!mariah

I'd like to meet:

I'd Like To Meet:

someone that can show me passion♥

Music:

atm: as blood runs black♥♥

Movies:

Freedom Writers
The Holiday
Reign Over Me
10 Things I Hate About You
Ice Age [1&2]
Saw [1,2&3]
She's The Man
Donnie Darko
The Princess Bride
Finding Nemo
The Black Dahlia Murder
Chicken Run
Butterfly Effect
Save The Last Dance
Dodgeball
Jackass [1&2]
Cabin Fever
The Patriot
V for Vendetta
The Goonies
Cars
Barbie Nutcracker
Barbie Prince and The Pauper
Barbie as Anneliese Princess
Barbie Fairytopia
Barbie and The 12 Dancing Princesses
Click
Zoolander
Edward Scissor Hands
Riding In Cars With Boys
The New Guy
GrindHouse
Finding Neverland
Grease
50 First Dates
Spanglish
Apacalypto
Happy Feet
Borat
White Oleander
Hard Candy
Hills Have Eyes
Silent Hill
Schindler's List
Lion King
Ricky Bobby
Hotel Rwanda
Napolen Dynomite
Benchwarmers
Peter Pan
Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory
&
Charlie And The Chocolate Factory
The Wedding Singer
Cheaper By The Dozen!! [1&2]
The Godfather
LOTR [1,2&3]
Harry Potter [1,2,3,&4]
The Silence of The Lambs
Fight Club
American Beauty
Monsters' Inc.
Sing Blade
Walk The Line
Forest Gump
United 93
Big Fish
Shrek [1&2&3]
Domino
The Jacket
Little Miss Sunshine
King Kong
Mystic River
Toy Story
The Prestige
Die Hard
Stand By Me
The Family Stone
Children Of Men
The Graduate
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre:The Beginning
The Sixth Sense
Crash
Unforgiven
The Incredibles
The Elephant Man
Jumanjii
Jaws
Saving Private Ryan
Scooby Doo [1&2]
To Kill A Mockingbird
Blood Diamond
The Guardian
Million Dollar Baby
The Notebook
The Aviator
Wedding Crashers
National Treasure
Hitch
The DaVinchi Code
Flightplan
Monster
Bewitched
Constantine
Get Rich Or Die Tryin'
Somethings Gotta Give
Under A Tuscan Sun
The Stepford Wives
Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events
Sin City
Secondhand Lions
Mean Girls
Hostel
Hostage
Fantastic Four
Spiderman [1&2]
Derailed
Capote
Garden State
Ladder 49
Meet The Fockers
Meet The Parents
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe
Superman
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Coach Carter
Munich
Cold Mountain
Out Cold
In Her Shoes
The Longest Yard
Just Like Heaven
The Devil Wears Prada
All Dogs Go To Heaven
Simon Birch
Snow White
The Little Mermaid
Ever After

Television:

