Encore une fois tu te trouves
face-en-face, pres de moi
dis-moi, qu'est-ce que tu vois
quand tu me regarde? regarde-moi
ici au bout d'un souffle
ici au bout d'un reve
tu ne sais pas quoi faire, quoi dire
l'attente sur les levres
mais je viens comme le vent
et je viens comme printemps
ouvre ta bouche et place mon nom dedans
laisse-le le sur la langue
et je viens comme soleil
fait le bleu plus fonce
ouvre-moi ta porte
l'amour n'aime pas hesiter
mais tu as dit pas maintenant
tu n'as pas de temps
qu'est-ce que tu penses donc toi?
la vie viendra une autre fois?
non, tant pis pour toi!
ferme les yeux, embrace-moi
le moment nous presente le present
le moment est maintenant
Now
Once again you find yourself here
face to face, next to me
tell me what do you see
when you look at me? look at me
here at the edge of a breath
here at the edge of a dream
you don't know what to say, what to do
expectation on your lips
but I come like the wind
and I come like the spring
open your mouth and place my name inside
let it lie there on your tongue
I come like the sun
making the blue deeper
open up your door for me
love does not like to wait
but you say "not now"
you don't have the time
what do you think
that life will come again?
no, too bad for you!
close your eyes and kiss me
the moment presents us with the present
the moment is now
Know how to live within yourself: there is in your soul a whole world of mysterious and enchanted thoughts; they will be drowned by the noise without; daylight will drive them away: listen to their singing, and be silent.
Silentium~Fedor Tyutchev
...a dream of the people that remembers
the power of life-giving moisture,
that recognizes the scent of the sea
where it caresses the shore
in the scent of our sweat
in the salt of our tears
in the slippery wetness that pours
from between the soft thighs of a woman well-loved.
~ O.M. Dreamer
Books, history, genealogy, travel, languages, a stickler for spelling and grammar,anything Russian, food, wine, art, photography, joie de vivre, chocolate, ice cream, milk shakes, Dubonnet, champagne, Veuve Cliquot, ancient Egypt, the smell of oranges, the taste of croissants, strong coffee, root beer, almond tarts, gardening, white freesia, lilac, hyacinths, the mellow light of September, candlelight, dark nights and firelight, red wine and smoking cheroots, suede and leather, French lingerie, scarves, Rue Montorgueil, brooches, writing, poetry, Gilderoy Lockhart, people watching, rain on my skin, kissing, Anonymous from Grimsby, fog, foghorns, collecting sea glass,sea rocks, lapis lazuli, museums, old photos, Cockney rhyming slang, bodice rippers, ghosts, ouija boards, kaleidescopes, bitches, begging for it, skillful irreverence, jumping beans and doodle bugs, a touch of darkness to the soul, meteor showers, practical jokes, puzzles, musing, learning, fox terriers, French donuts, Karsh, walking, feisty women, strong spirits, wicked senses of humour, daydreaming, Sunday dinner debates after too much wine, verbal sparring with Rick, soulful Russians, French mouths, making love lazily in the morning, whispers, Emmanuelle Beart, going for drives and rocking out with my daughter, my grandmother's cobra ring, black underwear, bubble baths, rebels and bohemians, beautiful eyes, the nape of a man's neck, female nudes, old movies, foreign films, going topless in France,going topless at Witty's Lagoon(now affectionately known as Titty's Lagoon), silence, the wind in the trees, seagulls, eagles, orcas, harbour seals, the Louvre, Tuilerie Gardens, Wimbledon, Hyde Park, Munich, Chenonceaux, Jack the Ripper, horses, the moon, night, storms, thunder, benches by the Seine, love letters, Art Nouveau, the ocean, beach fires, toasting marshmallows, Paris, France, Victorian London, William Morris, Monet, Pre-Raphaelites, Rossetti, Klimt, Brueghel
The way we engage with food is the way we engage with all of life.
