antique doll

Old dolls are almost always weird.
This one seems to be ready to tell us something.

even more ice! ice is my leitmotif right now...

This ice is evolving... it's growing LIMBS so that it can crawl out of the tray and take over the world. Actually, there's a rational explanation for this, addressed here. But I like my idea better. Mal poured them, and she used filtered water, so that's probably why they did this. Still, it's pretty cool.

more ice

winter's beard.

yellow, red, green and blue

a colorful entrance to town.

endurance.

Like us, trapped in ice, just waiting for spring.
Breathlessly.

Latticino glass

latticcino glass cylinder.

Do Not Drink.

It's late, I've been reading too much, and I'm so tired this looks like kool-aid.

Sometimes...

I wish for flight.

Semper Vigilans

I'm watching.

delicious sustenance and a feast for the eyes!

yummy action shot.

And the dust rose like smoke in the still afternoon air...

This is actually dust (both from sanding and from 50+ years of life-accumulation), not smoke.

at sea

This was painted by my paternal grandfather in 1935, and it hangs on my wall today. I unfortunately never got the chance to meet him, as he passed before I was born, but I understand he loved to sail. There is a wonderful sense of motion and dynamism in the painting, and I look at it often.









Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

--Alfred, Lord Tennyson

plosives liquids fricatives OH MY!

Gold-dust box from Ghana
Broad-tailed perching birds guard
Precious treasure; quiet
Raptors, greedy, blind to
Beauty—money trumps all.

Yellow reliquary—
Ropy scrollwork looping
Gilded cradle: guarding
Birds encircle borders
Over golden treasure.

Thurible of riches:
Heavy hammered chest for
Precious dust; a shining
Trophy, form and fiber:
Vessels value inheres.

work.

I just finished stripping and sanding four Heywood-Wakefield pieces. I get pretty saw-dusty.

Yankee Holiday... now with new and improved "THUNDER SNOW"!

SNOW WILL OVERSPREAD THE REGION FROM SOUTHWEST TO NORTHEAST THIS EVENING. THE SNOW WILL BECOME HEAVY AT TIMES BY THE MORNING DRIVE ON WEDNESDAY... REACHING ONE TO TWO INCHES PER HOUR WITH AROUND 6 INCHES ACCUMULATED ON THE GROUND. THEN...THE SNOWFALL RATE WILL LIKELY DIMINISH TO ABOUT HALF AN INCH PER HOUR MIDDAY AND A LITTLE SLEET MIGHT MIX IN AT TIMES. AT THE SAME TIME...A NORTHEAST WIND WILL INCREASE OVER THE HIGHER TERRAIN TO THE TUNE OF 15 TO 25 MPH WITH HIGHER GUSTS...WHICH WILL BEGIN TO BLOW AND DRIFT THE SNOW AROUND.

THE LULL WILL NOT LAST LONG. HEAVY SNOW WILL RETURN DURING THE AFTERNOON AS MESO-SCALE BLINDING SNOW BANDS COULD PRODUCE INCREDIBLE LOCALIZED SNOWFALL RATES UP TO 6 INCHES PER HOUR ALONG WITH THUNDER SNOW. MOST ROADS WILL LIKELY BECOME IMPASSABLE DURING THE AFTERNOON. THE WIND WILL TURN NORTHERLY AND INCREASE IN THE HUDSON VALLEY CAUSING BLOWING AND DRIFTING SNOW THERE AS WELL.

THE POTENTIAL IS THERE FOR OUR HEAVY SNOW WARNING TO BE UPGRADED TO A BLIZZARD WARNING. THERE IS ALSO THE POTENTIAL FOR SPOTTY POWER OUTAGES SO HAVE A WORKING FLASHLIGHT HANDY.

AS THE SNOW WINDS DOWN WEDNESDAY EVENING...PROJECTED TOTAL STORM SNOWFALL AMOUNTS ARE EXPECTED TO BE BETWEEN 15 AND 30 INCHES...

West Meadow Beach

Salt ice.

When I was a child, there were some years that the ice extended out for miles, people would drive cars over it. (and there are--perhaps apocryphal--tales of people driving clear across to Connecticut back in the '20's and '30's...)

The ice folds in some spots, slowly, and cracks in others where the strain is too great, and in some spots, further out where the water is deeper and the ice is thinner , it rolls over the waves but somehow maintains at a fixed point...

I've been thinking a lot this past weekend about the landscape of my life, and I know that there's an appropriate metaphor in there, but I'm too tired to draw it out.

(Not) Brooklyn Bridge

To Brooklyn Bridge

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty--

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
--Till elevators drop us from our day . . .

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;

And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,--
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.

Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . .
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon . . . Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry,--

Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path--condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.

Under thy shadow by the piers I waited;
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City's fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year . . .

O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

(Hart Crane)

Misprisions

"A misprision appears to be a particularly creative kind of mistake, not infrequently tenurable, an inspired "misreading" through which brilliant error redeems the inferior dullness of mere creative genius."

(Google cached version of page so you all don't have to contend with popups)

Ricky...

...the neighbor cat, of whom we are parents by proxy, doesn't mind the cold so much. Here he is meowing at me because he wanted to rub up against my legs and I kept moving, trying to get the shot.

