...quite literally, so view them in order...
I needn't say more but Enjoy and be...mused, or amazed perhaps...and forget the alarming economy just this instant...or not.
Watch CBS Videos Online
October 3, 2008
October 2, 2008
Heck: Where The Bad Kids Go
Imagine getting trapped in a nightmare where you're on the run from your pursuers—the mall security and a foe so foul that it could only be, well, your worst enemy and no, it's not your wicked stepmother or vicious aunt either, but the one who loathes you for no reason, the bully Damian—and you haven't the faintest idea how you got into this mess, especially when it's virtually impossible for you to even get into the slightest mischief, since you're basically a good person with glasses, who intends to stay out of trouble by immersing yourself in everything nice and intellectual, like your books. And your name is Milton—even Harry Potter has a better chance in life more than you. You're just Milton, not a wizard. Anyhow, you're caught in the middle of a blind escapade, where you're suddenly thwarted by a giant marshmallow bear towering over a mall's main hall. So, your ruthless enemy wastes no time in blasting the colossal treat to destroy you. Apparently, he succeeds and, in a massive explosion, you go down in quite literally a rapid descent into a hellish place called Heck, which is a great deal more horrendous than your revolting foe. In short, your nightmare doesn't end, since it isn't really a nightmare to begin with. It's real. In fact, everything that's transpired in one continuous, uncontrollable, rapid flow of events is real, and Heck is where you really get banished for your misdeeds prior your ill-fated death, even if you were genuinely as sweet as an oversize melted marshmallow your whole life. The fact is you stole something, even if you were tricked and are truly innocent. Therefore, you're damned like a regular imp, because "the Big Guy doesn't grade on a curve…" and "your last sin is typically your greatest…with no chance to redeem yourself with your sticky end". And it only gets worse. You're supposed to survive this nightmare called the rest of your life in the company of a total mischief in the person of your sister, Marlo. This blue-haired Goth, who delights in dark stuff and exploits, and steals out of sheer enjoyment and simply because she can, was also the punk who fooled you, plucked you out of your comforts, dragged you into her capers, inadvertently died with you in the explosion, and ultimately got you into this appallingly huge Heck of a mess. But you've no choice but endure this wretched place with her roguish presence, as well as the demonic principal, Bea "Elsa" Bubb, and her monstrous minions, including a hair-net donning, hairless cafeteria witch that boasts "hairy moles and weeping boils" and relentlessly serves overcooked brussel sprouts that resemble "wilted globs of pale green snot" for a nourishing after-life lunch. To top it off, the nasty vermin, Damian, who maliciously blew you up above ground has now followed you underground. Meanwhile, you feel like the vermin, yourself. You're only eleven years old with a fuzzy ferret named Lucky. And, again, you're just Milton. The only consolation you have is meeting a clumsy character, Virgil, who becomes your buddy, the possibility of your sister's unlikely allegiance to you, and a slim chance for escape, and still, perhaps, a little bit of luck.So, journey through this ludicrous limbo where time doesn't exist, yet you get punished for coming late to your first day of "disorientation" and where issues are thoroughly dealt with in the "Department of Unendurable Redundancy, Bureaucracy, and Redundancy". David E. Basye definitely brewed a wacky and wicked juvenile version of "H-e-double hockey sticks" seasoned with mythical and historical characters such as Ammit, Annubis, Pemberton, Nixon, and Dior, among several other curious creatures. This book surely has the mental energy and verbal acuity of youth nicely wrapped in both profound and confounding thoughts. Heck is highly entertaining and an absolute treat for younger bookworms yet reflective enough for more mature readers. For all those who have Peter Pan Syndrome like Basye (Life with Children: 'Heck' A Vivid Success) or have simply forgotten how it is to feel young again without loosing any sensibility, here's an excerpt for you:
"And for the first time in his life—and death—Milton enjoyed being different. He felt free: free from caring what people thought, free to choose his own path…All our days are numbered, he thought before drifting off into unconscious bliss, but that number is infinity."Enough said. Here's a link to author, Dale E. Basye, for more info.
October 1, 2008
Phoenix Lament (poeTry)
by amica paige
My soul yearns
For something more
Than the purest of light
Or the darkest of shadows
It searches beyond
Untainted hearts
Or the godless ones
Lamented by songbirds
For underneath their surface
Marred by time
Voices cry out—
Of distressed souls
And fearful hearts
Somewhere beyond
Jubilant faces
Where the phoenix mourns
My spirit yearns
For something more
Than a blissful life
Or the abysmal death.