We teach children how to measure, how to weigh. We fail to teach them how to revere, how to sense wonder and awe. The sense of the sublime, the sign of the inward greatness of the human soul and something which is potentially given to all men, is now a rare gift. ~ Abraham Joshua Heschel
Artistic Freedom
Music
Kalan Porter, Juanes, Loreena McKennit, Connie Drover, Rodrigo, Jesse Cook, Jordi Savall, Andres Segovia, classical - Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Shostakovich, Rachmaninoff
Kalan Porter, March 2008, photos by moi
Movies
Doctor Zhivago, Far From the Madding Crowd, La Gloire de Mon Pere, Les Chateaux de ma Mere, Manon des Sources, La Fabuleux Destin D'Amelie Poulain, Auberge Espagnole, Barry Lyndon, Much Ado About Nothing, Romeo and Juliet (Zefferelli), Marie Antoinette, Un Coeur En Hiver, The Horseman on the Roof/Le Hussard Sur Le Toit, Artemisia, Tous Les Matins du Monde, Le Battement d'ailes du Papillon, Like Water for Chocolate, Jeux d'Enfants/Love Me If You Dare
Television
Anything British, Wooster and Jeeves, The Irish R.M., Mapp and Lucia, Black Adder, French and Saunders, The Vicar of Dibley, 'Allo 'Allo, Masterpiece Theatre, Horatio Hornblower, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Pride and Prejudice, Moll Flanders, Tom Jones, The Pallisers, Upstairs Downstairs, The House of Elliot, Nova, Scientific American, The Civil War by Ken Burns, Secrets of the Dead, Rome, art documentaries
Books
Doctor Zhivago, Rebecca, The Agony and the Ecstasy, Diana - R.F. Delderfield, A Year in the Merde, P.G. Wodehouse, H.E. Bates, Arthur Conan Doyle, Anne Rice, Dracula, Oliver Twist, The Herb of Grace, The Child From The Sea, Green Darkness, Moonfleet, The Irish R.M., The Mennyms, The Bagthorpes, The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, Arthur Ransome, Philip Pullman, Bohemian Manifesto, Full Exposure, The Hedonism Handbook, The Merciful Women, Federico Andahazi
Into Her Eyes a Tear Crept...
Into her eyes a tear crept,
On my lips forgiveness hung;
Pride then spoke and dried her weeping,
And my words died on my tongue.
I go one way, she another;
Remembering, though, our love together,
I still ask, why did I not speak?
And she asks, why did I not weep?
Sighs are Air, and Go to the Air....
Sighs are air, and go to the air,
Tears are water, and go to the sea.
Tell me, fair one, if you know:
.......When love is forgotten, where can it go?
Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
__________________________________
My dearest, I love your eyes
With their fiery, wonderful play
When you suddenly raise them a little
And, like lightning in the sky
Cast a quick glance around you.
But there is a yet more powerful enchantment:
Your eyes, downcast during a passionate kiss
And through your lowered lashes
The sullen, smouldering flame of desire.....
Fedor Tyutchev
Charger of the Sea
Fierce charger of the sea,
Steed of the pale-green mane!
Now gentle, meek, and tame,
Then sportive, wild again!
The raging whirlwind built
Your strength in boundless space
And made your bones like bronze,
Your sinews for the race.
I love you when, headlong,
Your leap in might and pride,
Your mane athwart the storm,
Along the surging tide,
When like a trumpet sound,
Your hooves and neighing gay
Die on the rocky shore
And glitter in the spray.
Tyutchev is one of the most memorized and quoted Russian poets. Occasional pieces and political poems constitute about a half of his sparse poetical output. The rest of his poems, whether describing a scene of nature or passions of love, put a premium on metaphysics. Tyutchev's world is bipolar. He commonly operates with such categories as night and day, north and south, dream and reality, cosmos and chaos, still world of winter and spring teeming with life.
_________________________
Strangers on the Shore
I have come back, and still the sea
keeps sending me strange foam.
It does not get used to the way I see.
The sand does not recognize me.
It makes no sense to return
to the ocean without warning -
it does not know you return
or even that you were away,
and the water is so busy
with all its blue business
that arrivals go unrealized.