Cold Snap

AN AREA OF LOW PRESSURE WILL MOVE EAST OF SOUTHEASTERN NEW ENGLAND THIS AFTERNOON. AN ARCTIC AIR MASS WILL BUILD IN SOUTH OF HUDSON BAY TONIGHT OVER UPSTATE NEW YORK. THE FRIGID AIR MASS WILL PRODUCE LOW TEMPERATURES OF AROUND 5 BELOW ZERO TO 5 ABOVE ZERO OVER THE MOHAWK AND SCHOHARIE VALLEYS...THE LAKE GEORGE AND SARATOGA REGION...SOUTHERN VERMONT...THE BERKSHIRES... CAPITAL DISTRICT... CATSKILLS...TACONICS AND NORTHWEST CONNECTICUT. THE WINDS WILL BE FROM THE NORTHWEST AT 10 TO 20 MPH...WITH SOME GUSTS ABOVE 30 MPH...ESPECIALLY IN THE HIGHER ELEVATIONS. THE EXTREMELY COLD TEMPERATURES COMBINED WITH THE WINDS MAY POTENTIALLY PRODUCE WIND CHILL TEMPERATURES OF 15 TO 30 DEGREES BELOW ZERO FRIDAY MORNING.

This is the Wallkill river, about 100 yards from my terrace. It's frozen over in most spots, and I think from this point on, it's only going to solidify more and more as the season wears on.

YOU NEED A CHANDELIER!

Taken at West Meadow Beach, Setauket, NY, in one of the few beachhouses that they didn't raze.

wait, I KNOW this is a word...

This is where I live...

We are Scrabble Champions

And one more, because this is (ostensibly) a writing and lit blog...

Some books in the bookcase. Not "Hot Library Smut" to be sure, but it's mine.

Kerhonksamarkonson, the amazing Betta.

He's flaring because he's shy. It's also a bit blurry, so sorry for that.

The President of SUNY New Paltz and I

Total vanity post...
Receiving a special departmental/ university honor-- a Recognition for "Outstanding Graduates"

(I graduated with a 3.92, which gives me summa cum laude on top of everything else.)

Internet Anagram Server

Internet Anagram Server

major dew shoes
jade moss whore
mow sod; ah, jeers
who so jams deer
jaws does homer

Proofreader's Marks

new camera...

I (finally) got a new camera for Christmas, and so will be sprucing up the blog with tasty images for your enjoyment.

Life of the Mind

You know that you're intellectually overstimulated when you stay up until 7:00 am every night during the week, poring over such diverse works as R.K. Narayan's The Bhagavad Gita and Scott McCloud's Understanding Comics, when you're tracing the path of the concept of thelema through François Rabelais to Aleister Crowley to Hermann Hesse, and writing a cheeky and ostentatious linguistically splashy review of Billy Collins's "Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes" (which happens to be a kick-ass poem, by the way).

It's not the reading and writing so much as the stepped-up tempo, the white heat of the end of the semester and the sizzling and popping of the synapses, the cascading flood of neurotransmitters fueled by coffee, yerba mate, and the bad food (as mentioned below).

You know it's bad when you find yourself finally in bed, the sky turning and lightening from violet to winter white, and on the flickering television is an adorable little penguin named Paz, with a squeaky child's voice, playing games and learning about life with his friends Pig, Dog, and Rabbit. The show is called "Ready, Set, Learn", and you LOVE it.

At least you love these animated shorts--kept to under eight minutes so as to not run over the shorter attention spans of preschoolers--and you realize that while the content is what some might choose to call "cheesy", it nevertheless serves as an aid to mental and emotional decompression. It's a sort of pre-sleep relaxation period. Paz and his mother, Big Penguin, have discussions over "sammiches" about the color of anger (red) and sadness (blue), as well as Paz's small stature, which we are all assured will change as he gets older. You realize that if you had a child, this is the sort of thing that you would like them to watch, as opposed to virtually everything else on the television.

* * *

The thing is, I don't know if it's simply the fact that I'm burnt out, or if I really am so deeply touched by the subject matter (i.e. socialization, communion, our inherent need for love and companionship, our shared struggle for meaning) but I've been having a pretty visceral reaction to Paz lately.

I tend to get teary watching it.

I watched Paz "play circus" this morning, and he pretended that he was "The Great Penguini".

It was beautiful.

This is the life of the mind.

Sack O' Limes

As an undergraduate in the last few weeks of my last semester, I have realized that the only reason I don't have scurvy is the liberal application of Centrum^® vitamins and the occasional packet of Emer-Gen-C^®.

I haven't eaten a vegetable in several weeks, and my bones are probably so porous that I could take off and fly like a little bird.

Tweet.

I remember vegetables, the delicate curl of a leaf of frisée, or the emerald florets of broccoli...

I did eat two leaves of iceberg lettuce today, but they are so devoid of nutrition that they probably made my body cry wracking sobs of betrayal, shuddering impotent rage at the teasing cruelty of my food choices.

Ramen noodles seem to be my convenience food of choice, "Oriental Flavor" being the only one I indulge in. Three minutes in boiling water and back to writing. Plus, they're so aesthetically pleasing, convoluted noodles extruded in neat sinusoidal rows, unfolding in the pot.

Peanut butter and jelly on twelve-grain bread is a close second--a healthy meal, closer to veggies--reasoning that peanuts are a legume, and legumes are next to vegetables in some taxonomies of nutrition... jelly is a serving of fruit, in the same way that the Ketchup Packet is a single serving of a vegetable.

I really must get more money, or at least steal some fruit so I don't have a psychotic break due to my brains liquefying like I have some sort of prion disease, Bovine Spongiform Encepholopathy (Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is the human variant, but I like the plosive sounds of the former better) or voices telling me to eat the neighbor's dog... I kid, I kid, I love Brinkley.

Someone buy me a sack o' limes so my teeth don't drop out of my head.

tink tink tink... teef in the sink.

Graduate School

I have been accepted to the M.A. Program in English at SUNY New Paltz.

It feels good.