My soul yearns
For something more
Than the purest of light
Or the darkest of shadows
It searches beyond
Untainted hearts
Or the godless ones
Lamented by songbirds
For underneath their surface
Marred by time
Voices cry out—
Of distressed souls
And fearful hearts
Somewhere beyond
Jubilant faces
Where the phoenix mourns
My spirit yearns
For something more
Than a blissful life
Or the abysmal death.
Voice (poeTry)
by amica paige
what is my voice? where is it?
when there're so many inside my head
could it be that they’re all mine
desperate to escape my mind?
what is my voice? where is it?
when there're so many inside my head
could it be that they’re all mine
desperate to escape my mind?
September 23, 2008
Literally, The Best Language Book Ever, Urban Dictionary, The Half-blood Prince, Society's Elite, and everything else in between...
Summer has been here and done it, and all in a blink. Where were you? Me? Well, I was mostly trying to catch up with all the haze and craze that was summer—this sounds so familiar, I'm so sure that I've been here before, grumbling like this in July, when I first reported that The Half-blood Prince would soon come out of his closet in November. Then, Warner Brothers happened, if you know what I mean. Suddenly, the prince was prohibited from emerging, until next July, supposedly to prevent him from clashing with his rival's upcoming revelation on Broadway; if this does not smell like another marketing ploy I don't know what does. I have yet to fully come to terms with the WB’s surprising announcement, so I'll talk more about it later. Umbridge must be behind it, secretly running the huge enterprise with other bigwigs like Chaney...
Then a chance to do book reviews for Society's Elite came up, which was really lucky because I have always been fascinated by the ever-intriguing subjects of philosophy and language, and some of the writings on these topics that I've enjoyed are Moliere's The Misanthrope, Thomas Cathcart's and Daniel Klein's Plato and a Platypus Walk Into a Bar, and George Carlin's Napalm and Silly Putty.
While the following books vary greatly in their perspectives on the current state of our language, both are equally amusing.
Got an opinion or two, or a peeve or three?
Well, Paul Yeager is certainly not without grumbles, as clearly expressed by the book title.
Literally, The Best Language Book Ever, Annoying Words and Abused Phrases You Should Never Use Again spells out society's blatant misuse of the English language—from grammatical blunders to redundancies, to jargons and wordiness, to trite phrases, as well as clumsy conversions of nouns into verbs, called "Verbification", of which I am absolutely guilty of, since I doggedly google, instead of properly research just about everything on the internet.
And you, meteorologists, are not exempt either; you are equally condemned for committing prepositional glut, as in "showers are moving on over into a region".
(Refer to pg. 10 in the book for your vernacular crime).
That we are just not a very articulate society and eloquence simply evades us is such a shameful thing. I sympathize with Mr. Yeager's frustration about the abysmal deterioration of our language, a national affair so grim that one might just prefer to stay home and have tea alone than to suffer a dismally bland conversation outside.
Blame it on the administration at large, including the workplace and schools. Blame it on Bush too, as with everything else, since he single-handedly runs the nation. These officials should know better by teaching us the precise use of nouns, like "mentor", "leverage", "task", "transition", "partner", and "retail" which are strictly nouns, just like a "parent", and must never be used as verbs; to parent a child or acquire parenting skills is clearly unacceptable. (Refer to Verbification, Ch.3)
However, while Mr. Yeager does not claim being "some great language dictator" and actually "[doubts] that you'll agree with [the book's entries]", he simply does not allow inarticulacy in his house, according to his Introduction on page XIII. There goes my chance for ever being invited to tea, or coffee, for my googling and a friend's gifting. Then again, the gathering for a satisfying conversation at his place might be awfully small, since most of us, if not all, are oftentimes guilty of flawed speech. In fact, Mr. Yeager's slip-up is so obvious on page VIII, with his use of the phrase "my personal favorite" instead of the more succinct my favorite, or a personal favorite, or even a favorite of mine, since the words my, personal, or mine denotes ownership.
Nevertheless, I appreciate having read this book. While a bit pedantic in some parts, it passionately reminds us to do our best to avoid inept language so that "we can better choose how we present ourselves" and "participate in, rather than glide through, our daily conversations".
In other words, we need to stop being flippant about our English and start taking it seriously.
