<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/platform.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar/7877270996218903411?origin\x3dhttp://curious20something.blogspot.com', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>
Moi
Journal
Bookmarks
Archives
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Hey!
I've been through some internal ups and downs these days! Funny! Mostly, I have been discovering my new places with KK. We found the most delicious cheesecake, the most fascinating area to live (where I stepped on dog poop), brunch twice at overpriced sushi, eat, eat and eat. And finally, rediscovering my fondness of classical piano. Which I'm taking up again now. And did I mention we studied in a cafe with live jazz playing?

It's funny that although I miss Husky, it seems that I have so many things to do and so many things coming up that I don't even have the time to feel lonely. I mean, when all my partners in crime are gone, shops and boutiques are dressed in summer fashion! Oh and the sun! It's so glorious! It's 18 degrees out there and everyone is wearing shorts and summer dresses.


Sailing to Byzantium
by William Butler Yeats
- 1927

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.
...