No. of Bloglist -4
No. of Followers-9
No. of Article Posted-13
No. of Comments-7
No of Visitor Counter-22
No. of Link-1
Friday, October 15, 2010
Poems
Is there a better place,
To be right now,
Than to be home,
Listening to the crickets’ sounds,
Outside the windows.
Is there a better place,
To be right now,
Than in the bed,
Closing my eyes,
Falling into a deep sleep,
To forget about the days,
Forget about the nights,
Forget about you.
Heartbroken,
Nothing better than to sleep,
To forget that you are gone,
To forget your lies,
Forget the way,
You told me,
You never loved me,
Forget the way,
You looked at me,
When you left me,
I want to forget,
I want to leave this world,
Close my eyes,
Fall to sleep to stop the heart,
From beating.
I block my ears,
From hearing the sounds,
Like your voice,
Like when you sing to me,
Those lovely songs,
They sounded to tender,
Now they kill me,
They hurt me,
I don’t want to hear anything,
Don’t want to hear the waves,
Hitting against the sand,
Don’t want to hear the birds,
Chirping outside the windows.
Don’t want to see my face,
Don’t want to see you,
Don’t want anything,
That has to do with you,
I want to close,
I want to block away,
The world to stop the pain,
In my heart.
I want my heart to stop beating,
To stop bleeding,
From your words,
Your lies.
To be right now,
Than to be home,
Listening to the crickets’ sounds,
Outside the windows.
Is there a better place,
To be right now,
Than in the bed,
Closing my eyes,
Falling into a deep sleep,
To forget about the days,
Forget about the nights,
Forget about you.
Heartbroken,
Nothing better than to sleep,
To forget that you are gone,
To forget your lies,
Forget the way,
You told me,
You never loved me,
Forget the way,
You looked at me,
When you left me,
I want to forget,
I want to leave this world,
Close my eyes,
Fall to sleep to stop the heart,
From beating.
I block my ears,
From hearing the sounds,
Like your voice,
Like when you sing to me,
Those lovely songs,
They sounded to tender,
Now they kill me,
They hurt me,
I don’t want to hear anything,
Don’t want to hear the waves,
Hitting against the sand,
Don’t want to hear the birds,
Chirping outside the windows.
Don’t want to see my face,
Don’t want to see you,
Don’t want anything,
That has to do with you,
I want to close,
I want to block away,
The world to stop the pain,
In my heart.
I want my heart to stop beating,
To stop bleeding,
From your words,
Your lies.
Heartbreak
He was away that September afternoon, playing with his father in a challenge match against two of the Park brothers, Willie and Mungo, for the hefty prize of twenty-five pounds. The match was held in North Berwick, directly across the Firth of Forth from St. Andrews, and yet without a seaworthy vessel, it was in those days a tortuous nine-hour journey by train around the firth, through Edinburgh, and then back up along the east coast to North Berwick. Ironically, it was Margaret who insisted that Tommy make the journey when he'd expressed hesitation about leaving her so pregnant.
"No, on you go, Tommy," she is said to have told him. "That's twenty-five pounds you're going to win."
Such challenge matches were wildly popular events in the region, advertised weeks in advance in newspapers and on fliers with the kind of pumped-up rhetoric we now associate with World Wrestling Entertainment matches. "Big buildup," Joy told me in the St. Andrews Club. "It would be like: 'Young Tom and Old Tom versus the Park Brothers! Head to Head! North Berwick! 22 October! Be There!' And the crowds would be really charged. Things often got hostile. People shouting in the middle of your backswing. A lot of cursing. It was sort of tribal."
The Morrises were fan favorites, a flamboyant and usually favored tandem. The Park brothers, however, had brought along a huge throng of supporters from Musselburgh. It all made for a somewhat confused scene at the match's last hole, where the Morris men survived a late charge by the Parks to pull out a win. The victors were just exiting the final green to a decidedly mixed reception when a telegram was rushed into Tommy's hands saying that he had to get back to St. Andrews "post haste"—his wife was struggling with the child.
One of the match sponsors, a Mr. Lewis, immediately offered the use of his schooner and full crew to take Tommy and his father directly across the Firth of Forth. Unbeknownst to them, a second telegram arrived just as they were setting off, conveying the grim news that both Margaret and the child had died—of a ruptured uterus, it would later be determined by R. Moir, M.D., the brother of the doctor who'd perform Young Tom's autopsy—but it was decided not to call them back, sparing Tommy the dreadful news for the far shore.
