The above is what we’ve been up to today. We, the IT dept. decided to be keys. I’m CTRL btw. Despite all the nerdiness I am rolling on the floor laughing right now. Muhahah ha ha.
oh and Happy Halloween!
Also check out In The Red by the same artist.
The heavens are calling you and wheel around you displaying to you their etheral beauties and still your eye is looking on the ground.
– Dante
I typed happiness into the DeviantArt search bar. It didnt define my idea of happiness. I was driving the night before last. From one end of Mississauga to the other. Radio on. Dusk. Beautiful skies, flaming maple. Feeling blissfully happy. Satisfied. Grateful for friends, family. A working brain. Functional limbs.
No one can make you happy. You choose to be so. You choose to structure your life in a manner that befits your temperament. You choose to look at everything in a positive light. If I were to look at a photograph of myself, I think I would find it difficult to recognise myself. Yet when I read something similar to how I think be it my penmanship or someone else’s, I can see myself in the concept. This is a very odd post. But I think I’ll post it anyway.
With regard to the subject, wake up and smell the roses.
Longed for him. Got him. Shit.
- Margaret Atwood
Wired got hold of various sci-fi, fantasy, horror writers and asked them to write 6 word stories. The result was this. I think the results would be more amusing for those who’ve read the works of some of them or tend to keep in touch with movies in these genres. Funny.
On a completely unrelated note: I think travelling allows one to see their own home in a different light. To respect it’s intricacies, it’s architecture, it’s beauty. I seem to be taking a lot of alternate routes of late; the Simcoe county detour on the way back from Algonquin; the Mt. Pleasant route versus Yonge St.; the excursion up to the begining of 10th Line in Georgetown in search of an elusive ranch and so forth. Sherbourne St. was today’s latest. Beautiful gothic architecture which I always thought was restricted to the U of T area and High Park. Wish I had had a camera. There were these slabs of concrete set up for flower beds on Wellesley St. Yet a minor modification involving carving deep forest green leaves in the sides of the concrete, made it seem homely. Odd. Oh and am off to Sudbury again in the second weekend of Nov. Wicked fun. Seriously.
Yes I know poetry is probably not attractive to most of the readers on this site. For some odd reason the majority seem to be techies, SF junkies and book lovers. But eitherways I am female (surprise surprise) and occasionally you’ll get hit with a fashion focused post or something soppy like this. All I can say is that I’ll try and restrict such to a couple a month. 
Song for the Girl Often Overlooked
Charmaine Cadeau
From the highway, your name
on a barnside
enacts desire,
makes everyone who drives by
call out to you.
Someone hand painted
you into this landscape,
what you are, what is had:
hint, root, lark. The looping
knot of wood, however planed,
suggests yielding,
a strong, open heart. You are lured
by roadside attractions: world’s biggest,
world’s only. Away from
any main drag, the smallest also
lean into you. At night, the empty
band shell at the park
lends a private concert:
bullfrogs, cricket song,
your song. In haloed
streetlamps, moths perform
shadow theatre, each one pretending to
be something else.
Worthiness, you think, has nothing
to do with love.
