HappyAcres (@HappyHectares) | Twitter
I can assure you Elizabeth Warren has already taken a DNA test.
— HappyAcres (@HappyHectares) March 12, 2018
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Previous post: “Live Not By Lies” — Alexander Solzhenitsyn
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
– – WH Auden
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
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The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.
BY GARY SNYDER
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
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That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
– – W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
Comments on this entry are closed.
Every time I see Land O’ Lakes box I remember a time way back in high school where someone cut the knees off the picture of the Land O’ Lakes girl and glued them on her chest… well it was high school funny.
I thought of the same thing. And it’s still funny! But what we did was cut the bottom and sides of the box she’s holding to make a flap, and then tape another set of knees behind the flap. So you had to lift the flap to get a peek. Surprisingly convincing!
You are absolutely right about that DNA test. Lies-As-She-Walks has suddenly become Spit-And-Shut Up.
I saw the same thing in jr high.
You cut out the butter box she’s holding.
Then you cut the sides of her knees the same width as the butter box hole.
Fold it in such a way that the knees become the titties.
Yung dooz got a kik outta that shit.
Still get a kick out of that juvenile trick. I think it works better if you use a second panel for the knees, and tape that piece behind the butter box, cut out on only three sides to form a flap. They used to have a box with the label “Tasty Butter Tips” that was ideal for the purpose.
The Fauxcahontas box design is hilarious, too. Now if we can only get President Trump to realize that her nickname is Fauxcahontas instead of Pocahontas . . . .
The DNA ethnicity tests are far from perfect, and I am not sure I would trust the results from any of the usual vendors. However, the results of very detailed genealogies are indisputable.
No matter, Fauxcahontas did not meet the federally-approved standard for being entitled for advancement as a Native American, in that she has zero-zilch-nada history of any involvement in any cultural or community activity whatsoever with any Native American group. I think it is only too clear that she claimed Cherokee ancestry to get a leg up at Harvard, and stopped claiming it when it was no longer necessary to further her career. That’s just despicable.
The matter of her family folklore is interesting but unsubstantiated. A similar example is the Hildebeast’s comment that she was named after Sir Edmund P Hillary – something that is manifestly impossible since Sir Edmund was an unknown New Zealand beekeeper when HRC was born, and did not become famous until some 7 years later. However, I think it is plausible that Hillary’s parents told her, when she was 7 or 8, that she had been named after Sir Edmund, and that she never thought that through and naively believed it all her life. So too, Fauxcahontas might have been told about Cherokee ancestry – but I think there is no evidence that anyone else in her family ever believed it.
My family is one that never claimed their Cherokee heritage. My great grandmother, a Cherokee, married my great grandfather who was a physician in Oklahoma. She would not allow her family to register when the government started establishing the native database because blacks were registering to avoid being labeled Negro. One of my aunts claimed her status, was involved for years in native American ceremonies and politics, and became close friends with Billy Mills, the Indian activist and 10K Olympic gold medalist in 1964. Tracing my mother’s family back 15 generations, my grandfather was a Major General at Jamestown, Virginia and survived the massacre by Indians on March 22, 1622 that killed some one-third of the colonists.
Fauxcahontas…*spit*