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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Rambi who wrote (32453)	7/18/1999 1:38:00 PM
From: coug	Respond to of 71178

Hi Rambi, So I was laying out on the deck this morning, slightly but pleasantly hungover from a little too much Merlot and Cabernet, I started thinking about my guest list for our coming millennium party. Reserving the right to add but not edit, I will share it with you. Jack London, Beryl Markham, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Edward Abbey, Georgia O'Keefe, John Steinbeck, Eva Peron, Madonna (oops, seated together), Jack Nicholson, Susan Sarandon and my friend Wade.. whom I haven't seen in a few years but is the best guy to sit and have coffee or wine with and talk books. His wife( my wife's cousin), left him for a younger woman, but thats another story and a good one it is. Wade called me over to bring my pickup to help move him out.. We had a pick-up full of books that we hauled to a mini-storage.. He was in his early 40's, downhearted about his situation.. After we unloaded it, we stood there and looked.. He said something like, "there is my life's investment", I said, "Well you invested in your mind" He replied, "And a piss poor investment, it was".. We closed the door, walked to the pickup, drove out to our place, drank a bunch a wine, invited our single neighbor lady over.. she fell in love. he probably tried to lay her.. He soon had a new woman.. not her.. And I always remember that, "and a p....poor investment it was" when I get bogged down in books like now. Coug

To: Rambi who wrote (32453)	7/18/1999 11:03:00 PM
From: JF Quinnelly	Respond to of 71178

I like that poem. I found a Donne site but couldn't find the piece. He did write about death an awful lot.

To: Rambi who wrote (32453)	7/19/1999 12:09:00 AM
From: JF Quinnelly	Respond to of 71178

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.