[trees are beautiful, why don't you photograph trees?]

Dick Avery: I do what I do for a living, it has to do with supply and demand. You'd be amazed how small the demand is for pictures of trees. 

I like trees...

This realization struck me while I was outside reading (my appreciation of trees, of lack thereof, is not typically a matter to which I devote much contemplation): I have become one of those people who like trees.

In the past, trees have always been, quite simply put, trees. They're quite nice at times, but really, what kind of person sits around philosophically meditating on them? When I was twelve and saw Funny Face for the first time I loved Dick Avery's wry comment. Liking, or indeed, loving trees was something best left to those who were reaching to find meaning and pleasure in life. If you can't deal with the complexities of humans and their potential, love trees.

So you can imagine my astonishment when, all these years later, I came to the realization that my view of life, beauty, pleasure, and serenity has become, in this innocuous way, fundamentally changed. I like trees: as ideas, as objects, as a presence. All these years later I have evolved into being exactly what as a child I found odd, laughable, and mildly pitiable.

It was a disconcerting thought at first. I am of the opinion that children often possess a razor sharp insight through the ludicrousness into which adults rationalize themselves. When I notice my opinion shifting I try my best to question both myself and what caused the change. My father says that the word "rationalize" is exactly what it sounds like,  it's coming up with a "a rational lie." I hate the idea that I might methodically lie to myself out of a desire for comfort; the mere thought horrifies me.

But trees, it's rather innocent sounding isn't? I don't feel laughable or pitiable for it. I believe I am far more complex and aware now than I was at the age of twelve, and therefore, hardly in need of "reaching" to find meaning in life. I like people, both in the abstract and in actuality. There is no pantheism or worship of Gaia involved in my newfound appreciation of arbores in et ex silvis.

I simply find trees to be lovely. I could give you a long list of reasons why; they are beautiful, they are serene, they have as much variation as most people, the sound of the wind rushing through their leaves is delightful... but now I do sound silly and really none of those thing are actually part of my rational.

The older I get the more concerned I become with the thought of missing or not properly appreciating things simply because they have always been there. I get so caught up in the future, in quantifiable facts, failures, irritations, complications, and "knowing things" that I forget to stop, look around, and appreciate the exquisite things that are always there. The paintings that have been on the walls since childhood, the colour of the clouds at sunrise...

I feel that as a child I was spoiled with beauty to the point that I could discriminate against that which was every day... but now, it's been so long since I had the time to stop and study a tree, that when I finally find the time to look, I'm staggered by all the beauty I'd forgotten.

I like trees, and I'm alright with that. And I don't think I'm childish for realizing it is alright to love something simple; I think I am growing up.

Date a girl who reads {Rosemarie Urquico}

Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

{the flowers of spring}

The first crocuses of spring are beginning to poke their heads inquisitively out. I've never particularly cared for crocuses as flowers, but the sight of them brings back fond memories. One or two of them would always bloom in the garden right in front of our house.

When I was little, my mother would always keep a sharp lookout for them. At the sight of their first blossoms she would drag all of us children outside, point them out, and then have us link arms and skip around our driveway singing Gilbert & Sullivan's "The Flowers of Spring" from "The Mikado."

"The flowers that bloom in the Spring,

Tra la!

Bring promise of merry sunshine!

As we merrily dance and we sing,

Tra la!

We welcome the hope that they bring,

Tra la!

Of a summer of roses and wine,

Of a summer of roses and wine!

And that's what we mean,
When we say that a thing,
Is welcome as flowers that bloom in the Spring,
Tra la la la laha! Tra la la la laha
As welcome as flowers of Spring,
Tra la la la laha! Tra la la la laha!
Tra la la la la la!"

I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way. {sandbury}

{in a library}

"A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is

To meet an antique book,

In just the dress his century wore;

A privilege, I think,

{Intellectual Honesty}

Politico just recently posted a fascinating article by Michael Kinsley entitled Being Honest Is The Least Of It, addressing the elusive quality of intellectual honesty. A virtue he described as, "being truthful about what’s going on inside your own head."

If you take any time consider the idea it's almost impossible not to realize both the absolute importance as well as its positively shameful neglect in politics as well as in the day to day. Compromise and intellectual dishonestly have become a prevalent facet of every day life; as we reason that our little white lies pay off when you consider our cause for the greater good. But Kinsley counters that by stating,

pictures. . .

a picture's worth a thousand words,
they say, (or so i've heard).
but "they" have never stop't to feel,
the meaning hid within a word.

the depth and breadth of-- 'love' cannot,
be caught in mere brushstrokes.
just as a microscope can't show,
the grandeur of the mighty oaks.

[s.e.]