holden_caulfield

DAILY HOLDEN-O-METER: Holden. . .was a good boy on Friday but a very bad, sad boy on Saturday. Having already read two of his short stories, Holden spent the rest of Friday (and then some) reading four short stories (short, as in 60-90 long pages each). Unfortunately, Holden was very groggy on Saturday morning and slept right through his classes. He felt so miserable and depressed that he stayed in bed most of the day, resetting his sleeping cycle so that he can now be awake during most of the daytime. Somehow, Holden made the energy to walk his four-mile exercise walk on Friday, but hit the sack right thereafter.

Now Holden is catching up on his SG (since he has been such a slacker) and must reply to a few e-mails, in addition to writing some to his professors stating that a) he is a loser and b) he will try to do better next time

If there is any consolation, at least Holden picked up a baseball game to umpire on Sunday afternoon.

Well, if you have read this far, please step up to the plate and be one of the first six to request your free--absolutely no obligation--Gmail (Google) e-mail account. Holden has six invites to spare.

Should you be one of the first six to request this in Holden's journal. . .that should be obvious enough. . .be sure to drop him an e-mail through SG. . .because he'll be needing it to set you up.


My Current Literary Contribution:


e.e. cummings, 1884-1962

my father moved through dooms of love
by e.e. cummings

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
yes humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
--i say though hate were why men breathe--
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all