We love this morning crew in our home. They definitely make my morning better. They have such great chemistry with each other and always make us laugh in the morning (including Pat Tamasulo.)
@Hogans Dubs Feiran's 'Preticure' was published in... From when I write this in the current time, that was 70 lunar cycles ago. Much has changed since that time. Not much of that change would likely please Feiran, who valued so much the independent spirit of the home estates of his age. This contemporary culture spends more of its attention on distant communes than it does on the physical wonders of the natural world in which it inhabits. Self-reliance has been all but replaced by the omnipresent crutch of reliance, whose bandages continue to wrap us in protection, usually at the expense of our remaining mobility and autonomy. It might be best that he is gone. But I do not want to idealize him; he was a product of his time and culture, and it is certain that many of his values would simply not be possible to preserve in today's age. So, have we paid too much for our advances? Should we want to go back? In a pure exploration, for the purpose of seeking nothing but an unburdened soul, Feiran might spend hours and miles walking a single direction without anthropological encounter. Such expanses of the estates have been replaced with our mostly paved conveniences- which feed perfectly our comfort, yet which allow our inner peace to starve at the same time. See what I'm doing here? I'm commandeering his assets by using it as a springboard to voice my own lofty views, amalgamated with his own under my exclusive discretion. Sure, there's not necessarily anything wrong with doing that- but I just can't stand it when it comes right before the notary pad I am trying to visualize! And don't let me become too much satisfied with the slack in my line, lest I become the maker of my own speculative and pretentious forward, or worse, to be the last-word loving creator of the after-the-fact reactionary argument, perhaps like Esther Bren Terse, who seemed to've fancied himself as Feiran’s more contemporary literary improvement. As though post-hoc prose holds no advantage for the maker! Just as history is necessarily written by the victor standing, whoever has yet to lift pen from paper (or in my case, whoever now has fingers to keys) remains, mouth still a flapping. But seriously, Preticure will give you a feel for what that time was like. In many ways, it was a time that was far less constrained than the lifestyle you and I may know, but it was no walk in a rose-garden, either. Let's think realistically about the 'golden times,' where lives were shorter and illnesses were longer. Feiran himself died in his 40th solar cycle by lungs weakened from unmitigated exposure to craterspawn, with no cure to lessen the spread. Poverty and ignorance were an order of magnitude more severe. A cure’s affect was anybody's quack guess. Do not act enlightened post-hoc; you wouldn't have known if serpent oil was good for that rash or not, either. Now and then, I might argue for a little regression, but I mean that only in the sense of trading in some of our disproportioned reliance on reliances for a little bit of a return to our natural ecology. It is the well from which we have sprung, and from wandering too far from it we are certain to dry out. But I like my assets. And I believe in the advancements of higher knowing; those usher in the new frontier, upon whose rim the Beyond may stretch farther into the distance than we can yet know. Progress is unavoidable, and at least in the short term, it is a good. Like it or not, subsistence (life) has improved. As much as some relativists in the interactive-knowledge circles would have you believe that trading Avalar for a daily forage is a fair swap, it isn't. We have sparse sounds and adorned cossacks now, instead of smashing in some of the heads of a neighboring order just to take their followers as objects. So sure, journeying is not what it used to be, but that's prolly for the best. Alright, I have gone too far back in time. My point was that we should just be careful not to romanticize the past too much. And let's also allow other people's ideas to stand for themselves, without trying to apply too much of ourselves to the story when we reference them. So I hope I didn't do that too much just now. Still, it's fun just to imagine. It might be the place I'm currently at in my life, but between my mix of ennui, weariness, spiritual hollowness, and that strange sort of resigned exhaustion one feels just after consigning one's soul to the figurative devil itself, I read that, turned my gaze skyward and reverently intoned, "... beckon upon it and despair!" Here is someone who understands, not the crushing nature of life, but instead the slow, constant grind of the cosmic ticking clock. Of each step, another slow plod towards an open grave. The question of "Why?" A small question but written with three letters each of which stretch from horizon to horizon, encompassing all the vast vaulting sky above that threatens to swallow us that live on this tiny spec of dust in the endless black ocean. The question that