Here are some photos I took along the way I was making the toy My toy and its mini-me Inside of the toy The electronic parts (motor nicholas cage movies + recording module)

It occurred to me to ask myself, edit pdf files just after mile two when my right calf seized up like it had been hooked to a car battery and the pain shot through my leg and I slowed to a hobble muttering godfuckingdammitgodfuckingdammitgodfucking dammit - I asked myself why, why again was I doing this? A few days prior, the long slow commute home, and Nirvana's cover of "Lake of Fire" hums through the speakers. I've little love for Nirvana; I was there when it all went down, and having loved all of the bands that they "borrowed" from, I believe that Cobain had the crown of genius placed on his head a wee bit prematurely. But Unplugged I like; a glimpse into what might have been, had Kurt not opted to check out. Not for the first time it hit me, listening to him wail through that song - the performance itself is a suicide note. You hear it in the lyrics, and you saw it in his eyes. He'd made the decision at that point; the rest was just timing. The other night at the bookstore, and I'm walking through the stacks. I've already decided on a title (screwed up the courage to read McCarthy's The Road ; infinitely glad I did, for it's perhaps the saddest, grimmest book I've read, and the finest, most beautiful rendition of what it means to love your child that I've come across), but was thinking about what to read next. Hemingway came to mind. If I had a "favorite" author, it might be him.

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The Voice Come close to someone and they may speak to you in the voice in which they speak to themselves. That voice, never heard out loud, by which they goad and orient themselves - allowing them to press forward or sink back, to strive for something or to give up. Come close to another, and you'll hear it, that secret voice in which they speak to themselves. This is the way to learn what another is like. Live close to them, live alongside them, and even if you dislike them, that voice will let speak the integrity of their lives, the way it binds itself together. But also that which that life seeks to bind itself against - you'll learn what threatens them, and how they have made their way through the world. Perhaps this is why Kafka and his father were set against one another: the father let the son hear the voice which allowed him to lift himself from peasantry. And what a voice! So savage and so raw! Kafka's voice was different; perhaps you could say it had been claimed, that it was literature's - only it was Kafka who claimed himself for literature. It was he who set aside, with a determination that was the echo of his father's, a few hours each night, to write. Each night, every night, he would experience the claim of what claimed him, reaffirming it in turn. He heard a voice, but it was one which said nothing. A hobby electronic voice as privation, to which he joined his own voice that we hear sometimes in his letters.

Really? Was our low last night 69 degrees? Honestly ? How do they do this in the Midwest...Arizona...Palm Desert...Iraq...you are all my heroes. I can't make myself water my tomatoes and people exercise, live, run errands (or fight wars!) in this. UG. That's all I've got. UG. We slept with the shop portable a/c in our room last night, so at least I got a leg up ...some rest! I am seriously dreading the shop today. The streets were DEAD yesterday. I'll have the a/c...but the people are all in hiding! And I have dinner group tonight....OUTSIDE. We are all going to melt and die. I mean ...it will be so much fun. I am dessert (easy!), sales lead the theme is "picnic" (YEAH!) but I don't have the dessert made. Or...the ingredients purchased. Or..the time to do either part. Shop OR chop. So...I am going to beg my husband to make a stop here and pray that my dinner group cronies don't throw chicken legs, corn or blueberry wine coolers at me. I mean...how can you be nasty (in this heat...did I mention it was hot?) when someone brings you coconut pound cake and banana pudding? No...I didn't think so.

Here are some photos I took along the life insurance lead way I was making the toy My toy and its mini-me Inside of the toy The electronic parts (motor + recording module)

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Really? Was our low last night 69 degrees? Honestly ? How do they do this in the Midwest...Arizona...Palm Desert...Iraq...you are all my heroes. I can't make myself water my tomatoes and people exercise, live, run errands (or fight wars!) in this. UG. That's all I've got. UG. We slept with the shop portable a/c in our room last night, so at least I got a leg up ...some rest! I am seriously dreading the shop today. The streets were DEAD yesterday. I'll have the a/c...but the people are all in hiding! And I have dinner group tonight....OUTSIDE. We are all going to melt and die. I mean ...it will be so much fun. I am dessert (easy!), the theme is "picnic" (YEAH!) but I don't have the dessert made. Or...the ingredients purchased. Or..the time to do either part. Shop OR chop. So...I am going to beg my husband to make a stop here and pray that my dinner group cronies don't throw chicken legs, corn or blueberry online shopping mall list wine coolers at me. I mean...how can you be nasty (in this heat...did I mention it was hot?) when someone brings you coconut pound cake and banana pudding? No...I didn't think so.

