Puppies, Cancer, and T.S. Eliot
At any given moment there are probably a dozen things my conscious mind is pondering - and I can't imagine how many in my subconscious mind. Tonight I feel like being totally random, so I'd like to throw into the blogosphere a few of these preoccupations that have virtually nothing to do with each other.
Number One: Puppies
Our dogs Lucky and Lady (click here to check out their not-often updated MySpace profile) had six handsome male puppies about a month and a half ago, and several of you have asked when I'm going to post pictures. Well your wish is my command. Three of the little guys were recently taken off our hands. But here are photos of the remaining three:
Brahma
Shiva
Vishnu
The Trinity
Brahma up close
Shiva yawning
Let me out!
Play ball with me!
Better yet, give one of these precious pups a happy home! (LOL)
Please let me know if you're interested.
Number Two: Cancer
Guess what.... I couldn't help doing yet another of these silly little blog-thingies. I don't know how much you believe in astrology. Heck, I'm not sure I do either, although I find it entertaining and pride myself on keeping an open mind. Well, according to everything I've ever read, I'm a textbook Virgo. And being born on September 17th, my sun sign really is Virgo. So imagine my surprise when I came up with this:
| You Should Be A Cancer |
 What's bad about you: you can be too moody and impossible to understand In love: you enjoy wining and dining the object of your affection In friendship, you're: likely to depend on other friends for emotional support Your ideal job: historian, marine biologist, or religious figure Your sense of fashion: you dress to match your mood You like to pig out on: classic home cooked meals, like mac and cheese |
Number Three: T.S. Eliot
September 26th is the birthday of one of my favorite poets, Thomas Stearns Eliot, who died in 1965 at the age of 76.
2 sides of T.S. 
You might know him as the guy responsible for the lyrics to the musical Cats - or as the author of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." But he was so much more. (To read Wikipedia's biography of T.S. Eliot you may click here.)
To commemorate this consummate poetic soul who lives on in the flesh and blood of his compositions despite the decomposition of his actual flesh and blood, I present you with his 1920 poem "Whispers of Immortality":
| WEBSTER was much possessed by death | |
| And saw the skull beneath the skin; | |
| And breastless creatures under ground | |
| Leaned backward with a lipless grin. | |
| Daffodil bulbs instead of balls | 5 |
| Stared from the sockets of the eyes! | |
| He knew that thought clings round dead limbs | |
| Tightening its lusts and luxuries. | |
| Donne, I suppose, was such another | |
| Who found no substitute for sense, | 10 |
| To seize and clutch and penetrate; | |
| Expert beyond experience, | |
| He knew the anguish of the marrow | |
| The ague of the skeleton; | |
| No contact possible to flesh | 15 |
| Allayed the fever of the bone. . . . . . |
|
| Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye | |
| Is underlined for emphasis; | |
| Uncorseted, her friendly bust | |
| Gives promise of pneumatic bliss. | 20 |
| The couched Brazilian jaguar | |
| Compels the scampering marmoset | |
| With subtle effluence of cat; | |
| Grishkin has a maisonette; | |
| The sleek Brazilian jaguar | 25 |
| Does not in its arboreal gloom | |
| Distil so rank a feline smell | |
| As Grishkin in a drawing-room. | |
| And even the Abstract Entities | |
| Circumambulate her charm; | 30 |
| But our lot crawls between dry ribs | |
| To keep our metaphysics warm. |
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