Sublime


Pic of the day, part i: Heron Hunting with the Archduke Leopold Wilhelm, by David Teniers

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Be it life or death, we crave only reality. If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our business. Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one. I know not the first letter of the alphabet. I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things.

Henry David Thoreau, Walden chapter ii, Where I Lived, and What I Lived For

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It has been a beautiful day.

Worked hard.  Had my hands full the entire day.  Nothing like it, especially when you love the work, as I do.

Played hard.  Ran so hard I thought my ass was going to fall off, and I’m exercising between sentences at the moment.

Made dinner, my wife is sick so I made her some chicken soup, while I made hot dogs.  She’ll feel better soon enough.

Read up on the news, about the agreement made between the generals and the muslim brotherhood in Egypt, so there can be peace.  And it looks, at the moment anyway, like it will work.  With the muslim brotherhood actually making some progress in stripping power from the military.  We could learn a thing or two from these people. Brokered peace instead of peace from the barrel of a gun.  What a novel concept!

Found out that I have work for the rest of the week.  Nice.  I was initially thinking I would get only one day.  Four days pay for four days work when seen in that light is wonderful news.

Doesn’t get much better than that in my world.   So the happy Rhino brings you some sublime and wonderful thoughts from Henry David Thoreau to close out the day.

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Pic of the day, part ii:  Aisle of Chestnut trees, by Theodore Rousseau

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The volatile truth of our words should continually betray the inadequacy of the residual statement. Their truth is instantly translated; its literal monument alone remains. The words which express our faith and piety are not definite; yet they are significant and fragrant like frankincense to superior natures. Why level downward to our dullest perception always, and praise that as common sense? The commonest sense is the sense of men asleep, which they express by snoring. Sometimes we are inclined to class those who are once-and-a-half-witted with the half-witted, because we appreciate only a third part of their wit.

Henry David Thoreau, Chapter xviii, Conclusion

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That’s it from here, America.  G’night.

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