How hard is it to start over? I mean, how hard is it to train oneself to the way one would like to be?


In life, what manifest is the vision of whom one like to be. My vision blurred over the years. It’s not that I don’t like myself now. No. I love myself. It’s just that I feel like I’m not perfect. Perfected to whom, a character, I like me to be.
Isn’t it what Life is about? A book. And me, myself is the main character of my book, my Life.


For the longest time, I viewed my life as a Charles Dickens’s novel. The main character is so-so but the supporting casts are great and phenomenon. The supporting casts in Dickens’s novels are always noble and building the main characters. Now, I want my life to be a novel: a bit cheesy of how it would focus on the main character a bit more. Certainly not as one of Jane Austen’s characters because they are heroine and like things in order–which too restricted as a life to me. I want something easy, out-going, analytical, happy with a pinch of power and smirk. Not the comedy type, of course.


Seriously, it is hard right now. I’m not old and yet not getting any younger. I don’t want to be a kid and certainly not up to play the grown-up part. I am struggling within. Mein Kampf. My struggle. Not the Hitler’s type of book also. (Although his book was very well-written.)


OK, so tonight, I crave myself to read a book. A love novel to be exact but found none that I interest in. The Atlas Shrugged is too thick to read. After a year, I’m still at page 167. No wait, it’s 169 now since I read 2 pages while flying back from D.C. Sometimes I wonder if I ever finish that book.


So yes. How hard is it to start over…or at least to continue onto my path and make some editions to it. I guess the trick is: Keep on going and not to start anything over. Just enhance it. Yea, I like that. Enhance it. Enhance my life and my self.


There. I knew it. Writing would help me make sense of my life. And so it does. Well, for me at least. I write to make sense of my life.


Lovely.

This dish – yum!  I had this before and now so hook on it.   The taste is just right.  It’s not too sweet, not too sour, just crunchy and right.

It seems pretty easy to do. Although I don’t cook but this, I will try this weekend but will not include Cheese in it.  I just don’t like cheese.

Ingredients

• 1 head broccoli
• 6 to 8 slices cooked bacon, crumbled
• 1/2 cup chopped red onion
• 1/2 cup raisins, optional
• 8 ounces sharp Cheddar, cut into very small chunks
• 1 cup mayonnaise
• 2 tablespoons white vinegar
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup halved cherry tomatoes
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Directions

Trim off the large leaves from the broccoli stem. Remove the tough stalk at the end and wash broccoli head thoroughly. Cut the head into flowerets and the stem into bite-size pieces. Place in a large bowl. Add the crumbled bacon, onion, raisins if using, and cheese. In a small bowl, combine the remaining ingredients, stirring well. Add to broccoli mixture and toss gently.

credit to the food network

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/paula-deen/broccoli-salad-recipe/reviews/index.html

Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence – this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word “woods.”

Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they’ll never let her get away.

Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.

They forget that what’s here isn’t life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof’s full stop.

Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?

The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.

By Wislawa Szymborska
From “No End of Fun”, 1967
Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh

Lascia ch’io pianga from the opera Rinaldo by GF Handel.

track from the movie Farinelli Il Castrato

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.