In short, speak clear English, people!
It can get tricky though. Let's not forget that the world we live in evolves. So do we and our words. And since our perceptions and experiences dictate what we say, new words are created, existing words converted, and definitions adjusted. These modifications largely taking place inevitably affect our syntax, our expressions, and thus, our language. Change is inescapable. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here, where we can talk together, or have a dialogue or a discourse, or a discussion, or even a conversation; by the way, don’t these words essentially mean the same? Who invented them—these synonyms?
What about nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs? And what of articles, prepositions, and interjections? And gerunds? Are these not verbs just converted to nouns by adding the suffix, ing? Does that ring familiar? Isn’t it the same process as verbification, only inverted?
But are gerunds more acceptable, as in thinking, than a verbification like parenting, because it is all right to convert the verb, think, into a noun, but not okay to turn the noun, parent, into a verb out of whose convention? Who started this tradition? Who established what we all have come to accept? And just who uttered the first word? Was it the Anglos, the Saxons, the Cro-Magnons, or the Neanderthals? And what was it? Was it an emphatic, "Ah"?
Ah, history certainly proves how far we have come since the Greeks, the Romans, the Persians, the Westerners, and the Asians, Islanders, Aborigines, and others.
Well, maybe language is not meant to be perfectly neat or easy, specifically English, much of which, by the way, is borrowed, or to put it more lightly, derived from other languages; hence, the inconsistent rules, such as its pronunciation—i.e. the present tense, read, the past tense, read, and the color red; basically, the past tense, read cannot be read, or pronounced, like red.
Nonetheless, society will continue its present discourse and continue to “party” until something else takes its place with a more polished version of the act of partaking in revelry or "mild-mannered frivolity", as preferred by Professor McGonagall.
Lest we forget, language is sentient. And as our communication evolves with time, lingoes remain. We may as well keep an open mind that we learn to appreciate and adjust to this kind of change, or not. But keep an open mind anyway. It could be fun, like an ad lib.
I call it play-speak, as in googling and gifting, though I choose to give a present rather than gifting or presenting a gift.
Still, I commend Mr. Yeager for saying what he means, without squirming.
He strongly believes that you can learn to speak his language, suggests that you should speak it, and says that the choice is yours.
And to those who talk his talk, more brevity to you.
The book is boldly written and a sure read for the earnest student or any aficionado of the English language. Its sharp sarcasms and puns left me tickled and stunned.
And if you consider this review hogwash for its length and/or content, the point is clear: it doesn’t matter much who formed these combinations of sounds or syllables, called words, and who determines what is acceptable or not, unless you are doing a school project or engage with something of a very fussy nature, as long as we allow each other to express ourselves freely. We zip through life—with one hand on a cell phone and the other clutching a latte (thanks to Alanis Morissette's Hand In My Pocket for the concept)—and inadvertently affect or freak each other out, as it is. Speaking of "freaking" (pg. 52), too much of it can and do get anal, like anything else, though I can't deny that my mouth spews it every now and then.
Highlight: "Who'd've thunk it?" (pg. 58) is absolutely hilarious.
Finally, "it goes without saying"...this concludes this review.Who'd've thunk that I'd "literally" finish it…
Now, switch your attention to Aaron Peckham's Urban Dictionary: Fularious Street Slang Defined. What can I say, the title speaks for itself. Written to give people "a chance to explain how they use and change existing language to express their views of the world around them", this book is hilarious. It is urban speak, a rich collection of words and an amalgam of expressions, submitted by the culturally receptive, a modern society that is an antithesis to an otherwise austerely erudite culture.
From the abc's—such as "abso-frickinlutely", which is "a reinforced expression of absolutely"; "abacadaba", to zip through a fill-in-the-bubble-and-get-it-over-and-done-with-fast-because-it's-just-so-ridiculously-hard-that-even-trying-to-score-high-is-made-impossible-and-pointless-multiple-choice test; and "air-biscuit", fart, plain and simple, as in, How dare you give me air biscuit I clearly didn't ask for?; "backne", simply back acne, of course; "bollocks", which could mean anything from rubbish, lies, great, or the best possible, to an exclamation made when one bungles, or even testicles; and "cankles", which are tubular legs where the calves and the ankles are indistinguishable from each other—to the xyz's of life, as in, literally, "xyz", short for "examine your zipper", or to remind someone to zip up the fly in the briefest and most discreet way—in addition to Peckham's droll examples, the Urban Dictionary presents the language of today's society and its subcultures, including everyone else in between and outside—[from the rebellious teens…tweens and thirtysomethings…to the 'rents, teachers…and even avid students of the English Language all over the world].
