Junk poem

There's a certain ethereal quality to the subject lines of spam. Sometimes I just browse the Thunderbird Junk folder to enjoy the random juxtapositions of words. Perhaps there is a secret hidden there, a kabbalistic meaning that exists on a deeper level. Be that as it may, here is the latest crop in chronological order. Is it just me or does it seem as if the universe is quivering at the door whimpering to be let in? you should read this josh sniff That reply in hautbois Contact the Agent Urgently!!! You have won Or talk so groat Important Account Notice! Be cancel he sly To sign no refer wan My make as dawdle robin

Sky

The sky is the color of a page of an unpublished novel, typed on corrasable bond, that slipped out of the stack and lay on the ground in the rain all night, until it is discovered, smudged and illegible, frozen in the mud.

An antidote

Here's one of my favorite passages from Tom Holt

In the beginning was the Word. Nobody knows what it actually was, although it would be nice to think it was 'Sorry.' After a while the Word began to feel bored. It checked its spelling, but that was all right. It tried rhyming with itself, but it had an idea that that made you go blind. It put itself into italics, but they hurt. There was nothing for it but to create some other words and see what happened. To begin with, the Words just bounced about, like a lot of random particles; and when they bumped into each other, small bits and corners were chipped off, fell through space, acquired momentum and became Matter. Then most of the original Words decided to form a gang, dress up in white sheets and beat the pulp out of the adjectives, who they felt were getting above themselves, and so engrossed did they become in this that they failed to notice that a rival group of sentient beings had materialised out of nowhere. By the time they realised they were not alone, the Words had been scooped up, parsed senseless and imprisoned in the first ever word processor.

The Eve of the Blizzard

Yes, I know that I promised to keep writing, but the black humours overcame me and I sank into the depths again. Having given up drinking, oblivion was denied me. Having given up smoking, the solace of slow suicide was also unreachable. Which leaves me no recourse except to accept the slow progress of life. I have struggled to the surface in time for the snow. It occurs to me that snow is much like an antidepressant medication. It covers the the world in a blanket of fresh crispness like a bed made with freshly ironed sheets (a metaphor I will promptly discard). Winter's appearance of brilliant purity may be nature's way of making up for the dark cold depths of the longer nights. Would that it could. For the chronic melancholic it is merely a facade. Beneath the pristeen surface, the detritus lies in frozen suspension. Only temporarily hidden are the results of emptied dog dishes, the rubble of the wrappers of fast food and fast sex resisting decomposition and waiting to rise from their fastness in Spring. Should I write a book to be called "A la recherche du temps rapide"? The chemicals keep winter always. I feel like Oscar Wilde's selfish giant without even the mirage of faith. My winter is psychopharmaco with out the logic. The balance is maintained. No thaw can be permitted to allow growth for it would also let the garbage bubble muddily to the surface. I am wrapped in winter as a mummy is wrapped in bandages, as a monk is rapt in meditation immobile in opposition to the lust of the enraptured raptor dipping its hooked beak in the steam of its prey. I am snowbound. Where's that goat-footed balloon man?

A Cup of Coffee

Gratuitous Haiku Thoughts grind to powder in my skull Like seeds in a cracked suribachi.

There is a square glass jar in the cupboard to the right of the stove. It used to contain a store-bought black olive tapenade. Its new label is worn and stained with oil. It reads "Green Cardamom. I open it and tip two of the pods into my old, cracked and chipped suribachi and lay the surikogi next to it. I twist open the vesuviana espresso pot. and dump the grounds from the metal filter into the trash. I rinse the filter and dump the dribble of water left in the bottom of the pot. Fresh spring water goes in. Then the filter. I grind the cardamom seeds to powder with the tip of the surikogi, leaving the husks in. Then pour the contents into the filter. Three heaping tablespoons of Italian roast, ground to the powder that makes the best espresso, is placed lovingly on top of the spice. Then I screw the top of the pot on. (Why do I always miss lining up the threads the first time?) Onto the burner it goes. As I rinse my mug and wonder, not for the first time today, Why I have so much trouble writing. The thoughts grind around inside my head like ... like cardamom in my cracked suribachi. It used to ring when tapped with the surikogi, Ring like a bell, but now it's just a dull thud. Unlike the cardamom, my thoughts and dreams pour from the cracked suribachi of my skull devoid of scent, devoid of flavor, meaningless.

Ah ... The steam is spitting from the pot. The coffee's ready. I pour a mugfull of the brew, bitter and black as my mood, and go back to my work to try again.

I Am A Terrorist

Here is an incident, all too believable, which points out that an education devoid of humor is not much of a benefit.

Out of the depths

Sorry all about the long hiatus. For the last few months I have been overcome with melancholy ... or depression. A strange conspiracy of fates created an intersection of multiple deaths, births, poverty, computer failure, automobile failure, which combined with my natural melancholia to essentially cork my whines. In order to cure myself, or at least retrieve my ability to communicate, I have straightened my study, and surgically removed about 30% of my books. Included in this liberectomy are nearly all of my supporting library for technical writing. This is probably a good thing since it indicates my acceptance of the probability that I will not be re-employed in that field ... certainly not at the level that I was. It seems to me that it is time to write more durable prose. It is odd to realize that I have written over 100 books in the last 20 years and not a single one of them remains in print, having died with the software it explained. I have a novel that needs a bit of work before being launched on the whimsical sea of publisher's taste.

I heard a disturbing comment from an executive at Borders recently. Apparently he feels that he should be able to tell authors how to change their plots and characters to make the book acceptable to the chain!

I also have a history of Farmington, ME that needs some work. I should try to get that done soon since I have a hankering to win the National Novel Writing Month contest again.

moblog

My family communicates, albeit in curious and high tech ways. Witness moblog a blog perpetrated by my eldest son. Ahhh acorn ... it is not that far from the tree that you fall. And your father is talking like Yoda again.

The conscience of a pharmacist

I'm glad that we have some pharmacists who have the guts to follow their consciences. It's just too bad that all the attention is on those who will not dispense birth control. (I hope they're also being diligent about all of the medications that cause birth defects.) I'm sure that these pharmacists of conscience have purged their businesses of hair coloring compounds that contain lead, shampoos and conditioners that contain placenta, hair growth products that pregnant women are warned not to touch. It goes without saying that condoms, douches and anything else that could interfere conception are verboten. Perhaps the next step is to require wheelchair curb service for any female within the range of child-bearing years, after all we don't want any spontaneous miscarriages. And wouldn't it be good if we required all women to take "Antabuse" to keep them from drinking alcohol in the probability that they are pregnant I just don't think that it goes far enough. We need to highlight pharmacists of conscience whose scruples go beyond those of merely removing reproductive freedom. How about the PETA and vegan pharmacists who refuse to dispense any medications (or for that matter cosmetics) that were developed using animal testing. Don't expect to get any innoculations from them. Their bravery is immense. Just think how empowered they'll feel if we are attacked with bio-weapons. How thankful the anthrax will be to know that it is safe. It's time for NAAFA pharmacists to ban diet aids from their business. Vitamins have to go too, after all they just enable people to eat less for the same nutrition. And Moslem pharmacists who refuse to have photo-processin in the store. Damn! It's good to have people of conscience around to think these things out for us and tell us what to do. "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

An Omelette Recipe

Today's breakfast omelette: 1. Make some coffee. 2. Go out to the garden. 3. Gather two Bulbs and shoots of Egyptian onion, a sprig of basil, and a sprig of oregano. 4. Go to the kitchen. 5. Peel and coarsely chop five cloves of garlic. 6. Do the same to the onions. 7. Chop the herbs finely. 8. Slice some sharp cheddar. 9. Put a skillet on a burner. 10. Set to medium heat. 11. Toss in a lump of butter. 12. When the butter starts to turn color, add the garlic and onions. 13. Beat two eggs in a bowl with a fork. 14. Toss the garlic and onions to ensure even cooking. 15. Add the herbs to the eggs. 16. Beat the eggs some more. 17. Toss the garlic and onions again. 18. Pour in the egg mix. 19. Rinse bowl and fork. 20. Cook until nearly firm. 21. Add the cheese and fold. 22. Sing: You can get anything you want ... at Alice's Restaurant. You can get anything you want ... at Alice's Restaurant. Walk right in it's around the back. Just a half a mile from the railroad track. You can get anything you want ... at Alice's Restaurant. 23. Slide omelette onto a plate. 24. Add a pinch of salt and a grind or two of pepper. 25. Pour a mug of coffee. 26. Get the rinsed fork and pick up the plate and the mug. 27. Walk out to back porch. 28. Sit and eat while watching the hummingbirds in the bee balm and ignoring the imploring looks of the dog at your feet. 29. Take your time. 30. When done put the plate on the floor by your chair for the dog to lick clean. 31. Take your time finishing the coffee. 32. Pick up plate, mug, and fork and take them to the kitchen. 33. Wash everything except the mug thoroughly. 34. Pour another mug of coffee. 35. Go to your study. 36. Avoid starting work by writing recipe.

Mad URL

Just thought I'd mention that, while no one was looking, I revived an old blog of mine called Mad URL. This is the place that I drop the strange, interesting or amusing sites that I find in my web wanderings. This brings the number of my blogs to three and that's where it will stay ... I think.

Condi

(To the tune of that insipid pop song 'Brandy'.) There's a jerk on a western range, And he thinks that we need to change. So we let'im, don't you think that's strange? 'Cause we're losing all we've gained. And there's a girl in this guy's employ, She thinks diplomacy's a toy. They say "Condi's got another ploy To piss our allies off." They say "Condi, you're a fine girl "What an odd life you will lead "Now that you've replaced your ethics with your greed" (dooda-dit-dooda, dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit) Condi wears a business suit To disguise her secret inner brute. For us she doesn't give a hoot. She's workin' for her George. He came on election day, Bringin' oil from far away, And he made it clear that he would stay, No matter what the vote. He said "Condi, you're a fine girl "In my cab'net you will be (such a fine girl) "But the Saudi's are my true love doncha see." (dooda-dit-dooda, dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit) Yeah, Condi used to watch his eyes As he told the nation stories. She could feel her gorge rise As he waved around 'Old Glory'. But he offered her the loot and power to sit at his right hand, And Condi does her best to understand. (dooda-dit-dooda, dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit) In Iraq, when we've had our way, Condi talks, excusing death away, Ensures the pipes are heading just our way Are they pumping red and black. George says, "Condi, you're a fine girl, "You've done a good job for me, (such a fine girl) "But now the money's flowin doncha see." (dooda-dit-dooda, dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit) Condi, you're a fine girl (you're a fine girl) What a bad mess you leave (such a fine girl) But the rich don't the time to sit and grieve. (dooda-dit-dooda, dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit) Sit and grieve Sit and grieve

To Mrs. Professor in Defense of My Cat's Honor and Not Only

A triple treat for you to make up for my absence. First - The title links to an excellent poem by Czeslaw Milosz. I could say more, but the notes below the poem will suffice. Second - Here are a lot more of his poems. Third - Let me tell you how I learned about him. A few months ago, someone wrote to tell me about "The Wondering Minstrels," a poetry email service that sends a poem nearly every day. The poems are accompanied by personal commentaries, critical analyses etc. The archive website lets readers comment. You can also subscribe from there.

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.