A New Favorite Quote or Two

Okakura Kakuzo in The Book of Tea speaks of the mutual ignorance of the other's culture between Asia and the U.S. "You have been loaded with virtues too refined to be envied and accused of crimes too picturesque to be condemned." Ahh what a smooth talker! "I'll tell you right out-I'm a man who likes talking to a man who likes to talk." -- Kasper Gutman (Sidney Greenstreet) in The Maltese Falcon "The free man owns himself. He can damage himself with either eating or drinking; he can ruin himself with gambling. If he does he is certainly a damn fool, and he might possibly be a damned soul; but if he may not, he is not a free man any more than a dog." --G.K. Chesterton (with a point of view that the religious right should pay more attention to) "Men do not differ much about what things they will call evils; they differ enormously about what evils they will call excusable." --G.K. Chesterton again "Reason is always a kind of brute force; those who appeal to the head rather than the heart, however pallid and polite, are necessarily men of violence. We speak of 'touching' a man's heart, but we can do nothing to his head but hit it." --G.K. Chesterton (Can you tell that I am an admirer?) "The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds, and the pessimist fears this is true." --James Branch Cabell

I can no longer remember the name of the book (it belonged to the school library), but it was about some aspect of programming. I was on deadline and racing through the book when one paragraph stopped me in my tracks. I read it again more slowly and suddenly realized that it was a sonnet in paragraph form. The rhyme and meter were very good. It was Petrarchan rather than Shakesperean. It wasn't great, but it was competently executed.

I had this sudden vision of a scholar facing a life full of jargon and active voice, reaching out with a word processor, that he wished were a quill, hoping to make contact. When I went back to find the book a few days later, I could no longer remember which one it was.

Ah well ... time to diminish some more sonnets.

Bill S. had a way with a sonnet, He always had one in his bonnet. I feel kinship with Bill, For his verse (if you will) Only has a few extra feet on it. Sonnet 2
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,' Proving his beauty by succession thine! This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. Limerick 2 When your skin is like old corduroy, And your youth Father Time did destroy, She says, "You're no beauty!" You tell her, "Hey cutie, To see me, just you look at my boy.

Blog quirks

I'm a little surprised at some of the quirks that my blog has been experiencing. Perhaps the formatting I used is creating problems. ... A little later ... It seems to have been a problem with the template I selected. Once again I have been forced to change the look. My apologies to the confused.

Anatomy of Melancholy

What a wonder the web is. Today I received a message from a gentleman named Thomas, who writes a blog "Anatomy of Melancholy" from Athens, Greece. He discovered my blog in the course of a search. Google and its ilk have the potential to create the most fascinating virtual neighborhoods based on thought rather than mere geography. It was a delight to find that he tends to ramble, much as I do about the things about him and the hazes of meaning and ambiguity. It was also amusing (but, on reflection, not much of a stretch) to find that we also share an interest in Leonard Cohen, about whom Thomas has an extended ramble which includes the following: Anatomy of Melancholy "I think I can say that I'm not a philistine, but I do have a deep-seated distrust of and impatience with what I perceive as extra-literary theory, or even literary theory, when it is prescriptive. I prefer to be descriptive and not to stray from common sense. My distrust of theory probably comes from the observation that rather than help broaden our understanding, in most hands it is used to censure, and even to censor. I heard the words 'offended' and 'offensive' a lot in university. I don't think an open, inquisitive mind should or can be easily offended. Whoever is easily and vociferously offended is trying to cut down the world around them to their own measure, rather trying to understand and to adapt." It makes me think about the famous interchange when Oscar Wilde admitted to James McNeill Whistler, “I wish I’d said that, Jamey,” and Whistler replied, “Don’t worry, Oscar, you will.” I wish I'd said that, Thomas. Wait ... maybe I did ... Wander over there to enjoy some thoughtful and interesting writing. As an aid to navigation, I will just say that Thomas is the one who looks like a moody intellectual ... I, on the other hand, am the burly ruffian.

LimeRickey

I have started another blog. It is a petty thing. Its reasons for being are to give me a small, self-imposed challenge to create limericks based on the day or week's news and to amuse me. It is called (in my typically pungent manner) LimeRickey or for the paronomastically impaired LimeRickey. (If you do suffer from Ambiguity Deficit Disorder you may want to forgo a visit to the new blog since it will only confuse, sadden and anger you.) These limericks will be written quickly, and thus may not be up to the standards of the Omnificent English Dictionary In Limerick Form (OEDILF). I will have the advantage over Philipp Goedicke of NPR's Wait Wait Don't Tell Me (the strictures under which he composes must have an effect), since I get to choose my own news stories and don't have to worry about Carl Kassel's cold-reading skills.

A brief word about editorial privilege

Because in this blog, I am both mighty and all powerful, it is my privilege to go back and revise from time to time. Since I have just added pictorial capability, I have gone back to give you the joy of looking at some of the photos on the walls of my study. I have also taken the occasion to revise and reformat some earlier pieces.

Launching a thousand ships?

Some people may want to put a face to 'The New Anatomy of Melancholy'. This character study for a portrait of Diego Martelli by Degas suggests that perhaps I am older than you thought.

A Single Shell Organism

Imagine a shell, egg-shaped & so clear you cannot see it. Be inside it. Be sealed off from all contact. It works so well that it bounces around you like a bubble yet you walk straight & stable. You are so used to it you no longer notice as it pushes people to either side as you pass. You are so used to it you are aware only of its failures. The compression in the subway stops your breath. The wind whips a scarf into your face & you recoil, not hurt but shocked by the touch. You can reach out, but no body reaches in. It has been so long that you do not remember whether you made the shell or others put it around you. It doesn’t seem to matter. No body reaches in ...

Where there's a Will there's a limerick

Occasionally when I ponder the works of Shakespeare, it seems that he can be a bit verbose. Sonnet #29 for example goes like this:

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Which is all well and good, but it's verbose and in sonnet form. Sonnets are merely limericks that need to go on a diet. Limerick #29

When alone I can get sort of blue, And jealous of those with a clue, I might wish I were smart Or had some kind of art, Then I think that I'm rich to have you.

Laundry day

Remove the silk, the satin and drop them to the floor. I will not enter, nor try to steal a glimpse of your body with the sharp straight lines of elastic cut into your flesh. Stretch your arms above your head and I will imagine you, body free, marks fading, in the sunlight through the dusty window. Put on the faded bluejeans and cotton shirt ... sandals if you want. Here is a washboard and a bar of soap, a galvanized tub with cold water. We’ll carry it out to the back of the house where a pile of clothes waits for your rough justice. Here is a pile of wood and the axe that I will use to split it, dangerously stealing glimpses at you out of the corner of my eye. Scrub the coarse cloth against the washboard. Your breasts move freely within the shirt, straining the buttons, and you start to sweat. Your hands are rough and red in the cold water. I split the logs to kindling, watching you move in your damp soapy clothes, the movements of your body perfect. The axe is silent the wood is done. I lean on the axe, filling my eyes with you and finally you look up, and catch me looking. You smile and take the last of the laundry and twist it over the tub, and toss it into the finished pile, and stand up, and walk to me, and take my work-reddened hand in yours, and lead me to our bed.

Change in the look

For those who are returning to this blog, you will notice a change in its appearance. Although I liked the simple elegance of the previous template, the grey text was irritating. In typically lazy fashion, I scrapped the template instead of modifying it. For new visitors ... never mind!

