Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary,
System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
Longing for the warmth of bed sheets, still I sat there doing spreadsheets.
Having reached the bottom line I took a floppy from the drawer,
I then invoked the SAVE command and waited for the disk to store,
Only this and nothing more.

Deep into the monitor peering, long I sat there wond'ring, fearing,
Doubting, while the disk kept churning, turning yet to churn some more.
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token.
"Save!" I said, "You cursed mother! Save my data from before!"
One thing did the phosphors answer, only this and nothing more,
Just, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

Was this some occult illusion, some maniacal intrusion?
These were choices undesired, ones I'd never faced before.
Carefully I weighed the choices as the disk made impish noises.
The cursor flashed, insistent, waiting, baiting me to type some more.
Clearly I must press a key, choosing one and nothing more,
From "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

With fingers pale and trembling, slowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending, hoping all would be restored,
Praying for some guarantee, timidly, I pressed a key.
But on the screen there still persisted words appearing as before.
Ghastly grim they blinked and taunted, haunted, as my patience wore,
Saying "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

I tried to catch the chips off guard, and pressed again, but twice as hard.
I pleaded with the cursed machine: I begged and cried and then I swore.
Now in mighty desperation, trying random combinations,
Still there came the incantation, just as senseless as before.
Cursor blinking, angrily winking, blinking nonsense as before.
Reading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own machine accosted.
Getting up I turned away and paced across the office floor.
And then I saw a dreadful sight: a lightning bolt cut through the night.
A gasp of horror overtook me, shook me to my very core.
The lightning zapped my previous data, lost and gone forevermore.
Not even, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

To this day I do not know the place to which lost data go.
What demonic nether world us wrought where lost data will be stored,
Beyond the reach of mortal souls, beyond the ether, into black holes?
But sure as there's C, Pascal, Lotus, Ashton-Tate and more,
You will be one day be left to wander, lost on some Plutonian shore,
Pleading, "Abort, Retry, Ignore?"

mood: gloomy music: killing joke - love like blood

Lenore (1773)

Göttfried August Bürger



Up rose Lenore as the red morn wore,
From weary visions starting:
"Art faithless, William, or, William, art dead?
'Tis long since thy departing."
For he, with Frederick's men of might,
In fair Prague waged the uncertain fight;
Nor once had he writ in the hurry of war,
And sad was the true heart that sickened afar.

The Empress and the King,
With ceaseless quarrel tired,
At length relaxed the stubborn hate
Which rivalry inspired:
And the martial throng, with laugh and song,
Spoke of their homes as they rode along,
And clank, clank, clank! came every rank,
With trumpet-sound that rose and sank.

And here and there and everywhere,
Along the swarming ways,
Went old man and boy, with the music of joy,
On the gallant bands to gaze;
And the young child shouted to spy the vaward,
And trembling and blushing the bride pressed forward:
But ah! for the sweet lips of Lenore
The kiss and the greeting are vanished and o'er.

From man to man all wildly she ran
With a swift and searching eye;
But she felt alone in the mighty mass,
As it crushed and crowded by:
On hurried the troop, -- a gladsome group, --
And proudly the tall plumes wave and droop:
She tore her hair and she turned her round,
And madly she dashed her against the ground.

Her mother clasped her tenderly
With soothing words and mild:
"My child, may God look down on thee, --
God comfort thee, my child."
"Oh! mother, mother! gone is gone!
I reck no more how the world runs on:
What pity to me does God impart?
Woe, woe, woe! for my heavy heart!"

"Help, Heaven, help and favour her!
Child, utter an Ave Maria!
Wise and great are the doings of God;
He loves and pities thee."
"Out, mother, out, on the empty lie!
Doth he heed my despair, -- doth he list to my cry?
What boots it now to hope or to pray?
The night is come, -- there is no more day."

"Help, Heaven, help! who knows the Father
Knows surely that he loves his child:
The bread and the wine from the hand divine
Shall make thy tempered grief less wild."
"Oh! mother, dear mother! the wine and the bread
Will not soften the anguish that bows down my head;
For bread and for wine it will yet be as late
That his cold corpse creeps from the grim grave's gate."

