"Poe, to reput(e) a Heroin on the P(l)ot, Let it Live in; to die (s) Far worst!"
"Paul too Put a Heron on the Pot: Too Late to Leave it Into the Forest."
I e-labor-"ate", hmmm, nine Yummy Choices on the "Dummy's DOW Workin'&Out Illustrated" WorkBook available now on my Virtual Bookstore.
Brutus adsum jam forte,
Caesar aderat.
Brutus sic in omni(b)s,
Caesar sic inat.
Is ab ile heres ergo,
Fortibus es in ero.
Nobile themis trux,
Se vatacinum-pes an dux.
I nait sux,
Batatis vadis di
Latin lexus.
Tupi anot Tupi:
Datis nota kues tian.
Its ind di ad sir!
Pax & Lux!
Here is the translation:
"Brutus adds some jam for tea.
Caesar ate a rat.
Brutus was sick in omnibus.
Caesar's sick in a hat.
I say, Billy, here's a go;
Forty buses in a row.
No, Billy, their's trucks,
See what is in'em-peas an' ducks."
I know it sucks,
But that is what is the
Latin Lessons.
To be or not to be:
That's not a question.
It's indeed the answer!
Packs of Lucks!
(Peace and Love)
Ego sum
Paruus Homo Sapiens
Aptus ludere,
Totam diem,
In gramine,
In grammat,
Cum Divus/Diva.
I am
only human.
Ready to play,
All the day,
On the grass,
On Grammar,
With God/Goddess!
1-The n(o)un and vi(er)b are about same age.
2-The vi(er)b is much older than the n(o)un.
3-The n(o)un is much older than the vi(er)b.
4-The vi(er)b is a little bit older than the n(o)un.
I know I am all-ready in All-gust, and that I MAY sound "quiet" Contradictionary sometimes, but I don't jun(k)-lie: Can you cease it or can't you se(IS)e it? Seize it till new-verbum!
"Verbum sat sapienti est."
"A word to the wise is sufficient."
For now I will leave you t(w)o brie(ea)f(th) quotations for pronunciation practice and "fun&thiks" entertainment from the "Dummy's DOW Work'In&Out Illustrated" Workbook.
This is a “One-in-Two Action” (on Intuition):
"A (b) lad (e) has no strai (e) n (ght) if it's not pa(T)-em-pai(e)red by a gree(a)T(’n) f(l)ame."
S-wear-S The AnswerS
S I s(w)or(d)& D N S-WEAR-S 4 D Q-S-T-N-S R:
As I swore The answers for the Question Whizzer are Fo(u)r 'a:
A blade has no strength if it is not pampered by a great flame.
A lad has no strain if it’s not impaired by a greedy lame.
A lady’s no stray if it has not pat in pair added by a greeting fame.
A lade has no strait if it’s not tempered by a great aim.
............................................................
If you find more answers would you, pleeease! Just let me know. I'll be thrilled to know that a bladder can give so many functional contents...
I am pro findin' so I be-lieve it can make me too pro-found! Oh, I almost forgot...The solution for the puzzler from “Dummy’s DOW WorkIn&Out” shown before is:
N(o)un of the alter ain' actives.
Hope you enjoyed the freaky tricky rather than frankly treacly treat, thrice in a trice, of alter'd native language games created by me to get a smile from you!
Drown the frown
and show the crowd
your big SMILE
from miles and miles!
You can find more exercises to your body/mind/spirit on my book “Dummy’s DOW WorkIn&Out” also available in Spanish
Ana "In" Tunes
Guillermo Cabrera Infante, a Cuban novel and screenwriter of movies born in Gibara, a province across the Cuban Orient, recently died on Monday, February 21st in London where he lived in exile. He first supported Fidel Castro and his revolution, but when the Cuban government turned into Communism and its heavy censorship he was not happy at all with the tyrant’s plan and left his so beloved land. He would always write about his life in the Cuba of a pre-revolution.