[Nov. 21: edit-- I have also been given an offer for a Teaching Assistantship beginning in the fall]

vanity post

3 September 1973
Your date of conception was on or about 11 December 1972 which was a Monday.

You were born on a Monday
under the astrological sign Virgo.
Your Life path number is 5.

Life Path Compatibility:
You are most compatible with those with the Life Path numbers 1, 5 & 7.
You should get along well with those with the Life Path numbers 3 & 9.
You may or may not get along well with those with the Life Path number 8.
You are least compatible with those with the Life Path numbers 2, 4, 6, 11 & 22.

The Julian calendar date of your birth is 2441928.5.
The golden number for 1973 is 17.
The epact number for 1973 is 25.
The year 1973 was not a leap year.

Your birthday falls into the Chinese year beginning 2/3/1973 and ending 1/22/1974.
You were born in the Chinese year of the Ox.

Your Native American Zodiac sign is Bear; your plant is Violets.

You were born in the Egyptian month of Hathys, the third month of the season of Poret (Emergence - Fertile soil).

Your date of birth on the Hebrew calendar is 7 Elul 5733.

The date of Easter on your birth year was Sunday, 22 April 1973.
The date of Orthodox Easter on your birth year was Sunday, 29 April 1973.
The date of Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent) on your birth year was Wednesday 7 March 1973.
The date of Whitsun (Pentecost Sunday) in the year of your birth was Sunday 10 June 1973.
The date of Whisuntide in the year of your birth was Sunday 17 June 1973.
The date of Rosh Hashanah in the year of your birth was Thursday, 27 September 1973.
The date of Passover in the year of your birth was Tuesday, 17 April 1973.
The date of Mardi Gras on your birth year was Tuesday 6 March 1973.

As of 9/2/2006 11:42:21 PM EDT
You are 32 years old.
You are 396 months old.
You are 1,721 weeks old.
You are 12,052 days old.
You are 289,271 hours old.
You are 17,356,302 minutes old.
You are 1,041,378,141 seconds old.


Your age is the equivalent of a dog that is 4.71702544031311 years old. (You're still chasing cats!)



There are 1 days till your next birthday
on which your cake will have 33 candles.

Those 33 candles produce 33 BTUs,
or 8,316 calories of heat (that's only 8.3160 food Calories!) .
You can boil 3.77 US ounces of water with that many candles.


In 1973 there were approximately 3.7 million births in the US.
In 1973 the US population was approximately 203,302,031 people, 57.4 persons per square mile.
In 1973 in the US there were approximately 2,158,802 marriages (10.6%) and 708,000 divorces (3.5%)
In 1973 in the US there were approximately 1,921,000 deaths (9.5 per 1000)
In the US a new person is born approximately every 8 seconds.
In the US one person dies approximately every 12 seconds.

Your birthstone is Sapphire

The Mystical properties of Sapphire

Though not meant to replace traditional medical treatment, Sapphire is used for clear thinking.
Some lists consider these stones to be your birthstone. (Birthstone lists come from Jewelers, Tibet, Ayurvedic Indian medicine, and other sources)

Agate, Moonstone, Lapis Lazuli

Your birth tree is

Weeping Willow, the Melancholy
Beautiful but full of melancholy, attractive, very empathic, loves anything beautiful and tasteful, loves to travel, dreamer, restless, capricious, honest, can be influenced but is not easy to live with, demanding, good intuition, suffers in love but finds sometimes an anchoring partner.



There are 114 days till Christmas 2006!
There are 127 days till Orthodox Christmas!

The moon's phase on the day you were
born was waxing crescent.

[via]

not the best week.

My bike is broken, because it fell over at the shop where I work, so now it's a six mile walk to and from everyday. TAP has decided to give me less money in September than they originally estimated, to the tune of a third less. I did a massive load of laundry today, almost everything I own, and a pen exploded in the dryer and inked everything to a greater or lesser degree; nothing I can wear now is ink-free. We are having a pantry-moth infestation and had to throw out three-quarters of our food. I need to get my graduation application finalized, and everytime I have a moment free, my advisor isn't, and vice-versa. Massive heat wave- I'm having a problem, and no dough for an appointment with a doc or a script. On top of all this, I can't seem to do anything correctly at work lately.

This has been my past week and a half. The only good thing? She is awesome. We went to a street fair in High Falls last weekend, and I bought matching stainless steel rings for us.



Oh, and we've been having a "Lost" marathon. I'm hooked.

Two weeks ago I did get to cut and place veneer on a Jean Prouvé cabinet, similar to this one.

That was pretty cool.

Monday, July 17th, 2006: Weather

Monday: Mostly sunny and hot, with a high near 97. Heat index values as high as 102. Calm wind becoming north between 4 and 7 mph.

File under ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Copy What You Like

Paul Graham: Copy What You Like [via]

I want a 1GB iPod nano. In black.

It is my new dangling carrot, providing a motivation to work harder. [even though I can barely pay my bills as it is]

Vanity Post

                                             CRED   GR   QP  

        41200 01  ANALY INTERP OF LIT        3.0    A    12.00          
        41302 03  ENGLISH LITERATURE 2       4.0    A    16.00          
        41406 03  SHAKESPEARE 1              3.0    A    12.00          
        41453 01  THE CRAFT OF POETRY        3.0    A    12.00          
                                                                                
         SEM. CR. TOWARD CUM.               13.0         52.00   4.00*   
         SEM. CR. TOWARD DEGREE             13.0                                
         TOT. CR. TOWARD DEGREE            111.0                                
         TOT. CR. TOWARD CUM.               40.0         156.04  3.90    
                                                                                
                                            *DEAN'S LIST    

Semester gpa: 4.00
Cumulative gpa: 3.90
awww, yeah.

