Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Happy Holidays!

Each year, I select a quote to include in my Christmas/Holiday/Whatever-You-Want-to-Call-Them Cards. Finding the right quote is like finding the right Christmas tree; it can be time consuming. Since I don’t put a Christmas tree my quote serves as my tree, and I look forward to sharing a quote each year as I hope the words might inspire at least one person.

The master in the art of living makes little distinction
between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure,
his mind and his body, his information and his recreation,
his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which.
He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does,
leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing.
To him he’s always doing both.
~ James A. Michener

Merry Christmas!

Happy Hanukkah!

Happy Holidays!

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Home from Houston

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

If you celebrate Christmas, I hope you had a very Merry Christmas.

Each year I select a quotation to write in my Christmas cards and notes that I send out. Hope you enjoy my 2007 quote:

We cannot control the evil tongues of others;
but a good life enables us to disregard them.
~Cato the Elder

I landed in Atlanta around 10pm last night. After tracking down my luggage and waiting on MARTA, I arrived at the Doraville station around 11:40pm for my aunt and uncle to collect me. They took me home because I had to get my car to go back to their place to get Daisy– she’s a puker when it comes to riding in cars, so that understandably didn’t want to bring her along. I think it was close to 2am before I got to bed, and even though I had issues falling asleep. Baja, still a kitten, was excited to have a living body in the apartment; therefore, she decided to headbutt me for most of the night. Isis was acting weird, and I was almost at a worrying point….. then.. I hear her meow… I look up…. she is ass up in the window— damn it, she’s in heat. She kept her fuck-me-meow up until about 3am.

I have to say, my Daisy was a perfect angel. She sat beside and chewed her bone until finally deciding to sleep.

I’ll post some pictures from the Houston trip at some point over the next week.

THE GIRL WHO WALKED HOME ALONE

Bette was a great favorite among impersonators who did impressions of the starts because she has such strong individual characteristics. She considered their attention “a compliment, highly flattering.” She particularly enjoyed Charles Pierce’s Bette Davis, and called him “supremely talented.”

“For a long time, the impersonators didn’t do me. I was worried about it. It meant I didn’t have a distinct style.

People think I don’t like those impersonators who do me. Well, they’re wrong. I like it very much, as long as they are very good. The only time I don’t like it is if they aren’t good, or worse if they’re better than I am. I watch them to learn about myself. Until I saw Arthur Blake, I never knew I moved my elbows so much.”

~THE GIRL WHO WALKED HOME ALONE: Bette Davis A Personal Biography

Dolly Wisdom

I’ve always been a freak and different– an oddball even in my childhood and my own family, so I can relate to people who are struggling and trying to find their true identity. I do not sit in the seat of judgment… I love people for who they are. We’re all God’s children.
Dolly Parton

"With Mercy For The Greedy"

Today, Sibille (who happens to be in my top five circle of friends) did a post regarding a quote on BBC radio. This is what the priest had to say, “If God had meant for all people to be Christians he would have made them all Christians, if he had meant us all to be Muslims he would have made us all Muslims. But he didn’t. He had the power to, but didn’t. You have to wonder why.” Love it.

Sibille, also inquired where my journal title originated. In case anyone else has wondered the same, it comes from this:

WITH MERCY FOR THE GREEDY
by Anne Sexton

For my friend, Ruth, who urges me to make an appointment for the Sacrament of Confession

Concerning your letter in which you ask
me to call a priest and in which you ask
me to wear The Cross that you enclose;
your own cross,
your dog-bitten cross,
no larger than a thumb,
small and wooden, no thorns, this rose—

I pray to its shadow,
that gray place
where it lies on your letter … deep, deep.
I detest my sins and I try to believe
in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,
its solid neck, its brown sleep.

True. There is
a beautiful Jesus.
He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef.
How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in!
How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes!
But I can’t. Need is not quite belief.

All morning long
I have worn
your cross, hung with package string around my throat.
It tapped me lightly as a child’s heart might,
tapping secondhand, softly waiting to be born.
Ruth, I cherish the letter you wrote.

My friend, my friend, I was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are:
with mercy
for the greedy,
they are the tongue’s wrangle,
the world’s pottage, the rat’s star.