Life goes on. We got together Saturday evening with Sarge and MIL for brats, good conversation and fellowship. It was soothing. Today Lu, Angus and I will spend a quiet day at home. I need to get the loader cranked up so I may spend a few hours at the bench.
The weather has turned. It actually snowed today and it's colder than a witch's....Uh, it's really cold. I had to cancel the concrete on Friday due to the weather. Monday morning, bright and early, 2.75 yards will be poured. Rain or shine. Pics afterward.
I actually feel pretty good. I got a lot out of my system with my last post though I know the language was probably a little shocking. I apologize for that. I tend to channel my inner grunt when I'm sufficiently angry or provoked and I have been feeling both in spades. I'm much better now and like DaddyBear I intend to sit in the tree and fling poop at obama and his minions at every turn while laughing and eating dead cow cooked over an open flame. No one can make you do anything, including sinking into despair. Live, laugh, love and be damned to the depths of hell with anyone who tries to drag you down with them. I refuse to allow my life to be dictated by or subject to the whims of others.
I hope this day finds you all feeling good. You should, you're some of the finest people on the face of the earth and no election nor it's aftermath can ever change that. Remember our past heroes and the price they paid. Remember Tam in both your prayers and with your generosity. One of us is in need and if we do nothing else we can help her and keep the faith. I am so proud to know all of you, even if it's only by the comments we leave for each other. My love for you, my spiritual brothers and sisters is boundless.
1894The American Spirit speaks:
If the Led Striker call it a strike, Or the papers call it a war, They know not much what I am like, Nor what he is, My Avatar. Through many roads, by me possessed, He shambles forth in cosmic guise; He is the Jester and the Jest, And he the Text himself applies. The Celt is in his heart and hand, The Gaul is in his brain and nerve; Where, cosmopolitanly planned, He guards the Redskin's dry reserve His easy unswept hearth he lends From Labrador to Guadeloupe; Till, elbowed out by sloven friends, He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop. Calm-eyed he scoffs at Sword and Crown, Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays: Blatant he bids the world bow down, Or cringing begs a crust of praise; Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart, He dubs his dreary brethren Kings. His hands are black with blood -- his heart Leaps, as a babe's, at little things. But, through the shift of mood and mood, Mine ancient humour saves him whole The cynic devil in his blood That bids him mock his hurrying soul; That bids him flout the Law he makes, That bids him make the Law he flouts, Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes The drumming guns that -- have no doubts; That checks him foolish-hot and fond, That chuckles through his deepest ire, That gilds the slough of his despond But dims the goal of his desire; Inopportune, shrill-accented, The acrid Asiatic mirth That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead, The scandal of the elder earth. How shall he clear himself, how reach Your bar or weighed defence prefer A brother hedged with alien speech And lacking all interpreter? Which knowledge vexes him a space; But, while Reproof around him rings, He turns a keen untroubled face Home, to the instant need of things. Enslaved, illogical, elate, He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fears To shake the iron hand of Fate Or match with Destiny for beers. Lo, imperturbable he rules, Unkempt, disreputable, vast And, in the teeth of all the schools, I -- I shall save him at the last!