The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

Paper Planes, M.I.A.

I fly like paper, get high like planes
If you catch me at the border, I got visas in my name
If you come around here, I make ’em all day
I get one down in a second if you wait

I fly like paper, get high like planes
If you catch me at the border, I got visas in my name
If you come around here, I make ’em all day
I get one down in a second if you wait

Sometimes I feel sitting on trains
Every stop I get to, I’m clocking that game
Everyone’s a winner, we’re making the fame
Bona fide hustler making my name

Sometimes I feel sitting on trains
Every stop I get to, I’m clocking that game
Everyone’s a winner now we’re making the fame
Bona fide hustler making my name

All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money
All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money

All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money
All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money

Pirate skulls and bones
Sticks and stones and weed and bombs
Running when we hit ’em
Lethal poison through their system

Pirate skulls and bones
Sticks and stones and weed and bombs
Running when we hit ’em
Lethal poison through their system

No one on the corner has swagger like us
Hit me on my burner, prepaid wireless
We pack and deliver like UPS trucks
Already going hell, just pumping that gas

No one on the corner has swagger like us
Hit me on my burner, prepaid wireless
We pack and deliver like UPS trucks
Already going hell, just pumping that gas

All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money
All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money

All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money
All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money

M.I.A., third world democracy
Yeah, I got more records than the KGB
So, uh, no funny business, are you already?

Some, some, some I, some I murder
Some I, some I let go
Some, some, some I, some I murder
Some I, some I let go

All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money
All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money

All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money
All I wanna do is
And a, and take your money

Pirate Jenny, by Kurt Weill

Ahh you people can watch while i’m scrubbing these floors
And i’m scrubbing these floors while you’re gawking
Maybe once you tip me and it makes you feel swell
In this crummy southern town
In this pit of hotel
But you’ll never guess to who you’re talking
No
You’ll never guess to who you’re talking

Then one night there’s a scream in the night
And you wonder: ‘who could that have been ?’
And you see me kind of grinning while i’m scrubbing
And you say ‘what she got to grin ?’
I’ll tell ya
There’s a ship
The black freighter
With a skull on it’s mast-head
Will be coming in

You gentlemen say: ‘hey gal, finish them floors
What’s wrong with you ? earn your keep here’
You toss me your tips and look to the ships
But i’m counting your heads as i’m making the beds
’cause there’s nobody gonna sleep here tonight
No
Nobody
No-one
No-one

Then one night there’s a scream in the night
And you say: ‘who’s that kicking up a row?’
And you see me kinda staring out the window
And you say: ‘what she got to stare at now ?’
I’ll tell ya
There’s a ship
The black freighter
Turns around in the harbour
Shooting guns from her bow

Well you gentlemen can wipe those smiles off your face
’cause every building in town is a flat one
This whole frigging place will be down to the ground
Only this cheap hotel standing up, safe and sound
And you yell: ‘why do they spare that one ?
‘why?
‘why the hell do they spare that one ?’

All the night through with the noise and to do
And you wonder: ‘who is that person that lives up there ?’
And you see me stepping out in the morning
Looking fine with a ribbon in my hair
Well just look at me now
And a ship
The black freighter
Runs a flag up it’s mast-head
And a cheer rings the air. hey!

My ??? on the dock is a swarming with men
Coming out from the ghostly freighter
They’re moving in the shadows where no-one can see
And they’re chaining up people
And delivering ’em to me
Asking me: ‘kill them now or later ?’
Asking me: ‘kill them now or later ?’

Noon by the clock and so still at the dock
You can hear a fog horn miles away
And in that quiet of death i’ll say:
‘right now !’
‘right now !’
And they pile up the bodies
And i’ll say: ‘that’ll learn you.
That’ll learn you.’

And the ship
The black freighter
Disappears out to sea
And
On
It
Is
Me !

At the birth of Prince Siddhartha, his father, the Great King Suddhodhana summoned eight brahmins to the palace to read the signs of probability for the new-born prince.

Seven were unsure, claiming he would be either a Buddha or a Great King. The eight was sure he would renounce the world, and become a Buddha.

Suddodhana was determined that his son should be a king, and decided to surround him in a life of beauty and every luxury, and in so doing, conceal the realities of life from him.

Years later, at the age of 29, Siddhartha left his father’s palace for the first time, with his charioteer Channa.

On this journey, the first sight he saw was an old man. Channa told him that aging happens to all men.

The second sight he saw was a sick man suffering from disease. Again, Channa told him that all men are subject to sickness and pain.

The third sight was a corpse. After learning of death, Siddhartha was despondent.

