%title Some stuffs.
%date 2004-04-12 15:12:09
:diary:livejournal:fossils:

But first, today.  Nothing terribly remarkable happened today, except more 'reminders of parenthood'.  I've gotten four of those so far: the song "When David Heard" by Eric Whitacre' "In the Gloaming" by.. um.. dunno, have to get the story from Missdoo; Mr. Revier's Talk on Columbine and some of the stuff that went with it; and Laocöon and his sons in Latin.  The last two occured today, and I left in the middle of both.  I can understand my feelings in response to these events, and how they're making me sympathize, even empathize with a parent's position in relation to their child, but what I can't understand is that this is being hammered in through the same situation in all cases: the child dying before the parent, and how the parent deals with it.  Perhaps it's a sigul, though I'm still pretty sure I don't want kids.  Maybe it has something to do with my urge to become a teacher.

Also, I woke up at 5 feeling outright hyper.  Still not sleepy.  Got two pieces of music in the mail today (Barber's Agnus Dei, and Whitacre's When David Heard), and borrowed a CD from Revier.  Randominity follows.
<details text="Randominity"><summary>Randominity</summary>

</details>
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<em>First line free write: 2nd person</em>
You have come, finally, to a safe place.  You have arrived at the point where it counts most, the point at which Life itself seems to fall away, leaving behind nothing of it's former shell: that blackened husk of body and mind that housed a bright bright star.  Years and years, it took, places and places and each day offering good and bad, but you, lucky you, saw past that, saw beyond the grid of your perception to see inside others, touching and caressing the bright points of light that were essentially them, cherishing each for not only their good points, but for their faults as well.  The energy flowed around and through you in the concentric spirals of [1st symbol] and the Bat Qol kept you clean and pure with the voice of God and the Buddha in me to the Buddha in you weaved everything  under the sun into Life itself.  This is Rapture.

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<em>The Uncertainty of the Poet</em>

I am a poet.
I am very fond of bananas.
                              
I am bananas.
I am very fond of a poet.

I am a poet of bananas.
I am very fond,

A fond poet of 'I am, I am' -
Very bananas,

Fond of 'Am I bananas,
Am I?' - a very poet.

Bananas of a poet!
Am I fond?  Am I very?

Poet bananas! I am.
I am fond of a 'very'.

I am of very fond bananas
Am I a poet?