The day was for England to look solid
  South Africa were happy to play slow
It turned out that England wanted squalid
  Opposition gave us nowhere to go

Andrew Strauss was done in by a shooter
  Jonny Trotted past a full one today
Collingwood survived ***** past his ******
  Ian Bell gave us most cause for dismay

Now Kevin played nicely for a while
  But Colly got out to leave us in fear
Prior left us too soon for a smile
  So for Broad and Swann the plan was clear

Jimmy hit them for the SIX of the game
But for glory Graeme Swann was the name

Ti ** mai detto che io sono un pollone completo per una storia d'amore ?Probabilmente capito che fuori già



.ma io amo sentire come fuori di tutte le persone del mondo .due persone è capitato di trovare l'altro - e quando finisce in un matrimonio bello come questo.mi rivolgo in poltiglia .Catturato da Heather Pipino Fotografia questa storia d'amore ha un finale molto felice.Vedere ancora di più qui .
Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsFallSettingsHotelStylesTraditional Elegance

Da Heather Pipino Fotografia. "Quattro anni fa non avrei maiè èe credevoè ñessere qui in piedi con una ragazza che camminava in un negozio di caffè che indossa un cappello Dodgers .ditutte le cose . abbiamo aspettato quasi due mesi prima che ci incontrassimo a vicenda . Dopo che tutti i testi .e-mail e telefonate abbiamo tenuto il nostro respiro e ha preso un salto .e abbiamo imparato nella vita.che tutto ciò che serve è venti secondi di coraggio folle afare qualcosa di grande accadere. "

Quelle parole erano solo una porzione di dolce voti Sam 'a Lindsey .ma danno una buona sbirciatina per i bellissimi cuori e amore stimolante che Sam e condividere Lindsey .Sono entrambi persone così gentili e genuini e la loro vita e l'amore riflettere sul fatto che in ogni modo.E 'doesnè èimporta quanto tempo siè èe li noti .Sam e abiti da sposa corti Lindsey sono il tipo di persone che ti accolgono con un caloroso abbraccio e lascerà piena di gioia .Essi vi invitano nel loro mondo e ti fanno abiti da sposa on line sentire come seè èe stati amici per anni .E ' questo amore che essi hanno per l'altro e per le persone intorno a loro che hanno fatto il loro giorno di nozze così incredibile .In una bella giornata in California.presso la Estancia Resort a La Jolla .amici e parenti si sono riuniti per sostenere e amare questa coppia che aveva toccato ciascuna delle loro vite .E 'stata una giornata piena di lacrime di gioia .il romanticismo .l'amore e la bellezza .e Sam e Lindsey meritato ogni singolo istante.

Da Bride.How ci siamo incontrati : Le nostre mamme lavorano insieme in una scuola nella Bay Area .Una volta che la sua mamma ha imparato che vivevo a San Diego .ha pensato che sarebbe stata una buona idea per me di mostrare il suo figlio in giro come gli era stato appena assunto lì .Lei e mi aveva viaggiato a Parigi circa sette anni fa con mia mamma e un altro insegnante .Mi ricordo che lei mi dice allora che avevo bisogno di incontrare suo figlio ma eravamo entrambi risalenti altre persone al momento .Ero titubante a incontrarlo fino a quando ** fatto un po ' di Facebook stalking.voglio dire .la ricerca .Mi fu colpito in primo click.The prima richiesta di amicizia è stata inviata e tanti.tanti .( molti) messaggi e fino a tarda notte dopo.i messaggi si rivolse a testi e testi voltai per le telefonate .Questo è durato per un certo periodo come i sentimenti si erano formate veloce e siamo stati nervosi e ansiosi di incontrarsi other.Finally un incontro è stato fissato al Coffee Bean a Carlsbad .Eravamo lì per quattro ore e quasi chiudiamo il posto in fondo .Il giorno dopo.unè edata irstèè stata impostata e il resto è storia !

Il nostro matrimonio ha avuto luogo a La Jolla .in California presso l' Estancia Hotel.Abbiamo scelto questa posizione perché è rilassato eleganza .giardini mozzafiato .ed è vicino a dove viviamo .Perché ci siamo incontrati e viviamo qui a San Diego e volevamo festeggiare il nostro amore qui .La maggior parte dei nostri ospiti di nozze erano da fuori città .abbiamo voluto l' atmosfera di essere caldo.accogliente.e una volta tutti vorremmo amare .

