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IMPORTANT // Please look after your loved ones, yourself and be kind to others. If you are feeling that the world is too hard to handle there is always help - I implore you not to hesitate in contacting one of these wonderful organisations Lifeline and Beyond Blue ... and I'm sure reaching out to our PRE community we will find a way to help. T.
The window is open - smell the terror.
- Thread starter Dyer'ere
- Start date
Speaking of Hemingway, that rampantly macho, ego-maniacal chest-puffer (surely he would have been an Essendon supporter) gave me one sage piece of advice amongst all his bluff and bluster (seriously dude, what are you trying to prove? Go shoot an elephant, pin-*smile*):
"Write hard and clear about what hurts."
We are The Lost Generation. GR was our Struggletown Gatsby. We could fill libraries with zeitgeist tragedies about the last 30 years.
*smile* that. The past is a foreign country. The future is an oyster in the shell, waiting to be shucked. Now, is the time to grab a knife and get shucking. Oysters are delicious, an aphrodisiac, good for your health, and you might even discover a pearl.
Oh boy, allegory overload. A surplus of similes; metaphor madness.
Hard and clear.
It still hurts, how much we've sucked (not shucked) for so *smile*ing long. We're still gun-shy, because we've been teased and tormented, promised to and abandoned at the altar. No oysters, not even mussels, just barnacles and sea cucumbers for breakast and our own chocolate starfish everyone else's dessert.
But it's different this time. I know it, you know it, the players know it, the club knows it. David King knows it. Pretty soon, the whole *smile*ing AFL will know it.
September. It's the best month of the year to be in Melbourne. For once, we won't be in Bali. (Or at the caravan park.) We finally got invited to the prom. No, scratch that - we didn't wait for a date like some forlorn loser, we got a bunch of mates together and built us a limo, from the Rolls-Royce chassis we had rusting in the garage and a bunch of spare parts we bought from the Trading Post ("A top-30 pick for Bachar Houli? Tell 'im he's dreamin'!"). We're going to the prom in yellow and black tuxedos we hand-stitched from the wool of our small flock of hand-raised, golden-fleeced sheep and larger assortment of feral black goats we found eating tin cans down at the dump (we might not have Voss, but we've got Matty White, eh literary types? ;D ). A yak or two, imported from hardy foreign climes.
The window's still ajar. If Geelong and Hawthorn can do us a favour and beat Sydney, and we do the right thing and win our last three (I'm confident), oyster shells will be opening of their own accord like sensual tulip lips beckoning the first bees of spring.
What colours do bees wear?
(Cynics will tell me to wake up and smell the coffee, but there's one thing in this world that smells better than coffee: spring. The sun rubbing six months of sleep from its eyes and kissing the fresh-cut grass good morning. Breathe deep, brothers and sisters. Inhale the sh!t out of it. Hold it in your lungs and get high as a kite. Life is for celebrating and sooner or later we all run out of Septembers. Gather ye rosebuds, shuck shells and slurp oysters like you're "that fairy with hair on his chest" finally getting a crack at Zelda.)
See you at the G. In September.
"Write hard and clear about what hurts."
We are The Lost Generation. GR was our Struggletown Gatsby. We could fill libraries with zeitgeist tragedies about the last 30 years.
*smile* that. The past is a foreign country. The future is an oyster in the shell, waiting to be shucked. Now, is the time to grab a knife and get shucking. Oysters are delicious, an aphrodisiac, good for your health, and you might even discover a pearl.
Oh boy, allegory overload. A surplus of similes; metaphor madness.
Hard and clear.
It still hurts, how much we've sucked (not shucked) for so *smile*ing long. We're still gun-shy, because we've been teased and tormented, promised to and abandoned at the altar. No oysters, not even mussels, just barnacles and sea cucumbers for breakast and our own chocolate starfish everyone else's dessert.
But it's different this time. I know it, you know it, the players know it, the club knows it. David King knows it. Pretty soon, the whole *smile*ing AFL will know it.
September. It's the best month of the year to be in Melbourne. For once, we won't be in Bali. (Or at the caravan park.) We finally got invited to the prom. No, scratch that - we didn't wait for a date like some forlorn loser, we got a bunch of mates together and built us a limo, from the Rolls-Royce chassis we had rusting in the garage and a bunch of spare parts we bought from the Trading Post ("A top-30 pick for Bachar Houli? Tell 'im he's dreamin'!"). We're going to the prom in yellow and black tuxedos we hand-stitched from the wool of our small flock of hand-raised, golden-fleeced sheep and larger assortment of feral black goats we found eating tin cans down at the dump (we might not have Voss, but we've got Matty White, eh literary types? ;D ). A yak or two, imported from hardy foreign climes.
