“After us they’ll fly in hot air balloons, coat styles will change, perhaps they’ll discover a sixth sense and cultivate it, but life will remain the same, a hard life full of secrets, but happy. And a thousand years from now man will still be sighing, Oh! Life is so hard! and will still, like now, be afraid of death and not want to die.” Anton Chekhov
“i am with the roots
sending up my passionate blossoms
as a flight of rockets
wine churls my throat,
feet walk upon my brain, monkies fall from the sky
of the planets,
but i seek only music
and the leisure
of my pain”
Charles Bukowski, The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems
“We have neglected the truth that a good farmer is a craftsman of the highest order, a kind of artist.” Wendell Berry, The Gift of Good Land
“Tobacco, coffee, alcohol, hashish, prussic acid, strychnine, are weak dilutions. The surest poison is time.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
A horse is suing his former owners in Oregon for negligence after they left him starved and badly frostbitten. Justice, an 8-year old American quarter horse is named as the plaintiff in a lawsuit filed by his new owners, who are treating him well on a farm in the Cascade mountain range.
The revenge seeking stud wants $100,000 for veterinary care along with pain and suffering. This is a real case as reported in the New York Post, the Oregon City Patch and the Independent as well as many others.
I believe it was Friedrich Nietzsche who said: “To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” I hope Justice finds meaning as well as the hundred grand he’s suing for. Maybe one day he can even go to college to become a veterinarian like Mister Ed.
Summum jus, summa injuria.
“There’s something very enticing about an empty bench under a tree. And if it’s facing a river, that’s the bench for me.” Joyce Rachelle
“In the mirror we see a stranger, not the person we were born to be, for we are all pretending, just for everyone to see.” Anthony T. Hincks
“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” Sylvia Plath