I colori erano nero.bianco e verde e il tema era classica .semplice eleganza.Volevamo la sede per parlare di se stesso in modo non volevo fiori eccessivamente fatto .ma felci semplicemente dichiarati e fiori bianchi .Isari Floral Studio ha fatto un lavoro incredibile catturare la nostra visione .

Volevamo il matrimonio per avere tocchi di tutti noi in tutto.Abbiamo parcheggiato la nostra hot rod (1932 Ford Roadster ) nel modo di entrata dell'hotel.Mio padre aveva una splendida "Just Married " segno gessato per noi.così abbiamo potuto avere un scappare con stile !Il nostro cane (leggi : nostro figlio ) . Non poteva essere sulla proprietà .purtroppo .così abbiamo avuto una foto incorniciata di lui fatta con un cartello appeso al collo che diceva : " Sono contento che tu sia qui a festeggiare con i miei genitori prega di godere il cagnolinoborse da me . Woof .Lux " .Su quel tavolo .avevamo sacchetti di biscotti monogramma di Michele Coulon Dessertier .Per il nostro libro degli ospiti .abbiamo lavorato con un graphic designer per fare quello di un manifesto sorta di nostra sede .Ora abbiamo questa grande opera d'arte.con parole gentili di tutti appendere in casa nostra .Sulle pareti della Sala Grande .avevo il nostro invito fatto saltare in aria e sparsi sui muri nelle loro cornici .Tutti questi tocchi davvero reso il giorno così memorabile .

nostro incredibile team di venditori e la nostra famiglia e gli amici sono ciò che veramente ha reso questa giornata il giorno più speciale della nostra vita finora.Siamo così fortunati ad aver avuto un bel matrimonio tale .Sono entusiasta di essere sposata con Sam per il resto della nostra vita !Fotografia

: Heather Pepin Fotografia | dell'artista: Aqua Vivus Productions | Event Design : Sherry Glommen | Pianificazione : Swann Soirees | Floral Design : Isari Flower Studio | Floral Design : Isari Flower Studio | Cake : la zia della sposa | Inviti : Smitten Onpaper | Cerimonia Luogo : Estancia La Jolla | Banco Luogo : Estancia La abiti da sposa on line Jolla | Bridesmaids Dresses : Nordstrom | capelli: Jessica / Michelle - Koda Salon | Calligraphy : Brown Fox Calligrafia | Abbigliamento da Groomsmen : Nero risvolto | officiante : Cerimonie Per Bethel | pipistrelli pergroomsmen : Louisville Slugger | vestito nuziale : Tara Keely | sposa / damigella d'onore Abiti : Abbastanza Plum zucchero | Cookies : Michele Coulon Dessertier | Guest Book Graphic Designer : Designs J Gal | Musica live / DJ : Collin Elliot -Ancora Ascolto Productions | Trucco : FioreBeauty | Photobooth : Photobooth mobileHayley Paige e Jim Hjelm occasioni sono membri della nostra Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui .Fiore Bellezza .Isari Fiore Studio + Design Event .Plum Piuttosto Zucchero.JLM Couture .Inc. e Mobile Photo Booth sono membri del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Fiore di bellezza VIEW PORTFOLIO Isari Fiore Studio vedi portfolio Plum graziosa Zucchero vedi portfolio JLM Couture Wedding Gown Bouti ... vedi portfolio Mobile Photo Booth VIEW
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A lot of people think they can write or paint or draw or sing or make movies or what-have-you, but having an artistic temperament doth not make one an artist.


Even the great writers of our time have tried and failed and failed some more. Vladimir Nabokov received a harsh rejection letter from Knopf upon submitting ******, which would later go on to sell fifty million copies. Sylvia Plath’s first rejection letter for The Bell Jar read, “There certainly isn’t enough genuine talent for us to take notice.” Gertrude Stein received a cruel rejection letter that mocked her style. Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way earned him a sprawling rejection letter regarding the reasons he should simply give up writing all together. Tim Burton’s first illustrated book, The Giant Zlig, got the thumbs down from Walt Disney Productions, and even Jack Kerouac’s perennial On the Road received a particularly blunt rejection letter that simply read, “I don’t dig this one at all.”