Thoughts upon Julius Caesar’s Last Moments

When Caesar said "Et tu, Brute?", in shock
his dying breath contained myriad things:
10²⁴ atoms; a flock
of tiny birds on 1 million billion billion wings.
And in the time between his death and now
they have flown from Rome and into your mouth!
And I hear you wondering aloud, “How?”
They have circulated North, West, East, South—
Casting these oxygen and carbon seeds
across the world over land and ocean.
You likely inhale one or two of these
as your chest rises and falls; the motion
of every single quiet breath
brings the flavor of Caesar’s Death.


© jrs

another poem today.

A [sort of] Elegy for the Night-Table

The night-table is an ugly redbrown, the paint slapped on thick,
why were you cast off, left at the curb, a lone bastard son?
Someone had their time with you, and then let you pass
unmourned;. Why? Even as I see you there, unburied,
I know that this is temporary, the interstitial place
where death and potentiation live together, in the
shadowlands. Once loved and now lost, but ready to move on.
I carefully scoop you up, and swaddle you in a wool blanket, bringing you home.
I remove your three drawers, standing them up on cardboard,
numbering them, 1,2,3.
I number your insides and lay you down on a cardboard bed.
Donning a denim apron, I snap on skintight blue nitrile gloves.
I pour varnish remover on your sides, and it slowly rolls down,
aided by a paintbrush in my hand. I wait.
The stripper goes to work, slowly melting and bonding to the old paint, crinkling it up in waves.
The scraper pulls the old finish off in convoluted ribbons, revealing
your honey blond grain beneath, still stained in spots.
Wiping you clean with an old tee shirt, I repeat the process with your drawers, scraping halfmoon carved drawer pulls clean,
feeling echoes of forsaking fingers.
I open another gallon can, hiss of the mouth breathing in the air, sides donging outward. Upending over
another rag, I am bathed in the carcinogen-sweet smell of lacquer thinner.
I wash you carefully with the liquid, running steel wool over your skin,
burnishing out remaining stains.
You dry almost as soon as you are wet, the volatile fumes rising.
I carry you outside, and pour more lacquer thinner upon your face, anointing you.
I strike a match and touch you, setting you alight.
Burning with an ephemeral blue flame, almost invisible,
the heat draws out old wax and impurities.
You sparkle, tiny shining dots push up through your skin.
I put everything away, and begin sanding you with 80 grit
then 120 grit sandpaper,
sloughing off scales, the wind carrying the chaff away,
revealing new wood, untouched and ready
for the kiss of chestnut mist.



© jrs

Ulster Pastoral

Stepping out into coolwet morning air, unlock the bike,
tighten my knapsack straps, my breath trailing behind me.
Out onto the street and up, muted clicking of the chain through derailleur,
the rapid bump of tire-nub and the rush of passing cars.
Up the long hill, my legs pumping, warming,
through the town and up, deep breaths and up,
this long slow hill and all my muscles humming;
then, leveling out, and a slow glide across the overpass,
the breeze climbing down my shirt, my jacket flapping.
Over my shoulder, the ridge reclines, bluegreen and wrapped in fog, not quite awake.
Ahead, rolling foothills and low curling mist easing through the treetops, soft puffs of smoke.
The wheel crunches on the shoulder, ploughing through gravel.
Garlic mustard and wild onion sweeten the air. Robins alight in meadows
hopping and pecking. Occasional rabbits
panic and freeze, panic and freeze.
The hawks watch and wheel, waiting for the sun to break through and warm their wings.
Skirting the edges of culverts, the sluggish seep of runoff nourishing mallows and lilies,
the lime carpet of algae rimmed with froth,
the shale piles in thousands of weathered arrowpoints, mounds of slategrey cloven rock,
my legs moving up and down, up and down in tight circles, breathing in time.
Leaning barns with quiet ghosts and rough rust-red tractors watch over fields lain fallow,
The deer flick their tails and dip their heads down as I pass;
Heading east, the sun is a vague corona above the trees;
it pushes through the clouds, guiding me upward,
onward.


© jrs

okay, another one.

Aubade

The parking lot light shines
through grey Venetian blinds,
an illuminated fence on the floor
Floating in this limitless empty space,
a reference point, defining my place;
it is an anchor, lying on the shore.
Ink-dark carpet ocean:
red and green glowing LED’s
mark a channel, like dim buoys
drifting in slow motion.

Pipes softly hiss and creak
as if trying to speak;
the stress of expansion almost too great.
Quiet stretch and groan, a subdued protest
against bearing this hot unwelcome guest.
An angry slow push against the steel plate
of the straining baseboard;
though the air wafts still soft and warm
it is the calm before the storm,
and cannot be ignored.

Breathing deep next to me
she slumbers peacefully,
her face angelic, relaxed and content
[for she is free from this worry and stress].
I resist the urge to touch and caress
her, lest she wake—this is time well spent
together in our bed—
no place I’d rather be on Earth.
Moments without her have less worth—
morning fills me with dread.

The morning is coming!
Marching dawn is drumming!
The light clicks off and leaves me in blue hue.
Twilight is here and stars are winking out,
I want to hold it back, to rail, scream and shout,
but I know that there’s nothing I can do
but rise and get ready
to shower, shave, brush and get dressed.
[understand I am truly blessed
in love with this lady].

A stack of bills to pay.
Rent’s due on the first day
of the month, or else I wouldn’t get up.
Oh, to stay in bed, in the warmth with you,
there’s nothing I really would rather do;
but without work I cannot fill my cup
or yours with drink, or plates
with food, without money, no rent
paid and eviction notice sent:
we’ll be in dire straits.

The sky is lightening,
the noose is tightening—
I’m desperate to avoid going out,
but I must, and you truly ought to know
that all the day long as I work, although
I have to do what I do, please don’t doubt
I am thinking of you.
You are forever in my mind—
open the grey Venetian blinds,
breathe, and enjoy the view.


© jrs

another poem

Keychain

My mother once gave me a compass, so
“I wouldn’t lose my direction”.
It burned in a car fire. Now a new
one, on my belt, needle pointing skyward.

Three key fobs rattle, the print worn away,
the bounce and click a tight marching cadence.
Medals from a war of attrition, still
ongoing; “One Day At A Time” they say.

A finger-sized flashlight shows me the way:
a tiny beacon against stubbed toes at
midnight, tacks, bugs, crumbs, shoes and loose wires.
My magic wand, warding off the unknown.

Further down, a tiny green pocketknife
dangles, home to miniature scissors,
nail file, toothpick, tweezers and tiny blade:
knife useless for all but the smallest task.

Solid-state circuitry hangs just below,
zeroes and ones sit silently waiting.
Thirty poems packed neatly in plastic
and silicon—the size of this stanza.

A pint-sized, felt-tipped, black sharpie marker
for poetic graffiti—scrawled haiku
left in serendipitous locations
bringing smiles to frowning passersby.

Unsurprisingly, there are keys here too—
Siblings in sharp-toothed brass, a patina
from age, like two old pennies: controlling
ingress and egress—the bolt clicks, thunks shut.



© jrs

Beáltaine

Happy May Day.

The Essentials of Micro-Fiction : by Camille Renshaw

The standard all students should aspire to.

Of studye took he most cure and most heede.
Nought oo word spak he more than was neede,
And that was said in forme and reverence,
And short and quik, and ful of heigh sentence:
Souning in moral vertu wa his speeche,
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

Why A | Ask MetaFilter

Ask MetaFilter: "Why do the letters of the alphabet occur in the particular order that they do?"

This is part of the reason I love MetaFilter

An excerpt on the chinese concept of an ideal home, as seen in Lin Yutang's The Importance of Living, and Barry Hugheart's Bridge of Birds.

Inside the gate there is a footpath, and the footpath must be winding. At the turn of the footpath there is an outdoor screen, and the screen must be small. Behind the screen there is a terrace, and the terrace must be level. On the banks of the terrace there are flowers, and the flowers must be bright-colored. Beyond the terrace there is a wall, and the wall must be low. By the side of the wall is a pine tree, and the pine must be old. At the foot of the pine there are rocks, and the rocks must be quaint. Over the rocks there is a pavilion, and the pavilion must be simple. Beyond the pavilion are bamboos, and the bamboos must be sparse. At the end of the bamboos there is a house, and the house must be secluded. By the side of the house is a road, and the road must branch off. Where several branches come together is a bridge, and the bridge must be tantalizing to cross. At the end of the bridge there are trees, and the trees must be tall. In the shade of the trees there is grass, and the grass must be green. Above the grass plot is a ditch, and the ditch must be slender. At the top of the ditch is a spring, and the spring must gurgle. Above the spring there is a hill, and the hill must be undulating. Below the hill is a hall, and the hall must be square. At the corner of the hall there is a vegetable garden, and the garden must be big. In the garden is a stork, and the stork must dance. The stork announces that there is a guest, and the guest must not be vulgar. When the guest arrives he is offered wine, and the wine must not be declined. At the drink the guest must get drunk, and the drunken guest must not want to go home.

[originally posted on IEATTAPES by 31d1]

A Neuropathic Villanelle


We all have our crosses to bear
I clench tight my fist, knuckles in white rows—
All I can do is sit and stare.

Spitting and popping, my nerves are flayed bare,
I can’t transcend the pain, and I suppose
we all have our crosses to bear.

The smoldering silent biting Night-mare:
Its fire creeps slowly, as if it knows
All I can do is sit and stare.

Only so much and it begins to wear
me down—wordless passion and twisted pose:
We all have our crosses to bear.

When I’m stressed it comes as a white-hot flare,
and when relaxed, sparks as it comes and goes—
all I can do is sit and stare.

Sometimes, I forget I have a hand there—
It’s a little loss of self, and God knows
we all have our crosses to bear.
All I can do is sit and stare.


© 2006

Flash IPA chart

need to know what an unvoiced/voiceless alveolar lateral fricative sounds like? All your phonetic issues solved at the touch of a button or two. From Paul Meier Dialect Services.

Also see
Wikipedia on IPA, and the IPA's Homepage.

"Featured Pictures" on Wikipedia

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

MIT has The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, [except for the Sonnets] all in one place.

Good site for the Sonnets here.

Twelve Ways To Mark Up A Book

One of the most effective ways to get the most out of a book is to mark it up. There is no standard way to mark up a text, but below are a few ways that students have found effective in marking up a textbook so that one can see the important points quickly, make it more memorable, and make it easy to pick up years later and re-acquaint oneself with the major concepts.

Easy on the Hooptedoodle

3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue.


Mystery Ink: 10 Rules for Writing by Elmore Leonard

Just found this...

Considering that I have only been averaging roughly four hours of sleep a night for the past several weeks, and haven't produced much in terms of writing, I thought I'd share this link with everyone- It's a series of Free Writing Prompts from writersdigest.com. There's a new one every day, and many from the past that one may browse through.

I'm sitting at my desk, sipping a maté, and wondering which one I should attempt today.

Project Censored

Censored News Stories of 2005: Top 10 Project Censored News Stories

Gore Vidal on W

"We live in an impermeable bubble without the sort of information that people living in real countries have access to when it comes to their own reality. But we are not actually people in the eyes of the national ownership. . . ."

