love never dies

skewed data

what is the most fucked up thing you used to think as a child?

Source:  http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/iwe4o/whats_the_most_fucked_up_thing_you_used_to_think/c2773qq

Norwegian Redditor reacts on the recent bombing/shooting massacre

Source: http://www.reddit.com/r/worldnews/comments/ixc7a/atleast_80_people_killed_in_ut%C3%B8ya_massacre/c27eu8t

Gold Diggers

Work

fuck everything about this

Source:  http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ln9aa10UAg1qzqlvro1_500.png

shame

SOURCE:  http://rainbowsqueeze.tumblr.com/post/5595977003/gpoy

relationships 1 - being linear

source:  http://cowbirdsinlove.com/1098

OR CHOSE THIS.

Who's Gonna Save My Soul

I'm Still Here

SAVE PBS

click image to enlarge

Infographic by:  CHRIS BISHOP

When he died, his wife commissioned this sculpture as an expression of her love for him

Sculpture by Peter Schipperheyn, "Asleep"

Source:  Mt Macedon Cemetery in Victoria, Australia

100% Perfect Girl by Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

stay or leave

Stay or leave

I want you not to go

But you should

It was good as good goes

Stay or leave

I want you not to go

But you did

So what to do

With the rest of the day's afternoon hey

Isn't it strange how we change

Everything we did

Did I do all that i should

That I coulda done

Remember we used to dance

And everyone wanted to be

You and me

I want to be too

What day is this

Besides the day you left me

What day is this

Besides the day you went

- Dave Matthews Band

No Matter How Lonely

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

I Need A New Dream

March 13, 2008 | Dear Cary,

My husband and I have been happily married for 11 years. We learned some time ago that fertility might be a challenge, and it has been. We hoped to see our abiding love and commitment writ small in toes, sweet cheeks, milk burps. Instead, we've seen success turn into soul-crushing defeat over and over. Often there are no successes -- there is just more defeat. We are sad and tired.

I keep thinking that being infertile must be a little like being an addict. Early on, when everything still seemed possible, we said to ourselves, things might be bad but I'll never ... I'll never (lie, cheat, steal, turn tricks) have a screen name like "MOMMY2B," or mortgage the house, or ask strangers on the Internet for their interpretation of my menstrual period, or resent the effortlessly fertile, or measure my grief against another's, or buy Ancient Chinese Secrets, or name a baby whose heartbeat you never get to hear. You know, like these other poor bastards. But you go down the road and these are the things on the road. You do things that surprise you, good and bad. You let people down and hate yourself for it. You wonder if you should stop, but can't.

The meds and the tests and the advice and the waiting and the hope and the money slowly took over our life, until nothing else seemed that important. Our circle of friends changed. We become more isolated. People who don't know invariably ask when we're having kids (you guys love kids so much, you should have some!). People who do know look at us with pity. Sometimes they can't look at us at all. I think they fear having to see our naked and writhing heartbreak, or having to consider the many times they complained about their sleepless, colicky nights and envied our freedom.

Many couples like us choose adoption. We could love any child that entered our home. But we will not, cannot, get on a new merry-go-round of waiting and disappointment. We're out of resources in all the ways that matter. Many people won't understand that, given the strength of our desire for a family. But that decision is "right" for us given our circumstances. We made it together and we will live with it the best we can. So the end of the road could really be the end: childlessness.

Our grieving began some time ago. But I did not expect the overwhelming sense of purposelessness I get every time I think about being childless in the end. I believe we are here to live in service. Very few of us have the experience of a saint or a martyr, and give everything. Most of us are simply meant to strive to be vital, happy, grateful, respectful, generous, loving, kind, productive. To give as much as we can as often as we can, but to be basically just ... ordinary. I thought my contribution would be the quiet and humble goodness of that striving, and that we'd offer our community a family raised in that way.

I work hard and am successful professionally. I'm strong. I was lucky enough to have choices, and smart enough to make good ones. My husband and I have accomplished a lot together. We try to live consciously. This isn't about baby fever. We planned for and dreamed of a certain kind of life, knowing it would make us profoundly, contentedly happy -- but it will never happen. I can't think of anything to do next that would be as fulfilling as raising our family. Make more money for corporate America? Get a dog? Travel? Go back to school? That stuff seems reasonable, but only for the short-term. We are regular and enthusiastic volunteers, but sorting cans of food-bank green beans isn't deeply fulfilling compared to, say, the first day of school. Nothing I can think of gives me the peaceful contentment I felt imagining 20 years of family dinners followed by the chance to do it all again as a grandmother. I've come to a blank spot that I can't fill, and it stretches past the horizon.

I know many other people's problems are much worse than ours. We do try to be patient and grateful. Our love for one another has grown, a blessing and comfort. We didn't think we wanted a lot for ourselves, but I guess it was still too much. I don't know if I can get over it. When the life you wanted and sacrificed for is gone before it even starts, what do you do next?

Barren: adj., lacking inspiration or ideas -- Merriam-Webster

Dear Barren,

This is a very moving letter. You have poured your heart out. I feel as though there isn't much I could say that wouldn't sound trite. You have probably heard it all.

So let's say the simple, basic, true thing first: You are suffering.

You are suffering the loss of a dream.

Let's just sit here with you a minute. We don't have answers. We are not gods. We can't change biology.

So what do you do?

I suggest that you grieve seriously and hard, that you dedicate yourself to your grieving and that you make of your grieving a project as robust as your quest for a child.

I suggest that you go on retreat somewhere alone. Take a week or two weeks alone somewhere, a spiritual retreat if you are spiritual or a secular retreat if you are secular, but a retreat that fosters quiet. Rest. Just rest. Rest and do not speak much. Sleep a lot. On the first couple of days just rest and sleep and walk and do not speak much. Eat and read and write in your journal and walk around and sleep and rest and do not watch TV. Do not talk on the telephone or use the Internet. Let your senses come back to you.

Avail yourself of massage and heat, water and sun, herbs and oils and meditation. Heal yourself. Be taken care of.

Take notice of the things around you and their beauty.

Let a new dream come to you.

You need a new dream. That's the thing. You had a dream and perhaps because it did not seem such an outlandish dream you invested everything you had in that dream. So now you're depleted. You're grieving the loss of this dream.

I know you will get through it. I know that. You would get through it regardless. But will you get through it in a gentle, strong and beautiful way, or will you get through it violently, by lashing out, by allowing your hurt to take shape as blame and resentment? That is why it would be a good idea to go away for a week or two and be taken care of.

You must grieve the loss of this dream and prepare for something new. You must find something to look forward to, some joy, some vision of life to sustain you.

A reader sent me a book a few weeks ago called "When Things Fall Apart," by Pema Chodron, a Tibetan Buddhist.

Buddists talk about suffering. They say we struggle against the truth and in struggling against the truth we suffer.

The Buddhists say relax, slow down, take notice.

I like the Buddhists! I like their style!

You are facing the truth. You see it. It is right in front of you.

So what do you do? You grieve.

You feel this.

And you wait for a new dream to come to you. It will come. Don't worry. It will come.

By Cary Tennis Original Link HERE.

Each Individual Counts