what a great time I had yesterday jamming with all these luminaries of the local music scene, Melanie, Linden, Dave, and more. So yeah, very nice to harmonize on a song. That's all good.In other news, ......I'm going to do very little tomorrow.
in what sense? Pretty baked, playing guitar...life's good.i'm a multitasker, trying to smoke weed, drink coffee, and play guitar at the same time.
Alex had been riding out by himself over in Chinatown trying to find a sector for, we drifted over to North Beach...this was a while ago, when SF was still cool....so anyway I said that the thing about Diana is she's really beautiful which is actually the cool thing in a lot of ways. Other than that, the f
I was out over on downtown Corvallis trying to get a microphone fixed at the Fingerboard, and I saw Sharon across the street, looking agitated, from what I could tell, and I was trying to avoid her but thought I’d figure out what the problem was, I finally decided, and went across the street. She wa
so you could be up in the woods andalso drink some good coffee....the best of both worlds, or so I untiltrekking back through the yearswondering about some cats.wondering what's to eatthe lentil soup came out not so goodI'm off my game in the cooking department
Who goes amid the green wood With springtide all adorning her?Who goes amid the merry green wood To make it merrier?Who passes in the sunlight By ways that know the light footfall?Who passes in the sweet sunlight With mien so virginal?
I stood tiptoe upon a hill,The air was cooling, and so very still,That the sweet buds which with a modest pridePull droopingly, in slanted curve aside,Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,Had not yet lost those starry diademsCaught from the early sobbing of the morn
I can imagine as within the realm of possibility, that me, John, Mary, and Sara could be sitting around in my living room, sitting on the couches, cooking something in the kitchen, playing songs, getting stoned, and just having good conversations where you're actually saying something. Or going out a
They don’t bother about me. They let me be.They say, “Nothing can happen.”That’s good.Nothing can happen. It all comes and wheels steadily
I think it was down on secondshe wanted some dimes for the meterand counted out some even changethat is to saythere was something resembling,a hand with pennies laid out on itadding up to a dime.which are the same, as Ipointed out.
all in green went my love ridingon a great horse of goldinto the silver dawn.four lean hounds crouched low and smilingthe merry deer ran before.Fleeter be they than dappled dreamsthe swift sweet deerthe red rare deer.Four red roebuck at a white water
So we really did this, this really happened just like I wrote it. O stands for Otto Markkanen. We used to go drink at the bars after karate, back when I was an alcoholic.Just Another Day in ParadiseBY Chris FarrellWe finish with karate, an easy class, thoroughly enjoying
Life is hard to find and once found is hard to do anything with, so a glimpse of people caught in a similar strain of circumstances is certainly a bit different. In any case, it's that kind of tears that are still there to see that make you wonder if what you thought was true was so. Every year we go thro
Rose, you majesty-once, to the ancients you werejust a calyx with the simplest of rims.But for us, you are the full, the numberless flower,the inexhaustible countenance.In your wealth you seem to be wearing gown upon gownupon a body of nothing but light;
lean out of the window,Goldenhair,I heard you singinga merry air.My book was closed;I read no more,watching the fire danceon the floor.I have left my book,I have left my room,for I heard you singingthrough the gloom.singing
Sharon the mushroom girlwith a little parasol that's a big mushroomgot it up by the sky, waitingfor rain.I was
Green grow the rashes, Ogreen grow the rashes, Othe sweetest hours that e'er I spend,Are spent amang the lasses, OThere's naught but care on every han'In every hour that passes, O;What signifies the life o' man,An 'twere na for the lasses, O?The warl'ly
Coffee cups on the edgeand each prescient work,finding itself dislodgedmakes another waste of the land demonicset round on the edgeticking of the clockswe make up our mindsand find our sister stations.
This blog entry is to prove that everything is just dull and boring like usual. I'm trying to survive on iced tea and tortillas, but beyond that, things could be a lot worse. One problem is I tend to have an erratic mind that shoots one way and then another, unpredictably. That's just the way o
I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Who lives where Beggars rarley speed?And leads a humdrum life indeedAs none besides herself would leadMy MaryWho lives where noises never cease?And what wi' hogs and ducks and geeseCan never have a minutes peaceMy MaryW
so I’m just kind of waiting for the internet to get working, but don’t know too much about …I fly low, I’m in high demand, go fifteen feet over the rio grande …seldom seen especially when I land….treetop flyer...so the point of the matter is that we forgot what to say from the beg
Old stone pits all with ivy overhungRude crooked brooks oer which is idly flungA rail and plank that bends beneath the treadOld narrow lanes where trees meet over headAnd gaps through bramble hedges where we spyA steeple peeping in the stretching skyAnd heaths oer spread with furze blooms
I went to a karate class in Salem a few months ago. Much sweating was done, and the ache and tiredness of the muscles was staying with me as I drove back to Corvallis. The fog was rising up on the fields, and a I felt a thick and heavy spirit coming through the air. Something in t
mi corazón, es tarde y sin orillas, el día, come un pobre mantel puesto a secar oscila rodeado de seres y extensión, de cada ser viviente hay algo en la atmosféra, mirando mucho el aire parecerían mendigos, abogados, bandidos, carteros, costureras, un poco de cada oficio, un resto hu
the refrigerator sits full of juices in the corner the wooden chairs gleam in the light the sober reflections of mentalist ways through our changes the birds sit down, and the cats fly across the grass We all feel as if they are stand up men somewhere, editing themselves the houses sink down in
Some words on Patsy Patsy Todd was born in Compton, California, on August 3, 1929. She moved to Oregon in ’37 during the depression, picked fruit, and her father bought a farm and sold it in ’47, moved to the coast, built a motel, called the “Miles Motel”, went to Chemeketa, learned to weld
Thinking of my life, and how it has been going the last three months or so...I've been pretty stressed, seeing things that I didn't like, seeing people that seemed dangerous around town, and did the impression I have match with reality? I'm going to assume that it did. I've met a lot of people, a lot of good peo
I dreaded that first robin so, But he is mastered now, And I'm accustomed to him grown,-- He hurts a little, though. I thought if I could only live till that first shout got by Not all the pianos in the woods had power to mangle me. I wished the grass would hurry