Also spotted here

THE WORLD QUESTION CENTER 2006

Every year edge.org asks prominent people to answer a question- this year's question was 'WHAT IS YOUR DANGEROUS IDEA?
The history of science is replete with discoveries that were considered socially, morally, or emotionally dangerous in their time; the Copernican and Darwinian revolutions are the most obvious. What is your dangerous idea? An idea you think about (not necessarily one you originated) that is dangerous not because it is assumed to be false, but because it might be true?'

That is, what thoughts does one have that seem to be heretical, the things that one dare not speak out loud, for fear of ostracism or professional criticism, &c.

Unfortunately, the link goes directly to the index page, but I urge you to browse through all of the essays; they are all wonderful, in their own way. It's certainly food for thought, whether you agree with an individual author or not.

The self is a conceptual chimera. Doubt that a supernatural being exists is banal, but the more radical doubt that we exist, at least as anything more than nominal, marginally integrated entities having convenient labels like "Myrtle" and "Oscar," is my candidate for Dangerous Idea. This is, of course, Hume's idea — and Buddha's as well — that the self is an ever-changing collection of beliefs, perceptions, and attitudes, that it is not an essential and persistent entity, but rather a conceptual chimera. If this belief ever became widely and viscerally felt throughout a society — whether because of advances in neurobiology, cognitive science, philosophical insights, or whatever — its effects on that society would be incalculable. (Or so this assemblage of beliefs, perceptions, and attitudes sometimes thinks.) excerpt from John Allen Paulos' 'dangerous question'.

William Safire's Rules for Writers - Amidst a tangled web

Remember to never split an infinitive. The passive voice should never be used. Do not put statements in the negative form. Verbs have to agree with their subjects. Proofread carefully to see if you words out. If you reread your work, you can find on rereading a great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing. A writer must not shift your point of view. And don't start a sentence with a conjunction. (Remember, too, a preposition is a terrible word to end a sentence with.) Don't overuse exclamation marks!! Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents. Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided. If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is. Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors. Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky. Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing. Always pick on the correct idiom. The adverb always follows the verb. Last but not least, avoid cliches like the plague; seek viable alternatives.

-- William Safire

good blonde joke.

This is pretty funny.

3.90

American Literature II: A-
Intro. to Postcolonial Literature: A
Creative Writing Workshop II: A
Senior Seminar in Poetry: A

when do I get a scholarship?

in the hole.

It’s been another wonderful semester here, but I’m going to do something I didn’t think I would do. I’m going to issue a plea for money. I know that there are people out there that are looking for a Good Cause, and I am it. Well, at least I am one of them.

I’m just running a little short, and I have two bills and my rent for January coming due, and no funds to cover them. I get loan money for school, but it just didn’t hold out.

I know someone else (not a friend, just an acquaintance) that did this recently (on LiveJournal, of all things), and at the time I thought that she was a jackass- I knew that she wasn’t budgeting, and I adopted a holier-than-thou attitude.

I’ve been humbled. I put the PayPal button on the ‘blog a while ago, more of a joke than anything else, but now I’m asking in earnest- if there is someone out there that can lend me a hand, I’m sincerely asking.

There are buttons on the sidebar and the footer, if you care to help me out.

Thanks.

white power morons

[Listen- this is not an Academic paper or anything of the sort- it’s not even a formal essay- it’s simply a few musings I had been mulling over the past few days, in the wake of a thing going on in Kingston, NY, not far from where I live. ]

The world treated The Third Reich and Naziism as it should be treated; a cancer and a pathology. It was stamped out, as any mass pathological has and will be stamped out. Now I find that there are wannabe Nazis in my backyard. If pseudo-Naziism is what one aspires to, it is a clear indication of deep pathological self-hate and overriding fear. This is obvious to anyone who has the ability to string more than one coherent and rational thought together; it is not that education indoctrinates, as some of the better-spoken [relatively speaking] of the fake-Nazi characters would have us believe- it allows for a framework that teaches people to think critically and rationally about any given set of concepts.

Political correctness is a euphemism for “don’t offend anyone who might be offended”, and as such, should be given some degree of scrutiny. Nevertheless, the concept of Naziism offends anyone who has the ability to think clearly and objectively. The exposure to Plato, Socrates and Aristotle, or Nietzsche, Heidegger and Sartre, the study of Philosophy and Ethics, as well as Anthropological, Sociological and Psychological studies, prepare the mind to make choices based on bases of information that have accreted over a long period of time.
It is fairly clear that most, if not all of the people that belong to the misnamed “White Power” movement are uneducated, and that’s a shame. If there are those that went to school, they either didn’t learn anything, or are so deeply diseased that they are unable to put to use the tools they were given to work.

Racism is a dynamic wherein, among other things, the Racist is projecting their deep psychological inadequacies on the Other, and the face of the Other takes on a mythic power, a fetish, for the Racist. It is this model that allows the Racist to make sense of the world. It becomes an excuse for the actions of the Racist. The Racist wants to believe that violence is caused by the Other. The Other has an alien and strange culture. The Other is taking away jobs from the Racist.

Of course, all of this is nonsense. But the problem with the Racist is that they cannot unbelieve the things they hold dear- if one were to crack the façade, the Racist would have a mental and emotional breakdown- it is a framework, however incorrect and faulty, that they use to make sense of a world in which they feel lost, and as such, can not relinquish it.

The children of Racists are particularly disadvantaged; they are being abused emotionally. They are being raised with a set of ideas as faulty as misnaming colors, or objects. If you grow up believing that “red” is actually “green”, beyond semantic issues, you have a filter with which to view the world that virtually no one else has- not only that, but this filter is objectively wrong. There are only a very, very small group of people that hold these ersatz-Nazi beliefs, and they are shunned and ostracized by most all of the educated, civilized world. This puts one in an incredibly vulnerable position. It makes it extremely difficult to find anyone who might care to relate to you, and in the end, you must stick to your own community of play-Nazis.

