if you move. never go back to the house of you childhood. you'll be sorry you came.

there once was a train engineer who took a load of coal to the same city everyday. and everyday at the same time he would pass a quaint little house up on a hill. in the summer it had blue-green grass on all sides and a young oak in the front corner of the long yard.

there were no fences.

the soft grass would just wander down the hill into the trees or stop harshly at the brown gravel road. the house itself was too inviting. white wood exterior with a gray shingled roof. a small porch too. the porch always had three or four chairs set up were people could spend the summer evenings watching america until the cool air from the west blew gently in. and almost without fail there would be a woman and a small girl outside. always in some activity. putting up clothes to dry in the wind, playing some game, making snowmen, sitting on the little porch woman reading child drawing. and everyday they would wave at him, the train engineer. and everyday he would wave back to his beautiful little family.
and everyday he would pass this perfect house in the perfect yard. and everyday he would look forward to passing the perfect house in the perfect yard. and everyday he would be a bit happier after passing the perfect house in the perfect yard. it was painfully beautiful.
then one day his employer told him he would change routes and he instantly thought of his beautiful little family on the beautiful little hill. i'm going to visit them he said to himself. he would explain who he was and tell them why he's here. tell them how much their waves meant to a lonely old engineer on a lonely old train drive. he practiced his conversations with the family all week.

then on a cold Saturday he drove to the house. it took him much longer than he expected, all the country roads were frustratingly misleading and he only knew the route by the train tracks. eventually he found the house, but when walking up to the porch he thought maybe it was wrong. the grass was patchy and it was more pale than it should be. the porch itself was too small and the chairs looked cold and uncomfortable. he knocked on the door. he heard movement inside and eventually a girl came to the door. but this wasn't 'his' girl was it? she seemed bored. he didn't know what to do for a few seconds then asked if her mother was home. the girl went to get her mother. while he waited his eyes wandered onto the screen door. its screen was curling up at the bottom left edge, it had been ripped slightly years before and now it was starting to rust. the door itself needed paint. when the mother finally came to the door he realized he was sorry he came. she was older than he imagined and poorer. she looked at him untrustingly as he explained himself. when he was done there was no look of enlightened joy like he wanted. she seemed a bit confused and invited him in, the girl laid on the couch watching a brown television turned up too loudly. she never took her eyes off it as he came in. the house was not clean and too warm. he struggled through a conversation with the mother all the while wanting to leave. he wanted to drive away quickly and forget everything. and only remember the perfect family from the railroad tracks that waves at him every afternoon.


todays recommended mp3 - the pernice brothers - 7:30a.m.

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
-gibran

this passage from 'the prophet' says what i always suspected but never seen this clear or so poetically put. the deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can obtain.

today's recommended mp3 - denison witmer - rise and fall

"it was the summer of 1950. but before i left denbigh road i saw the end of an era, the death of a culture: television arrived. before, when the men came back from work, the tea was already on the table, a fire was roaring, the radio emitted words or music softly in the corner, they washed and sat down at their places, with the woman, the child, and whoever else in the house could be inveigled downstairs. food began emerging from the oven, dish after dish, tea was brewed, beer appeared, off went the jerseys or jackets, the men sat in their shirtsleeves, glistening with well-being. they all talked, they sang, they told what had happened in their day, they talked dirty--a ritual; they quarrelled, they shouted, they kissed and made up and went to bed at twelve or one, after six or so hours of energetic conviviality. i suppose that this level of emotional intensity was not usual in the households of britain; i was witnessing an extreme. and then, from one day to the next--but literally from one evening to the next-- came the end of good times, for television had arrived and sat like a toad in the corner of the kitchen. soon the big kitchen table had been pushed along the wall, chairs were installed in a semi-circle and, on the chair arms, the swivelling supper trays. it was an end of an exuberant verbal culture..." --doris lessing, "walking in the shade, 1949-1962"

today's recommended mp3 - jurassic five - what's golden

if theres a right thing to say, i probably missed it by a mile