tribulations

scenes from momerica

been on the road for 8 days now and here is some of what i saw

hit the road

bring it with you when you come

This is the last of the images I've been saving on my work computer. Today is my last day here so I am with a heavy heart as I post these. May the trouble I've felt disappear into the love I feel.

spin it right round

going to dance the night away in honor of a favorite disco queen. RIP Donna Summer.



photo pulled from this wonderful flickr page

Lattice Degeneration

only a month left on this fine shoreline. i'm starting to get a tad teary eyed. i wish the south was more forgiving and accepting. as excited as i am for washington i can't help but long for the mountains of nc. why o why do you have to hate everything i am/love/stand for?

rosin the bow.

I've always been cheerful and easy, And scarce have I needed a foe. While some after money run crazy, I merrily Rosin'd the Bow.

Some youngsters were panting for fashions, Some new kick seemed now all the go, But having no turbulent passions, My motto was "Rosin the Bow."

So kindly my parents besought me, No longer a roving to go, And friends whom I thought had forgot me, With gladness met Rosin the Bow.

My young day I spent all in roving, But never was vicious, no, no; But somehow I loved to keep moving, And cheerfully Rosin'd the Bow.

In country or city, no matter, Too often I never could go, My presence all sadness would scatter, So cheerful was Rosin the Bow.

The old people always grew merry, Young faces with pleasure did glow, While lips with the red of cherry, Sipped "bliss to old Rosin the Bow."

While sweetly I played on my viol, In measures so soft and so slow, Old Time stopped the shade on the dial, To listen to Rosin the Bow.

And thou my sweet prime I've been spending, When friendship made glasses ere now, No pang of remorse is now rending, The bosom of Rosin the Bow.

And peacefully now I am sinking, From all this sweet world can bestow, But Heaven's kind mercy I'm thinking, Provides for old Rosin the Bow.

Now soon some still Sunday morning, The first thing the neighbors will know, Their ears will be met with the warning, To bury old Rosin the Bow.

My friends will then so neatly dress me, In linen as white as the snow, And in my new coffin they'll press me, And whisper "poor Rosin the Bow."

Then lone with my head on the pillow, In peace I'll be sleeping below, The grass and the breeze shaken willow, That waves over Rosin the Bow.

the big chief

really wish i could have seen the parade. ang + i some buds some more buds and of course some feathers too.