As Aaron Peckham aptly put, "Everyone deserves the opportunity to understand and be understood." Now, "chillax" and learn the lingo in this totally "fularious" book. Then, pick up its "ridonkulous" sequel, The Ridonkulous Street Slang Defined, lest you forget that language is fast paced and get left behind.
Then a chance to do book reviews for Society's Elite came up, which was really lucky because I have always been fascinated by the ever-intriguing subjects of philosophy and language, and some of the writings on these topics that I've enjoyed are Moliere's The Misanthrope, Thomas Cathcart's and Daniel Klein's Plato and a Platypus Walk Into a Bar, and George Carlin's Napalm and Silly Putty.
While the following books vary greatly in their perspectives on the current state of our language, both are equally amusing.
Got an opinion or two, or a peeve or three?
Well, Paul Yeager is certainly not without grumbles, as clearly expressed by the book title.
Literally, The Best Language Book Ever, Annoying Words and Abused Phrases You Should Never Use Again spells out society's blatant misuse of the English language—from grammatical blunders to redundancies, to jargons and wordiness, to trite phrases, as well as clumsy conversions of nouns into verbs, called "Verbification", of which I am absolutely guilty of, since I doggedly google, instead of properly research just about everything on the internet.
And you, meteorologists, are not exempt either; you are equally condemned for committing prepositional glut, as in "showers are moving on over into a region".
(Refer to pg. 10 in the book for your vernacular crime).
That we are just not a very articulate society and eloquence simply evades us is such a shameful thing. I sympathize with Mr. Yeager's frustration about the abysmal deterioration of our language, a national affair so grim that one might just prefer to stay home and have tea alone than to suffer a dismally bland conversation outside.
Blame it on the administration at large, including the workplace and schools. Blame it on Bush too, as with everything else, since he single-handedly runs the nation. These officials should know better by teaching us the precise use of nouns, like "mentor", "leverage", "task", "transition", "partner", and "retail" which are strictly nouns, just like a "parent", and must never be used as verbs; to parent a child or acquire parenting skills is clearly unacceptable. (Refer to Verbification, Ch.3)
However, while Mr. Yeager does not claim being "some great language dictator" and actually "[doubts] that you'll agree with [the book's entries]", he simply does not allow inarticulacy in his house, according to his Introduction on page XIII. There goes my chance for ever being invited to tea, or coffee, for my googling and a friend's gifting. Then again, the gathering for a satisfying conversation at his place might be awfully small, since most of us, if not all, are oftentimes guilty of flawed speech. In fact, Mr. Yeager's slip-up is so obvious on page VIII, with his use of the phrase "my personal favorite" instead of the more succinct my favorite, or a personal favorite, or even a favorite of mine, since the words my, personal, or mine denotes ownership.
Nevertheless, I appreciate having read this book. While a bit pedantic in some parts, it passionately reminds us to do our best to avoid inept language so that "we can better choose how we present ourselves" and "participate in, rather than glide through, our daily conversations".
In other words, we need to stop being flippant about our English and start taking it seriously.
In short, speak clear English, people!
It can get tricky though. Let's not forget that the world we live in evolves. So do we and our words. And since our perceptions and experiences dictate what we say, new words are created, existing words converted, and definitions adjusted. These modifications largely taking place inevitably affect our syntax, our expressions, and thus, our language. Change is inescapable. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here, where we can talk together, or have a dialogue or a discourse, or a discussion, or even a conversation; by the way, don’t these words essentially mean the same? Who invented them—these synonyms?
What about nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs? And what of articles, prepositions, and interjections? And gerunds? Are these not verbs just converted to nouns by adding the suffix, ing? Does that ring familiar? Isn’t it the same process as verbification, only inverted?
But are gerunds more acceptable, as in thinking, than a verbification like parenting, because it is all right to convert the verb, think, into a noun, but not okay to turn the noun, parent, into a verb out of whose convention? Who started this tradition? Who established what we all have come to accept? And just who uttered the first word? Was it the Anglos, the Saxons, the Cro-Magnons, or the Neanderthals? And what was it? Was it an emphatic, "Ah"?