So even if you’re an utterly fantastic writer who will be remembered for decades forthcoming, you’ll still most likely receive a large dollop of criticism, rejection, and perhaps even mockery before you get there. Having been through it all these great writers offer some writing tips without pulling punches. After all, if a publishing house is going to tear into your manuscript you might as well be prepared.

1. The first draft of everything is ****. -Ernest Hemingway
2. Never use jargon words like reconceptualize, demassification, attitudinally, judgmentally. They are hallmarks of a pretentious ***. -David Ogilvy
3. If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy. – Dorothy Parker
4. Notice how many of the Olympic athletes effusively thanked their mothers for their success? “She drove me to my practice at four in the morning,” etc. Writing is not figure skating or skiing. Your mother will not make you a writer. My advice to any young person who wants to write is: leave home. -Paul Theroux
5. I would advise anyone who aspires to a writing career that before developing his talent he would be wise to develop a thick hide. — Harper Lee
6. You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. ― Jack London
7. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. — George Orwell
8. There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are. ― W. Somerset Maugham
9. If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time — or the tools — to write. Simple as that. – Stephen King
10. Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. – Neil Gaiman
11. Imagine that you are dying. If you had a terminal disease would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys this 10-weeks-to-live self is the thing that is wrong with the book. So change it. Stop arguing with yourself. Change it. See? Easy. And no one had to die. – Anne Enright
12. If writing seems hard, it’s because it is hard. It’s one of the hardest things people do. – William Zinsser
13. Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college. – Kurt Vonnegut
14. Prose is architecture, not interior decoration. – Ernest Hemingway
15. Write drunk, edit sober. – Ernest Hemingway
16. Get through a draft as quickly as possible. Hard to know the shape of the thing until you have a draft. Literally, when I wrote the last page of my first draft of Lincoln’s Melancholy I thought, Oh, ****, now I get the shape of this. But I had wasted years, literally years, writing and re-writing the first third to first half. The old writer’s rule applies: Have the courage to write badly. – Joshua Wolf Shenk
17. Substitute ‘****’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very;’ your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. – Mark Twain
18. Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you. There will always be people who are much better at doing this or doing that — but you are the only you. ― Neil Gaiman
19. Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative. – Oscar Wilde
20. You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. ― Ray Bradbury
21. Don’t take anyone’s writing advice too seriously. – Lev Grossman
image – christine zenino

A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
     He went out to bat,
     NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.

On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
     He bats with aplomb,
     Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.

From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
     He'll be there for a while,
     All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.

Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
     Sixes so great,
     They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!

A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
     Gritty and tough,
     We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.

No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
     His batting is slick,
     Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.

Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
     If he holds each catch,
     We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.

Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
     His batting is great,
     Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.

Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
     He can oft' bowl too short,
     Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.

James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
     Please bowl nice and full,
     Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.

Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
     He makes them play,
     While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.

How many is a few? According to an online forum, it means 2-3 .So here I go
Typhoon hits Taiwan today, so I can’t go anywhere but stay at home all day reading and watching movie (Wild Tales). I think should start reading Swann’s Way again. I was quite interested in Proust in my junior year, cause one time my ex said something I called ‘words of wisdom’ ,which echoed with Proust’s words about sleeping. Maybe they are completely unrelated, but while reading Proust I was unconsciously analyzing the reading in Proust’s way: comparing someone I know in real life with the characters in the book; or maybe I was just putting on airs by showing that I know the (far-fetched) relation between what ******* my ex said and Proust’s words… The wind is getting stronger and stronger now and I am wondering where you are. On this lame typhoon day I’m suffocated by the boredom and humidity. I call it poetic nothingness.

[Life]

I
A man with no shoes
walks by with a limp.

His arms -
covered
in tattoos
and scars -
are lethargic
by choice.

The biting
winter sun
delivers respite
from late December
northerlies.

He reeks of Franzia.
Redolent, it shadows
him, haunts
him like what he drinks
to forget.

His unkempt white beard
is stained yellow
around the mouth
from years of cigarettes
and no-shave Novembers.

He dons a jacket
- faded glory -
that is two sizes too small
and his pants stay together
like a couple for their kids.

Too proud to join
the Salvation Army
on Christmas Eve,
he finds his bench,
lies down

and survives
one
more
night.