The fishermen drying their nets in the St. Andrews town harbor that afternoon had to have been a bit bewildered by the scene: a doctor and minister waiting on the pier, staring out at the tiny rowboat that Young Tom's uncle George, his father's older brother, had taken out to the schooner anchored a few hundred yards off the pier's end, to meet his brother and nephew and relay the sorry news. It is said that long after the schooner had withdrawn into the distance, the rowboat sat bobbing all alone on the windswept bay for nearly an hour, George steadying the vessel with his oars as Old Tom tried to calm his grief-stricken, disbelieving son.
"I'll never forget that long, weary crossing." It was David Joy doing his Old Tom again, a good many of the St. Andrews Club members turning toward us at the sound of that voice. "And that frozen look Tommy had on his face all the way across, standing bolt upright. Just like the photographs of him, it haunts me still."
I had a little time to kill the following day so I grabbed a cup of coffee from the restaurant in the lobby of the Scores Hotel, where I was staying, just across from the R&A clubhouse, and went to sit on one of the benches there alongside the Old Course's first tee and home hole. Visible above Old Tom's shop is the little gabled window where he would often sit in his later years, watching over the familiar linksland and the game he'd done so much to shape.
Old Tom would outlive his entire family. His wife, Agnes, died just eleven months after Young Tom did. John, the paraplegic son, died in 1893, at age thirty-three; Old Tom's daughter, Elizabeth, in 1898, age forty-five; and son James in 1906, at age fifty. Two years later, on May 24, 1908, still going strong at eighty-six, Old Tom made his usual afternoon visit to the New Club (just down from the St. Andrews Club) for shots of whisky and a pint of Blackstrap ale. He then headed for what he mistook to be a bathroom door and tumbled to his death down a long flight of cellar stairs.
I'd been sitting out there by the Old Course for a half hour or so that day, watching golfers starting their rounds or wrapping them up, thinking about Old Tom sitting up above his shop, doing the same, when I thought I saw a curtain in that window move, and the faint, fleeting outline of a figure there. I mentioned it to David Joy when I met him later. He informed me that it was most likely Sheila Mould, who, I soon learned, is the great granddaughter of Young Tom's sister, Elizabeth.
"She can be a bit fiery," Joy said of Mould. "She's very protective of Young Tom's image. She's always scolding me about saying he'd taken to drink in the last months of his life."
Back at my hotel that afternoon, I found a directory and sure enough, listed at "#7 The Links," was a Sheila M. Mould. There was no answer the first few times I tried her. I thought of just running across the road and slipping a note under the door. But an hour later a voice answered the phone, firm yet with an airy note of frailty in it. I hastily introduced myself, explained what I was up to, and asked if she and I might meet.
"Yes," she said. "That would be fine."
We arranged to rendezvous the next morning in the lobby of the Scores Hotel at eleven o'clock. I came downstairs a few minutes early, and there she was, seated by the front desk, very prim and proper in a plaid wool topcoat, black slacks and knit top, a string of pearls setting off a perfectly coiffed head of light-colored hair. We repaired to the least Muzak-plagued corner of the hotel restaurant, whereupon Mould pulled a couple of books from a satchel and placed them on the table before us. One was a coffee-table tome about St. Andrews and golf with an introduction written by her late mother, Doreen "Bunty" Gray; the other was a chapbook biography of her great great grandfather entitled Tom Morris of St. Andrews: The Grand Old Man of Golf. Then, as though teaching a class on her own storied past, she launched into a methodical exposition of her family tree.
He was away that September afternoon, playing with his father in a challenge match against two of the Park brothers, Willie and Mungo, for the hefty prize of twenty-five pounds. The match was held in North Berwick, directly across the Firth of Forth from St. Andrews, and yet without a seaworthy vessel, it was in those days a tortuous nine-hour journey by train around the firth, through Edinburgh, and then back up along the east coast to North Berwick. Ironically, it was Margaret who insisted that Tommy make the journey when he'd expressed hesitation about leaving her so pregnant.
"No, on you go, Tommy," she is said to have told him. "That's twenty-five pounds you're going to win."
Such challenge matches were wildly popular events in the region, advertised weeks in advance in newspapers and on fliers with the kind of pumped-up rhetoric we now associate with World Wrestling Entertainment matches. "Big buildup," Joy told me in the St. Andrews Club. "It would be like: 'Young Tom and Old Tom versus the Park Brothers! Head to Head! North Berwick! 22 October! Be There!' And the crowds would be really charged. Things often got hostile. People shouting in the middle of your backswing. A lot of cursing. It was sort of tribal."
The Morrises were fan favorites, a flamboyant and usually favored tandem. The Park brothers, however, had brought along a huge throng of supporters from Musselburgh. It all made for a somewhat confused scene at the match's last hole, where the Morris men survived a late charge by the Parks to pull out a win. The victors were just exiting the final green to a decidedly mixed reception when a telegram was rushed into Tommy's hands saying that he had to get back to St. Andrews "post haste"—his wife was struggling with the child.
