Who Remembers H.C. Andersen? Who cares mother's love?

I stumbled upon this gem from the freezing land of the Dane,

an adaption of a classic story told and retold

Of a story of love, of strength, of pain

Of one love that should matter for all, young or old

This big baby cried reading this

at the time when he should be typing uninterrupted

Yet, missing his mommy somehow gives him peace

And even more as his dear editor is all but patient and good-natured

some doodleeoo on Twitpic

as the sound of the clock ticking,

the cold from the air-conditioner jabbed deep into my bones,

the hand ran wild, and the mind all a-whirly

some doodleeoo on Twitpic

One sided short report on the L-word

Many people would say that ten years is a long enough time to know a person. Let alone a spouse.

You get to know how your spouse's mind work, know what she might say to things you ask her before she even says it, anticipate her words before they even form.

You know how your spouse moves, how she walks and turns corners, anticipate her moves to avoid colliding.
Sometimes you succeed in avoiding, at other times you seek the collision.

You learn how your spouse breathes during the night's slumber, you know when she exhales and inhales and you join in her rhythm. And you feel that your sleep is the sleep of a baby.

Yet time and time again, you find yourself newly acquainted with your spouse of ten years. Her everything is new to you. And you like it. And this is as it should be.

That Dying Breed: Reader

Unlike some guy I know whose name I should not mention as it might get me sued what with all this EIT Law--his name is David--who wrote that the notes he wrote should not be taken seriously, this note should be taken seriously:

I read the other day, an article on reading. It talked of how people (yeah, people. Meaning you, people...) today have gotten more estranged with reading. We are living in an era where we are constantly bombarded with updates: on TVs, on radios (for those who still listen to them *snigger?*), newspapers, tabloids, Net.
Especially, Net.
You open your social network account, wherever your account it is: F********R, T*****R, P***K, M*****E, M**T, F****U, B**O, mm, what else?

... Okay, that's all of it.

And you'll see updates, updates and more updates: which football team lost, who lost a bet (and a house, and a wife) because that $*#Tt* football team lost, who won a bet because that d@#*ed football team lost, what meals this-and-that made today for this-and-that's loveliest, who sang better today, whose bombs exploded where bringing how many closer to wherever (PIT might laugh at this. Or not) etc, and so on, and so forth...
Of course, what I mean by reading here is not reading those updates consisting of no more than 160 characters (who decided on the number, anyway?!): I'm talking about reading books. I'm talking about delving into a world which may not be wholly similar, or acutely different than ours. I'm maybe talking about reading fictions, but you can also get a kick reading non-fiction books. I'm talking about leaving the present and going back ten, twenty, one hundred, thousands of years into the Earth's past to see the making of the civilization, to read about humans killing humans, strong nations straddling the weaker ones, loves bloom--lost--crushed--regained--strengthened, trusts given and betrayed, promises delivered and broken, loyalty proven and demanded, honesty, integrity, the whole shenanigans.
You might argue those are things you get "reading" status updates, breaking news or latest gossips in tabloids, but I'm talking about world-shattering, nations-building ones, people, come on...
Or, you can jump to distant or not-too-distant future and see how the world of tomorrow unfurls. Though this kind of reading material belongs almost exclusively to fictions you can see the reflection of the past or present world in those worlds of tomorrow because that's where the authors draw their inspirations from anyway: Humans change but a little.
You might say that you don't have time to sit with a good book. I said that.
What I do now is reading on the train, on the bus, in bed, in the john.
What I read now are mostly e-books, either on my PDA or my NDS.
It is a luxury to sit down with a good book, real book I mean, and to smell the paper and feel weight of the book in your hands, but I don't stop reading.
No one should.

"No other success can replace failure at home," or such quote

I'm missing waiting for my kids' coming home from school
I'm missing looking at my kids on the floor drawing
I'm counting the minutes when I can be with them
Yes, minutes as those are all we have together

I'm missing coming to them, instead of having them come to me
I'm missing jumping down onto the floor to them, and not having them drag me down instead
I'm missing their carefree ignorance to the world ready to bite your head off and spit you out
No, they're not part of that world for they feel

And they see me as they want to hear me
And they hear me although they soon lose interest in me
They go after me yet they are so ready to ditch me for a new set of plaything
They want to play with me so they can beat me again and again

I miss them for that
And I want to go home having them eagerly waiting for me but will it mean they have been missing me?

I pray that they do not miss me 'cause it hurts to miss

Of lying at his feet, foot massage and a cycle

The last few weeks have got me wondering whether life really is a cycle, as at nights I found myself sleeping at my kid's feet; just as I sometimes did when I was still little.
I used to sneak into my parents' bedroom, and I would lay at their feet, until they woke me up for school.
As I was often times asked by my dad to massage his feet, now I find myself massaging my kid's feet--sometimes at nights when I am accompanying him to sleep, and I lay at his feet.
There's no complaint, here.
Simply wondering