Hey guys and gals. Hope this Sunday is a great one. It's all rainy here. It's good though, the colors are all poppin out cuz spring's a'comin!
Thought I'd start this blog post off with a little bit of poetry. Walt Whitman is one of my favorite poets. He's so tender and strong and his poetry has the voice of nature.
This is an excerpt from his poem "Pioneers! O Pioneers!" When I read it I thought of a concept I learned from a book (I can't take credit for this little gem). I don't remember the title of the book, but I do remember there was a sea-shell as the cover art. Anyways, it said that everyone is a pioneer in their own life. No one has ever partaken in the journey we each venture on. We all have our own journey to tread and it's different and difficult in ways that are unique from others. Of course there are overlapping things, but we're all different people with different strengths and capabilities. No one can really know what the best decision is for you or me, we've all got to figure it out on our own. That makes things scary. That makes things fun and it makes things beautiful.
Mmmmmmmm deep thoughts.
Now Whitman!
"We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we and
piercing deep the mines within,
We the surface broad surveying, we the
virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!"
Now, the title of this post is "yoga, baby" and you're probably wondering whyyyy is it labeled yoga baby when she's talking about Walt Whitman? The answer: no idea. I will talk about yoga though, right now actually.
Yoga! I've been doing yoga for a couple of months now. I got stressed out at the end of last semester and so I picked it up. I'm not a huge go to the gym type gal. I really like to weight lift but it gets kind of boring doing it on your own. Anyways, yoga has been my little savior. It's so easy to pick up and fun to do. I've learned a lot of poses from going to classes and watching videos on Youtube. I've gotten sweaty and sore, so you know it's good and workin.
I recently found this little lady on Youtube:
I've been doing this in the morning now and it's fantastic. When I learn the routine entirely without Tara's help I think I'll do it a bit slower, though. Longer breaths in between and what not.
Here's another one that I have yet to try:
I'm excited about trying it. It'll most likely bust my buns but I'm ready. Bring it Tara Stiles! Not really though, I have a feeling she has a lot tougher stuff up her sleeve...
So basically I just wanted to share the great videos that get me all ready to go in the morning.
Cigarette Epiphany
Hey, so I've been rolling my own cigarettes for a while now. "While" means a month. Two months max. Just to give you a general idea. I still suck pretty badly at it and they're so skinny and loose so it's hard to keep one lit sometimes. Other times it's all miraculous and tight (never full though) and I feel so accomplished as I'm puffing and the ring of orange is steadily edging towards me. Relighting cigarettes suuuucks. I feel so stupid. I'm like, "hold up...let me redo this..." It ruins the whole groove of the thing.
As I rolled up a cigarette tonight for a good nighttime smoke I realized something. I like everything natural. This wasn't breaking news to me or to anybody that knows me. It was a deeper understanding of the thing, I think.
I try and eat all organic food. If it's not organic than it's as close to natural as possible (unprocessed). It freaks me the heck out when I devour chemicals in any fashion. I started rolling cigarettes because it's cheaper than spending five to seven dollars on the packs of cigarettes with no chemicals in them. A bag of natural tobacco (not organic-should probably look into that. Pesticides! Ahhhh!!!!) and rolling papers was a whopping $3. SCORE! I continue smoking them for various reasons.
I know, I know, it seems all hypocritical that I'm smoking cigarettes and I'm a health freak. Well, whatever. I enjoy smoking and if you've seen my pathetic little rolled cigarettes you wouldn't be that worried. I don't consume enough tobacco in a day to wound a 5 year old child, I'm sure. There's also a paper mill right down the road billowing out stacks of smoke into our atmosphere. Meeeeeehhhh....I think I'll light one up on occasion.
Anyways, I digress...
I'm doing a project for my last psychology class EVER (probably). It's on evolutionary psychology. This was the big thing I realized while nic-ing myself up on this wet and windy evening: I'm drawn to evolutionary psychology because it's natural. I could never tell why I liked it so much. It wasn't because I believed it wholeheartedly or because I'm like "yeah Darwin! Oh my gosh, you were right about everything!" I am just naturally drawn to a natural explanation to our everyday lives.
Pretty neat. Now I'm going to go lounge in the nude and make some daisy chains. Perhaps romp around in the mud and do a rain dance later on too.
Namaste! OM
I try and eat all organic food. If it's not organic than it's as close to natural as possible (unprocessed). It freaks me the heck out when I devour chemicals in any fashion. I started rolling cigarettes because it's cheaper than spending five to seven dollars on the packs of cigarettes with no chemicals in them. A bag of natural tobacco (not organic-should probably look into that. Pesticides! Ahhhh!!!!) and rolling papers was a whopping $3. SCORE! I continue smoking them for various reasons.
I know, I know, it seems all hypocritical that I'm smoking cigarettes and I'm a health freak. Well, whatever. I enjoy smoking and if you've seen my pathetic little rolled cigarettes you wouldn't be that worried. I don't consume enough tobacco in a day to wound a 5 year old child, I'm sure. There's also a paper mill right down the road billowing out stacks of smoke into our atmosphere. Meeeeeehhhh....I think I'll light one up on occasion.
