Madonna's new tour is called the Sticky and Sweet Tour.
I swear, if I could catch and read into liturature, ideas, and symbolism like I do sexual innuendos, I'd be a fantastic reader.
Not a bad weekend. Went to a party Friday and was a total wallflower, though that was expected. Went to Six Flags on Sat. and went on two roller coasters (though one was a moderate for kids, and mostly is significant because I got K. B. to ride a coaster. The one before it my brother probably would have killed to have been the one to get me on). I got no hw done, despite my plans. Today was hw. Missed breakfast and lunch. Ended up being one of the eucharistic ministers because, it seemed, the scheduled ones didn't show. Was unexpected but cool to help out at church. Work after that. Not too bad. And hw again.
I am going to do an album review of Reasonable Doubt. Just taking a while to get to. But I will.
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
-Matthew Arnold
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