The window's still ajar. If Geelong and Hawthorn can do us a favour and beat Sydney, and we do the right thing and win our last three (I'm confident), oyster shells will be opening of their own accord like sensual tulip lips beckoning the first bees of spring.
What colours do bees wear?
(Cynics will tell me to wake up and smell the coffee, but there's one thing in this world that smells better than coffee: spring. The sun rubbing six months of sleep from its eyes and kissing the fresh-cut grass good morning. Breathe deep, brothers and sisters. Inhale the sh!t out of it. Hold it in your lungs and get high as a kite. Life is for celebrating and sooner or later we all run out of Septembers. Gather ye rosebuds, shuck shells and slurp oysters like you're "that fairy with hair on his chest" finally getting a crack at Zelda.)
See you at the G. In September.
I may not be a football expert. But I know something of football threads and this to my mind is genius.
Not to say I'm not an expert on Spaghetti Westerns -
[youtube=560,315]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FZ0cpz6Pac[/youtube]
Make the foour, win the flag. If we can finally get busy. Can be done, Amigo.
Yrs truly
Bud Spencer (aka Mark McQueen
)
Not to say I'm not an expert on Spaghetti Westerns -
[youtube=560,315]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FZ0cpz6Pac[/youtube]
Make the foour, win the flag. If we can finally get busy. Can be done, Amigo.
Yrs truly
Bud Spencer (aka Mark McQueen
)
So little action at the trade table..
We mustn't think we're all that far off if things click into place.
Wins against the Grand finalists two years in a row have raised expectations.
Business time Tiges. 8-
We mustn't think we're all that far off if things click into place.
Wins against the Grand finalists two years in a row have raised expectations.
Business time Tiges. 8-
"The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware." - Henry Miller
Summer is coming.
As fresh spring rains wash away the broken champagne flutes at Flemington, we set our minds to the elegant angles of the world game, fish and chips, the merits of Shane Watson, salamander sun stroke, salt water, lazy Coopers pale on the couch with mates who know little but expound on much.
In the back of our minds, emergent like a benign comet, we are aware.
For the first season in memory, we are preternaturally aware that glory awaits on the next dark horizon.
We are aware that our warriors are worthy, ready, hungry. We are aware that we meet the other guy with a better than even money chance of leaving him dead on the ground.
Our club, our tribe, is massing for war.
There are no more excuses, no room for doubt. This is it, enjoy it -- what a great feeling.
Richmond supporters are entering a new world. Where we are headed is ours alone.
The great H. Miller also observed that "one's destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things."
We'll all have a fresh perspective in 2014.
Summer is coming.
As fresh spring rains wash away the broken champagne flutes at Flemington, we set our minds to the elegant angles of the world game, fish and chips, the merits of Shane Watson, salamander sun stroke, salt water, lazy Coopers pale on the couch with mates who know little but expound on much.
In the back of our minds, emergent like a benign comet, we are aware.
For the first season in memory, we are preternaturally aware that glory awaits on the next dark horizon.
We are aware that our warriors are worthy, ready, hungry. We are aware that we meet the other guy with a better than even money chance of leaving him dead on the ground.
Our club, our tribe, is massing for war.
There are no more excuses, no room for doubt. This is it, enjoy it -- what a great feeling.
Richmond supporters are entering a new world. Where we are headed is ours alone.
The great H. Miller also observed that "one's destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things."
We'll all have a fresh perspective in 2014.
I am a little disappointed you couldn't find a more apt quote from Greg Miller for your little dyertribe.Carter said:
Great post Carter. I've been feeling that way too and enjoying the oddness of it.
I haven't read the Colossus of Moroussi since about 1980. Hang on...
I haven't read the Colossus of Moroussi since about 1980. Hang on...
Carter said:
Sort of. At one of the draft nights I was lucky enough to get to - years ago when the RFC held them (the JON fiasco) - I asked him if he ever looked in on PRE.
"Can you put a bet on there?" was his response. The conversation didn't go much further.