One of the match sponsors, a Mr. Lewis, immediately offered the use of his schooner and full crew to take Tommy and his father directly across the Firth of Forth. Unbeknownst to them, a second telegram arrived just as they were setting off, conveying the grim news that both Margaret and the child had died—of a ruptured uterus, it would later be determined by R. Moir, M.D., the brother of the doctor who'd perform Young Tom's autopsy—but it was decided not to call them back, sparing Tommy the dreadful news for the far shore.
The fishermen drying their nets in the St. Andrews town harbor that afternoon had to have been a bit bewildered by the scene: a doctor and minister waiting on the pier, staring out at the tiny rowboat that Young Tom's uncle George, his father's older brother, had taken out to the schooner anchored a few hundred yards off the pier's end, to meet his brother and nephew and relay the sorry news. It is said that long after the schooner had withdrawn into the distance, the rowboat sat bobbing all alone on the windswept bay for nearly an hour, George steadying the vessel with his oars as Old Tom tried to calm his grief-stricken, disbelieving son.
"I'll never forget that long, weary crossing." It was David Joy doing his Old Tom again, a good many of the St. Andrews Club members turning toward us at the sound of that voice. "And that frozen look Tommy had on his face all the way across, standing bolt upright. Just like the photographs of him, it haunts me still."
I had a little time to kill the following day so I grabbed a cup of coffee from the restaurant in the lobby of the Scores Hotel, where I was staying, just across from the R&A clubhouse, and went to sit on one of the benches there alongside the Old Course's first tee and home hole. Visible above Old Tom's shop is the little gabled window where he would often sit in his later years, watching over the familiar linksland and the game he'd done so much to shape.
Old Tom would outlive his entire family. His wife, Agnes, died just eleven months after Young Tom did. John, the paraplegic son, died in 1893, at age thirty-three; Old Tom's daughter, Elizabeth, in 1898, age forty-five; and son James in 1906, at age fifty. Two years later, on May 24, 1908, still going strong at eighty-six, Old Tom made his usual afternoon visit to the New Club (just down from the St. Andrews Club) for shots of whisky and a pint of Blackstrap ale. He then headed for what he mistook to be a bathroom door and tumbled to his death down a long flight of cellar stairs.
I'd been sitting out there by the Old Course for a half hour or so that day, watching golfers starting their rounds or wrapping them up, thinking about Old Tom sitting up above his shop, doing the same, when I thought I saw a curtain in that window move, and the faint, fleeting outline of a figure there. I mentioned it to David Joy when I met him later. He informed me that it was most likely Sheila Mould, who, I soon learned, is the great granddaughter of Young Tom's sister, Elizabeth.
"She can be a bit fiery," Joy said of Mould. "She's very protective of Young Tom's image. She's always scolding me about saying he'd taken to drink in the last months of his life."
Back at my hotel that afternoon, I found a directory and sure enough, listed at "#7 The Links," was a Sheila M. Mould. There was no answer the first few times I tried her. I thought of just running across the road and slipping a note under the door. But an hour later a voice answered the phone, firm yet with an airy note of frailty in it. I hastily introduced myself, explained what I was up to, and asked if she and I might meet.
"Yes," she said. "That would be fine."
We arranged to rendezvous the next morning in the lobby of the Scores Hotel at eleven o'clock. I came downstairs a few minutes early, and there she was, seated by the front desk, very prim and proper in a plaid wool topcoat, black slacks and knit top, a string of pearls setting off a perfectly coiffed head of light-colored hair. We repaired to the least Muzak-plagued corner of the hotel restaurant, whereupon Mould pulled a couple of books from a satchel and placed them on the table before us. One was a coffee-table tome about St. Andrews and golf with an introduction written by her late mother, Doreen "Bunty" Gray; the other was a chapbook biography of her great great grandfather entitled Tom Morris of St. Andrews: The Grand Old Man of Golf. Then, as though teaching a class on her own storied past, she launched into a methodical exposition of her family tree.
how to get over heartbreak
How to Get Over Heartbreak
Heartbreak is painful and terrible, but it happens to everyone. That depressed, defeated feeling is enough to scare even the most optimistic of lovers into closing themselves off. But heartbreak is a common experience, part of a normal love life, and you can get over it. Here are some steps to help you get over the pain.
Let go. Realize the relationship is truly over. You cannot begin moving on until you completely give up on that person. Put your former lover completely out your system. Discard the last shred of hope that you may get back together.