II
A man in a suit
drives home in an Audi.

His collar
is stained
with cheap lipstick
and Chateau Lagrange
from last night's
late night meetings.

Angie, his wife,
waits anxiously
at the door
of their four bedroom,
three and a half bath
Victorian.

Her eyes -
still puffy
and red -
fixated up Swann St.
She is not blinking
and barely breathing.

The kids
have been sent to Grandma's
for the night.

They watch TV -
SpongeBob SquarePants.

The Audi
drives by a man on a bench
He looks asleep -
possibly dead.

The suit inside thinks to himself:
“That poor man.”

you read those books where they build girl angels in laboratories
who fall in love with lonely boys.

you like hearing your poems
read back to you in english accents
and you like your accents
licking on your poems
because, if I recall,  you’re heart-broken
--no I haven’t forgotten,
yes I remember, you were the
curvaceous queen of unskinned knees;
I was ****** in jeans.
you got partway through Swann’s Way,
but gave up last November,
when I was hitting walls hard.
the last words  you read were the last
on your mind, “Happiness is beneficial for the body--”
and you stopped, that was fine enough
for a tattoo. (happy needle,
breast imbrue)
Well grief taught me, grief bought me,
and I was hitting walls hard.
But straight back  for you,  to boys kissing boys
and  you’re too old for toys  and
you think it’s pathetic
how girls go to get it
with silicon and plastic
oh go on, tell me how
you’re a heart-breaker, ha,
because you showed them
your *******, like an angel.

you like to remind me how skinny you are now,
and you still love to dance.

There is no equivalent factory making boy angels.

It's a phrase I often playfully use to describe my queer self.
("Were you ever?"my beloved Alison uniformly says in jest).
But now it seems unusually apt in another way:
As I swann around this empty house, the decor, the photos, the ornaments and old perfume bottles overwhelm me.
My head is brimming with memories as I glance past these fragments of our shared lives.
My loss is palpable and yet inescapable under this roof.
She surrounds us on the walls, hanging over us with her beaming smile amidst the family photos.
I want to escape but I can't:
In a mad way I want to believe that something of these relics around us can bring her back somehow.
She did after all carry something of the old Irish paganism with her.
But, no, this ancient shamanism is sadly absent in a room drowned out by every token of Catholicism you can think of.
It's all too much for this first born to take and yet she is still here in the tiny gaps of these precious artefacts.  
Hidden away where you can't see her.
So, no, being honest right now - I'm not quite straight yet.
The head and heart will realign soon but not with this gnawingly painful grief.
Pray for me.

In an Irish pub last night I met
a man, Ryan Patrick Sheehan.
His eyes were brown, his lips were soft,
his heart was heavy with reason.

To me, he quoted an early Yeats
as if he were Yeats himself.
"The Cold Heaven" danced from his tongue
to rest on my heart's bookshelf.

He spoke of Goethe and Marcel Proust;
two hundred pages that described Combrayan
eye for detail that bordered insane.
he proceeded then to quote Swann's Way.

Of mystery and shadows his silence spoke.
His words, like kisses quite unplanned.
God speed and hope be in your heart
My brief, Ryan Patrick Sheehan.

"... IN THE UNENDING AFTERNOON OF HER EYES..."

We drift from
Parisian museum to

Parisian museum
as if calling upon

some grand home
and the paintings deign

to see us
we the tourist class.

We are caught
in a deluge.

The unrelenting rain
tears time off

the present moment
revealing the past underneath

an older century
bleeding through.

How fragile are
les temps perdu.

I  whistle a motif
from César Franck.

"What's that ?" you say
"...the National Anthem of our love!"

I gaze up at Proust's
cork-lined room

102 boulevard Haussmann
now become a bank.

Imagine him there
glancing down at us

glancing up  at him
the slight movement of  blue satin drapes.

Or have I imagined him
as he imagines us

hurrying figures
from another time

the rain obscuring us
each from the other.

"Love..." Marcel reminds me
“...is space and time.."

his voice almost lost
in the rain's din

"...measured by the heart.”

"Allons Madeline....allons!"
A French mum scolds her sulky child.

The rain reigns
supreme.

