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Monday, January 30, 2006

I think it's so groovy now, that things are finally getting together...
smitkath.jpgYou may have noticed a change. 
 
We have some music up and running.  We have some movie (well, tv right now) recs.  There's a search engine powered by Google.
 
Things are moving up.  You are starting to see how this lifestyle empire is taking shape.  You are thoroughly impressed.  You are going to the drop a dime page to refer a friend.
 
Right now I will leave you with three words: South African wine.
It is great and underrated and is making my day much better right now.  Go here and get you a bottle.  I recommend Stellenbosch icon.
 
-Greezy-
11:16 pm est

Monday, January 23, 2006

Opening Volley
This is an initial shot across the bow of the H.M.S. Hateration.
IVY LEAGRO is up and at 'em and this world will never be the same. It's not perfect yet, we know, but stay tuned.
1:02 pm est


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Because Poetry is cool...




Reading in Place

Imagine a poem that starts with a couple
Looking into a valley, seeing their house, the lawn
Out back with its wooden chairs, its shady patches of green,
Its wooden fence, and beyond the fence the rippled silver sheen
Of the local pond, its far side a tangle of sumac, crimson
In the fading light. Now imagine somebody reading the poem
And thinking, "I never guessed it would be like this,"
Then slipping it into the back of a book while the oblivious
Couple, feeling nothing is lost, not even the white
Streak of a flicker's tail that catches their eye, nor the slight
Toss of leaves in the wind, shift their gaze to the wooded dome
Of a nearby hill where the violet spread of dusk begins,
But the reader, out for a stroll in the autumn night, with all
The imprisoned sounds of nature dying around him, forgets
Not only the poem, but where he is, and thinks instead
Of a bleak Venetian mirror that hangs in a hall
By a curving stair, and how the stars in the sky's black glass
Sink down and the sea heaves them ashore like foam.
So much adrift in the ever-opening rooms of elsewhere,
He cannot remember whose house it was, or when he was there.
Now imagine he sits years later under a lamp
And pulls a book from the shelf; the poem drops
To his lap. The couple are crossing a field
On their way home, still feeling that nothing is lost,
That they will continue to live harm-free, sealed
In the twilight's amber weather. But how will the reader know,
Especially now that he puts the poem, without looking,
Back in the book, the book where a poet stares at the sky
And says to a blank page, "Where, where in Heaven am I?"


Mark Strand

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