PietroPaoloVPietroPaoloV Forum Posts (722)

The five people you meet in heaven

That's very mathematically logical-like bound of you, if you excuse.

This is not a thread intended to be about how religious and devout to god’s laws one is.
Allow your mind to dare venture hypothetical.

It is a fantasy.
Not a Catholic confession.

It's not about whether there is a heaven. It is about who would add most after the last day of your life has come.

You're missing the point, width of the Horse Head Nebula.

grin

The five people you meet in heaven

Yes!

And, one of the underestimations in life; give a woman flowers, it’s a given, she will appreciate it, no doubt, all women do, be it your lover, your mother, your sister, you can never disappoint a woman with a bouquet. As a side, for lover, better yet, take her to a flower market at 4am, after you’ve just spent hours chatting about mutual desires at a diner, take her there with her not knowing where you are and why, until it opens, that will get you laid, I promise.

Oh, right, underestimated was the subject, and what I was on about was….

….Give a woman a book, like one of these, one of Mitch Albom’s

.….or give a woman a CD with the best of music there is, soul, make one for her

…. That is two ways to reach her heart. Two of many, mind!
But two simple ways and two good ways

The five people you meet in heaven

And you got my utmost respect for that!
Great list you got going there.

The five people you meet in heaven

Why?

That made me curious!

The five people you meet in heaven

III. My teacher of Swedish language in upper secondary school, during the very same period as in #II above, an amazing man who allowed a bit of his time, beyond common time, because he said that he saw something in me that would become a thing of value come the future.

To nudge the young man which I was at the time in the right direction, make this person open his eyes a wee bit, get a glimpse of what words can evoke, whet they can do, this teacher who assured me that passion in writing and expressing ones most inner feelings is not a sign of weakness by a man, instead a powerful tool that can make a man becoming a real man, one which at his most saddening moment of solitude, he can find greatest companion, and at his greatest urge to shout joy to the world, through them do so, yet it is in solitude, but it is still as if from the highest mountain, towards and in the presence of the greatest crowd ever gathered.

He is there, waiting, for sure. I have much to speak about with this brilliant teacher.

The five people you meet in heaven

I. My maternal grandfather was a drunk. I remember him an asbestos-like cough, barely able to sit in a summer chair under the absence of a single hint of a wind. Frail, a face tormented and wrinkled by harsh times which had etched permanent strain, carved passages of pain over his pores, with those glassy eyes which people fighting off the reaper man, half absent-mindedly, look through.

My mother grew up in a home of 8 children, in a one room building. Her father, my grandfather, what money he would earn, he would drink most of it on the very payday, then he would come home, crying, ashamed, begging forgiveness, and they would forgive, both his children, among them my mother, as would her mother, my grandmother.

When the Second World War started, years before my grandfather married his only wife to be and built the family I gave you a glance of above, they came to collect my grandfather’s brother, who lived next door. Recruiting whoever they pleased. Croats that were being picked to serve in an army they did not want to serve. My grandfather’s brother, let’s now call him great uncle, because I believe that is the English word for such family, he had recently married, and was expecting a firstborn. As they were to collect him, my grandfather asked if he could not picked for the mission instead, and they leave his brother be. They obliged.

So, my grandfather takes to war, lives to see what memories later makes a grown man cry, and he always fails to express in words.

Visiting, traveling down there, I would often sit with him, my grandfather, and he would tell stories. But I came late. He died while I was still in my early teens. The amount of wisdom he did manage to share during that short time, I still allow myself to be guided by some of it, and believe he could offer much more, if I entered a heaven and he was there waiting for me.

I don’t know what goes through the mind of a man who’s lived to see men next to him be shot, blown up, or overrun by heavy, armored vehicles, and I can’t really find a way to in some way not understand a man taking to drinking after experiencing such unimaginable views, although I don’t fully condone it. Regardless, I do believe that such a man, a man of his inner chaotic state, who has entered heaven - let us imagine - and no longer suffers the turmoil of the soul, he will have something very valuable to say, finally, fully able to share it, completely, and it will be astonishingly wise, I dare wager.

The five people you meet in heaven

On his eighty-third birthday, Eddie, a lonely war veteran, dies in a tragic accident trying to save a little girl from a falling cart. With his final breath, he feels two small hands in his – and then nothing. He awakens in the afterlife, where he learns that heaven is not a lush Garden of Eden but a place where your earthly life is explained to you by five people who were in it. These people may have been loved ones or distant strangers. Yet each of them changed your path forever.

Thus reads the resume on the back of the book with the same title as this thread.
Mitch Albom be the author.

It is a book I have already recommended to someone here, soon to get it, and it is one I recommend to you all, but with Mitch Albom, one should start with his Tuesdays with Morrie, a story of a young man learning one grand lesson, the last one offered by an old dying mentor of his, a scrip that will have you put the book down once the last page has been passed, with a great feeling pleasing your heart.

Get the books if you don’t have them already. Do yourself that favor. It will not take you more than a day or two to read each, but the tales will stay with your forever, be thou man or woman,.

It’s an intriguing idea, the initial referred to.
What five people would one meet in heaven, if that was what a heaven defined?

I’m still young, there are many more witnessing of melting snows to be chased off by the arrival of springs ahead of me, many more passing of season to walk through, I do hope.
I’m sure I have a few persons yet to meet who will set permanent handprints in my private, personal, walk of fabulously inspiring names on a pavement of fame.

Thinking about it, now, today, can you come up with someone you think would be the one to meet you in heaven?

Remember now, it must not be someone very close. It must not be a mother or a father, say, but it can be, if it must. The key idea is that it will be someone who makes you understand your earthly life, not necessarily someone you, yourself want to spend time with more than any other. The key is that it will be people bound to make you learn more about bits that you didn’t learn while down here, and then, when up there, your being will be finally completed and at nirvana-like rest by learning them bits through them.

Us most fortunate, our parents did, they still do their best to explain the earthly life, here on earth, hence why my parents wouldn’t be any of the five, other are not as fortunate as to have parents walk them through this life terrestrial in such a splendid fashion.

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

laugh

No, sorry

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

Push comes to shove, it's the buns baked in bed be the vital food we'll live off.
grin

RE: I am quite save to believe I am the oldest on this forum..........

Dammit, Barren, I'm supposed to make Sommer blush, not you I.

I do this way too seldom, what you do. Give praise where I feel praise is earned and due. Amazing how you take the time to do so.

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

No, I'm not.
I'm dead serious.
And I'm not being Amish about this.
grin

I met a man who’s in a sad mood

........


An elderly man, a writer, a philosopher and teller of good stories, he used to visit the ocean’s shores. To find inspiration, to allow the freshness of salty air cleanse his mind from troublesome distractions, and to invent instant stories about what adventures a simple item as driftwood had landed from on his land.

On a bright blue-skied summer day, as he was approaching one of his favorite parts of the miles long stretch of beach, he notices a character, merely a dot in the distance at first, the character was. White shirt waved by the invisible hands of a breeze, black trousers, running about on the beach in the far distance, in midst of a dance set towards the choir of waves rolling in behind him, most intriguing, it was, the elderly man found.

A new scene, a new inspiration for a new story to be put in the elderly man’s notepad.

Curiosity brings pace to his legs, new stamina to old weakened feet, and he walks faster down towards the man in a white shirt and dark trousers.

As he draws closer, he notices the man is young, and the young man is bowing towards the sand, looking, as if he is picking up items off it, then throwing moves towards the ocean. And that is exactly what he is. Looking, bowing, picking up, then throwing out into the waters.

Closer more, the older man see’s what the younger man does. The whole beach if full of stranded starfish, thousands of them washed ashore by the waters, drying, dying under the sun.

The older man, who’s past the years of shyness and unnecessary hesitations, he asks:

- Young lad, good morning, to thee, but if you don’t mind me asking, what on earth are you doing?

The young man responds:
- I’m throwing starfish into the ocean.

Wise is the old man, has his share of wisdom to share, but at this reply he hesitates and finds few words to reply with, except another question:
- But, why? There are thousands and thousands of them stranded on this miles long beach, what difference does it make if you effort yourself like this, it makes no sense?

The young man replied:
- They are drying under the sun on this shore, and if I don’t throw them back they die.
At this point the young man bent down, picked up another starfish, threw it out into the ocean, and following that move of his was a look back towards the old man, and the young man said:
- It made a difference to that one!