Ballad of Birmingham
By Dudley Randall
(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)
“Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?”
“No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails
Aren’t good for a little child.”
“But, mother, I won’t be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free.”
“No, baby, no, you may not go,
For I fear those guns will fire.
But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children’s choir.”
She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.
The mother smiled to know her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.
For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.
She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
“O, here’s the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?”
The Princess: Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
Salomé
By Ai
I scissor the stem of the red carnation
and set it in a bowl of water.
It floats the way your head would,
if I cut it off.
But what if I tore you apart
for those afternoons
when I was fifteen
and so like a bird of paradise
slaughtered for its feathers.
Even my name suggested wings,
wicker cages, flight.
Come, sit on my lap, you said.
I felt as if I had flown there;
I was weightless.
You were forty and married.
That she was my mother never mattered.
She was a door that opened onto me.
The three of us blended into a kind of somnolence
and musk, the musk of Sundays. Sweat and sweetness.
That dried plum and licorice taste
always back of my tongue
and your tongue against my teeth,
then touching mine. How many times?—
I counted, but could never remember.
And when I thought we’d go on forever,
that nothing could stop us
as we fell endlessly from consciousness,
orders came: War in the north.
Your sword, the gold epaulets,
the uniform so brightly colored,
so unlike war, I thought.
And your horse; how you rode out the gate.
No, how that horse danced beneath you
toward the sound of cannon fire.
I could hear it, so many leagues away.
I could see you fall, your face scarlet,
the horse dancing on without you.
And at the same moment,
Mother sighed and turned clumsily in the hammock,
the Madeira in the thin-stemmed glass
spilled into the grass,
and I felt myself hardening to a brandy-colored wood,
my skin, a thousand strings drawn so taut
that when I walked to the house
I could hear music
tumbling like a waterfall of China silk
behind me.
I took your letter from my bodice.
Salome, I heard your voice,
little bird, fly. But I did not.
I untied the lilac ribbon at my breasts
and lay down on your bed.
After a while, I heard Mother's footsteps,
watched her walk to the window.
I closed my eyes
and when I opened them
the shadow of a sword passed through my throat
and Mother, dressed like a grenadier,
bent and kissed me on the lips.
The Kiss
By W. S. Di Piero
The mossy transom light, odors of cabbage
and ancient papers, while Father Feeney
polishes an apple on his tunic.
I tell him I want the life priests have,
not how the night sky’s millions
of departing stars, erased by city lights,
terrify me toward God. That some nights
I sleepwalk, curl inside the tub,
and bang awake from a dream of walking through
a night where candle beams crisscross
the sky, a movie premiere somewhere.
Where am I, Father, when I visit a life
inside or outside the one I’m in?
In our wronged world I see things
accidentally good: fishy shadows thrown
by walnut leaves, summer hammerheads
whomping fireplugs, fall air that tastes
like spring water, oranges, and iron.
“What are you running from, my dear,
at morning mass five times a week?”
He comes around the desk, its failing flowers
and Iwo Jima inkwell, holding his breviary,
its Latin mysteries a patterned noise
like blades on ice, a small-voiced poetry
or sorcery. Beautiful dreamer,
how I love you. When he leans down,
his hands rough with chalk dust
rasp my ears. “You don't have the call,”
kissing my cheek. “Find something else.”
On the subway home I found
a Golgotha air of piss and smoke,
sleepy workers, Cuban missiles drooping
in their evening papers, with black people
hosed down by cops or stretched by dogs.
What was I running from? Deity flashed
on the razor a boy beside me wagged,
it stroked the hair of the nurse who waked
to kiss her rosary. I believed the wall’s
filthy cracks, coming into focus
when we stopped, held stories I'd find
and tell. What are you running from,
child of what I’ve become?
Tell what you know now
of dreadful freshness and want,
our stunned world peopled
by shadows solidly flesh,
a silted fountain of prayer
rising in our throat.
Pleasures
By Denise Levertov
I like to find
what's not found
at once, but lies
within something of another nature,
in repose, distinct.
Gull feathers of glass, hidden
in white pulp: the bones of squid
which I pull out and lay
blade by blade on the draining board—
tapered as if for swiftness, to pierce
the heart, but fragile, substance
belying design. Or a fruit, mamey,
cased in rough brown peel, the flesh
rose-amber, and the seed:
the seed a stone of wood, carved and
polished, walnut-colored, formed
like a brazilnut, but large,
large enough to fill
the hungry palm of a hand.
I like the juicy stem of grass that grows
within the coarser leaf folded round,
and the butteryellow glow
in the narrow flute from which the morning-glory
opens blue and cool on a hot morning.
Prison Song
By Alan Dugan
The skin ripples over my body like moon-wooed water,
rearing to escape me. Where could it find another
animal as naked as the one it hates to cover?
Once it told me what was happening outside,
who was attacking, who caressing, and what the air
was doing to feed or freeze me. Now I wake up
dark at night, in a textureless ocean of ignorance,
or fruit bites back and water bruises like a stone.
It’s jealousy, because I look for other tools to know
with, and other armor, better girded to my wish.
So let it lie, turn off the clues or try to leave:
sewn on me seamless like those painful shirts
the body-hating saints wore, the sheath of hell
is pierced to my darkness nonetheless: what traitors
labor in my face, what hints they smuggle through
its arching guard! But even in the night it jails,
with nothing but its lies and silences to feed upon,