In conclusion, I can only assume that these tightly-knit groups of pathologically-minded people will end up only marrying within the group, and over the course of a few more generations will become consanguineous and interbred. This will, thankfully, lead to a great deal of genetic problems, and eventually they will be crosseyed and sterile, like Mules.

edit [11.24.2005]:

some moron [called himself "Ajax"- isn't that cute? Greek warrior, indeed.] just made a comment that basically proved my point- it was incomprehensible, disjointed, filled with spelling mistakes, and sounded as if the person posting it was in desperate need of strong medication. I declined to publish it, as it was incredibly offensive, but also because it was largely meaningless. As soon as I hear "conspiracy" or "jew, jew, blah, jew", you lose your credibility. Sorry jackass.

Order

The flashlight bobs in the windows,
first here
then there and here again.
The frames on the wall are all
exactly where they were before
but he needs to be sure.

It’s tiresome getting up
to check (at 3am)
but it’s a habit
or a ritual? a need?
and it’s not as if he’s
bothering anyone.

He shaves alone and showers
alone and sits at the breakfast nook
alone
methodically reading the paper,
and with no one there to please
He has complete freedom.

The smell of bookbinding glue and dust
put him at ease
the order and peace of
row upon row upon row
exactly where they’re
supposed to be.

Co-workers exchange pleasantries
and speak in hushed tones about how
the weekend went; a movie seen or
a trip to the country.
He nods, smiles and
straightens the index cards again.


©jrs

blue

the trees stand like an black inkwash against a bruised sky
the crickets are beginning the nightsong;
reet reet reet reet.
standing outside, in the darkening
watching
as the blue smoke curls and twists from my cigarette
drifting
across the blue grass and into the feet of the trees
bats flicker in blue spirals.
a light clicks on and footsteps across the crackling linoleum announce
her presence
in the stillness
the blue hour
joining me in silence
watching everything
watching nothing.



©jrs

I LOVE EGG!!!!!

flash movie; I sing this song in my head all the time now.

You will too. "wiggle jiggle...yellow middle... that's the best of what you are (I love you egg!)"

How Bush Blew It

The reality, say several aides who did not wish to be quoted because it might displease the president, did not really sink in until Thursday night. Some White House staffers were watching the evening news and thought the president needed to see the horrific reports coming out of New Orleans. Counselor Bartlett made up a DVD of the newscasts so Bush could see them in their entirety as he flew down to the Gulf Coast the next morning on Air Force One.

How this could be—how the president of the United States could have even less "situational awareness," as they say in the military, than the average American about the worst natural disaster in a century—is one of the more perplexing and troubling chapters in a story that, despite moments of heroism and acts of great generosity, ranks as a national disgrace. ...from "How Bush Blew it" on msnbc.com.

Surrounded by sycophants and idiots, the President was asleep at the wheel, and then when the Hurricane hit, he didn't even know how bad it was because he couldn't be bothered to turn on the television.

This is a man that has command of most any media resource imaginable, and other than read a fluff-book once in a while, he has no idea what's going on. I suppose it's too much effort to actually be informed. He has aides MAKE DVD DISTILLATIONS OF NEWSCASTS he didn't bother to watch in the first place; he was on vacation and obviously didn't want to let the real world creep in.

Clearly, it's hard to be the illegitimately elected President.

humming

Until this morning, I had never seen a hummingbird. I sat out on my terrace, having a cigarette, and this little black blur floated down towards me. At first, due to the soundof the buzz, I freaked a little, thinking it was a very large stinging insect. He hovered for maybe 10 seconds, checking me out [to see if I was sugary, no doubt] and then slowly rose to the terrrace above me, to play among the plants that my upstairs neighbor has on his railing. I bet he has a hummingbird-feeder up there. What a treat.

I believe it was one of these.

We put out a hummingbird feeder at out home on Long Island, but none ever came; although the guide says that they exist there, I think that they are few and far between, and perhaps further out on the Island. We’re pretty centrally located, and pretty well developed, so I think the hummingbirds moved away from all the noise.

I’m getting a feeder next spring.

I moved into the condo in NP; I've been too busy to update, I'm posting as soon as I can get myself together. It's my birthday today [the 3rd]. I'm getting old. Also: wishlist is in the profile. ;)

Hypnos

a stream of ants travel up and down over old words;

a codex etched in the furrowed brow of an oak tree.

the initiated few sometimes read through layers of meaning

seeing the face of truth. [it's not what you think]


meanwhile: dark entoptic gods flash behind a childs' eyes

while crows bark over the sussurus of august night-rain.

cereus petals unfold, drinking moonlight.


if only we could all wake up

wake up!

from our dreamlife; this nodding false awareness

that passes each day as a languid television river or else

an object-fetish buying frenzy;

if only we could smash the screen, claw, claw,

clawing our way out of stifling black sackcloth

to breathe in the waning moonlight as it gently coaxes the cereus

closed.


the truth is a slippery thing, it slides just out of focus

floating in the periphery, a smudge on the edge of the lens.

[the rippling surface belies the real]

We look for it where it is not; we would do well to remember the

child in the dark

knowing things, hidden in plain view;

ephemeral shades gliding out of sight

frightening in their stark simplicity

unfathomable and alien;

but certainly as real as these words.


©jrs

icasualties

The Iraq Coalition Casualty Count has breakdowns of the casualties of the Iraq War and Occupation, by home city of record, name, service branch, rank, and cause of death, and other statistics such as ethnicity, as well as a printable list of all fatalities to date.

a place to call home...

