a good time to buy and we need more room already.
Just looked at one that was absolutely shithoused inside. I bet there is 40 yards of garbage inside this place - the previous owner (foreclosed on) took it upon himself to remove the lights, stair treads, cabinets, kicked hiles in the walls and painted "Fuck Key Bank" in spray paint all over the place. I was sensing a bad vibe at this place, so we moved on.
The more i saw the place, the more i started to feel the pain and frustration this guy must have felt. Is this a sign of things to come? people getting booted from million dollar homes at christmas time -
Situations like the above are going to drive grown, reasonable and normal adults over the edge into who knows what - robbery, homicide, suicide? who knows.
Weanwhile the Fed goes on whistling dixie like this is a bump in the road. sticks its head in the ground pretends nothings wrong.
Bailout for you, bailout for you - Sorry none for you (your union crippled you - your bad) heres some dough for you guys over there. This just cheapens our dollar more in the world market.
Dont forget - all the easy oil is gone we have peaked so all of our infrastructure is a house of cards anyways.
at least ill be dead when my grandkids have to deal with no fuel, 12 billion people and the inevitable famine to follow.
later all
-
Napalm Demon
- Posts: 57
- Joined: Mon Dec 15, 2008 7:11 am
- Location: Prudhoe Bay & Eugene
- Contact:
to me, i am really rather explicable...
i handwash my laundry, and would wear thin from large loads,
thereby having but a few items, like a wardrobe too shy to speak
and my brother has designs on me
or rather, has designs with fix places and parameters that would nestle me ever soo comfortably in his realm of idea
though i'm rather sure i don't bend that way
but enough about me...
tell me, what do you think?
isn't carbon grand?
i handwash my laundry, and would wear thin from large loads,
thereby having but a few items, like a wardrobe too shy to speak
and my brother has designs on me
or rather, has designs with fix places and parameters that would nestle me ever soo comfortably in his realm of idea
though i'm rather sure i don't bend that way
but enough about me...
tell me, what do you think?
isn't carbon grand?
sphera spinning circa gradually midst photon shaft grazing electron soo flit while neutron's gazing
-
Ugly Dougly
- Posts: 17612
- Joined: Wed Sep 10, 2003 9:31 am
- Burning Since: 1996
- Location: เชียงใหม่
-
Ugly Dougly
- Posts: 17612
- Joined: Wed Sep 10, 2003 9:31 am
- Burning Since: 1996
- Location: เชียงใหม่
A Word From The Outer Dark
My ruthless hands still clutch at life-
Still like a shoreless sea
My soul beats on in rage and strife.
You may not shackle me.
My leopard eyes are still untamed,
They hold a darksome light-
A fierce and brooding gleam unnamed
That pierced primeval night.
Rear mightly temples to your god-
I lurk where shadows sway,
Till, when your drowsy guards shall nod,
To leap and rend and slay.
For I would hurl your cities down
And I would break your shrines
And give the site of every town
To thistles and to vines.
Higher the walls Nineveh
And prouder Babel's spires-
I bellowed from the desert way-
They crumbled in my fires.
For all the works of cultured man
Must fare and fade and fall.
I am the Dark Barbarian
That towers over all.
Still like a shoreless sea
My soul beats on in rage and strife.
You may not shackle me.
My leopard eyes are still untamed,
They hold a darksome light-
A fierce and brooding gleam unnamed
That pierced primeval night.
Rear mightly temples to your god-
I lurk where shadows sway,
Till, when your drowsy guards shall nod,
To leap and rend and slay.
For I would hurl your cities down
And I would break your shrines
And give the site of every town
To thistles and to vines.
Higher the walls Nineveh
And prouder Babel's spires-
I bellowed from the desert way-
They crumbled in my fires.
For all the works of cultured man
Must fare and fade and fall.
I am the Dark Barbarian
That towers over all.
-
Ugly Dougly
- Posts: 17612
- Joined: Wed Sep 10, 2003 9:31 am
- Burning Since: 1996
- Location: เชียงใหม่
-
Ugly Dougly
- Posts: 17612
- Joined: Wed Sep 10, 2003 9:31 am
- Burning Since: 1996
- Location: เชียงใหม่
A Song of the Naked Lands
You lolled in gardens where breezes fanned.
The blossom's shivering shard;
But we were bred in a naked land
Where life was bitter hard.
You raped the grapes of their purple soul
For your wine cups brimming high;
We stooped to the dregs of the muddy hole
That was bitter with alkali.
And you grew flabby and round of limb
Short of nerve and breath;
But we grew rugged and lean and grim
In our naked grip with death
Silk was too harsh for your dainty skin,
Red wine too pour for your drought;
We hunted the holes that the rain stood in,
And stripped the wolf for our clout.
Round were your bellies, soft your hand
Soft with the fat of earth;
Yours was the wealth of a smiling land,
Ours the desert's dearth.
You sang beneath the locust tree,
Forgetful of hunger and hate;
"It has always been, it will always be!"
Even then we were at your gate.
You lolled by fountain and golden hall
Until that frenzied morn
When we burst the gates and breached the wall
And cut you down like corn.
We reaped the yield and we plowed the field
With red and dripping shares,
And you could not fight and you could not run
You could only die like hares.
Grim was the barter, red the trade,
With dripping swords for coins,
And your women screamed in the trampled sand
With bruised and bleeding loins.
Skilled was the brain and skilled the hand
That shaped the stubborn stone,
But the brain spilled on the bloody sand
When iron split the bone.
The hand that traced the gilded frieze
That scrolled the written page,
It could not turn the driven steel,
Backed by the primal rage.