My Study

My room is lined with books. Six large bookcases hold my 'in use' library. Shelves of hardcovers and paperbacks loosely sorted into categories. The two volume 'Oxford English Dictionary' lies on the floor near my feet. It takes up too much space on the oak library table that is my desk. I need it too often to shelve it. With a small pillow on top it makes a nice low footrest. Other dictionaries and thesauruses are on a shelf that I can reach from my chair. 'Bartlett's Quotations', Partridge's dictionary of slang, 'Walker's Rhyming Dictionary', some etymological dictionaries, a biblical concordance, Brander Matthew's 'Study of Versification' sit next to a handful of style guides, the printer's 'Pocket Pal' and an assortment of XML and HTML references. On the shelf above you'll find books on information design and usability. The distinctive yellow spine of 'A Pattern Language' holds the center spot. Other reference shelves contain a complete set of Frazier's 'Golden Bough', a complete set of Sir Richard Burton's 'One Thousand Nights and a Night' with all the supplementary volumes. There is a shelf of books on New England folklore and references on farming for the novel that I'm writing, another shelf of books on linguistics, symbols and semiotics. The two shelves of poetry are overstuffed. I'll have to winnow them soon. Deacon, Pinker, Gould, Thomas, Dennett and Calvin all appear in the science and philosophy section. Three volumes of Euclid are also there beside Darwin and Warren McCulloch's 'Embodiments of Mind'. Paperback fiction is stored on its side in stacks the stacks arranged two or three deep depending on the size. From where I sit I can see a stack of Robertson Davies, another of Tom Holt, some Charles DeLint and Christopher Moore. But Ernest Bramah's Kai Lung books, Matthew Lewis' 'The Monk', and a stack of Tom Sharpe's insane novels are tucked in there somewhere. My library insulates me from the cold and from the intellectual Siberia that is suburbia. The smell of paper soothes me and the tactile input of the page whether bright white, smooth pages of O'Reilly technical books or the yellowed foxed pages of my Pomey's Pantheon published in 1709 warms my soul. My closet is stuffed with my inactive library in neatly labeled boxes. In them are books that I may not need, but am unwilling to part with yet. At the bottom are boxes containing most of the 100+ software manuals that I have written, talismans of once and future (but not present) employment. Books are not the only things I have around me. Drawings and lithographs hang on what little wall space is left. Pinned to the bulletin board by my table are maps and timelines for my novel. A photo of Tom Baker as Dr. Who, and the following photos:
Jerry Lettvin and Walter Pitts talking with their collaborator Rana Pipiens.
Concert pianist and legendary teacher Theodore Lettvin gazes moodily down at the corner of a badly scanned photograph.
G.K. Chesterton accepting the gift of a dandelion from a young admirer.

I'm my own ...

I apologize for the lack of PC in the following piece. I've always been amused by Guy Lombardo's little ditty about family relations and one day it occurred to me that things could get far more complicated these days. So ... I made it more complicated. (Apologies to Guy Lombardo) Now many, many years I was a man you see, I was married to a widow who was pretty as can be. This widow had a daughter who liked older men she said. My father fell in love with her and soon they too were wed. This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life. My daughter was my mother 'cause she was my father's wife. To complicate the matter, even though it brought me joy, I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy. My little baby then became a brother-in-law to Dad, And so became my uncle, though it made me very sad, For if he was my uncle, then that also made him brother, Of the widow's grown-up daughter who was also my stepmother. Father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run. And he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter's son. My wife is now my mother's mother, and it makes me blue, Because although she is my wife, she's my grandmother too. Now if my wife is my grandmother, then I'm her grandchild, And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild, For now I have become the strangest case I ever saw, As husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa. Thanks Guy! I'll take it from here. But the lie that I've been living throughout these many years Has kept my soul in misery and salted all my tears. The gal I have inside of me insists she must be free, And so I went to Sweden and arranged for surgery. So now the widow has a wife, her daughter's second Ma, My son has got two sisters, though still he calls one 'Pa.' This makes my grandson dizzy so he calls me 'Granny Sis.' And my poor wife has told me that she can't go on like this. She told me that she hated that my tits don't sag like hers, That I use up all her lipstick and have a nicer purse. She says she's not a lesbian, I no longer turn her on. So now she's gone to Sweden too and says to call her John. She didn't give up men though (she says she's nouveau gay). I opened up a letter that she sent the other day. She said that she's divorcing me to marry Jim my cousin. But she's the groom and he's the bride and my poor head is buzzin'. 'Cause she wants me to be the best man and bridesmaid all in one. Of course I said I'd do it, and I think it will be fun. But today's the day and in the mirror I think a see a pimple. Oh why must this afflict me now? Why can't my life be simple. Oh I'm my own transgen I'm my own transgen It sounds funny I know, But it really is so Oh I'm my own transgen.