The waves keep up their song
and although the sea has many hands,
many mouths and many kisses,
no hand reaches out to you;
no mouth kisses you;
and you soon must realize
what a feeble thing you are.
By now we thought we were friends,
we come back with open arms,
and here is the sea, dancing away,
not bothering us.
I will have to wait for the fog,
the flying salt, the scattered sun,
for the sea to breath and breath on me;
because water is not just water
but a hazy intrusion,
and the waves roll on in the air
like invisible horses.
And so I have to learn
to swim inside my dreams
in case the sea should come
and visit me in my sleep.
And if that happens, all will be well,
and when tomorrow stirs
on the wet stones, the sand
and the great resounding sway of sea
will know who I am and why I return,
will accept me into their school.
And I can be content again
in the solitude of the sand,
graduated by the wind
and respected by the sea-world.
Pablo Neruda
Horses of Neptune - Walter Crane
_________________________
You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms.
The rim of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
Anna Akhmatova
In the Evening
The music rang out in the garden
With such inexpressible grief
Oysters in ice on the plate
Smelled fresh and sharp, of the sea.
He told me: 'I am your true friend!'
And he touched my dress.
How unlike a caress,
The touch of those hands.
As one might stroke a cat or bird,
Or watch slender equestriennes ride . . .
Under the light gold lashes
There is only laughter in his tranquil eyes.
And the voices of mournful violins
Sing through the drifting smoke:
'Praise heaven above--for the first time
You're alone with the man you love.'
Anna Akhmatova
My favorite poem from university, where I had to memorize and recite it in front of a group of Russian professors, in Russian, koneshna!.
The poetry of Anna Akhmatova can be called “the book of woman’s soul”. At the turn of the centuries – 19th and 20th, on the edge of the great revolution, in the epoch shattered by two world wars, there appeared, formed and developed perhaps the most significant female poetry in the history of the new time. Do we really need to distinguish between “male” and “female” poetry? Of course the great poetry is all-human, but it will hardly be possible to understand Akhmatova’s work not taking into consideration its female character. And the main explanation of it is in the world and Russian history itself – it was for the very first time that a woman had a poetic voice of such strength! Female emancipation expressed itself in poetic equality as well. “I taught women to speak”, - noticed Akhmatova in one of her epigrams.
_________________________
Summer was Naked ~ Gabriele D'Annunzio
Translated from the Italian by Diane Mehta
First of all I saw her foot race through
the scorched pine needles
while the storm-lashed air trembled
as if an effusion of white flames.
Cicadas fell silent. The brooks
churned, they became more raucous.
Resin ran copiously, lamenting, down the tree trunks.
I recognized the scent, a hint, of the garden snake.
I caught up with her in the olive grove
and ran through the sky-blue shadows of the branches
on her curved spine and her tawny hair
in the silver Palladium soundlessly fly across.
Further on, in the stubble of landscape
the skylark lept from a smooth furrow,
it sung her name to the heavens.
I, too, called her name then.
Among the oleanders she turned
like a bronze-colored harvest in the reeds
she thunderously entered.
Further on, along the beach,
her foot got tangled in seaweed.
She fell, stretched out between sand and water.
The west wind foamed in her hair.
She appeared immense, immense her nakedness.
Gabriele D'Annunzio, born in 1863, was an Italian poet, novelist, and dramatist known for works that combine naturalism, symbolism, and erotic imagery.
Heroes
Cassis, France, May 2009
Bormes les Mimosas, France, May 2009
To my mind, what makes Paris so magical is precisely what escapes us about it. The things that are impossible to translate....
~Sandrine Voillet
Paris, May 2007
Notre Dame
Erotica Museum
Flower Stall
Spinx Fountain
Marie Antoinette, Concierge
Galeries Lafayette
If you take the time to really look at the world, you'll discover visual excitement all around you. You can find beauty wherever you go - on the street and in shops, at movies and museums, while traveling and visiting friends, or in the pages of catalogs and books. We miss so much of life's pleasure when, in our headlong rush through each day, we forget to pay attention to our surroundings. Yet the simple act of observation - looking up to contemplate the architecture of nearby buildings, or lingering to absorb their details - can illuminate your inner world. That's where inspiration starts. ~ Claudia Strasser
“Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead.”~Joss Whedon
The first and simplest emotion which we discover in the human mind, is curiosity.~Edmund Burke
La Caracola, by Caraban on Deviantart.com
Beach Bum
If all you've ever felt is a lukewarm sort of comfort and never any ecstatic exuberance, you will define happiness as lukewarm comfort, thinking that's as good as it gets!
Oh, for time to breathe, to live, to enjoy, to revolt, to be vulgar, to philosophize, to digest, to be flippant, to be irreverent, to feel, to know, to understand. ~ Elizabath Smart, Canadian writer
The Bohemian sees nudity as something to celebrate. Although Bohemians love to dress up - they see the beauty of the body unclothed. Nudity as a state is liberating, free of class, inhibition, pretense, rank and fashion. It's an opportunity to return to the earth, to create a utopia uncorrupted by buttons, buckles, zippers, neckties, bow ties. Nudity is egalitarian and according to Kahlil Gibran's riff on clothes in The Prophet, it's spiritual. "Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful. And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy, you may find in them a harness and a chain." ~ Bohemian Manifesto, Laren Stover
Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment,
For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.~Khalil Gibran
Dreams
A different language is a different vision of life. ~ Federico Fellini
True love depends on true freedom. Only those who are free can afford to love without reservation.
Humanism ~ A joyous alternative to religions that believe in a supernatural god and life in a hereafter. Humanists believe that this is the only life of which we have certain knowledge and that we owe it to ourselves and others to make it the best life possible for ourselves and all with whom we share this fragile planet. A belief that when people are free to think for themselves, using reason and knowledge as their tools, they are best able to solve this world's problems. An appreciation of the art, literature, music and crafts that are our heritage from the past and of the creativity that, if nourished, can continuously enrich our lives. Humanism is, in sum, a philosophy of those in love with life. Humanists take responsibility for their own lives and relish the adventure of being part of new discoveries, seeking new knowledge, exploring new options. Instead of finding solace in prefabricated answers to the great questions of life, humanists enjoy the open-endedness of a quest and the freedom of discovery that this entails. • The Humanist Society of Western New York
What is poetry? - you say while looking at my eyes,
with your eyes, blue - what is poetry?
And you ask me?
Poetry... it's you.
Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
Counterparts
In my body you search the mountain
for the sun buried in its forest.
In your body I search for the boat
adrift in the middle of the night.
~Octavio Paz
I Have Loved Hours at Sea
I have loved hours at sea, gray cities,
The fragile secret of a flower,
Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour.
First stars above a snowy hill,
Voices of people kindly and wise,
And the great look of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.
Sara Teasdale
Mist
Out the window
Hanging, floating..... tendrils of mist,
Curling through the treetops,
Dripping down through the sky.
On my face
Running, flowing....morsels of tears
Dampen my lips, their salty essence burning.
Slam the door to escape you,
Under the sill the mist reaches,
Close my eyes but your smell is there.
I feel
Hot kisses on my skin,
Heart pounding, I lift my lashes....
But no one looks back at me.
Draw within myself,
Light a candle in the darkness,
Your shadow, in the corner...
As always...
Your fingers reach out...
As always....
Extinguish the flame,
Only silence, the scent of the sea
Carries in through the night.
Did I imagine you?
Were you ever really there....
Something touched my soul
Then was gone,
Fled so quickly....
Perhaps a dream had invaded me,
Tortured me, then disappeared...
You're unable to be grasped and held onto...
Much like the mist as it gently caresses
All which falls within its reach.
~M.
Between Breaths
Soft spirit.........you whisper out upon my neck
and push my hair to one side,
As the wind pushes the waves against the shore;
I turn, but you're not there.....just the air on my skin, pretending to be you.
Between breaths I live a hundred lives, a thousand perhaps,
The sea and the moon and the scent of desire intertwined somehow;
I close my eyes and see a light upon your face, your lonely eyes,
You're like a dream......and I breathe again, and live another life, waiting...
