tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88735042011-04-21T16:06:37.556-07:00reap and sowfirst personhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171442920859981252noreply@blogger.comBlogger31100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873504.post-1118199430413228322005-06-07T19:57:00.000-07:002005-06-07T19:57:10.443-07:00<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/161/2161/640/mike02.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:2px solid #006600; margin:2px' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/161/2161/320/mike02.jpg'></a><br />me <a href='http://www.hello.com/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif' alt='Posted by Hello' border='0' style='border:0px;padding:0px;background:transparent;' align='absmiddle'></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8873504-111819943041322832?l=reapandsow.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>first personhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171442920859981252noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873504.post-1098730372171356602004-10-25T11:52:00.000-07:002004-10-25T11:52:52.170-07:00<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/161/2161/640/mike01.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:2px solid #006600; margin:2px' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/161/2161/320/mike01.jpg'></a><br />First Person <a href='http://www.hello.com/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbh.gif' alt='Posted by Hello' border='0' style='border:0px;padding:0px;background:transparent;' align='absmiddle'></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8873504-109873037217135660?l=reapandsow.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>first personhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171442920859981252noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873504.post-1098729288727847232004-10-25T11:26:00.000-07:002004-10-25T11:34:48.726-07:00The paradise of ashesI have a soft spaot in my heart for French philosophers who use a lot of words to say very little. <em>The Psychoanalysis of Fire </em>by Gaston Bachelard sits on my bookshelf, it's orange cover glows like the fire it describes. I've read this book of and on for several years. I'll read a bit and return to it later. Much of it means nothing to me, still I am in dazzeld by the twists and turns of the words, the linguistic spectacle. In the book, Bachelard says fire brings memories of his father--lighting the hearth or scolding him if you gets too close to the stove. I too think of my father when I think of fire.
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8873504-109872928872784723?l=reapandsow.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>first personhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17171442920859981252noreply@blogger.com0