redheadedfemme: (open the door)
Well. This is sad. 

Author Ray Bradbury Dies at 91

On my Delicious account, I just linked to the poem that inspired one of his best stories, "There Will Come Soft Rains." (The story can be found here.) Written in 1950, it's an old-fashioned kind of science-fiction story, perhaps, but Bradbury's unique, iconoclastic style cannot be mistaken. 

It's too bad we don't have the future he wrote about (except for the nuclear holocaust, obviously). I could think of a lot worse things than living in Bradbury country. 
redheadedfemme: (open the door)
Well. This is sad. 

Author Ray Bradbury Dies at 91

On my Delicious account, I just linked to the poem that inspired one of his best stories, "There Will Come Soft Rains." (The story can be found here.) Written in 1950, it's an old-fashioned kind of science-fiction story, perhaps, but Bradbury's unique, iconoclastic style cannot be mistaken. 

It's too bad we don't have the future he wrote about (except for the nuclear holocaust, obviously). I could think of a lot worse things than living in Bradbury country. 
redheadedfemme: (old woman no regrets)
Just in case anybody cares--

I didn't cook anything for Thanksgiving. Little Caesar's cooked an Ultimate Supreme pizza for me.

I didn't go to Walmart, or any other store, at Thursday midnight or any other time. If I'm going to buy anything, I'll buy it online. I don't need ANYTHING that bad, to risk being shoved, yelled at, shot and pepper-sprayed. 

You know what? I'm a helluva lot happier. 
Tags:
redheadedfemme: (old woman no regrets)
Just in case anybody cares--

I didn't cook anything for Thanksgiving. Little Caesar's cooked an Ultimate Supreme pizza for me.

I didn't go to Walmart, or any other store, at Thursday midnight or any other time. If I'm going to buy anything, I'll buy it online. I don't need ANYTHING that bad, to risk being shoved, yelled at, shot and pepper-sprayed. 

You know what? I'm a helluva lot happier. 
Tags:
redheadedfemme: (television)

Today in my dinky little hometown paper, there were--count 'em!--FIVE articles about Tiger Woods.

Talk about overkill.

I'm glad I no longer watch much TV (except for Rachel Maddow). I cannot understand why modern, more-than-half-batshit-crazy America is so obsessed with this sort of thing (along with reality shows). The only reason Tiger held this public humiliation in the first place was to keep from losing any more corporate sponsors. (And one can bet said *white male* corporations were very happy to see him put in his place.) It's no one's business but him and Elin's who he screwed, and it's up to them to work out their problems and save the marriage, if they want to.

The rest of us should neither know nor care.

It's really pathetic to see fellow golfers (and other publicity-hungry hangers-on) raking Tiger over the coals and making comments about a situation that is none of their concern. Of course, there are all kinds of societal and patriarchal undercurrents to this, as others have commented on. Those issues deserve to be written about.

Tiger and the state of his marriage do not.

I'll let William Blake have the final word.

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 
redheadedfemme: (television)

Today in my dinky little hometown paper, there were--count 'em!--FIVE articles about Tiger Woods.

Talk about overkill.

I'm glad I no longer watch much TV (except for Rachel Maddow). I cannot understand why modern, more-than-half-batshit-crazy America is so obsessed with this sort of thing (along with reality shows). The only reason Tiger held this public humiliation in the first place was to keep from losing any more corporate sponsors. (And one can bet said *white male* corporations were very happy to see him put in his place.) It's no one's business but him and Elin's who he screwed, and it's up to them to work out their problems and save the marriage, if they want to.

The rest of us should neither know nor care.

It's really pathetic to see fellow golfers (and other publicity-hungry hangers-on) raking Tiger over the coals and making comments about a situation that is none of their concern. Of course, there are all kinds of societal and patriarchal undercurrents to this, as others have commented on. Those issues deserve to be written about.

Tiger and the state of his marriage do not.

I'll let William Blake have the final word.

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 
redheadedfemme: (driving like a psycho)
Gas prices have been falling dramatically where I live, sometimes as much as ten cents per day. For instance, when I came home this evening, the price for regular unleaded at Fry's was $2.55.

How much is it where y'all are at? 
Tags:
redheadedfemme: (driving like a psycho)
Gas prices have been falling dramatically where I live, sometimes as much as ten cents per day. For instance, when I came home this evening, the price for regular unleaded at Fry's was $2.55.

How much is it where y'all are at? 
Tags:
redheadedfemme: (my words...my soul)


This is the saddest, most beautiful song I have ever heard. Beth Nielsen Chapman wrote it after the death of her husband. If you watch it, be warned: it's a three-hankie at least.

God, I wish I could write like that.
redheadedfemme: (my words...my soul)


This is the saddest, most beautiful song I have ever heard. Beth Nielsen Chapman wrote it after the death of her husband. If you watch it, be warned: it's a three-hankie at least.

God, I wish I could write like that.

June 2017

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Words To Live By

Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of a job: it’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins. ~Neil Gaiman

Of course I am not worried about intimidating men. The type of man who will be intimidated by me is exactly the type of man I have no interest in. ~Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The road to hell is paved with adverbs. ~Stephen King

The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read. ~Mark Twain

I feel free and strong. If I were not a reader of books I could not feel this way. ~Walter Tevis

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one. ~George R.R. Martin

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