However, the fourth sight was that of an ascetic, who had devoted himself to understanding the cause of human suffering. Siddhartha resolved to follow the ascetic’s example.

God Bless God, Who Put Death at the End of Life instead of at the Beginning.

“We will not hold that a court abused its discretion where it reached the correct result even if it did so for the wrong reason.”
United States v. Duran Samniego, 345 F.3d 1280 (11th Cir. 2003)

“To pull one misshapen stone out of the grotesque structure is more likely simply to upset its present balance between adverse interessts than to establish a rational edifice”
Michelson v. United States, 335 U.S. 469 (1948)

Ancient childhood memories of seducing fear.

John Keats

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed leged haunts about thy shape
Of dieties or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirits ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the tries, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor even can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal– yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou has not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young,
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowfuland cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
TO what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest brances and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation wase,
Thou salt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’sts,
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,–that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’

Wallace Stevens (lawyer)

I placed a jar In Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

Swine Flu and the Great Recession. Suddenly history is relevant, with talks of 1919 and 1929 and 1939 on the horizon? The War is over, and we got the best President ever – we got hope and maybe change — Jerry Garcia is playing on my Xbox. I’m standing on my head in the 21st Century, learning the Law of Evidence (“I’ve got an objection –“). Sitting on a couch. Sitting in a room. Smooth like a rhapsody. My several masterpiece. The mediation of communication. Sentences without verbs. The verb is implied — the ontalogical verb, the predicate noun, the substance dancing, the music of the strings. Nothing is lost. Everything old is new again. Yeats. Sailing to Byzantium. Gilded birdsong, delighting endless lines of Emperors, lost names of Bzyantium, stretching through the halls of memories.

Why do I fear graveyards but love bookstores? Why do I shun disease but love history? Am I looking for the part that remains? The internet, strange tool, new medium (new message), good news? slouching bethlehem, do the best lack conviction, are the worst the most passionate, can I jump up and down on the limbs of great trees flying up to heaven and then back down to human arms?

What a world, what a beautiful world, Shakespeare Watcher at the center of it all, he’s dead too, wrote it best, about the King and the Bunghole, Beevis and Butthead when I was young, South Park its dark reflection, everything reflected, the same old in and out, from a greater perspective our lives are all identical, I believe that the topology of existence is similar, I believe that what it feels like to be me is what it feels like to be you, or a bat for that matter, I believe that our qualia are close.

Cannot be proven. Why be good? Why do anything? Why not curl up into a corner, and watch the glass melt back into sand? Mouse run through the kitchen. My blood clutches to little molecules of oxygen, thirsty, jealous — an electric guitar — a digital representation of Apollo’s lute doubled back over and over again — we did not invent music, we discovered it — we did not invent law, we discovered it — we must love one another and/or die. Auden said that. Changed it to reflect deep sadness. MP3s — as much music as you want, but — quality is not quite the same. I live on an island, in the 21st century. Down at the bottom of this island, they are filling in a hole. Trying and failing to repair what was lost.

“What do I have in my pocket?” My mind is an archeolgical dig. Tel-Gezer. The Lost City of Troy. Does Helen stand on the walls? Do all these losses stir in me an unspeakable wrath, a rage to move Myrmidons, the deep secret desire to have my name known and repeated even after I return to dirt. Filth of the world clinging to me, clinging to us. I clean the walls of this apartment. Is is godly. It is godly. There are things we can do. Things we can do to change. We can clean. We can hold ourselves together. Oh, I am a river, overflowing my banks. I am a river, overflowing my banks. Bob Dylan you singer, you Shakespeare, what wonderful stories you told, what a wonderful way with words, sweet assonance there —

One day on my walking through this island of Manhattan, I will find a door leading into a basement, and when I open the door, I will be blinded by deep impenentrable light, and behind the light there will be a garden stretching to infinity and I will walk through the door and –

A certain madness — call it mermaids. Mermaids of the Hudson. The deep waters press close here. Close here. Close here. Close here. Here. There. The Sun sets, behind the palisades of New Jersey. The Statue of Liberty is still green. I am and I am not the center of the universe. My eyes look out on the world — but from where do they look? I twist in the twilight evening, and my song of is like a wind-chime, betraying both my location and the nature of the wind.

Bob Dylan

Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble
Ancient footprintss are everywhere
You can almost think that you’re seein’ double
On a cold, dark night on the Spanish stairs

Got to hurry on back to my hotel room
Where I’ve got me a date with Bottichellis niece
She promised that she’d be right there with me
When I paint my masterpiece