~*~ Rose-Colored Glosses ~*~

hovering between the quest for absolute truth and the pursuit of utter nonsense
gloss, n.
  1. A brief explanatory note usually inserted in the margin or between lines of a text.
  2. An extensive commentary, often accompanying a text or publication.
  3. A purposefully misleading interpretation or explanation.
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"The limits of my language means the limits of my world."
-Ludwig Wittgenstein
"An error does not become truth by reason of multiplied propagation, nor does truth become error because nobody sees it."
-Mahatma Gandhi
Segal's Law:
A man with a watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never sure.
"Well, art is art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is water! And East is East and West is West and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste more like prunes than a rhubarb does. Now, uh... Now you tell me what you know."
-Groucho Marx

~ Friday, August 12, 2005 ~

No title.
I'm still looking for the title of that common folky tune that's had me baffled since Sunday. I have made progress, though; I realized I was remembering about half of it wrong. Here's the corrected version, in sheet music form. Anyone recognize it now?

The reason I am allowing myself to be so plagued by this is that I have conscious awareness going spare, because I'm occupying myself with that most marvelously tedious activity, Packing. I am steadily putting away almost all my worldly possessions into the boxes I've been very conveniently finding cast off around the exterior of my apartment complex. The rest of the stuff I am putting up for adoption. My room is even more of an innavigable mess than usual. It's a good thing I don't own very much.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit has very graciously offered to transport my things and me to Brooklyn in his vehicle, and so on Sunday all the things that haven't been fedexed to my new address will be packed into his truck, after which we will have a merry ride to Park Slope together, probably spending the time discussing the ethics of using genetic engineering in the agricultural industry (on which he has deep convictions and can argue convincingly) and playing Hinky Pinky, no, I mean the rhyming game. Not only can he hold his own in word games and ethics debates, but he also swing dances, plays the flute, and sculpts, among other things, and he lives two doors down from me. It's been nice having a neighbor who is also a friend, and I wish I'd taken more frequent advantage of the proximity. I'd be sorry to leave Philadelphia for his sake, but he's moving also, to Eugene, so there you are. Or there I am.

~ prattled by Miriam at 8:46 a.m. [+]

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