Rene Descartes in the wine

Okay I want to write a little essay about this photo, and in particular how people see Jesus in moldy bread and angels and bear claws in the ice. http://professormikey.blogspot.com/2005/10/ice-angel.html http://professormikey.blogspot.com/2005/10/ice-bear-claw.html Sadly, that essay will have to wait along with a hundred other things on my "to do" list. I've got some deadlines on stuff that needs doing, and hard as I've tried to will their completion through the force of my mind alone and, preferably, while I'm sleeping, it has not happened.

There's no real reason to put up the second photo shown below, but I thought it would be fun and funny to do so. Fun and funny are often (almost always) sufficient reasons for doing something in this life. Life is too short and too long to do otherwise.

When they march/
When they march/
When they march around the throne.

Yes, I wanna be/
Wanna be/
Wanna be in that number/
When they march around the throne.

Why? Because it sounds like a grand time, a party in which the wine just gets better and better. And all to God's glory, I'm sure, but god can take care better of his own glory better than I can fo sho. I'd just be thrilled to be marchin' around to some cool music, a groovy light show, and a feeling of perfect yearning perfectly fulfilled. That's not asking for too much, is it? And if that glorifies god, all the better for Him. Sounds like a win-win situaion to me. I'd give Him the props, just as I would for all wonderful hosts. It would come naturally and effortlessly. Especially when the Host is the main show.

Which brings me to Rene Descartes's image in the wine swirls and the little essay I didn't write.

Sad, really.

I included the second picture not because I believe you are officially retarded but because I am retarded. It's me, not you. I wanted to see if I could put arrows and texts on my photos. As you can see, I can.

And how.

Which disproves the idea that I'm retarded.

Did I just blow your mind?

(Yes.)

Though I could not figure out how to make the arrows darker. Which I would have figured out had I had more time to explore. But I don't. (See above.)



A few other matters.

Here is an updated version on our New Year's resolutions for others.

I kicked it off with this irrefutable winner:

1. Don't pretend to be Swedish when you're not. (That doesn't apply to me when I'm saying "Jumpin' Jiminy!" in a ridiculously over-the-top Swedish accept. That's just fun and funny. See above.)

2. From Technoprairie: Learn to love all vegetables. If you are unable to love the vegetables, at least learn to like them a teensy bit. (Comment: most excellent advice when followed with the suggestions I have offered elsewhere on the blog.)

3. From Andy D: Be yourself. (Non-ironic side note: This resolution is beautiful. It made me tear up when I read it because it's simple and affirming and lovely. But it's also problematic. It's glorious advice for those whose selves are worth being amplified and revealed to the world. The world becomes better and bigger for having these people touch and shape reality. But what of those persons whose selves are such that the world--and maybe even themselves--are better off by cloaking or ignoring?)

4. From Timekeeper: Stop whining and take action! Hypothetical non-particular example: If one were wanting a new photo enabling device, one should just buy one and leave the rest of the world out of it! (Comment: "photo enabling device." Huh? You're so ashamed of your role in not purchasing me a fabulous new camera--"A NIKON D90 ALREADY!!"--you can't even say the word "camera." Very much like how the American Framers referred to slavery as "the peculiar institution" and slaves as "all other persons." Yes, very much like that.

I'm ashamed of you, Timekeeper. You owe me reparations--in particular in the form of a brand new photo enabling device.

5. Back to my helpful resolutions for others. Again, not offered to anyone in particular, especially not to those adults who do not live with me. But here goes:

Do not treat the phone as a megaphone at a football game. Please remember that the phone is a cleverly-engineered instrument designed to carry voices audibly over very long distances. It is the phone and all the electronic jazz it's connected to, and not the volume of your own voice, that allows others to hear you in other states.

Trust in the phone.

I'm just saying.

6. Again aimed at no one, I offer the following. When I happen to smash my finger into the hearth while putting a log into the fire, please do not say loudly and incessantly "what is it?! what is it?! what is it?!" when you hear me cry out in pain (agony, actually). Just as there are rules to determine whether someone is choking, there are rules to determine whether I am dying from a finger injury and in need of your urgent assistance. If the person you are with is wincing, holding back girly-boy screams (or not), and maybe uttering a quiet profanity or four while alternately grasping one's soot-covered fingers, shaking it like a Polaroid, and sucking on it like a lollipop--then this person doesn't need you at that particular moment.

He wants some quality private time. That is what he wants.

My advice also applies to situations involving stubbed toes on the bed post. If the person is jumping around and grabbing one's foot, that means he doesn't feel like speaking at that particular moment. Speech will come later, at a more agreeable moment. Please be patient in those moments no matter how tempting and overwhelmingly helpful it may feel to say "what is it?! what is it?! what is it?!" over and over again.

This is good advice for everyone.

Let's continue with this theme. I find it very gratifying.

Rene baby:



Or is it Francis Bacon??



Or Rabelais?



Or one of my all-time faves, Pascal?



Could it be Shakespeare?



Oh no!! Is it Shakespeare's rival Christopher Marlowe?



Joseph Fiennes is in my wine!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!



Or as suggested by Technoprairie (I think she is suggesting this), it's Ralph Fiennes.



To which I must say this: Ralph, you're always welcome in my wine. That man is impossibly beautiful. And I mean that is in a purely heterosexual way.

Man, he's beautiful.

Heterosexual.

Strictly.

But he really is lovely.