Of what avail the heart and lute,
Gemmed gridle and purple cloak,
When the dripping axe was smiting home
In the flame and the blinding smoke?
Blood smeared your satin, and silk and lace.
You heard your children moan,
And your elders howled in the market place,
Where we stripped them skin from bone.
And where your bearded judges sat
And bade men live or die,
A naked slayer roared and waved
A bloody scalp on high.
Over the ruins arched and spired
The billowing smoke cloud waves;
And you lived when the sword was tired,
You live but as our slaves.
Our hard hands clutch your golden cups,
Our rough feet crushed your flowers;
We stable our horses in your halls,
And all your wealth is ours.
We have doffed our wolf skin clouts for silks
We wear them clumsily,
Our eyes are bleak, our beards unshorn,
Our matted locks stream free.
But our sons will trim their beards and hair
Don cloaks of crimson hue;
They will take your daughter to their beds,
Till they grow as soft as you.
They will trade their freedom for harps and lutes,
Discard the bow and the dart;
the will build a prison of satin and gold,
And call it culture and art.
They will lie in the lap of a smiling land,
Till its rusts unman and rot them,
And they scorn their blood, and the calloused hand,
And the fathers who begot them,
But our brothers still dwell in the sun-seared waste,
And their sons are hard and lank;
They will hunt the wolf-pack that we chased,
And drink the water we drank.
The hungers we knew they too will know,
The scars of fangs and briars;
In the rocks where they crouch when the sandstorms blow.
They will find the marks of our fires.
They will know the hungers that once we had,
While the streams of centuries run,
Till the burst from the desert, hunger-mad,
To slaughter our slothful sons.
The blossom's shivering shard;
But we were bred in a naked land
Where life was bitter hard.
You raped the grapes of their purple soul
For your wine cups brimming high;
We stooped to the dregs of the muddy hole
That was bitter with alkali.
And you grew flabby and round of limb
Short of nerve and breath;
But we grew rugged and lean and grim
In our naked grip with death
Silk was too harsh for your dainty skin,
Red wine too pour for your drought;
We hunted the holes that the rain stood in,
And stripped the wolf for our clout.
Round were your bellies, soft your hand
Soft with the fat of earth;
Yours was the wealth of a smiling land,
Ours the desert's dearth.
You sang beneath the locust tree,
Forgetful of hunger and hate;
"It has always been, it will always be!"
Even then we were at your gate.
You lolled by fountain and golden hall
Until that frenzied morn
When we burst the gates and breached the wall
And cut you down like corn.
We reaped the yield and we plowed the field
With red and dripping shares,
And you could not fight and you could not run
You could only die like hares.
Grim was the barter, red the trade,
With dripping swords for coins,
And your women screamed in the trampled sand
With bruised and bleeding loins.
Skilled was the brain and skilled the hand
That shaped the stubborn stone,
But the brain spilled on the bloody sand
When iron split the bone.
The hand that traced the gilded frieze
That scrolled the written page,
It could not turn the driven steel,
Backed by the primal rage.
Of what avail the heart and lute,
Gemmed gridle and purple cloak,
When the dripping axe was smiting home
In the flame and the blinding smoke?
Blood smeared your satin, and silk and lace.
You heard your children moan,
And your elders howled in the market place,
Where we stripped them skin from bone.
And where your bearded judges sat
And bade men live or die,
A naked slayer roared and waved
A bloody scalp on high.
Over the ruins arched and spired
The billowing smoke cloud waves;
And you lived when the sword was tired,
You live but as our slaves.
Our hard hands clutch your golden cups,
Our rough feet crushed your flowers;
We stable our horses in your halls,
And all your wealth is ours.
We have doffed our wolf skin clouts for silks
We wear them clumsily,
Our eyes are bleak, our beards unshorn,
Our matted locks stream free.
But our sons will trim their beards and hair
Don cloaks of crimson hue;
They will take your daughter to their beds,
Till they grow as soft as you.
They will trade their freedom for harps and lutes,
Discard the bow and the dart;
the will build a prison of satin and gold,
And call it culture and art.
They will lie in the lap of a smiling land,
Till its rusts unman and rot them,
And they scorn their blood, and the calloused hand,
And the fathers who begot them,
But our brothers still dwell in the sun-seared waste,
And their sons are hard and lank;
They will hunt the wolf-pack that we chased,
And drink the water we drank.
The hungers we knew they too will know,
The scars of fangs and briars;
In the rocks where they crouch when the sandstorms blow.
They will find the marks of our fires.
They will know the hungers that once we had,
While the streams of centuries run,
Till the burst from the desert, hunger-mad,
To slaughter our slothful sons.
-
the fire elf
- Posts: 7300
- Joined: Fri Jul 30, 2004 10:43 pm
- Burning Since: 2002
- Location: nation
-
Ugly Dougly
- Posts: 17612
- Joined: Wed Sep 10, 2003 9:31 am
- Burning Since: 1996
- Location: เชียงใหม่
-
the fire elf
- Posts: 7300
- Joined: Fri Jul 30, 2004 10:43 pm
- Burning Since: 2002
- Location: nation
[img]http://eplaya.burningman.org/images/avatars/1217350539492d9e03c8b12.jpg[/img] wrote:Round were your bellies, soft your hand
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the fire elf
- Posts: 7300
- Joined: Fri Jul 30, 2004 10:43 pm
- Burning Since: 2002
- Location: nation
![[img]http://eplaya.burningman.org/images/avatars/1217350539492d9e03c8b12.jpg[/img]](http://eplaya.burningman.org/images/avatars/1217350539492d9e03c8b12.jpg){kind=link}