"Men are strategists, women are tacticians," she said. "A woman can think out a crime down to the tiniest detail, create an intricate web of events and figure out how one can get away with it. Of course, this is a generalization, but look at it this way: For a woman, a sock on the floor disrupts all her efforts at cleaning because she thinks tactically. She has cleaned up, and the house must stay that way. A man thinks strategically. [For him] a sock is not a problem because his wife is a good housekeeper."
Nov 30, 2006 at 09:45 o\clock
Nov 28, 2006 at 10:52 o\clock
The years fall off her, as in another poem, tougher,
and there, on the tree-lined boulevard, she walked lightly,
leaning on her stick. Mom, I said to her, I want you
running like a girl, running on the boulevard,
I want to photograph you running on the boulevard,
but she didn’t run, my mother, I photographed her weeping,
the leaves falling around her. Nothing has changed
in 56 years, she said. Sat on a bench on top of a rocky mound,
as she did many years ago, forgetting the inflammation in her gums
and the pain in her knees. With a soft, quiet face, listened to the leaves.
© 2005, Dorit Weisman
© Translation: 2006, Rachel Yakobovitch
Nov 27, 2006 at 01:55 o\clock
Nov 24, 2006 at 19:55 o\clock
Clicked on the top blog 50 list
Looking for these blogs
But like walking through a party
in the fag end mornig light
words and visions a sudden full stopped
Lifes ended in this particular net space
No words of message where abouts
just the tell tale dates
Tomb stone epitaphs
They have gone to another cyber space
@ neil furby
Nov 24, 2006 at 11:10 o\clock
It was a chance remark at the sausage sizzle outside the Red Shed that sent me off to compile a rescue plan for this New Zealand tradition.
“How come the price of a sausage is still only a dollar? “ I said to the Rock and Roll club member as he folded my sausage into a slice of bread.
“The only way that we can keep it at a dollar is to reduce our margins.”
It will soon not be worth doing
He replied ‘ tapping his sausage lifter in double time.
So here is my marketing plan to save this NZ icon using other marketing plans of our great corporations
Deliver the sausage in different colors and offer delivering the product to the purchaser at varying speeds charging a surcharge that reflects the speed from order to delivery.
Make sausages in different shapes and color and cut the bread in varying shapes.
Offer all these together on the grill and charge a sliding scale price for the sausage plus a surcharge for the labour cost of transporting the uncooked sausage to the grill. from the grill to the bread, and the whole from the seller to the buyer.
If a pig sneezes or a cow trips up increase the selling price of sausages immediately.
Decrease the size of the sausage but charge the same price
Offer a sausagebuy card where if the buyer purchases a thousand sausages they get one free.
Anyone willing to help make a commercial or a bill board hoardings contact sausresc at getsmart @paradise.net.nz.
Nov 23, 2006 at 23:42 o\clock
Nov 19, 2006 at 00:26 o\clock
Nov 18, 2006 at 23:49 o\clock
And God is a dangerous lover
When we clasp our hands and pray
No response from this invisible other
He never has anything to say
We build churches, temples and mosque
Write words upon words in his name
And millions of people have been lost
On bloody crusades for gods gain
@ N Furby
Nov 18, 2006 at 09:45 o\clock
Eathquake last night 3 15 am while the rain lashed down and the fog rolled in
I always seem to wake up before the actual shake because there is always the very low pitched sound which starts the earth rolling
We seem so vunerable on this blue planet and as the ice burgs float by this land as never before things are really hotting up
Well to change the subjet to cooking here is an old Yorkshore recipe
York Chocolate Pudding
6 oz of plain block chocolate
3 tablespoons of black coffee
A knob of butter
1 desertful of Rum
3 medium eggs separated
Nov 17, 2006 at 01:52 o\clock
One of my walks is along the coast where graze a herd of cows.
I have always tried to pat one of these cows on my way along the path but have never got near them.
(http://alicejonathan.blog.co.nz/ ) Alice has given me tips such as not looking the cow in the eye and walking in a sideways shuffle.
Sometimes as I am going through this approach I feel she might be having me on as the cows always bolt off and other walkers take a wide berth when passing me as I attempt this action.
Also I forgot to say the left arm has to be extended horizontally towards the targeted cow to simulate a horn.
Still one day I might succeed ...............
Nov 16, 2006 at 12:16 o\clock
Most frequented weblogs
Most frequently visited weblogs during the last two weeks
Nov 16, 2006 at 11:51 o\clock
Nov 14, 2006 at 20:50 o\clock
Nov 13, 2006 at 04:35 o\clock
I went for a walk up Mount Kaukau yesterday and as I walked back down the numerous steps I began to wonder about the wonder of the human brain how it can instruct the body to carry out numerous tasks and still have the ability for day dreaming.
Yes you guessed it by making this function active in the conscious mind messes it all up and the legs lost the message train and did not step in time
So pain became the overpowering sensation every other sensation or movement depressed for a while
Well so I picked myself up and did not think any thoughts till reaching ground level
Try it folks if you dare but might be better on the flat not walking up or down or even worse driving a car
Nov 12, 2006 at 11:21 o\clock
I worked all night
I spent last night. The whole night in the workshop. There was a problem with one of the machines that the elves use for splitting wood for the toys and it went down. A piece of wood got stuck between a few of the gears and just where it was made it really hard to remove and cut out. After we got it cut out we ended up replacing the main gear which took some time to get right. Everything is fine now. It was just a long night so I think I'm going to go get me some milk and cookies (choclate chip) <my favorite) and head off for bed.
Looking over my shoulder as I type, it seems that Rudolph is snuggled up down at the bottom of it. It must have had a long night as well. I better go for now.
Nov 7, 2006 at 21:37 o\clock
Black white and the grey between
And in the black of night the pinprick light replies
A falling void enters
and received in echoes madden
An inner clawing at the heart
a howling retort
Where, when, what, I hold the key and toss away the door
Stomp in, stomp away,
the wolves surround I quiver,
the mind darts, a slip dawn surrounds
Bird music sings head,
a beat beating down
Hear a laugh,
aside a whispered interlude
Your face a snarl,
your eyes your very being a quiver
The arrow shoots, to walk away to breathe the cold cold air
Or to shake the curse,
self shouts reasons whispers
Hold in hold in or loose everything @Neil Furby
Nov 7, 2006 at 01:00 o\clock
Poetry reaches here and there by soaring. It points in the wrong direction and heads off there regardless; it directs us to the ossuary, to museum drawers in bloom, to birds and the green facts of nesting.
Poetry is the lesson of the doubtful person, pausing. It is implicit in the life of an expert on things and an authority on nothing. Poetry is a
series of controlled blunders.
Poetry is living elsewhere; the city radiant with all of its ideas; the open throat of days we inhabit with abandon. Poetry is an apartment in the north where my story began, filled with the rhythmic ratchets of frogs.
Poetry sits on our cluttered bureau like a choice slab of cheese. A poet is a guest who likes people because they taste good. The poet reveals a trap for forms of magic.
Poetry dances with happiness at the start of the new feast. It is the second spring of our tango across the tundra. Poetry is change, like a
chord the tension snaps.
Poetry is Ice Age Man in the cave of himself, making effigies of beasts and killing them before he goes out on the real hunt with the magic of that killing on his side. Poetry is the migration of a herd of animal
Poetry is troubles swapped for something fresh; the monstrance containing the host. The dead, the beloved, the detested - these are some of its objects.
Poetry stills to a lagoon at low tide. Its dredge hauls yield a final treat we share.
Poetry - the upturned saw blade of its kiss; its crucial first cut.
© 2006, Andy Brown
© 2006, Andy Brown