Monthly Archives: December 2016

“Fire” released by Bruce Springsteen

I’m driving in my car
I turn on the radio
I’m pulling you close
You just say no
You say you don’t like it
But girl I know you’re a liar
‘Cause when we kiss
Ooooh, Fire

Late at night
I’m takin’ you home
I say I wanna stay
You say you wanna be alone
You say you don’t love me
Girl you can’t hide your desire
‘Cause when we kiss
Oh, Fire
Fire

You had a hold on me
Right from the start
A grip so tight
I couldn’t tear it apart
My nerves all jumpin’
Actin’ like a fool
Well your kisses they burn
But your heart stays cool

Romeo and Juliet
Samson and Delilah
Baby you can bet
Their love they didn’t deny
Your words say split
But your words they lie
‘Cause when we kiss
Mmmmmm, Fire
Fire

Burnin in my soul
It’s outta control

picture-fire-springsteen

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Excerpt from “Rasputin” by Maria Rasputin and Patte Barham ~~Cataclysm~~

picture-rasputin-rasputinLate that afternoon, a police inspector called at our flat, accompanied by Episkop Isidor, who had been a friend of Papa’s. The inspector showed us a bloodstained overshoe which we immediately recognized as our father’s. He told us that it had been found on the ice near the Petrovski Bridge. He also told us that divers had been lowered through the ice, but that no trace of the body had been found.
Varya and I were already convinced that our father was dead, but now that we had seen the overshoe, we were certain that he had been murdered; no other explanation seemed possible. We sent a wire to Mama, saying only that Papa was ill, and that we thought she should come to Petrograd.
And then recalling the letter that he had shown me on the previous evening, I took it out of the drawer in which he had placed it, and sat down to read it aloud to Varya and Katya.

My Darlings,
A disaster threatens us. Great misfortune is approaching. The face of Our Lady has become dark and the spirit is troubled in the calm of the night. This calm will not last. Terrible will be the anger. And where shall we flee?
It is written: Beware as you know neither the day nor the hour. The day has come for our country. There will be tears and blood. In the shadows of the suffering I can distinguish nothing. My hour will toll soon. I am not afraid but I know the break will be bitter. God knows the path your suffering will take. Innumerable men will perish. Numerous will be the martyrs. The earth will tremble. Famine and disease will strike men down. Some signs will appear to them. Pray for your salvation. By the grace of Our Lord and the grace of those who intercede for us, you will be consoled.
Grigori

As I finished reading the prophetic letter, so correct in its prediction of the cataclysm that was about to befall our native land, I found it impossible to believe that he would not soon come walking into the room and bend over to kiss me.

 

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Excerpt from “Love in the Time of Cholera” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez ~~Illusion~~

picture-loveinthetimeofcholera-marquezBehind her, so close to her ear that only she could hear it in the tumult, she heard his voice:
“This is not the place for a crowned goddess.”
She turned her head and saw, a hand’s breadth from her eyes, those other glacial eyes, that livid face, those lips petrified with fear, just as she had seen them in the crowd at Midnight Mass the first time he was so close to her, but now, instead of the commotion of love, she felt the abyss of disenchantment. In an instant the magnitude of her own mistake was revealed to her, and she asked herself, appalled, how she could have nurtured such a chimera in her heart for so long and with so much ferocity. She just managed to think: My God, poor man! Florentino Ariza smiled, tried to say something, tried to follow her, but she erased him from her life with a wave of her hand.
“No, please,” she said to him. “Forget it.”
That afternoon, while her father was taking his siesta, she sent Gala Placidia with a two-line letter: “Today, when I saw you, I realized that what is between us is nothing more than an illusion.” The maid also returned his telegrams, his verses, his dry camellias, and asked him to send back her letters and gifts, Aunt Escolastica’s missal, the veins of leaves from her herbariums, the square centimeter of the habit of St. Peter Clavier, the saints’ medals, the braid of her fifteenth year tied with the silk ribbon of her school uniform. I n the days that followed, on the verge of madness, he wrote her countless desperate letters and besieged the maid to take them to her, but she obeyed her unequivocal instructions not to accept anything but the returned gifts. She insisted with so much zeal that Florentino Ariza sent them all back except the braid, which he would return only to Fermina Daza in person so they could talk, if just for a moment. But she refused. Fearing a decision fatal to her son, Transito Ariza swallowed her pride and asked Fermina Daza to grant her the favor of five minutes of her time, and Fermina Daza received her for a moment in the doorway of her house, not asking her to sit down, not asking her to come in, and without the slightest trace of weakening. Two days later, after an argument with his mother, Florentino Ariza took down from the wall of his room the stained-glass case where he displayed the braid as if it were a holy relic, and Transito Ariza herself returned it in the velvet box embroidered with gold thread. Florentino Ariza never had another opportunity to see or talk to Fermina Daza alone in the many chance encounters of their very long lives until fifty-one years and nine months and four days later, when he repeated his vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love on her first night as a widow.

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