Anyways, I digress...
Pretty neat. Now I'm going to go lounge in the nude and make some daisy chains. Perhaps romp around in the mud and do a rain dance later on too.
Namaste! OM
Mario Savio
"There's a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious—makes you so sick at heart—that you can't take part. You can't even passively take part. And you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all."
I'm doing research on Berkeley in the sixties for a story I'm writing. Originally it was for background info for a love story (ewww, yeah I know). Now it's morphing into something I wasn't expecting. I'm not exactly sure what it's turning into but if I see it as something worth talking about, I'll keep you guys posted. In the mean time, I'll post stuff that's interesting. I find this interesting. DOWN WITH THE MAN, you know? Yeah.
I'm doing research on Berkeley in the sixties for a story I'm writing. Originally it was for background info for a love story (ewww, yeah I know). Now it's morphing into something I wasn't expecting. I'm not exactly sure what it's turning into but if I see it as something worth talking about, I'll keep you guys posted. In the mean time, I'll post stuff that's interesting. I find this interesting. DOWN WITH THE MAN, you know? Yeah.
BEER CUPCAKES
Oh, uhm, hey. What did I have for dinner tonight? Cupcakes, Beer Geek Cupcakes with Salted Carmel. "What was that?" you might say. Oh, you heard me correctly. Cupcakes with beer in them, topped with a salty-sweet compilation. Why is this not my diet all the time?
Here's the recipe
Found on this blog
I made them with a Milk Stout by Left Hand Brewing Company. It was deeelish. I love slurping down this beer anyway but putting it into a cupcake just made all my wildest dreams come true. The recipe only called for one cup so I drank the rest accompanied with a finished cupcake. MMmmmm...
Oh and I'm staying up late to finish making this soup. It calls for 2 cups of broth but I used way more than that. I started out with 2 cups but was like "uhm, what is this? This is not right." So I dumped the entire 32 oz. box of Swanson's Organic Vegetable Broth in and then was like "oh yes, this looks right." I also let it cook a tad longer so that the ginger wouldn't be as pungent.
(ps. tons of feta cheese in this soup is uh-mazing)
I guess it's obvious what I spend my time doing: lurking about on food blogs looking for recipes.Whateves.
Here's the recipe
Found on this blog
I made them with a Milk Stout by Left Hand Brewing Company. It was deeelish. I love slurping down this beer anyway but putting it into a cupcake just made all my wildest dreams come true. The recipe only called for one cup so I drank the rest accompanied with a finished cupcake. MMmmmm...
Oh and I'm staying up late to finish making this soup. It calls for 2 cups of broth but I used way more than that. I started out with 2 cups but was like "uhm, what is this? This is not right." So I dumped the entire 32 oz. box of Swanson's Organic Vegetable Broth in and then was like "oh yes, this looks right." I also let it cook a tad longer so that the ginger wouldn't be as pungent.
(ps. tons of feta cheese in this soup is uh-mazing)
I guess it's obvious what I spend my time doing: lurking about on food blogs looking for recipes.Whateves.
Mythopoeia
So I post a lot of poetry.
This is a poem written by JRR Tolkien for C.S. Lewis. It's friggen lovely.
"Philomythus to Misomythus
You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.
At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o'er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not 'trees', until so named and seen
and never were so named, tifi those had been
who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.
He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers bencath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.
Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.
Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.
Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.
Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.
I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.
I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.
In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All."
Tolkien and I have in common that we both fell in love with trees at an early age. I guess that's what I get for growing up in Appalachia. Who gets out of here without some kind of nature infatuation?
This is a poem written by JRR Tolkien for C.S. Lewis. It's friggen lovely.
"Philomythus to Misomythus
You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.
At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o'er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not 'trees', until so named and seen
and never were so named, tifi those had been
who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.
He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers bencath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.
Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.
Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.
Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.
Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.
I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.
I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.
In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All."
Tolkien and I have in common that we both fell in love with trees at an early age. I guess that's what I get for growing up in Appalachia. Who gets out of here without some kind of nature infatuation?
"My sacrifice, O God, is a contrite spirit"
Today is the First Friday in Lent, the Readings for Mass spoke about fasting. I tend to get stressed out about depriving myself of something. I'm all like "ah man, is this penitential enough?" And then it turns into a whole fixation about being "penitential" rather than doing for God and growing closer to Him (which is kind of the point).
"Thus says the Lord GOD:
Cry out full-throated and unsparingly,
lift up your voice like a trumpet blast;
Tell my people their wickedness,
and the house of Jacob their sins.
They seek me day after day,
and desire to know my ways,
Like a nation that has done what is just
and not abandoned the law of their God;
They ask me to declare what is due them,
pleased to gain access to God.
“Why do we fast, and you do not see it?
afflict ourselves, and you take no note of it?”