Ah, history certainly proves how far we have come since the Greeks, the Romans, the Persians, the Westerners, and the Asians, Islanders, Aborigines, and others.
Well, maybe language is not meant to be perfectly neat or easy, specifically English, much of which, by the way, is borrowed, or to put it more lightly, derived from other languages; hence, the inconsistent rules, such as its pronunciation—i.e. the present tense, read, the past tense, read, and the color red; basically, the past tense, read cannot be read, or pronounced, like red.
Nonetheless, society will continue its present discourse and continue to “party” until something else takes its place with a more polished version of the act of partaking in revelry or "mild-mannered frivolity", as preferred by Professor McGonagall.
Lest we forget, language is sentient. And as our communication evolves with time, lingoes remain. We may as well keep an open mind that we learn to appreciate and adjust to this kind of change, or not. But keep an open mind anyway. It could be fun, like an ad lib.
I call it play-speak, as in googling and gifting, though I choose to give a present rather than gifting or presenting a gift.
Still, I commend Mr. Yeager for saying what he means, without squirming.
He strongly believes that you can learn to speak his language, suggests that you should speak it, and says that the choice is yours.
And to those who talk his talk, more brevity to you.
The book is boldly written and a sure read for the earnest student or any aficionado of the English language. Its sharp sarcasms and puns left me tickled and stunned.
And if you consider this review hogwash for its length and/or content, the point is clear: it doesn’t matter much who formed these combinations of sounds or syllables, called words, and who determines what is acceptable or not, unless you are doing a school project or engage with something of a very fussy nature, as long as we allow each other to express ourselves freely. We zip through life—with one hand on a cell phone and the other clutching a latte (thanks to Alanis Morissette's Hand In My Pocket for the concept)—and inadvertently affect or freak each other out, as it is. Speaking of "freaking" (pg. 52), too much of it can and do get anal, like anything else, though I can't deny that my mouth spews it every now and then.
Highlight: "Who'd've thunk it?" (pg. 58) is absolutely hilarious.
Finally, "it goes without saying"...this concludes this review.Who'd've thunk that I'd "literally" finish it…
Now, switch your attention to Aaron Peckham's Urban Dictionary: Fularious Street Slang Defined. What can I say, the title speaks for itself. Written to give people "a chance to explain how they use and change existing language to express their views of the world around them", this book is hilarious. It is urban speak, a rich collection of words and an amalgam of expressions, submitted by the culturally receptive, a modern society that is an antithesis to an otherwise austerely erudite culture.
From the abc's—such as "abso-frickinlutely", which is "a reinforced expression of absolutely"; "abacadaba", to zip through a fill-in-the-bubble-and-get-it-over-and-done-with-fast-because-it's-just-so-ridiculously-hard-that-even-trying-to-score-high-is-made-impossible-and-pointless-multiple-choice test; and "air-biscuit", fart, plain and simple, as in, How dare you give me air biscuit I clearly didn't ask for?; "backne", simply back acne, of course; "bollocks", which could mean anything from rubbish, lies, great, or the best possible, to an exclamation made when one bungles, or even testicles; and "cankles", which are tubular legs where the calves and the ankles are indistinguishable from each other—to the xyz's of life, as in, literally, "xyz", short for "examine your zipper", or to remind someone to zip up the fly in the briefest and most discreet way—in addition to Peckham's droll examples, the Urban Dictionary presents the language of today's society and its subcultures, including everyone else in between and outside—[from the rebellious teens…tweens and thirtysomethings…to the 'rents, teachers…and even avid students of the English Language all over the world].
As Aaron Peckham aptly put, "Everyone deserves the opportunity to understand and be understood." Now, "chillax" and learn the lingo in this totally "fularious" book. Then, pick up its "ridonkulous" sequel, The Ridonkulous Street Slang Defined, lest you forget that language is fast paced and get left behind.
September 17, 2008
Remy Zero, Oprah, and Bono, please Save Me...
Here’s an amazing live performance worth watching over and over again, well, until you get sick of the phrase “Save Me”.