Private England

To the tune of 'Officer Krupke' from West Side Story (as always, apologies to Bernstein and Sondheim) ALI Dear Private Lynndie England, You gotta understand, Our faith will not be shattered Nor vanish on command. Our mothers all are wailing, Our fathers all are dead. Golly Allah, shot right through the head! Gee whiz, Private England, we're very upset; Your country blocked the food and meds we needed to get. We ain't no Al Qaeda, We're misunderstood. But still on our head there is a hood. There's a hood! ALL PRISONERS There's a hood, there's a hood, There's a big black hood. We did no crime but still we wear a hood. MUSTAFA (speaking as Private England) That's a touchin' good story. ALI (spoken) Lemme tell it to the world! MUSTAFA as England (spoken) Just tell it to the Intelligence Officer. ALI Dear kindly Colonel Pappas, Don't let those dogs bite me. I have no information. Why won't you set me free. I know you think I'm evil. For begging for baksheesh, But why must I wear a collar and a leash! SALEEM as Colonel Pappas My dear Private England put a hood upon his head; If he don't want to help, then let's just shock him instead. Clip wires to his balls and make him stand on a box. And give him the juice until he talks. ALI Til I talk. ALL Til he talks, til he talks, Til he damn well talks, And then we'll let him pound some rocks. SALEEM (speaking as Pappas) This man is an Arab, so he can't be telling the truth. ALI (spoken) Hey, I'm a liar for Allah! SALEEM as Pappas (spoken) So take him to interrogation. ALI Why have you stripped me naked And put me in a pile The Koran says that's sinful. Women's panties ain't my style. The private likes my privates. And never lets me dress. Goodness gracious, that's why I'm a mess! RASHID (as interrogator) Go away Private England and take him along. He has some vital facts for us and I'm never wrong. Go ask Mister Rumsfeld just what he wants to do, This plan that he hatched has not come through. ALI I am through! ALL We are through, we are through, Though what we say is true, And talk until our face is blue. RASHID (speaking as the interrogator) In my opinion, this man does not respond to standard interrogation techniques. We'll have to use torture. Make him listen to Rumsfeld justify American foreign policy. That should soften him up. ALI (spoken) Hey, I got a soft spot on my head where I got clubbed! RASHID as interrogator (spoken) So take him to the Pentagon. ALI Oh Mister Secretary, They say that I am bad, They say that I have info, I swear I never had. I do not hate your country, I only hate George Bush So take my statement And shove it up your tush. IBRAHIM as Rumsfeld Oh my, Private England, you've done it again. This man don't want to talk, so you must hit him and then You'll have to take the rap because you're poorer than me, Maybe in ten years you'll be free. ALI What of me? ALL What of me, what of me? Won't you set us free We're innocent so set us free. SALEEM as Pappas The trouble is he's Shiite. RASHID as the interrogator The trouble is he's poor. IBRAHIM as Rumsfeld The trouble is he's pissed-off. SALEEM as Pappas If he walks out the door. RASHID as the interrogator He might just join Al Qaeda. IBRAHIM as Rumsfeld 'Cause that's what we would do. ALL England, we can't cover your ass too! Gee whiz, Private England, We're down on our knee, ALI And no one wants a fella who just wants to be free. ALL Salaam, Private England, What are we to do? We got fucked over You too!

When you're a Fed

To the tune of 'When You're a Jet' from West Side Story (apologies to Bernstein and Sondheim) When you're a Fed, You're a Fed all the way From your first wiretap Til you put 'em away. When you're a Fed, Let 'em do what they can. You got Bush on your side, If you follow his plan! You're never alone, You're never disconnected! Just put 'em in jail: No civil right's protected, For the disaffected! Then you are set With a mandate to play, Fast and loose with the law The American way. When you're a Fed, You stay a Fed. When you're a Fed, You can do what you please, You're in charge of it all All those assets to seize. When you're a Fed, A tool of the right wing: Why not just have a coup; And make Bush the king. The Feds are in gear, Their guns are all a poppin'. They're instilling fear 'Cause Ashcroft they are proppin' And they're not stoppin'. Here come the Feds Like a bat out of hell. They'll beat us to death, With the Liberty Bell. Here come the Feds: Arab world, step aside! Better go underground, Better run, better hide. We're drawin' the line, So keep your noses hidden! We're hangin' a sign, Says "Visitors forbidden" And we ain't kiddin'! Here come the Feds, Yeah! An' they're gonna beat Ev'ry liberal lefty Every Arab they meet. On the whole ever-mother-lovin' street!

West Side Story

I wonder what it is about the Bush Administration that makes me think of West Side Story. Scalia To the tune of 'Maria' from West Side Story (apologies to Bernstein and Sondheim) Scalia ... I just met a judge named Scalia. And suddenly I find The Bill of Rights' not signed For me. Scalia Say it loud and it sounds like braying, Say it soft and you'd better be praying. Scalia He'll keep me from straying Scaliaaaaaah ... Oooops, gotta go. Ashcroft's at the door.