I my clumsy way, with this story, not my story, I tried to tell this bloke that he did make a difference, a big difference for his kids, for his ailing father, and whoever he met, because he is a very good man, a very fine heart.

And on that thought, upon those words he wasn’t teary eyed stood before me, instead a tear he allowed, which fell out his eye and found its path down towards the edge of his chin, and then he thanked me.

These are the moments in life that matter!
Allowed to enter inside the most intimate world of emotions of people you barely know.

I met a man who’s in a sad mood

The Star Thrower is an essay.
By whom it is written I really don’t know. To much of a shame of mine, I must admit.
To many it will most likely be familiar or well known.

Sometimes, you steal a story, and you make it your own. Such is the case here.
I will tell it as I have remembered it in my mind, but it is not mine, let us be very clear about that, it is only inspired by someone who owns the idea, who should be praised entirely.

I was sat - right before the two women approached me in that other story which I’ve told here much recently - by a young man who is in an obvious state of dissatisfaction and with a stature expressing gloom. I speak with him from time to time. We share smiles, yet behind the music of his ever so often laughter allowed I manage to provoke, there is an evident sadness. He is sad.

A life is very short. And the people you meet in your life are not really that many. It is worthwhile, mostly, the time you spend with the few people you meet in your short life. And it is not a great sacrifice of yours to reach out and ask those quite few you meet in your quite short time, when you sense they are feeling weak, alone and sad, and ask why they are sad.

I’ve often thought about asking him, this man, but didn’t want to pry, because I could make him laugh, and perhaps make him forget, for the moment at least, I think.
So I didn’t ask, but today I did, because today I couldn’t make him laugh.

As it turned out, the man was sad because he felt he didn’t do enough for his young children. He was divorced, his former wife had custody, as it mostly ends here, and he simply felt the once every second weekend with them, that he couldn’t provide enough of what a father should provide to his children, during such short spells with a vast divide between them spells.

On top of that, his ailing father was dying, and he couldn’t find time to visit as frequently as he wished, and he knew his father wished his only son could find time to do so, more.
Funny how we grow aware of things that matter most as we approach the days of knowledge that end is near.

And, on top of that were several other things into which I will not go into. Both because the feeling I have of wanting to keep it a matter between him and I, but also because I couldn’t explain them without paragraphs I can’t estimate the length of at this point.

The main reason for his sad state was that he felt… inadequate, I think that is the word. That he was in a state of mind where he felt he wasn’t enough, that he didn’t do enough. Teary eyed, he became once I asked.

I didn’t know how to tackle that, didn’t know how to help. It’s not a moment when you can put a sincere palm of caring on the person’s shoulder and it will make the shoulder rise back to proud, instead of weighed down by grief.

So, in my somewhat caught off guard state, and not knowing what to do, I stole. I remembered this story.
And in this clumsy way, I tried to cheer him up….

I told him the story.

I’m taking the rest of the day off, and there’s nowt a single one of you can do about it!

Lord Barren, you're not much of a protectant
Or, maybe that is exactly what you are, knowing when to allow someone to be "stolen".

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

I hear you, Lord Barren.
But!
It is not the bread itself.
I can bake bread myself.
I do bake every now and then myself.
My Bruschetta are usually made on self-baked bread.

No, the fresh bread itself is only a half of it, at most.
It is the very thought behind it, the nurturing idea which has the woman wake and bake.
It is a sort of mother’s milk for a grown man.

RE: Making money..............

Money is boring. It's what I can get for it that's the fun bit.

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

Don't worry, nowadays there are machines for the purpose. They're called bakermen.

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

Oh, dammit!

Sorry, it seems I've managed to post this twice.

Will I cause the Internet to crash now?

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

Oh, dammit!

Sorry, it seems I've managed to post this twice.

Will I cause the Internet to crash now?

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

I’m not making a list, now.
It would be too much pressure for her, whoever she turns out to be.
And let us be honest here, the lists along the path that is our life, they tend to change with the seasons, and new wrinkles, don’t they?

Still, there are some things I will hold eternally vital in my bindle carrying the essentials.

