Wednesday, 2 September 2015

Friday, 21 August 2015

If you wanted to torment yourself about it...

nobody could stop you.

So think about the way you were taught to fall back into the waves and trust that the water will buoy you up, and know that those times when you were pulled down were not the norm, nor your destiny.

It's just hard when I feel like I have so much to lose. 

Thursday, 20 August 2015

But the kids are alright

WireTap: How to Age GracefullyCBC Radio's WireTap is saying farewell. In this special video message, people of all ages offer words of wisdom to their younger counterparts.
Posted by CBC Radio on Wednesday, 19 August 2015

Wednesday, 12 August 2015

On bird-like things

“I love Love—though he has wings,
         And like light can flee,”

(Shelley, "Rarely, rarely, comest thou")

Tuesday, 16 June 2015

Quite often

... it is the most difficult times I look back on.

Don't let go of me, ok?

Sunday, 31 May 2015

cast your fears aside...

 and do something useful for a change.

Tuesday, 26 May 2015

The world is charged with the grandeur of God

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.

Gerard M. Hopkins

Wednesday, 6 May 2015


 In the wreckage of a terrible childhood, Danielle Henderson “decided to take the love I’d have for a child and give it to myself instead… Every day, I try to be my own parent—the parent I never had.”

Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Angels of the Universe

Once we set off for Saudarkrokur and were halfway there when Peter suddenly stopped, scratched his dark grey stubble, adjusted his glasses on his nose and said, 'I've got to turn back. The shed's locked. The ghosts can't get in or out.

We sat by the side of the road and waited a long while for Peter. When he came back, he said: 'They were really relieved,' and judging from his expression he was telling the truth.


The madman says he's dead and been buried. Every Sunday he goes up to the cemetery and puts flowers on his grave.


This caused considerable concern to Brynjolf. One day he called me into his office, wanting to probe my sense of morality.

At least, he asked, 'What do you think about Southern Sausages?'
'SS,' I said. 'Do you mean the hot dogs or...'
'Precisely what you said, SS. Don't you think it's outrageous, Paul, for the largest food producer in Iceland to put up with having the same abbreviation as Hitlers's stormtroopers?'

I didn't know exactly what I should say. I had never considered the matter from that angle, but it certainly invited the misconception that Souther Sausages of Iceland Ltd had been behind all manner of dirty deeds in the Third Reich.

After a moment's thought I said to Brynjolf, 'If you go on like that I've got a nasty feeling you and I ought to swap seats.'


Monday, 16 March 2015

Life was bitter and I was not

"I turned early to humour as my branch of writing ... [because] life was bitter and I was not." - Max Schulman

Saturday, 14 March 2015

because no one else...

would have thought to say the things you said, or said them the way you did. if you were no more, nothing else would be quite like you. 

Friday, 13 March 2015

But to have dreamed the dream

But to have dreamed the dream is to have flown above the mountains so high in all but deed.
- Peter F. Hamilton, Judas Unchained (in the novel attributed to author named Manby)

    Tuesday, 17 February 2015’s love that does us in. Over and over again...


    Winter. Time to eat fat
    and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,   
    a black fur sausage with yellow
    Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries   
    to get onto my head. It’s his
    way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
    If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am   
    He’ll think of something. He settles
    on my chest, breathing his breath
    of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
    purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,   
    not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,   
    declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,   
    which are what will finish us off
    in the long run. Some cat owners around here   
    should snip a few testicles. If we wise   
    hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,   
    or eat our young, like sharks.
    But it’s love that does us in. Over and over   
    again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
    crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing   
    eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits   
    thirty below, and pollution pours
    out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
    February, month of despair,
    with a skewered heart in the centre.
    I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries   
    with a splash of vinegar.
    Cat, enough of your greedy whining
    and your small pink bumhole.
    Off my face! You’re the life principle,
    more or less, so get going
    on a little optimism around here.
    Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.