"What if the traitor's false faith failed,
By sweet temptation tried, --
What if in distant Hungary
He clasp another bride? --
Despise the fickle fool, my girl,
Who hath ta'en the pebble and spurned the pearl:
While soul and body shall hold together
In his perjured heart shall be stormy weather."

"Oh! mother, mother! gone is gone,
And lost will still be lost!
Death, death is the goal of my weary soul,
Crushed and broken and crost.
Spark of my life! down, down to the tomb:
Die away in the night, die away in the gloom!
What pity to me does God impart?
Woe, woe, woe! for my heavy heart!"

"Help, Heaven, help, and heed her not,
For her sorrows are strong within;
She knows not the words that her tongue repeats, --
Oh! count them not for sin!
Cease, cease, my child, thy wretchedness,
And think on thy promised happiness;
So shall thy mind's calm ecstasy
Be a hope and a home and a bridegroom to thee."

"My mother, what is happiness?
My mother, what is Hell?
With William is my happiness --
Without him is my Hell!
Spark of my life! down, down to the tomb:
Die away in the night, die away in the gloom!
Earth and Heaven, and Heaven and earth,
Reft of William are nothing worth."

Thus grief racked and tore the breast of Lenore,
And busy was her brain;
Thus rose her cry to the Power on high,
To question and arraign:
Wringing her hands and beating her breast, --
Tossing and rocking without any rest; --
Till from her light veil the moon shone thro',
And the stars leapt out of the darkling blue.

But hark to the clatter and the pat pat patter!
Of a horse's heavy hoof!
How the steel clanks and rings as the rider springs!
How the echo shouts aloof!
While slightly and lightly the gentle bell
Tingles and jingles softly and well;
And low and clear through the door plank thin
Comes the voice without to the ear within:

"Holla! holla! unlock the gate;
Art waking, my bride, or sleeping?
Is thy heart still free and still faithful to me?
Art laughing, my bride, or weeping?"
"Oh! wearily, William, I've waited for you, --
Woefully watching the long day thro', --
With a great sorrow sorrowing
For the cruelty of your tarrying."

"Till the dead midnight we saddled not, --
I have journeyed far and fast --
And hither I come to carry thee back
Ere the darkness shall be past."
"Ah! rest thee within till the night's more calm;
Smooth shall thy couch be, and soft, and warm:
Hark to the winds, how they whistle and rush
Thro' the twisted twine of the hawthorn-bush."

"Thro' the hawthorn-bush let whistle and rush, --
Let whistle, child, let whistle!
Mark the flash fierce and high of my steed's bright eye,
And his proud crest's eager bristle.
Up, up and away! I must not stay:
Mount swiftly behind me! up, up and away!
An hundred miles must be ridden and sped
Ere we may lie down on the bridal-bed."

"What! ride an hundred miles tonight,
By thy mad fancies driven!
Dost hear the bell with its sullen swell,
As it rumbles out eleven?"
"Look forth! look forth! the moon shines bright: We and the dead gallop fast thro' the night.
'Tis for a wager I bear thee away
To the nuptial couch ere the break of day."

"Ah, where is the chamber, William dear,
And William, where is the bed?"
"Far, far from here: still, narrow, and cool;
Plank and bottom and lid."
"Hast room for me?" -- "For me and thee;
Up, up to the saddle right speedily!
The wedding-guests are gathered and met,
And the door of the chamber is open set."

She busked her well, and into the selle
She sprang with nimble haste, --
And gently smiling, with a sweet beguiling,
Her white hands clasped his waist: --
And hurry, hurry! ring, ring, ring!
To and fro they sway and swing;
Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,
And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

Here to the right and there to the left
Flew fields of corn and clover,
And the bridges flashed by to the dazzled eye,
As rattling they thundered over.
"What ails my love? the moon shines bright:
Bravely the dead men ride through the night.
Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"
"Ah! no; -- let them sleep in their dusty bed!"

On the breeze cool and soft what tune floats aloft,
While the crows wheel overhead? --
Ding dong! ding dong! 'tis the sound, 'tis the song, --
"Room, room for the passing dead!"
Slowly the funeral-train drew near,
Bearing the coffin, bearing the bier;
And the chime of their chaunt was hissing and harsh,
Like the note of the bull-frog within the marsh.