That’s a great word, isn’t it? bindle

Ponder a lad on his escape from a cruel stepfamily, a barefoot lad, with worn out Huckleberry trousers ending slightly above the ankles. His only possession is the food he stole from stepmother’s kitchen, it is packed in a red and white checkered piece of cloth, bundled, tied together and resting at the end of a wooden rod which he casually holds over his shoulder, as he’s wandering down the dusty road, down a much dreamt escape, towards riches and fame.

My bindle holds several tools to promise happiness affront the footsteps I tread, and helped shape some along them already walked. Some of them tools are treasures, some of them simple belongings.
One is this note I bring out every now and then to scribble what essential, what traits I want my woman to hold, and laugh your heart out now if you wish, it is written tongue in cheek, this admission of mine, but still with plenty seriousness……

……..I want her to every now and then bake me a loaf of bread.

I added it today, to my bindle.

As I was sat having dinner earlier - a delicious gulasch soup, rich with potato and beef - a nice chat was had with a couple of women who frequent the local nearby, the local into which I oft venture, for meals, and ale or wine, and for nice chats with nice women. The subject at hand was nurturing a relationship, making it remain alive, potent, and one of these fine ladies of the northern hemisphere, Gothenburg to be exact, she said that she would often, on Sunday mornings, she would wake early and bake bread to be had fresh, for breakfast.

I like that image. Of a woman waking early, eagerly because it is something of love she wants to do, her fists fighting dough, her palms shape it into a length, and then that smell filling the air as it is brough out of the oven.

Is there a better smell, something greater smelling than fresh bread, apart from the smell of your woman lying next to you on a Sunday morning?
No, there isn’t!

There is something basic, something very simple, yet so filled with a richness, value, and love about a loaf of bread being baked by your woman on a Sunday morning.

Essential traits of the woman I want to wake by my side

I’m not making a list, now.
It would be too much pressure for her, whoever she turns out to be.
And let us be honest here, the lists along the path that is our life, they tend to change with the seasons and new wrinkles, don’t they?

Still, there are some things I will hold eternally vital in my bindle carrying the essentials.

That’s a great word, isn’t it? bindle

Ponder a lad on his escape from a cruel stepfamily, a barefoot lad, with worn out Huckleberry trousers ending slightly above the ankles. His only possession is the food he stole from stepmother’s kitchen, it is packed in a red and white checkered piece of cloth, bundled, tied together and resting at the end of a wooden rod which he casually holds over his shoulder, as he’s wandering down the dusty road, down a much dreamt escape, towards riches and fame. That is the very defining image of a bindle, isn't it?

But, where was I?

My bindle holds several tools to promise happiness affront the footsteps I tread, and helped shape some along them already walked. Some of them tools are treasures, some of them simple belongings.
One is this note I bring out every now and then to scribble what essential, what traits I want my woman to hold, and laugh your heart out now if you wish, it is written tongue in cheek, this admission of mine, but still with plenty seriousness……

……..I want her to every now and then bake me a loaf of bread.

I added it today, to my bindle.

As I was sat having dinner earlier - a delicious gulasch soup, rich with potato and beef - a nice chat was had with a couple of women who frequent the local nearby, the local into which I oft venture, for meals, and ale or wine, and for nice chats with nice women. The subject at hand was nurturing a relationship, making it remain alive, potent, and one of these fine ladies of the northern hemisphere, Gothenburg to be exact, she said that she would often, on Sunday mornings, she would wake early and bake bread to be had fresh, for breakfast.

I like that image. Of a woman waking early, eagerly because it is something of love she wants to do, her fists fighting dough, her palms shape it into a length, and then that smell filling the air as it is brough out of the oven.

Is there a better smell, something greater smelling than fresh bread, apart from the smell of your woman lying next to you on a Sunday morning?
No, there isn’t!

There is something basic, something very simple, yet so filled with a richness, value, and love about a loaf of bread being baked by your woman on a Sunday morning.

RE: Favourite romantic lyrics.

A stalking loon recieves your attention?
I'd be scared out my calm if someone sang that insane stuff to me.

I’m taking the rest of the day off, and there’s nowt a single one of you can do about it!

Masquerade is drawing near. Someone's about to get in trouble. Pleasant trouble.

RE: so..

I have to say, one bit here just brought a big smile to my face.
This one….