Cabrera Infante is, in every sense, a multilingual and multicultural author. Equally at ease in both Spanish and English, he has distinguished himself with daring and innovative novels, essays, short stories, and film scripts written in both languages. His work has won major literary awards in France, Italy, and Spain, as well as a Guggenheim fellowship in the United States. His words flow like a shining star incandescently drawing choreographies of shooting details Souza where he displays some periods of his life, which goes beyond mere word play. At times, one has the impression of having a cup of coffee to savor his infinitesimal view to find oneself as if installed, a gust of an honored guest, in the writer's London apartment.
With his close to an autobiographical novel, La Habana para un infante difunto written in 1979 during his everlasting exile from his beloved Cuba, he claims to himself his own apotheosis where he makes a recounting of his adopted city, the flamboyant Habana.
“I wouldn’t want anything else but that my modest lives were to be read, enjoyed, and avoided, im many case, the fate of many who lived, and died, for and to Literature,” wrote Infante, in London, on February 1998. Undoubtedly, a man who lived for and on his time, but not as celebrated as Arthur Miller who got famous after marrying Marilyn Monroe to whom he divorced five years later, affirming that the sex-symbol wife had too much troubles to resolve. Infante, though, got his own demons to work on with mastery, and made them alive in his own writings.
Maybe by the crude reality he displayed, made of flesh, which has a guaranteed place to become fertile soil to worms, or rather by the profoundness of his many reflections, he did not get the world’s recognition he so well deserved. Maybe because he tells of a world people would rather forget it exists, or about a terrain people are mostly afraid of stepping on. Maybe by his modesty or lack of a good translation, although he was very well versed in English, as much as in Spanish and even Latin. The fact is that Infante is dead and his glories are well kept on his books, and in the hands of those who carrying his name, enjoy and have a taste of his beloved Cuba, especially from Havana.
Like a newborn baby, Infante lives again now in the memory of those who, just like him leave their country but live through their passion, who have their hearts deeply committed to spread the immense joy and glories of their lands. Hopefully Infante's Inferno (La Habana para un infante difunto ) will turn out to be Infant’s Heaven now that his memories will live forever.
God asks to the writer:
“Who were you?”
“Infante, Sir!” He responds obliviously yet with a naive respect.
Lord looking at him and recognizing his soul, rephrased his question:
“Who ARE you, child?”
With a triumphal smile he answered, the infant:
“Ego sum scriptor.” .
Then God opened a bigger smile and with all His mighty kindness inquired the writer as last:
“What did you most want in your life on Earth?”
“Cuba Libre!” Cabrera promptly answered.
“You writers surely know how to party!”
(Using his own words, excused with my own translation from Spanish):
“The only party available for the poet to the paralleled writer would be a poem that could tell, in a bad Mallarme, in themselves, that the eternity unit them, but the literary life reunite them.”
And that night the dead went out. “They go out in every reading” would say Guillermito.
For a writer a word is not just a word,
Even less when it is not a just word,
Until it becomes a wor^l^d...
On my words then I must say,
if the end of infinite is neat,
then the end of eternity is ni^f^ty.
Flying over eternal words of joy or dismay,
Chanting hymns of love to his land,
Kept alive through earthly hands
Cabrera Infante lives forever and a day!
A party I then proclaim,
For his wor^l^d remains...
Ana Antunes
Talking about big parties, and the tropical taste of shinning and musical carousel of kaleidoscopic rhythm and sounds, I’ve got a holiday story, which is about a holiday in Brazil, "The Indians Day"!
Therefore I propose to proclaim another holy-day: "The Day of the Forests" which I hope one day will be every day...before it's too late! (Watch out for this Electrical Forest Orchestra Parade is programmed to end after 1.500 beats, the same amount of years before America was literally "dis-covered" by the Europeans.)
And they are still! (Ironically, as I write these words, fire is taken half of Torre de Paine reservoir, for an unfortunate Tchek tourist accidentally burned the forests supposedly protected by the Chilean Government, while he went cooking on his improvised camping.) Considering that each leaf from the world's forest is a paying debt to our planet, my question is: Would you burn money?
So talking about nature, the nature of things, the nature of humankind, the nature of our souls, on my writing I try to also describe and expose the nature of all natures.
Read more here: