When a lute is played, there is no previous store of playing that it comes from. When the music stops, it does not go anywhere else. It came into existence by way of the structure of the lute and the playing of the performer. When the playing ceases, the music goes out of existence. In the same way all the components of being, both material and nonmaterial, come into existence, play their part, and pass away. That which we call a person is the bringing together of components and their actions with each other. It is impossible to find a permanent self there. And yet there is a paradox. For there is a path to follow and there is walking to be done, and yet there is no walker. There are actions but there is no actor. The air moves but there is no wind. The idea of a specific self is a mistake. Existence is clarity and emptiness. -Visuddhi Magga

Snow crush

30 Helens agree. Petfinder is addictive. Lately, I have been scouring the listings for Bengal kitties. Bengals originate from crossing the small Asian Leopard Cat with domestic cats to create a companion with a wild look but a domestic temperament. They have interactive and intelligent personalities, love water, and demand to be an integral part of their family. The typical Bengal has a golden brown or orange background with dark spots outlined by a secondary color. More rare are the Snow Bengals, with an ivory background and dark brown or black spots. I happily discovered these young urchins in a recent search. A brother-sister Snow Bengal pair, rescued from an overzealous breeder with more cats than he could handle. Ed. note: not a cat lady, but a cat dude! The boy is on the left, and the girl is on the right. They're nine months old, scared and shy. Life's been rough and confusing, so far. They weren't given very much attention while they were growing up, and probably don't know people very well. Well, I can fix that. I think we're going to meet them tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm thinking about names. Kacela and Kiho (African, "hunter" and "fog.") Delu and Nelo (African, "the only girl" and "lovable.") Topanga and Tiombe (African, "sweet" and "shy.") Ed. note: We got them! They are being microchipped today and being dropped off at our house tomorrow morning!!! Yay! Also, Foos does not like the above names. Any suggestions?

Quiet Dignity and Grace

[after failing to bring the creature to life] Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: Nothing. Inga: Oh, Doctor, I'm sorry. Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: No. No. Be of good cheer. If science teaches us anything, it teaches us to accept our failures, as well as our successes, with quiet dignity and grace. [starts beating up the creature] Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: Son of a bitch! Bastard! I'll get you for this! What did you do to me? What did you do to me. Inga: Stop it! Stop that! Stop it! You'll kill him! Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: I don't want to live. I do not want to live. Igor: Quiet dignity and grace [rolls eyes]

International Women's Day

I would just like to send a special shout-out to all the wives, moms, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, nieces and best friends that make this crazy world go 'round. We love you. "Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels." - Faith Whittlesey

Kinky sex makes the world go 'round

Brought to you by toothpaste for dinner.

"Oops."

"Ludwig Boltzmann, who spent much of his life studying statistical mechanics, died in 1906, by his own hand. Paul Ehrenfest, carrying on the work, died similarly in 1933. Now it is our turn to study statistical mechanics." -Goodstein, "States of Matter"

The blackbirds are rough today

lonely as a dry and used orchard spread over the earth for use and surrender. shot down like an ex-pug selling dailies on the corner. taken by tears like an aging chorus girl who has gotten her last check. a hanky is in order your lord your worship. the blackbirds are rough today like ingrown toenails in an overnight jail--- wine wine whine, the blackbirds run around and fly around harping about Spanish melodies and bones. and everywhere is nowhere--- the dream is as bad as flapjacks and flat tires: why do we go on with our minds and pockets full of dust like a bad boy just out of school--- you tell me, you who were a hero in some revolution you who teach children you who drink with calmness you who own large homes and walk in gardens you who have killed a man and own a beautiful wife you tell me why I am on fire like old dry garbage. we might surely have some interesting correspondence. it will keep the mailman busy. and the butterflies and ants and bridges and cemeteries the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics will still go on a while until we run out of stamps and/or ideas. don't be ashamed of anything; I guess God meant it all like locks on doors. -Bukowski, the Roominghouse Madrigals