"I was interested in her and now I don't know what girl I am interested in now"

Oh, the days of when things were not allowed to be very complicated. If one doesn’t fancy your tickles, you search for a new, immediately.

That could be a line in a song, right there.

“She doesn’t love me anymore, and now I don’t know who to love instead”

Things that make you go… hmm

Who wrote that? It is brilliant!
Brilliantly inspirational!

I’m taking the rest of the day off, and there’s nowt a single one of you can do about it!

L, you're stealing glances at the masquerade yourself. Balcony, north wing. He's trying to get your attention, but a bit shy it seems.

Things that make you go… hmm

No, no, sorry, that's misinterpreted.

A date, the 5 camels are offered to the lord of her house for a date, one.

To make her a bride, oh, the wealth I must offer, that will require me stealing the Count of Monte Cristo’s treasure.

Things that make you go… hmm

Do you think there will be room for choice?

RE: desire?

OK, no more Bifluorophenyl for you, pal!

I’m taking the rest of the day off, and there’s nowt a single one of you can do about it!

Highwaymen, go see to your lovers and other beloveth, we will pass on the looting of rich men’s carriages this eve!

I shall be off to the glade, northeastward bound.
To stealth upon a wild boar, roast myself a fine meal over an open fire. Herbs are a plenty in the Lord’s riches, with an abundance of Porcini and Chanterelle to add, and if the Fawn hasn’t beaten me to pluck them from the bush, perhaps wild berries for desert.

Then, I will wash myself in the brook down by the old fallen oak which was brought to its resting state by a gale last autumn, I will wash in the secluded bathroom in the woods, where at times the nightingale comes, not a slight hint of red is it shy of this highwayman’s naked person, it adds to the rattling rhythm the creek teasing rocks on its passing by voyage makes, and together they sing a highwayman’s theme.

Then, cometh evening, I shall pay visit to town where I hear Count Aquafresca has been inviting to a masquerade at his mansion. I shall go as a…. hmm… a highwayman.
Yes, that I shall.

Masked and mysterious, as I commonly am, I shall seek to seduce me the company of a fine woman, into the forest steal her away, make our escape, without a single of the sheriff’s men recognizing my presence.

I will stand to the side, prying on my object to be enticed away, from behind the satin drapes seek her out, and once one has pleasured my eyes and intrigued me, evoked fantasies, I will find a moment, the most appropriate moment, approach her, lean towards her ear and whisper:
- You, m’lady, will, if you allow the adventure, experience ecstasy that described I to thee in this company of many, you would turn to the color of a blood-red wild tulip.

And she blushes, still, because she knows what awaits, it is enough, the tulip blossoms.
She shivers for a brief moment as I take her hand to lead her out.

I steal her, away from everyone.
I’m a highwayman. It is what we do.

I take her to my secret hiding in the forest. Put my Salamanca Rapier to the side, take out my short blade granted as gift to me by a Spanish pirate, which I use to unbutton her blouse, then I lift her skirt with it, and then…

Then…

Then I make her moans of pleasure rise towards the roof of leaves above us, and further, upwards, beyond, to the constellations above the leaves her loud satisfaction travels, and whatever other sound the forest had to offer before, the wings of fireflies, the distant howl of an elf owl, the moving paws of a bold badger, they will all stop, all creatures nocturnal will halt, at the sound of someone brought to the heights of unexplainable inner movement, and as envious as Cardinal Richelieu, they will freeze to witness the music.

And cometh the near of dawn I will lift her up on my horse, spend the good hour it takes us to reach the shores of the ocean, walking my stallion upon which she is sat, continuing to romance her by compliments and humor. And once by the ocean, I will make help with her to dismount, then I will mount her myself, again.
Give her a good rough sending home…… then take her home, and bid me farewell’s.

I hear a fine family from the city of Salzburg has been invited to Count Aquafresca’s event, where the daughter is said to be of such beauty and charm, a highwayman might well lose his wits at even as much as a hint of word from her lips.
In the company of a Lord Barren, her protectant, she will attend this night, so the word travels.

I shall not lose my wits, I never do.

But first, the wild boar.
A highwayman must eat to build stock for the daily adventures.

This is a list of forum posts created by PietroPaoloV.

We use cookies to ensure that you have the best experience possible on our website. Read Our Privacy Policy Here