So said jack kerouac, in words dangerously close to becoming cliche:

"The only ones for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."

on the road

So said Truman Capote when he heard Kerouac wrote the whole novel in thirty days, on one long piece of paper, jacked up on benzedrine and espresso:

"that's not writing, that's typing"

ozymandius

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."



this is the pier by my house, and the gathering storm behind it. it has no relevance really to the above, but thought i'd post it cos i'm quite pleased with how it turned out.

The poem is by Percy Bysshe Shelley - i love that line - "Look on my Works, ye Mighty and despair" and yet the statue too, and the memory has fallen into decay, the way of all things.

Once again - "This too will pass"

an eighteenth century print by hokusai:



the dream of the fisherman's wife.

crikey - some dream. dirty old octopuses