2
Come to terms with the relationship. Once you have accepted that it is over, you are ready to make amends with yourself. Forgive yourself for mistakes you may have made. Quit staying up at night thinking "If I had only done..." because it doesn't matter now. The relationship is over.
3
Stay busy. Keep your mind occupied, and if you can't keep your mind occupied, keep your body occupied. Try not to be alone. Go out with friends, play sports, take up a new hobby. Try to avoid the routines you used to follow during the relationship.
4
Seek new experiences. The best way to forget the old is to embrace the new. Now is a good time to broaden your horizons. Find out for yourself that there is more to life than that one lost love.
5
Break the habit. This person may have been a large part of your life. You may have had daily rituals that involved him or her. Avoid situations that remind you of their absence. Now you have to find other activities to fill the void.
6
Find a healthy outlet. Write in your journal or talk with friends. Get out all those nasty feelings: They are easier to deal with when they are on the table rather than pent up inside.
Read more: How to Get Over Heartbreak | eHow.com http://www.ehow.com/how_2004304_get-over-heartbreak.html#ixzz12Q1pJgYT
Heartbreak is painful and terrible, but it happens to everyone. That depressed, defeated feeling is enough to scare even the most optimistic of lovers into closing themselves off. But heartbreak is a common experience, part of a normal love life, and you can get over it. Here are some steps to help you get over the pain.
Let go. Realize the relationship is truly over. You cannot begin moving on until you completely give up on that person. Put your former lover completely out your system. Discard the last shred of hope that you may get back together.
2
Come to terms with the relationship. Once you have accepted that it is over, you are ready to make amends with yourself. Forgive yourself for mistakes you may have made. Quit staying up at night thinking "If I had only done..." because it doesn't matter now. The relationship is over.
3
Stay busy. Keep your mind occupied, and if you can't keep your mind occupied, keep your body occupied. Try not to be alone. Go out with friends, play sports, take up a new hobby. Try to avoid the routines you used to follow during the relationship.
4
Seek new experiences. The best way to forget the old is to embrace the new. Now is a good time to broaden your horizons. Find out for yourself that there is more to life than that one lost love.
5
Break the habit. This person may have been a large part of your life. You may have had daily rituals that involved him or her. Avoid situations that remind you of their absence. Now you have to find other activities to fill the void.
6
Find a healthy outlet. Write in your journal or talk with friends. Get out all those nasty feelings: They are easier to deal with when they are on the table rather than pent up inside.
Read more: How to Get Over Heartbreak | eHow.com http://www.ehow.com/how_2004304_get-over-heartbreak.html#ixzz12Q1pJgYT
Get Your Girlfriend Back- For Those Men With Broken Hearts
Get Your Girlfriend Back- For Those Men With Broken Hearts
As you well know, girls are the mainstay in any relationship and they add colour to your life. There is a saying that you never know the value of a thing till you have lost it and the same applies here when you have broken up with the girl you love. You feel like hell, not having her around. But do not despair; there may still be methods to get your girlfriend back.
As you well know, girls are the mainstay in any relationship and they add colour to your life. There is a saying that you never know the value of a thing till you have lost it and the same applies here when you have broken up with the girl you love. You feel like hell, not having her around. But do not despair; there may still be methods to get your girlfriend back.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Beginning A Dating Relationship
If there was a clear way nowadays that would get one a beautiful woman or a handsome man without trying so hard, falling in love and finding your other half would be so easy. But the busy schedules nowadays and the general skepticism that we have against other people makes knowing a person a process and even asking a person for a date quite something that requires audacity and determined mentality. Because of this, why a dating relationship must be started carefully since it is just a very important aspect in the life of a person.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.
Ah Love, Love, … Love, Love, Love, Love, Love.
What is it with Love
That makes me
then breaks me?
When in love
Do I truly love?
Is it really love
Or do I think that I love?
Maybe I just love being in love
Or love the idea of being in love?
I spent my whole life chasing love.
In the end the one thing I truly love
Could just be the meir pursuit of love.
Author's Note: ‘meir’ in hebrew (m’r) means 'that which burns brightly, that which illuminates'.
This poem was Inspired by the viewing of Satoshi Kon's ‘Millenium Actress’.
What is it with Love
That makes me
then breaks me?
When in love
Do I truly love?
Is it really love
Or do I think that I love?
Maybe I just love being in love
Or love the idea of being in love?
I spent my whole life chasing love.
In the end the one thing I truly love
Could just be the meir pursuit of love.
Author's Note: ‘meir’ in hebrew (m’r) means 'that which burns brightly, that which illuminates'.
This poem was Inspired by the viewing of Satoshi Kon's ‘Millenium Actress’.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)