Category Archives: Culture

Stupid Outing

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On Saturday, August 22, 2009 it was our 17th Wedding Anniversary. We went to the High Museum of Art in Atlanta as planned (see previous post) & I finally saw one of my favorite painters paintings in the Monet Water Lilies special exhibition which was ending on the 23rd of August. In that exhibit you were allowed to take photos and share them but ONLY with CELL Phones. I have a good 3 MP Palm Pre so I probably have some decent photos. I have them on my computer, but I haven’t uploaded them to Flickr yet. I intended to earlier than this, to write about it and upload the photos, but things are difficult in where I can use my laptop and the time I have to do things like this is so very limited in more ways than that. So the elegant thoughts I had about the Monet outing are lost in my brain for now, maybe forever.

In any case, we brought the whole family back on Sunday afternoon. I wanted them to get to see the Monet exhibit now, not have to wait until someday we were somewhere in which it could be seen. I enjoyed all the views I had of it on Saturday, and really enjoyed it again on Sunday. We started Sunday with Monet and then looked at other things, and then went back to the Monet Exhibition again to end the outing.

It was spectacular to be in the rooms with the huge paintings that Claude Monet himself actually painted. I took one of them and made that my phone background, and another and made a background for my Twitter page. I’ll get the photos organized and onto my Flickr pages and then hopefully be able to post about it better another time.

Waiting … always

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There’s a bright blue sky, sun shining even brighter, and I feel so blah. I feel bad for things going on and my messy house and lack of direction for this and that and lack of feeling connected.

There is always tomorrow, though.

I do think that some might think me “depressed” when reading what I write, or hearing what I sometimes say. That’s just not possible for me though, for there is always tomorrow, always hope. :)

That’s one smile. I don’t feel it though, in real life, it’s out there far from me right now. I love my family but hate this house and the tediousness of organizing and getting others MOTIVATED. UGH!!!!

I have such hopeful ideas that just never see the light of day. I have a voice which no one can hear. So I wait, just as usual, every day, I wait. (I loathe the “waiting line” …)

Compassion

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COMPASSION, n.

1. A suffering with another; painful sympathy; a sensation of sorrow excited by the distress or misfortunes of another; pity; commiseration. Compassion is a mixed passion, compounded of love and sorrow; at least some portion of love generally attends the pain or regret, or is excited by it. Extreme distress of an enemy even changes enmity into at least temporary affection.

He being full of compassion, forgave their iniquity. Ps. 78.

His father had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. Luke 15.

link

Biblical Christianity and Catastrophes

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Bret McAtee has a great post about the New Orleans situation and Biblical Christianity.

If y’all have read my earlier Hurricane Katrina posts, you might know that I have heard the “cess pool” term used in description of New Orleans, physically, on TWC and remarked at how that is a spiritually fitting term, also I have spoken of the temporal situation of this situation and that the soul is what matters here, not the stuff. It all goes to what Bret writes on the Backwater Report.

Note: Bret also has this posted on his site “acidink”.

Ode to a Lizzard

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Ode to a Lizzard

Death came quickly
to your doorstep

I tried to protect you
but all in vain

For I was the one
who wielded the weapon

I was the one who
caused you the pain

I cried with sorrow
at your passing

I cried with guilt
I cried with shame

But those around
me stared and mocked me

And will no longer
remember your name

by Marysue S.

——

I wrote the short poem above many years ago. I was still living at home (late teens, early 20′s), and some incident in my family’s living room caused this ode to form in my mind. The exact circumstances elude me. The sentiments in the poem tell the tale in full though, without recalling the exact details. I wrote it down right away.

I recall writing this. I recall the tears. The sorrow. I cannot, though, recall exactly what happened at the event. Something my mother did resulted in me dropping something is the best my fuzzy memory can recall, but it’s not surety.