"You bury your corpse at the dark midnight,
With hymns and bells and wailing; --
But I bring home my youthful wife
To a bride-feast's rich regaling.
Come, choister, come with thy choral throng,
And solemnly sing me a marriage-song;
Come, friar, come, -- let the blessing be spoken,
That the bride and the bridegroom's sweet rest be unbroken."

Died the dirge and vanished the bier: --
Obedient to his call,
Hard hard behind, with a rush like the wind,
Came the long steps' pattering fall:
And ever further! ring, ring, ring!
To and fro they sway and swing;
Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,
And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

How flew to the right, how flew to the left,
Trees, mountains in the race!
How to the left, and the right and the left,
Flew the town and market-place!
"What ails my love? the moon shines bright:
Bravely the dead men ride thro' the night.
Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"
"Ah, let them alone in their dusty bed!"

See, see, see! by the gallows tree,
As they dance on the wheel's broad hoop,
Up and down, in the gleam of the moon
Half lost, an airy group: --
"Ho! ho! mad mob, come hither amain,
And join in the wake of my rushing train; --
Come, dance me a dance, ye dancers thin,
Ere the planks of the marriage-bed close us in."

And hush, hush, hush! the dreamy rout
Came close with a ghastly bustle,
Like the whirlwind in the hazel-bush,
When it makes the dry leaves rustle:
And faster, faster! ring, ring, ring!
To and fro they sway and swing;
Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground,
And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

How flew the moon high overhead,
In the wild race madly driven!
In and out, how the stars danced about,
And reeled o'er the flashing heaven!
"What ails my love? the moon shines bright:
Bravely the dead men ride thro' the night.
Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"
"Alas! let them sleep in their narrow bed."

"Horse, horse! meseems 'tis the cock's shrill note,
And the sand is well nigh spent;
Horse, horse, away! 'tis the break of day, --
'Tis the morning air's sweet scent.
Finished, finished is our ride:
Room, room for the bridegroom and the bride!
At last, at last, we have reached the spot,
For the speed of the dead man has slackened not!"

And swiftly up to an iron gate
With reins relaxed they went;
At the rider's touch the bolts flew back
And the bars were broken and bent;
The doors were burst with a deafening knell,
And over the white graves they dashed pell mell:
The tombs around looked grassy and grim,
As they glimmered and glanced in the moonlight dim.

But see! but see! in an eyelid's beat,
Towhoo! a ghastly wonder!
The horseman's jerkin, piece by piece,
Dropped off like brittle tinder!
Fleshless and hairless, a naked skull,
The sight of his weird head was horrible;
The lifelike mask was there no more,
And a scythe and a sandglass the skeleton bore.

Loud snorted the horse as he plunged and reared,
And the sparks were scattered round: --
What man shall say if he vanished away,
Or sank in the gaping ground?
Groans from the earth and shrieks in the air!
Howling and wailing everywhere!
Half dead, half living, the soul of Lenore
Fought as it never had fought before.

The churchyard troop, -- a ghostly group, --
Close round the dying girl;
Out and in they hurry and spin
Through the dance's weary whirl:
"Patience, patience, when the heart is breaking;
With thy God there is no question-making:
Of thy body thou art quit and free:
Heaven keep thy soul eternally!"

Yes, I love beautiful bodies. Who doesn't? I love passion. I love the dynamic tension between two kinetic units of pulsating flesh. I have found that this attraction begins with a pre-existing psychosexual bond which manifestes itself psychically first. If I don't love the mind of whom I am with, will discard the bodily connection in a relatively short time. If a person is vapid or superficial, I don't care what the person looks like. They can look like they've been sculpted by Michaelangelo - it just doesn't matter. The more mentally connected I am to my partner, the more I feel a sense of theatrical timelessness, the better the physical connection. This principle seems so universal that it practically is a physical law like F=MA. After all, our bodies are holographic masks we as energy beings attach to ourselves upon entering the game of life.

mood: loved

I wondering whether or not I should get on to this MySpace thing. I might, but haven't yet decided. If I did, my social interaction would probably be minimal. I'm not particularly social in real life and am not very forthcoming over the computer either.

The reason why I've been thinking about joining MySpace has to do with the music. I noticed that a lot of bands and musicians are on there, trying to get their music heard, waiting for someone like myself to show up and listen to their available tracks. Someone like me...whose tired ears cannot take anymore emo or 'music with a mission'. I do not like any form of art that is empty, yet I do not like art with a self-righteous attitude either.