I hadn’t watched Smallville, since the second, or first, season. Put it this way, life happens, and when it does, it shakes your safe schedule and then some. Nothing’s set on stone, remember, except maybe the length of one’s existence written on a nicely shaped tomb. Anyway, with the show’s newly release 7th season, I was reminded of its catchy theme song by Remy Zero. No, Remy didn’t remind me. I meant the band Remy Zero sang it…I mean played it. Cinjun Tate was the vocalist, of course and no, not Bono. Come on people, give other raw talent and others in general a chance please!—especially when Oprah’s got the whole world in her hands as it is, while Bragelina—oh is it Brangel, Brang, Bran, or Bra, I’m pretty sure it’s one of those, though the last combination of two names is the best for its sheer succinctness and anyway, you know who’s got the kids backs. No, no one’s taking anyone’s child away; it isn’t our business but theirs, Madonna’s, and Britney’s anyway—no pun intended there, either, on giving others a chance to glory. I happen to appreciate U2’s music as much as I enjoyed House of pain, since my older brother continuously played it as my younger brother jumped around , and leaving me, as one might expect, with a split personality, or to put it more gently, a varied taste in music. Okay, they do sound similar, all right? Yes, Cinjun and Bono. But Bono’s even got his Nude clothing line. No it’s not a sham, like the Emperor’s clothes. It’s authentic. I mean, the apparel is, for being real. No, I don’t mean that he isn’t genuine; his motives are his business, not mine. And yes, I’m still talking about Bono and this is starting to get ridiculous, because this posting isn’t even supposed to be about him, but the band Remy Zero and its vocalist with the incredible voice. You can hardly find much raw talent like that nowadays, especially when special effects abound, like the “megaphone or intercom” effect, which gives the voice an oddly nasal and distant sound that’s so common in today’s music. Weren’t these devices previously only used for announcements by coaches and principles in schools and on sports grounds? But who dares get in the way of creativity? Surely, not I. Besides, those sound effects actually work well in most types of music, particularly those with fast beats like dance, house, and techno. Anyhow, I just found out that Remy Zero disbanded when I searched You Tube for its latest music, which was officially declared in the former band's official website. And it seems that, at first glance, anyway, meaning if you check strictly just the initial page of the massive search results, current info on the band is practically nonexistent, except for Wikipedia’s somewhat dated, general account of each of the band mates’ collaboration with other artists, though there are a few links for a tad more info on each of their new, yet not so new, musical projects after the group’s break-up. Apparently, Cinjun Tate and his brother teamed up again, like they did in Remy Zero, to form an alternative rock duo called the Spartan Fidelity, and later worked with another duo, the Yoshida Brothers, whose sound was used by Nintendo for its Wii commercial. Meanwhile, info on Cinjun Tate is even more scant, which basically reports that he’s an Alabama native who grew up with both musician and artist parents and three brothers, and who was married to Alyssa Milano. So, if you’re completely mad about Remy Zero and seriously haven’t got anything better to do than conduct a heavy research, go ahead and dig into an endless search list, otherwise, just keep listening to the already available music by the former band, or still, try to scratch the virtual surface that is Spartan Fidelity, Isidore, and Sleepwell. And do sleep well, maybe to the tune of Save Me, as you sing along right before you fall into dream's realm.
September 15, 2008
When Lightning Strikes, Catch the Waves!
One day, it suddenly hit me that all the late writers, artists, and other historical figures I’ve ever been curious to read about lived to an average of seventy to eighty-five years. But of course, that’s the standard life span. It’s true for even my few departed kin and acquaintances; my grandfather, whom I adored, died when he was 84 years old, while my grandma is still running at 84, in which case I hope she’d continue to beat the odds. Using the same general principle on mortality, and unless I suddenly get stricken by lightning or suffer some other awful accident, I realized that I probably won’t get to live past the 2050s. And this stunned me to the point of near paralysis, though very briefly, like for twenty-four seconds. No matter what people say, especially talks about faith and heaven or some other mystical utopia, it’s simply terrifying to have to acknowledge the sheer bleakness of life, which is ironically called death. It’s funny that phrases like “the average life span...” or “he or she lived to be...” normally grace our conversations, literary publications, and entertainment media, as just another day's minutiae and probably flit through our consciousness much less than going for oil change. But while it may very well be just an everyday trifle, it can be quite disturbing when you come face to face with this undeniably dire subject of mortality.
A basic antidote to such forbidding pictures like the one painted above: Nature. Below are twenty-four and 12 second bits at Ocean Grove beach. Brilliant Beach and Blue Skies.
A basic antidote to such forbidding pictures like the one painted above: Nature. Below are twenty-four and 12 second bits at Ocean Grove beach. Brilliant Beach and Blue Skies.
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