the jail itself can make a scenery, sing prison songs,
and set off fireworks to praise a homemade day.
Without Regret
By Eleanor Wilner
Nights, by the light of whatever would burn:
tallow, tinder and the silken rope
of wick that burns slow, slow
we wove the baskets from the long gold strands
of wheat that were another silk: worm soul
spun the one, yellow seed in the dark soil, the other.
The fields lay fallow, swollen with frost,
expectant winter. Mud clung to the edges
of our gowns; we had hung back like shadows
on the walls of trees and watched. In the little circles
that our tapers threw, murdered men rose red
in their clanging armor, muttered
words that bled through the bars
of iron masks: the lord
who sold us to the glory fields, lied.
Trumpets without tongues, we wove lilies
into the baskets. When they asked us
what we meant by these, we’d say “mary, mary”
and be still. We lined the baskets on the sill
in the barn, where it is always dusk
and the cows smell sweet. Now the snow
sifts through the trees, dismembered
lace, the white dust of angels, angels.
And the ringing of keys that hang
in bunches at our waists, and the sound of silk
whispering, whispering.
There is nothing in the high windows
but swirling snow,
the glittering milk of winter.
The halls grow chill. The candles flicker.
Let them wait who will and think what they want.
The lord has gone with the hunt, and the snow,
the snow grows thicker. Well he will keep
till spring thaw comes. Head, hand, and heart—
baskets of wicker, baskets of straw.
I, Too
By Langston Hughes
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
I, too, am America.
Happiness
By Jane Kenyon
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
Siren Song
By Margaret Atwood
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don't enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don't enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
Poor Angels
By Edward Hirsch
At this hour the soul floats weightlessly
through the city streets, speechless and invisible,
astonished by the smoky blend of grays and golds
seeping out of the air, the dark half-tones
of dusk suddenly filling the urban sky
while the body sits listlessly by the window
sullen and heavy, too exhausted to move,
too weary to stand up or to lie down.
At this hour the soul is like a yellow wing
slipping through the treetops, a little ecstatic
cloud hovering over the sidewalks, calling out
to the approaching night, “Amaze me, amaze me,”
while the body sits glumly by the window
listening to the clear summons of the dead
transparent as glass, clairvoyant as crystal.
Some nights it is almost ready to join them.
Oh, this is a strange, unlikely tethering,
a furious grafting of the quick and the slow:
when the soul flies up, the body sinks down
and all night—locked in the same cramped room—
they go on quarreling, stubbornly threatening
to leave each other, wordlessly filling the air
with the sound of a low internal burning.
How long can this bewildering marriage last?
At midnight the soul dreams of a small fire
of stars flaming on the other side of the sky,
but the body stares into an empty night sheen,
a hollow-eyed darkness. Poor luckless angels,
feverish old loves: don’t separate yet.
Let what rises live with what descends.
AAM’s parent organization, the United Nations Association of the USA, has just joined The One Campaign, a national education and advocacy effort to rally Americans to fight global crises like AIDS, hunger and poverty. The One Campaign is named after its main goal: to push for the US government to earmark an additional one percent of the federal budget for the world’s poorest. This would increase US foreign aid assistance from 0.2% to 1.2%—the figure the United Nations has assigned as the share needed to “Make Poverty History.”
Over 700,000 individuals and organizations have already signed The One Declaration, which urges the government to increase its foreign aid spending by the next G8 meeting in July. These signatories include AAM's own Goodwill Ambassador, Heather Mills McCartney, as well as many others inlcuding Bono, Brad Pitt, Tom Hanks, Cameron Diaz, Al Pacino, Alfre Woodward, Danny Glover, George Clooney, World Vision, Bread for the World, Oxfam America, Save the Children, DATA, CARE USA and the United Nations Millennium Campaign, to name just a few.
The goals of The One Campaign work hand-in-hand with the mission of Adopt-A-Minefield. Both campaigns address many of the same Millennium Development Goals (MDGs). For example, through clearance efforts and survivor assistance, Adopt-A-Minefield
♥ Saves the lives of countless men, women, and children;
♥ Enables economic redevelopment by allowing post-conflict communities to reclaim; their land for farming, reducing poverty and hunger;
♥ Promotes educational opportunities by making it possible for schools to reopen;
♥ Ensures environmental sustainability by removing the hazardous pollution of landmines and UXO; and
Cultivates a global partnership for development by working with other organizations to make the best use of cleared land.
The MISS Foundation
The MISS Foundation is a 501 (c) 3, volunteer based organization committed to providing crisis support and long term aid to families after the death of a child from any cause. MISS also participates in legislative and advocacy issues, community engagement and volunteerism, and culturally competent, multidisciplinary, education opportunities.
A Message from the Founder
Welcome to the MISS Foundation's online support site. If you are a family member experiencing the death of a child, we extend our deepest empathy. There simply are not words to express the depth of the sorrow...we are here to share the pain and we want you to know that we will walk with you.
There is so much to learn and see in the MISS website. Cherish Corner has wonderful articles and poetry. The Family Section contains current and back issues of our award-winning newsletter, MISSing Angels, as well as our online support groups, a place to find face-to-face support or information on beginning your own MISS Foundation Support Chapter, and even a downloadable funeral planner.