If anyone reading this had a profile on MySpace, please comment and let me know what you think of it and if you want, include the URL to your profile so that, if I decide to get on there, I can add you.

mood: curious

Lord Byron by James Holmes, 1815, at age 27

Often when I look at a picture of Lord Byron, I've wondered how close the artist got to really depicting him. I know from many different accounts by people who had met him face to face that he was incredibly attractive...and I picked this particular picture above because it was his personal favorite of himself and I thought it presented him in a way that other pictures did not -- innocent.

'That beautiful pale face is my fate.'
- Lady Caroline Lamb

I read Paul Douglass's book about Lady Caroline Lamb a few months ago. I suggest it for anyone interested in knowing about the relationship that Byron and Lamb had. She discribed her first meeting with him, commenting on every detail of his appearance but one thing that she wrote about several times was his pale complexion. She had said that it was a shame that no artist could ever come close to capturing his beautiful pale face. She discribes his skin as lily white with somewhat of a moon-like glow to it. That his eyes, which are usually thought to be blue, were actually dove grey and quite pale, and that his lips were of a delicate pink...much like that of a rose. Just reading that kind of discription made me wish I could go back in time and see him for myself.

I also read his letters. In it he talks of going prematurely grey yet that last painting of him done, in 1822, he has black hair. I did take into consideration that artists back then did not paint reality but vanity. If someone had a big hairy mole on the end of their nose then the artist was expected to paint a portrait that did not include their 'physical faults'. Then I remembered reading a letter he had written to Hobhouse mentioning that he might dye his hair. So...that must have been what he done. In looking at the last painting, William Edward West did paint Byron as he actually appeared and it displeased everyone as a result. The painting shows Byron with large violet circles under his eyes and his brows and sideburns appear chestnut brown while the hair on his head is damn near black. Back then, when one wanted to dye their hair, they did not have too many choices as to what color like we do today nor cover stick to hide the circles.


Lord Byron by William Edward West, 1822 at age 34

"The infamous romantic poet Lord Byron was half-Scottish and spent his early childhood in Aberdeen. He retained a trace of a Scottish accent throughout his life. Byron’s complicated relationships had caused a scandal and in 1816 he left Britain forever. At the time of this portrait, he was living in Italy with his lover, Countess Teresa Guiccioli. The American artist, William West, complained that the poet was a difficult sitter, either restless and over-talkative or silent and self-conscious. Nobody liked the finished work; Teresa said it was a 'frightful caricature'."

I can attest to the violet circles under the eyes as being a natural characteristic of a pale complexion. I am whiter than a ghost and I have the purplish blue circles under my eyes. It is the only painting I have seen from this time period of a pale person with this particular physical 'flaw'. It would only make sense that he had it. He also had freckles which were never included in any portrait of him. According to a discription by John Galt he had a very light spray on the tops of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Not noticeable unless you were up close to him. Apparently freckles are another flaw. Another is that at this time he was extremely thin, yet looks to be a little bit plump in the picture.

Comparing the two pictures, I'd say that I love both of them, but I think the West portrait is more to my taste....

Sent To: Bella

Hey, where are you? :(
Hey Bella,

Hey, ive been trying to contact you or get a hold of you the past few weeks. I always seem to miss you due to my fucked up schedule. Im sorry. I miss you so much. Work is horrid right now, and it seems that i may not have this job for much longer. Kohls is going under anyway, another corporate sinking into the lake that so many have gone into, oh well.

I dont even know if i can make it to work today. My car yet again is fucked up. I have to spend a great deal of my pay check to replace the battery. $80 :|.

I got your pm asking me where i was. It was weird, i was dreaming about you and i got that pm. It was like we were on a date or something, like we got to meet in real life.

I gotta go though, have to get ready for work in 15 min, just hope my car makes it there. The car lights are very dim and my car is shuddering a lot. Ill talk to you later. I miss you so much. I love you. *kiss*.

In the twilight, silent smiled
All alone the daisy's eyelid,
Fringed with pink-tipped petals piled.
- In the morning, 'twas no more;
In its place a gout of gore.
Break of day was bread of heart,
Since, dear maiden, dead thou art.

--Thomas L. Beddoes