Shanghai, I read you like a palm. I walk your streets
seeing how far they go, stretching beyond me like the years ahead,
driving me forward. I dig at your pavements, testing the surfaces,
knowing the rougher they are, the stronger they are. I pursue every
spur, every junction, every cracking access road, holding them
close to myself like wives and concubines. I look at the pallor of
the concrete rising around me, finding in those shades of gray
meanings that pull me closer, deeper towards the swirling lines and
the veins of life pulsing beneath them.
posted by ferret at 11:55 am
Live with the strength of bamboo shoots,
Climb to the sky; affirm your roots.
posted by ferret at 12:30 pm
posted by ferret at 10:22 pm
Most people in life are either makers or doers. (Some are both, but they’re rare.)
Scholars are doers. Poets and novelists are makers. Bloggers, essayists and journalists could be either; It really depends their agendas and the day.
The loudest doers are the actors; the quietest are the accountants. (Man, do they do them taxes.)
The loudest makers are the musicians; the quietest are engineers. (People don’t even realize how much they’ve made.)
Politicians want to be makers, but most of them are really just doers. (A lot of them aren’t even doers, either.)
Inventors want to be doers, but most of them are just makers.
Admen are makers, but everyone thinks they are just doers. Conceptual artists, too.
Nowadays, lovers often want to be makers, but most of them are just doing it.
Most people say that God is a maker, but there’s a growing minority that thinks God is just a doer.
posted by ferret at 10:14 pm
