We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.― William Butler Yeats

Yes, I am a man

Whom they say is a savage

I’m not of this world

It is true. I am not of this world, just as King Jesus is not of this world. Read what He has to say about it here. We are but sojourners in a foreign land. Nonetheless, I took a journey (in this world) recently, to the Colorado Renaissance Festival in Larkspur. I had some fun with the Washing Well Wenches. (All photos courtesy of Dawn Hamilton Lindsey.)

ARIEL: Not a soul but felt a fever of the mad, and play’d
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plung’d in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel,
Then all afire with me: the King’s son, Ferdinand,
With hair-upstaring,-then like reeds, not hair-
Was the first man that leap’d, cried, “Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here!!”―William Shakespeare, the Tempest

SONNET 130

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.―William Shakespeare

Why, there’s a wench! Come on and kiss me, Kate.―William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew