The Isolated Blurt Thread: I Learned The Truth at XVII

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*flops down on the couch*

I read a wonderful book today that made me think of you and Mr Noone and Fata: A Time to Keep Silence, by Patrick Leigh Fermor, about his time in monasteries in France and Cappadocia.

An apt title, too.
 
"Worrying is a lot like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn't get you anywhere.

Write that down."
 
I read a wonderful book today that made me think of you and Mr Noone and Fata: A Time to Keep Silence, by Patrick Leigh Fermor, about his time in monasteries in France and Cappadocia.

An apt title, too.

I have not read it.

But I shall.
 
I read a wonderful book today that made me think of you and Mr Noone and Fata: A Time to Keep Silence, by Patrick Leigh Fermor, about his time in monasteries in France and Cappadocia.

An apt title, too.

Especially for a Trappist.

I haven't read any of his works, but the New York Review of Books have been reprinting his stuff over the last few years here in the States.
 
I have not read it.

But I shall.

It's wonderful, and less than 100 pages including great black and white photographs.

In church there was a kind of minstrels' gallery from which the guests, like Moslem ladies in a zenana, gazed down at the Trappists. The Victorian Gothic architecture of the church had none of the Romantic splendour of Solesmes; it was a great, dark north-Oxford nightmare, a grey sepulchre in the depths of which, hour upon hour, the chanting monks stood or knelt. The glaucous light was drained of colour. Fathoms below, columns of beard and brown home-spun, were the foreshortened lay-brothers. Beyond, their white habits and black scapulars covered by voluminous cowls, evolved the choir-monks. Each topiaried head was poised, as it were, on three cylinders of white fog: the enveloped body flanked by two sleeves so elongated and tubular that their mouths touched the ground, flipping and swinging, when the monks were in motion, like the ends of elephants' trunks.

In the seclusion of a cell—an existence whose quietness is only varied by the silent meals, the solemnity of ritual, and long solitary walks in the woods—the troubled waters of the mind grow still and clear, and much that is hidden away and all that clouds it floats to the surface and can be skimmed away; and after a time one reaches a state of peace that is unthought of in the ordinary world.
 
Especially for a Trappist.

I haven't read any of his works, but the New York Review of Books have been reprinting his stuff over the last few years here in the States.

He's distantly related to me. Lived the most incredible life.
 
The Jiffy Pop has reached its maximum height and exploded, because he refuses to take the pan off of the burner. The kernels are causing the kitchen to be filled with the odor of scorching. But, still, he stands and shakes the pan.

Would he rather collapse on the kitchen floor, than leave the smoke filled kitchen?

Does he want the kitchen to catch fire ? Stainless steel, stone, copper, ceramic and a tin ceiling.

Burn, baby, burn?
 
Getting shit done! Well, not me...Gman and my boy. It's nice to see how well they work together.
Got to pick up more wood and nails and hope it doesn't rain too much.
Looking forward to sleeping in a bit tomorrow, snuggling and having a nice breakfast.
 
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