Monthly Archives: December 2010

Sorting out “badness” and “goodness”

“It’s very singular how hard it is to manage your mind,” said Demi,
clasping his hands round his knees, and looking up at the sky as if
for information upon his favorite topic.

“Devilish hard no, I don’t mean that;” and Dan bit his lips, for the
forbidden word slipped out in spite of him, and he wanted to be
more careful with Demi than with any of the other boys.

“I’ll play I didn’t hear it,” said Demi; “and you won’t do it again, I’m
sure.”

“Not if I can help it. That’s one of the things I don’t want to
remember. I keep pegging away, but it don’t seem to do much
good;” and Dan looked discouraged.

“Yes, it does. You don’t say half so many bad words as you used
to; and Aunt Jo is pleased, because she said it was a hard habit to
break up.”

“Did she?” and Dan cheered up a bit.

“You must put swearing away in your fault-drawer, and lock it up;
that’s the way I do with my badness.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dan, looking as if he found Demi
almost as amusing as a new sort of cockchafer or beetle.

“Well, it’s one of my private plays, and I’ll tell you, but I think
you’ll laugh at it,” began Demi, glad to hold forth on this congenial
subject. “I play that my mind is a round room, and my soul is a
little sort of creature with wings that lives in it. The walls are full
of shelves and drawers, and in them I keep my thoughts, and my
goodness and badness, and all sorts of things. The goods I keep;.
where I can see them, and the bads I lock up tight, but they get out,
and I have to keep putting them in and squeezing them down, they
are so strong. The thoughts I play with when I am alone or in bed,
and I make up and do what I like with them. Every Sunday I put
my room in order, and talk with the little spirit that lives there, and
tell him what to do. He is very bad sometimes, and won’t mind me,
and I have to scold him, and take him to Grandpa. He always
makes him behave, and be sorry for his faults, because Grandpa
likes this play, and gives me nice things to put in the drawers, and
tells me how to shut up the naughties. Hadn’t you better try that
way? It’s a very good one;” and Demi looked so earnest and full of
faith, that Dan did not laugh at his quaint fancy.

Extract from Little Men – Louisa May Alcott

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Image courtesy of http://www.ergoindemand.com

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Thoughts that engulf the Conscious

 

“Nothing passes the time, or shortens the path, like a thought which engrosses all the faculties of an individual’s organization. Our external existence is as a sleep, of which this thought is the dream; and whilst we are subjected to its influence, time has no longer any measure, nor is there any distance in space: we leave one place, and arrive at another, and are conscious of nothing between. Of the intervening scenes, the only remembrance preserved, is somewhat akin to the idea of an indefinite mist, partially broken by obscure images of mountains, trees, and plains.”

Extract from The Three Musketeers – Alexander Dumas

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Image courtesy of http://www.ncbusinesslitigationreport.com

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The First Offering

The First Offering is my very own-crafted vampire story – it can be found on the widget bar; from whence it would be easier for the reader to approach.

Thank you :]

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Don’t Stop – Inner Party System

This song made me happy today ^_^

 

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The Drowning Child

Flailing his arms, struggling in vain,
Was another child drowning,
In the grasp of the merciless waters;
He choked, and spluttered,
And gasped for air,
But none came, except more waters;
His resistance chipped
Apart bit by bit,
His struggles now perfunctory, languid;

P’rhaps the want of energy,
Slowed his labors to keep
His head above the waters;
Or p’rhaps, he understood
That death was near,
That there was no escape from its clutch;

Dark plaques appeared on the
Vision of the boy; and his shoulders
Sagged in resignation;
And so pushed and shoved and probed,
By the cutting streams of gushing waters,
He was swept ahead;

Some spirit, however, yet lurked
In his chest; and raising his hands,
He mustered energy to make one last struggle;
Beating back resignation into submission
To his wet but unusually daunting will
For the last time;
Having faith beyond the apparent death,
That so solemnly hung above his head,
To have one last go;

And lo! His hands closed around some icy metal;
A foothold found, he ascended it in desperation;
Vision somewhat clearing, the grey pylon
To which he clung to, loomed into focus;
Glancing down, some relief
Transpired in those naïve eyes;
The churning waters no longer could reach him.

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