*

By 1906, Proust’s parents had died, his brother had married, and he felt the family residence was too big. He moved to 102 Boulevard Haussmann(in the Ian Fleming novel Thunderball, it is described as "the solidest street in Paris" and the site of the headquarters of SPECTRE.) a building owned by his Uncle Louis, where he wrote the bulk of his work, mostly in bed.

Today the building belongs to the CIC bank, which has restored the bedroom, famously lined in cork for soundproofing, but the room’s contents are in the Musée Carnavalet, leaving the solitary chamber soulless..the silence listening to us not making a soundl.
.
SPECTRE in some fictional alternative world still has its headquarters on Boulevard Haussmannn...a fact of which I was totally unaware being pulverised by rain and time....the moment coming apart at the seams.

A reconstruction, with original furniture, of the room where Marcel Proust wrote In search of lost time can be seen in the  Musée Carnavalet.

Off in a cramped corner were the reassembled pieces of furniture from Proust’s bedroom, including a five-paneled Chinese screen, a velvet armchair that belonged to his father and a writing desk, used mostly for piling books. He kept his notebooks and writing materials on an old rosewood end table beside the bed. Two other tables are adrift in this cramped tableau, one of which was used for his morning coffee tray, usually served with milk and croissants.

The original Boulevard Haussmann apartment was spacious but crammed with furniture, with double windows always covered by padded blue satin drapes. The bedspread was blue satin as well and there was a chandelier, which was never lit when Proust was working. The only light was from a long-stemmed, green-shaded lamp on the bedside table.

We were headed for  the Musée Jacquemart-André, at 158 Boulevard Haussmann, the former home of banker and art collector Edouard André and his artist wife Nélie Jacquemart, recaptures the interior decor and lifestyle of respectable society. Proust was never a guest there, but he rotated in the same social circles, We were mere tourists...awed by the past.

As Beckett puts it in his essay on Proust...

"Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits, since the individual is a succession of individuals; the world being a projection of the individual’s consciousness (an objectivation of the individual’s will, Schopenhauer would say), the pact must be continually renewed, the letter of safe-conduct brought up to date. The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day. Habit then is the generic term for the countless treaties concluded between the countless subjects that constitute the individual and their countless correlative objects."

This poem is one of the countless treaties various individuals of me made with the moment in time that was mine being shared with Proust.

The enigma of the “little phrase” that “swept over and enveloped” Swann “like a perfume or a caress..." still lingers on as maybe Frack or as Proust admitted in a letter  Camille Saint-Saëns. I rather prefer Franck's Sonata in A major for Violin and Piano  for its perfect cyclic beauty and its gentle reflectiveness.

But it was Franck's gorgeous Symphony in D minor( and the transformations of its four-bar theme )that I was lost in that day and became for me the "...national anthem of our love."

“It is only through art that we can escape from ourselves and know how another person sees a universe which is not the same as our own and whose landscapes would otherwise have remained as unknown as any there may be on the moon.”

The title comes from a lovely phrase that has always haunted me...

"...calmly imprisoned in the unending afternoon of her eyes..."

THE GUERMANTES WAY - MARCEL PROUST.

I
A man with no shoes
walks by with a limp.

His arms -
covered
in tattoos
and scars -
are lethargic
by choice.

The biting
winter sun
delivers respite
from late December
northerlies.

He reeks of Franzia.
Redolent, it shadows
him, haunts
him like what he drinks
to forget.

His unkempt white beard
is stained yellow
around the mouth
from years of cigarettes
and no-shave Novembers.

He dons a jacket
- faded glory -
that is two sizes too small
and his pants stay together
like a couple for their kids.

Too proud to join
the Salvation Army
on Christmas Eve,
he finds his bench,
lies down

and survives
one
more
night.

II**
A man in a suit
drives home in an Audi.

His collar
is stained
with cheap lipstick
and Chateau Lagrange
from last night's
late night meetings.

Angie, his wife,
waits anxiously
at the door
of their four bedroom,
three and a half bath
Victorian.

Her eyes -
still puffy
and red -
fixated up Swann St.
She is not blinking
and barely breathing.

The kids
have been sent to Grandma's
for the night.

They watch TV -
SpongeBob SquarePants.

The Audi
drives by a man on a bench
He looks asleep -
possibly dead.

The suit inside thinks to himself:
“That poor man.”