Bill Clinton in Slumberland

I was wandering through some old files and found this little ditty that I had composed for Bill Clinton.

Are you tucked into your bed? The battle fought, the country led, For all good boys should be asleep Your fantasies in dreams to keep. Don't let them out to take the air For everyone will want to share. The fun they'll poke, the games they'll play, (They'll want to play them every day). Your inner needs will be a joke, Your plans and power up in smoke. Your work supplanted by the sleaze Of a woman on her knees. Too late. Those dreams are running free Providing grist for mills like me. So dream away the old dream's tar With what you wish upon a Starr.

Singular Statements

Some think it difficult to write paragraphs containing one hundred words without repetition, but composing examples seems trivial. Others may stumble over profligate use of passive voice, which, though a common academic practice, usually produces dense, pointless or confusing drivel. Keeping prose active, choosing verbs that move things along, reduces redundancy, avoids verbosity, increases clarity and simplifies communication. Short sentences also help allowing more flexibility in your vocabulary. Can such strangely constructed content retain meaning? Yes! Good discipline combined with thoughtful grammar creates an elegant, lucid style. Political discourse could benefit if we limited demagogues similarly. Imagine briefer speeches. However, thesaurus sales would rise.

Genocide

He stretches his legs, waking from a doze in the warm afternoon sun. Life is good. There's not much to do today but eat and sleep. He stretches again. His joints crackle slightly. He wipes his face and picks up another tasty snack. Then he hears the noise. It's like thunder but it's more sustained. "Will it rain?" he wonders. The sound fades then gets louder as if it is moving further away and then returning. Each cycle it sounds a little closer. He takes another bite. The noise increases, shaking the ground. "What could it be?" he thinks. Then the leading edge of a disk shape starts to block the sun. He scrambles to get out of the way but it is too late. Beneath the disk, four huge metal bars are attached to a central hub. They are spinning ... fast. The updraft is powerful. He grabs onto something and tries to keep from being sucked upward. He sees others flying up to get crushed by the blades their body parts swirl in a bloody cyclone. His grip loosens and he flies upward to meet the invader. A blade catches him in the midsection but he grabs on, only to watch the lower half of his body, crushed and severed, fly into the whirlwind and disappear. For an instant more he keeps his grip on the blade, and then he too is gone. The disk shape moves on. The sun shines down on a scene of utter devastation. Body parts lie strewn in the grass. The blood puddles before soaking into the soil. There is his top half. A flicker of life remains. He twitches and sees the green carapace of his front legs move. His compound eyes view one last mosaic of the world, and then he dies. And that my dear is why I am philosophically opposed to mowing lawns.

Thirst

I have watched her for days through the intermittent flutter of her curtains. She wears a white cotton nightgown with lace at the neck, buttoned up tight to her throat. One hundred strokes every night without fail. Her dark hair unbound takes the brush like a lover takes a caress. She turns out her light, leaving me with the moon. I feel its pull. The fluid in my veins rising in a red tide, humming in my ears. Tonight I shall visit her. As dry as a leaf I flutter in the wind ... and in the window ... and wait in the corner of the room. I am the shadow of a branch, the movement of a cloud across the moon. I wait. Her breath is quiet. She is still. A flutter of the curtains and I move skittering across the floor. I am the shadow under her bed. She moves gently on the bed above. I smell her rich and warm. I am the shadow of a cloud between her face and the moon. I inhale her sweet exhalation. I exhale her next inhalation. She sleeps deeply now. She sleeps until I leave. Still I am gentle as I pull back the covers. Still I am gentle as I lift the nightgown. Still I do not touch her as I lean close to smell all the secret odor, to feel the warmth radiating from the special places where her fluid, like mine, rises to the moon's pull. I part her legs and leaning closer listen to the pulse in the femoral. and follow it up to the heart. Enough. I am taking too much pleasure. I close her legs and cover her. I turn her face away from me, brusquely, but wait ... That sweet gentle venous pulse. So dear, so sweet. I stop and kneeling lay my cheek against the gentle throb. It beats against my skin like a lullaby. For a moment I sink almost to sleep. Then the pang hits. Sharp. Oh if touch were enough . . . But, I lean in, and gently pierce, drawing one drop, and rolling on my tongue the taste of life in one precious globule, that is not red to me, but black forever under the moon.