The Voice Come close to someone and they may speak to you in the voice in which they speak to themselves. That voice, never heard out loud, by which they goad and orient themselves - allowing them to press forward or sink back, to strive for something or to give up. Come close to another, and you'll hear it, that secret voice in which they speak to themselves. This is the way to learn what another is like. Live close to them, live alongside them, and even if you dislike them, that voice will let speak the integrity of their lives, the way it binds itself together. But also that which that life seeks to bind itself against - you'll learn what threatens them, and how they have made their way through the world. Perhaps this is why Kafka and his father were set against one another: the father let the son hear the voice which allowed him to lift himself from peasantry. And what a voice! So savage and so raw! Kafka's voice was different; perhaps you could say it had been claimed, that it was literature's - only it was Kafka who claimed himself for literature. It was he who set aside, with a determination that was the echo of his father's, a few hours each night, to write. Each night, every night, he would experience the claim of what claimed him, reaffirming it in turn. He heard a voice, but it was one which said nothing. A voice as privation, to which he joined his own voice that we hear sometimes microsoft access database in his letters.

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Here are some photos I took along the way I was making the toy My toy and its mini-me Inside eminem the real slim shady lyrics of the toy The electronic parts (motor + recording module)

It occurred to me to ask myself, just after mile two when my right calf seized up like it had been hooked to a car battery and the pain shot through my leg and I slowed to a hobble muttering godfuckingdammitgodfuckingdammitgodfucking dammit - I asked myself why, why again was I doing this? A few days prior, the long slow commute home, and Nirvana's cover of "Lake of Fire" hums through the speakers. I've little love for Nirvana; I was there when it all went down, and having loved all of the bands that they "borrowed" from, I believe that Cobain had the crown of genius spyware software placed on his head a wee bit prematurely. But Unplugged I like; a glimpse into what might have been, had Kurt not opted to check out. Not for the first time it hit me, listening to him wail through that song - the performance itself is a suicide note. You hear it in the lyrics, and you saw it in his eyes. He'd made the decision at that point; the rest was just timing. The other night at the bookstore, and I'm walking through the stacks. I've already decided on a title (screwed up the courage to read McCarthy's The Road ; infinitely glad I did, for it's perhaps the saddest, grimmest book I've read, and the finest, most beautiful rendition of what it means to love your child that I've come across), but was thinking about what to read next. Hemingway came to mind. If I had a "favorite" author, it might be him.

Here are some photos I took along the way I was making the toy My toy and its mini-me Inside of the toy The electronic parts download movies warez (motor + recording module)

The Voice Come close to someone and they may speak to you in the voice in which they speak to themselves. That voice, never heard student loan services out loud, by which they goad and orient themselves - allowing them to press forward or sink back, to strive for something or to give up. Come close to another, and you'll hear it, that secret voice in which they speak to themselves. This is the way to learn what another is like. Live close to them, live alongside them, and even if you dislike them, that voice will let speak the integrity of their lives, the way it binds itself together. But also that which that life seeks to bind itself against - you'll learn what threatens them, and how they have made their way through the world. Perhaps this is why Kafka and his father were set against one another: the father let the son hear the voice which allowed him to lift himself from peasantry. And what a voice! So savage and so raw! Kafka's voice was different; perhaps you could say it had been claimed, that it was literature's - only it was Kafka who claimed himself for literature. It was he who set aside, with a determination that was the echo of his father's, a few hours each night, to write. Each night, every night, he would experience the claim of what claimed him, reaffirming it in turn. He heard a voice, but it was one which said nothing. A voice as privation, to which he joined his own voice that we hear sometimes in his letters.

Really? Was our low last night 69 degrees? Honestly ? How do they do this in the Midwest...Arizona...Palm Desert...Iraq...you are all my heroes. I can't make myself water my tomatoes and people exercise, live, run errands (or fight wars!) in this. UG. That's all I've got. UG. We slept with the shop portable a/c in our room last night, so at least I got a leg up ...some rest! I am seriously dreading the shop today. The streets were DEAD yesterday. I'll have the a/c...but the people are all in hiding! And I have dinner group tonight....OUTSIDE. We are all going to melt and die. I mean ...it will be so much fun. I am dessert (easy!), the theme is "picnic" (YEAH!) but I don't have the dessert made. Or...the ingredients purchased. Or..the time to do either part. Shop OR chop. So...I am going to beg my husband to make a stop here and pray that my dinner corporate identity management group cronies don't throw chicken legs, corn or blueberry wine coolers at me. I mean...how can you be nasty (in this heat...did I mention it was hot?) when someone brings you coconut pound cake and banana pudding? No...I didn't think so.