In our professionals section,there is information on our workshops and speakers available to present in your facility about many topics relating to child death.
There is so much information contained in our pages...take your time and browse. Feel free to ask questions and know that there is no greater tragedy than the death of a child. You do not walk alone.
Joanne Cacciatore, LMSW, FT
About MISS
More than 120,000 children die every year in the United States. Of those, more than 80% die before their first birthday...
The MISS Foundation is a nonprofit corporation committed to helping families discover hope and eventually heal from the trauma of a child's death.
More information on the MISS Foundation visit our information packet link:
MISS FOUNDATION PACKET LINK
Vision
That our programs will serve to strengthen families and communities when a child has died, and that through education and research, we will help to reduce the number of child deaths. No family should have to endure the pain of a child family member's death alone: The MISS Foundation is committed to building interdisciplinary communities that provide long-term support to families after a child's death. We are committed to the memory of the children who lived, who died, and who continue- even in death- to matter.
"A community of sorrow is the strongest community of all."
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's Quotes
♥The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity and an understanding of life that fills them with compassions, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.
♥And after your death, when most of you for the first time realize what life here is all about, you will begin to see that your life here is almost nothing but the sum total of every choice you have made during every moment of your life. Your thoughts, which you are responsible for, are as real as your deeds. You will begin to realize that every word and every deed affects your life and has also touched thousands of lives.
♥We run after values that, at death, become zero. At the end of your life, nobody asks you how many degrees you have, or how many mansions you built, or how many Rolls Royces you could afford. That’s what dying patients teach you.
♥Dying is nothing to fear. It can be the most wonderful experience of your life. It all depends on how you have lived.
♥If you live each day of your life right, then you have nothing to fear …
♥Throughout life, we get clues that remind us of the direction we are supposed to be headed … if you stay focused, then you learn your lessons.
♥There is no joy without hardship. If not for death, would we appreciate life? If not for hate, would we know the ultimate goal is love? … At these moments you can either hold on to negativity and look for blame, or you can choose to heal and keep on loving.
♥When you learn your lessons, the pain goes away.
♥When we have passed the tests we are sent to Earth to learn, we are allowed to graduate. We are allowed to shed our body, which imprisons our souls …
♥We make progress in society only if we stop cursing and complaining about its shortcomings and have the courage to do something about them.
♥Those who learned to know death, rather than to fear and fight it, become our teachers about life.
♥Learn to get in touch with the silence within yourself and know that everything in this life has a purpose....
♥You will not grow if you sit in a beautiful flower garden, but you will grow if you are sick, if you are in pain, if you experience losses, and if you do not put your head in the sand, but take the pain as a gift to you with a very, very specific purpose.
♥It's only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth -- and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up, we will then begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it was the only one we had.
♥Death is simply a shedding of the physical body like the butterfly shedding its cocoon. It is a transition to a higher state of consciousness where you continue to perceive, to understand, to laugh, and to be able to grow.
♥For those who seek to understand it, death is a highly creative force. The highest spiritual values of life can originate from the thought and study of death.
♥I believe that we are solely responsible for our choices, and we have to accept the consequences of every deed, word, and thought throughout our lifetime.
♥People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.
♥Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.
♥There are no mistakes, no coincidences, all events are blessings given to us to learn from.
♥The ultimate lesson all of us have to learn is unconditional love, which includes not only others but ourselves as well.
♥We need to teach the next generation of children from day one that they are responsible for their lives. Mankind's greatest gift, also its greatest curse, is that we have free choice. We can make our choices built from love or from fear.
♥Should you shield the canyons from the windstorms, you would never see the beauty of their carvings.
♥Learn to get in touch with the silence within yourself and know that everything in this life has a purpose.
♥There is no need to go to India or anywhere else to find peace. You will find that deep place of silence right in your room, your garden or even your bathtub.
Discrimination
By Kenneth Rexroth
I don’t mind the human race.
I’ve got pretty used to them
In these past twenty-five years.
I don’t mind if they sit next
To me on streetcars, or eat
In the same restaurants, if
It’s not at the same table.
However, I don’t approve
Of a woman I respect
Dancing with one of them. I’ve
Tried asking them to my home
Without success. I shouldn’t
Care to see my own sister
Marry one. Even if she
Loved him, think of the children.
Their art is interesting,
But certainly barbarous.
I’m sure, if given a chance,
They’d kill us all in our beds.
And you must admit, they smell.

Books:

Heroes:

alex marcuson

my reason for living
the boy i can tell anything to
the boy that will cuddle wiff me all night long
the most amazing boy in the universe
i trust him with everything
and i love him more than anything
forever

steve renan
becca wigchers
krusty krotch ripperberger