Lo, on your fast day you carry out your own pursuits,
and drive all your laborers.
Yes, your fast ends in quarreling and fighting,
striking with wicked claw.
Would that today you might fast
so as to make your voice heard on high!
Is this the manner of fasting I wish,
of keeping a day of penance:
That a man bow his head like a reed
and lie in sackcloth and ashes?
Do you call this a fast,
a day acceptable to the LORD?
This, rather, is the fasting that I wish:
releasing those bound unjustly,
untying the thongs of the yoke;
Setting free the oppressed,
breaking every yoke;
Sharing your bread with the hungry,
sheltering the oppressed and the homeless;
Clothing the naked when you see them,
and not turning your back on your own.
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your wound shall quickly be healed;
Your vindication shall go before you,
and the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer,
you shall cry for help, and he will say: Here I am!"
Isaiah 58: 1-9
This was more about what is to be done rather than what is not to be done, making the focus to give rather than what to do without. Less focus on "me" and more about "other", ultimately, Christ. Focusing on another lends itself to depriving the self of what it wants for the sake of a higher good. I am NOT saying that giving stuff up for Lent is a bad thing. If you're anything like me the giving up part becomes the focus and Christ takes the back-burner. The purpose of Lent is to bring Christ to the front. Focusing on "what I'm to do without" is just another way of making "me" the focus. If that is what happens through fasting, how is it any different from all the other days and times of the year? Except this time you're just more pissed off because you're not getting what you want. This is just another way, perhaps a more dangerous way, of becoming prideful. It's a slippery slope. It becomes tantalizing to "declare to God what is due to you" just like the people were doing in Isaiah. You become worthy. That, my friends, is not what Lent is about. There is no way to buy God's affection or be worth heaven other than having a relationship with God (because, hint: you're not doing it). The point is and always will be Christ and Christ is love. So get your fast on, but do it with the mind of Christ, not of yourself. Lent is about renewing Christ's reign over your life not getting control in a whole new way.
PAX CHRISTI!
"Thus says the Lord GOD:
Cry out full-throated and unsparingly,
lift up your voice like a trumpet blast;
Tell my people their wickedness,
and the house of Jacob their sins.
They seek me day after day,
and desire to know my ways,
Like a nation that has done what is just
and not abandoned the law of their God;
They ask me to declare what is due them,
pleased to gain access to God.
“Why do we fast, and you do not see it?
afflict ourselves, and you take no note of it?”
Lo, on your fast day you carry out your own pursuits,
and drive all your laborers.
Yes, your fast ends in quarreling and fighting,
striking with wicked claw.
Would that today you might fast
so as to make your voice heard on high!
Is this the manner of fasting I wish,
of keeping a day of penance:
That a man bow his head like a reed
and lie in sackcloth and ashes?
Do you call this a fast,
a day acceptable to the LORD?
This, rather, is the fasting that I wish:
releasing those bound unjustly,
untying the thongs of the yoke;
Setting free the oppressed,
breaking every yoke;
Sharing your bread with the hungry,
sheltering the oppressed and the homeless;
Clothing the naked when you see them,
and not turning your back on your own.
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your wound shall quickly be healed;
Your vindication shall go before you,
and the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer,
you shall cry for help, and he will say: Here I am!"
Isaiah 58: 1-9
This was more about what is to be done rather than what is not to be done, making the focus to give rather than what to do without. Less focus on "me" and more about "other", ultimately, Christ. Focusing on another lends itself to depriving the self of what it wants for the sake of a higher good. I am NOT saying that giving stuff up for Lent is a bad thing. If you're anything like me the giving up part becomes the focus and Christ takes the back-burner. The purpose of Lent is to bring Christ to the front. Focusing on "what I'm to do without" is just another way of making "me" the focus. If that is what happens through fasting, how is it any different from all the other days and times of the year? Except this time you're just more pissed off because you're not getting what you want. This is just another way, perhaps a more dangerous way, of becoming prideful. It's a slippery slope. It becomes tantalizing to "declare to God what is due to you" just like the people were doing in Isaiah. You become worthy. That, my friends, is not what Lent is about. There is no way to buy God's affection or be worth heaven other than having a relationship with God (because, hint: you're not doing it). The point is and always will be Christ and Christ is love. So get your fast on, but do it with the mind of Christ, not of yourself. Lent is about renewing Christ's reign over your life not getting control in a whole new way.
PAX CHRISTI!
just thought everyone should know
I thought my coffee grinder was broken, but it's not. How joyous is that? Fresh ground coffee is not a joke. It's not. Especially when you have a five pound bag of whole bean coffee just waiting for you in your cupboard. It's never okay to neglect it. So, it's those little things that make you grateful I guess. Coffee grinder, this one's for you. Thanks.
John William Waterhouse
...Painted this masterpiece. Femininity explodes from the picture from her delicate hand, to the way she stands. She's also wearing an inscrutable expression and so calm during the storm, with the wind whipping and pushing her just like the trees.
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