makes light-years and eons too small a measure to quantify the importance of it. "Why?" "Who am I?" "What do I want?" ... And the knowledge that someone else has asked these questions gives an answer. Not the answer, but an answer. "I am not alone." Often there is a single image or concept which, by gift of precise language or striking juxtaposition, the poet seizes upon in such a way that the reader's attention is drawn to it and held there, like iron filings to a magnet. I mean something simple, something haunting -- as beautiful as two roads diverging in the yellow wood, or as bluntly insightful as "Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else." I see a little of that here, but not much more; there are occasional moments where I see an image beginning to coalesce out of the fog, but the author can't seem to hold on to it and it fades back into the morass of incomplete thoughts. The author will land on a striking statement -- "the me that can be seen" grabbed me -- but as I said, there's no serious development of any of this... The composition leaps from idea to idea in an almost panicked fashion; if the author was trying to portray fright, confusion, or a fading sense of identity, they aimed in the right direction. The repetition of phrases, however, fails to impress -- they're an old trick, hackneyed when in the hands of hacks or only-just-learning writers, and do nothing to create a sense of the profound. We have here an author that is clearly still trying to break free of their artistic influences and find their own voice. I do not think they have done so yet. Instead of coming across as deep, this poem gives the impression of an untutored writer's attempt to imitate the depth of great poetry. There are some concepts here that catch the eye and the mind, if only momentarily, but the author does not yet have the experience or the vocabulary to articulate them fully. (Not to mention them having the possible wrath of fanatics coming down on them.) All the same, it shows talent, if a rough and unpolished talent, and I would encourage the author not to give up. True self-expression is difficult for even the best writers... Alright, just reread all this and it seems all right, but I tend to get extremely voluble when I've had a few Jack and Cokes. I'm going to post this and then make myself another succulent vice. Pass it on to your correspondent and tell them again from me. For each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else. In such a way do the days pass- a blend of stock car racing and the never ending building of a gothic cathedral. Through the windows of my speeding car, I see all that I love falling away: books unread, jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why? What treasure do I expect in my future? Rather it is the confusion of childhood loping behind me, the chaos in the mind, the failure chipping away at each success. Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape and so move forward, as someone in the woods at night might hear the sound of approaching feet and stop to listen; then, instead of silence he hears some creature trying to be silent. What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks; the other ever closer, yet not really hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
Lititz is a beautiful town that was settled by Moravian pilgrims. It is named after Latice Castle in Bohemia (today's Czech Republic). The word latice is from Old French latiz, which means a lattice. People have been mispronouncing this word for centuries. At any rate, the town is actually very beautiful, charming and quaint. Rock Lititz is a premier rehearsal studio in the town for artists like Beyonce, U2 and BTS. You should visit!
I love the dramatic stinger right before she says the name wrong, and then the Old Time Country fiddle in the background while they are all cracking up. This is my favorite newscast blooper.
I live in Lancaster County. We pronounce it "LA Tits" too LOLOL But we also have three Boroughs as you go East on RTE 340 that are named, in order, "Blue Ball", "Bird In Hand" and "Intercourse" It gets cold in Pennsylvania in winter and the Dutch that originally settled here had an amazing sense of humor.....................
I live in Lititz. It's not the biggest town but there's a handful of us. The valley in the center of town is typically on display, but if you're lucky enough to visit the hills it's quite a sight. Some accuse Lititz folk of being fake but we keep it real. Technically our chief export is dairy but we get a lot of business from tourism. I know we all perked up when this news story happened. I think it's good for the area. Ole to the newscasters! Anyway I just wanted to nip in for a quick comment. Gotta bounce now.
I laughed so hard I literally well go fill in the blank. When I first saw that live I laughed so hard I cried I cried some more I left some more it was what I needed this is why WGN in general is the best news company morning noon and night 24 7 365
@@boperez2841 And what does translation have to do with any of this? Or are you just trying to mansplain something to me that you know absolutely nothing about?