When will you come? When will you murmur to me? When will we sing together
as two birds upon the sand...
Every day I wait and wonder, every day I breathe you in,
I know in the night I can feel you...but my eyes see only darkness when I look,
I'm sure I can hear you there, stirring next to me,
But only the silent night is my friend.
The moon shines in upon the sheets and I lay my cheek down and feel the silkiness
on my skin,
But it's not your silkiness nor your warmth that keeps me company.
I go to the sea to look for you, to find something of you there,
But I can only touch the shells, washed up by a storm, laying lost among the rocks.
I bring one home, set it on the sill, its sheen reflects the setting sun;
More breaths, more lives pass between each one.
More waves, more nights, more suns and moons...
But never you.......never you....
Perhaps your scent, your sigh, your skin......
Somewhere, I know, I'll find you again.
~M.
Soft
Cascading, floating.... whispering fragments of my heart,
Like snowflakes on lashes
They land on your soul
And are caught up there, melting, so you feel their warmth.
Hushed and waiting, the world is silent
Under a soft blanket of white,
And I wait too
For you to come and skim your lips over my cheek.
Touch me as the snow touched my skin,
Tenderly with a fleeting caress,
Encircle me with your arms,
Murmur in my ear
As the wind does, carrying every trace of winter,
Spiraling downward to the ground,
Your love, into my soul, moves the same light way.
Light a candle and let its feathered glow
Illuminate the whorls of frost on the window,
Gentle flickers of flame
Lick through the darkness,
I hear your breath close to me and close my eyes
To dream away the night.
~M.
Ocean
I am...seduced by the sea. He is like a lover, ever beckoning, an entity I cannot escape from. I hear him, be I awake or deep in sleep. Sometimes he is soft and caressing, swirling about my limbs, sometimes he is rough and demanding, washing over me, grabbing me and not letting go, knocking me from my feet. I can taste him, salty on my tongue and lips; smell him on the misty air or at night; in through the open window, his scent is there, carried on the wind. His touch can be cold and icy, but also warm and soothing. Here, for the most part, he is a wild and turbulent lover..and I adore him.
He roars at me sometimes, crashes to my shore, he makes me wet with his spray. At times he frightens me...I am in awe of his power, so much so, it's difficult to leave him and return home, when I know he is there, at my back. But I am consoled knowing he will always be there, in all his mysterious moods. His sparkle can blind me, his calmness lull me, his beauty fill my soul. I need to see him, often; I close my eyes and listen to his song.
I fall asleep with traces of him still on my skin. He gives up his treasures to me, somewhat reluctantly - bits of polished glass, rocks worn into wondrous shapes and colours, shells that once held life but which now lay strewn about my home as reminders of him. I know, I could never leave him.
~M.
Sheila Chandra
Night on the Island
All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island.
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water.
Perhaps very late
our dreams joined
at the top or at the bottom,
Up above like branches moved by a common wind,
down below like red roots that touch.
Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
as before,
when you did not yet exist,
when without sighting you
I sailed by your side,
and your eyes sought
what now--
bread, wine, love, and anger--
I heap upon you
because you are the cup
that was waiting for the gifts of my life.
I have slept with you
all night long while
the dark earth spins
with the living and the dead,
and on waking suddenly
in the midst of the shadow
my arm encircled your waist.
Neither night nor sleep
could separate us.
I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.
~Pablo Neruda
Été
Not yet noon. Temperature in the mid-eighties and rising. Summer has set in. Fresh figs for breakfast, warm from the sun. Dogs asleep in the shade. The summer hubbub of languages on the café terrace: whinnies from the British, barks from the Germans, mutters from the Dutch. Short but glorious displays of roses. Fields of many colours - striped with lavender, gilded with sunflowers, beige with wheat, bottle-green with vines. Swimming in the dark. The scent of burning rosemary on the barbeque. Air like a hot, dry bandage. You sometimes wish the sun would take a day off.
~Peter Mayle on Provence
Tall Ships Festival, June 2008
..
Bohemianism is a way of life, a state of mind, an atmosphere. It's about living richly and irreverently, beyond convention. It's about being uninhibited, unbuttoned, creative and free. ~ Bohemian Manifesto,Laren Stover
"I'm interested in everything. They just don't get it. There's so much to learn, to discover, so many places to travel and books to read. I can't imagine ever finding myself in a position with nothing to do."
What is involved in the idea of wanting to learn, which is one of the most important features of modern education? Seen in existential terms, before you can want to learn you must realize that something is missing from your life. There is something else which is still needed. You must see your life in terms of a lack before you want to learn: a lack of knowledge, or of understanding, or of capability. No one who sees their life as already complete will want to add anything to it. All that other knowledge, each new idea, will appear only as a threatening presence. ~ George Myerson
Things "are" because we see them and what we see and how we see them depends on the arts that have influenced us.~Oscar Wilde
GREAT ART IS CREATED BY THE FEW FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FEW ~ Schiller
Dante Gabriel Rossetti~Venus Verticordia~Venus, Turner of Hearts
John William Waterhouse, The Crystal Ball
John William Godward, The Mirror, 1899
Edward Robert Hughes, Princess Out of School
Alphonse Mucha, Reverie
Gustav Klimt, Dame Avec Chapeau et Boa de Plumes
Gustav Klimt, Portrait of Emilie Floge
Konstantin Makovsky
Konstantin Makovsky, Goblet of Mead
Claude Monet, La Promenade
Robert Lewis Reid, Spirit of the Garden
Frederick Carl Frieseke, Summer
Frederick Carl Frieseke, On the Beach
James Tissot, The Bunch of Lilacs
Vincent Van Gogh, Femme dans le Jardin
Paul Gauguin, Two Tahitian Women
Henri Matisse, Le Bonheur de Vivre
Sandro Botticelli, Birth of Venus, detail
Piero di Cosimo, Simonetta Vespucci
Pieter Brueghel, Peasant Wedding
Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Nude in the Sun
Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Boating on the Seine
Maxfield Parrish, Ecstasy
Diego Rivera,Vendedora de Flores
Tamara de Lempicka, Portrait of Marjoe Ferry There was nothing ordinary about Lempicka; even her name clings to the tongue like an exotic marmalade. Flamboyant (paradoxically remaining true to herself while being a slave to fashion) and imperious, she pinned down her husbands like butterflies in a case, gave lavish parties for hundreds and indulged in every vice that came her way. In the Paris salon of the poet Natalie Barney, she sniffed cocaine and drank sloe gin fizzes laced with hashish among the likes of Andre Gide. On the banks of the Seine, she picked up sailors and female prostitutes. After her nocturnal debauches, she painted until dawn. Her life style (and her ''affair'' with the Italian poet Gabriele D'Annunzio) sent her first husband, Tadeusz Lempicki, packing into the arms of a plump heiress. Excerpted from Amazon.com's book description for Tamara de Lempicka: A Life of Deco and Decadence By Laura Claridge
Pablo Picasso, Woman with a Fan
Georgia O'Keeffe, Red Canna
Leon Alegria, Yellow Nude
Leon Alegria, Serpent
Edward Weston, Nude 1925
Edward Weston, Nude 1934
L'amour
Kalan Porter, Run for the Cure, Oct. 5, 2008, photo by Cyndi
"The wondering sojourner reaps a singular reward given only to those who keep their curiosity alive: pure, raw, unfiltered experience. One moment the raw experience maybe be blissful, the next moment unbearably painful or unfathomably confusing, but it is always genuine and direct and all yours." ~ Gay Hendricks
“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book.....or you take a trip, or you talk.... and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom(when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this(or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death." ~ Anais Nin
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Hey Maureen, I've been getting tons of kisses like this from beautiful people on Hotties For Sale. Add Hotties For Sale now and see which Hotties want to kiss you!
HIYA MAUREEN I just wanted to stop by and say hi and also to show some love on your page and to wish you a Fantastic Wednesday as well. WITH LOVE & RESPECT TODD
Online Now!
have a good weekend! :o)