Another bit of good news, and I cannot help but update this with a personal post.

We found a place to live in New Paltz. I put a deposit down on a condominium right in town, located in behind the Gilded Otter Brewing Company, next to the Wallkill Valley Rail Trail, and .7 miles from the campus proper.

It has a terrace that runs the length of the unit, but it's actually a first-floor condo. The building is built on a grade, so the entrance is ground-level, but the back overlooks a grassy spot, the railtrail, and the Wallkill river. When the leaves drop, we'll have a view of the Shawangunk ridge and Skytop.

It's gorgeous and spacious, and I cannot believe our luck at both getting the spot and having what seems to be a really cool landlord.

I do believe that we deserve this, as we went through a miniature version of hell to finally get it.

We've been checking out every apartment in town, and a lot of them just weren't what we were looking for, or we were in competition with potential renters that were perhaps better qualified; we've got the money, but I think some of the landlords in town are spooked by "students". But karma has smiled upon us, and we got one.

I'm ecstatic right now.

Also: we are going to have pet fish.

James Doohan Beams Up.

"In a 1998 interview, Doohan was asked if he ever got tired of hearing the line 'Beam me up, Scotty' -- a line that, reportedly, was never actually spoken on the TV show.
'I'm not tired of it at all,' he replied. 'Good gracious, it's been said to me for just about 31 years. It's been said to me at 70 miles an hour across four lanes on the freeway. I hear it from just about everybody. It's been fun.'"

I used to go to 'cons when I was younger, and I had the pleasure of having dinner with Doohan and one or two others... He was down-to-earth, had a great sense of humor, and told amazing stories. He affected the brogue for a few irish jokes, and I, never one to get excited about celebrities, left with a sense of how normal they can be.

Harlan Ellison was also with us, and he was funny too, acted like a jerk, but he's kind of known for that.

Charges Dropped Against Mayor Who Performed Gay Weddings

Jason West is the mayor of New Paltz, where I go to school. He's a good guy, and I'm glad he won this one. [He's a good politician, a Green, and concerned with his constituency.]

More on Jason here.

I was going to post a NYT link, but they want you to register to view the article, which is absurd.

The Portrait of the Counselor Idealist (iNFj)

INFJ Profile

and another description here...

INFJ
Introverted Intuitive Feeling Judging
Strength of the preferences %
11 / 25 / 12 / 11

also: RGSM

there's nothing to see here, move along...

ABC News: "Downing Street Memo": 0 segments; "Natalee Holloway": 42 segments; "Michael Jackson": 121 segments.

CBS News: "Downing Street Memo": 0 segments; "Natalee Holloway": 70 segments; "Michael Jackson": 235 segments.

NBC News: "Downing Street Memo": 6 segments; "Natalee Holloway": 62 segments; "Michael Jackson": 109 segments.

CNN: "Downing Street Memo": 30 segments; "Natalee Holloway": 294 segments; "Michael Jackson": 633 segments.

Fox News: "Downing Street Memo": 10 segments; "Natalee Holloway": 148 segments; Michael Jackson": 286 segments.

MSNBC: "Downing Street Memo": 10 segments; "Natalee Holloway": 30 segments; "Michael Jackson": 106 segments.

Where the media's [and ours, evidently] priorities lie...:

brought to my attention by spilon at MetaFilter

Television isn't good for anything but entertainment anymore... not that it was before, really. Plus, it makes you stupid. But we knew that already.

GATC

floating in nutrient broth,
cloudy amino soup:
a flesh tennisball
studded with pearl teeth
slowly erupting, waiting for harvesting and implantation;
soon we will do this right in YOUR mouth, but we don't have the necessary trials yet:
interested? just sign this...
it's a brave new world, baby
with corneas and ears growing on the
backs of norwegian blacks, just
flip a few genetic switches and we're
tapping the power of organic architecture
in a lexan vat;
all patents pending.

©jrs

Anglo-Saxon Poetry

The Ruin

supposition

supposition


New Years' Eve party, fumbling to get her blouse off, hot breath and thundering hearts.

a pregnancy test drying in the bathroom garbage, thick cake-icing snow falling on the windowsill.

warm september afternoon, lying in a hospital bed, a baby whisked down a white hallway.

29 with a husband and a seven year old; more than enough to deal with,

breathing deeply and moving on

wondering who he'll look like.




©jrs


see also: quaeris

american attitude

1991 Time Magazine Article on Scientology

Operation Clambake presents: Time Cover Article in 1991

via

I was curious about Scientology, and so I did some poking around. I knew a lot of this stuff before, but this Time article really put everything into perspective for me.

The real question I had was "why do some of these celebrities join the CoS, and what are they getting out of it, why the pseudo-evangelical attitude towards the CoS?"

Evidently, the CoS maintains special "Celebrity Centers" (I don't know if this is what they call it, but everyone else seems to agree that's what they are), where the celebs are treated to privacy and personal sessions with auditors, &c.

So the celebs are exposed to only one small part of the whole scene. Which would make sense. The Church gets good publicity, and the clebs get a personalized spa-type experience that leaves them feeling happier, more well-adjusted, and less stressed.

I'm not saying that Scientology is completely bad- I mean, I have no personal experience with the religion, but I can see some worth in the basic ideas behind it. It's just that L. Ron was definitely a wackadoo, and while some of the concepts may have pragmatic merit, the way in which they are framed is just nutty.

Like most religions.

Read the article. It's really interesting.

I EAT TAPES- Blog Archive-New server?

interesting things going on over in #mefi-land

even the thought of any discontinuity or loss of this venue fills me with dread and makes me sweat and shake. I love chatting with this crowd.

Seraph

Seraph: Online Etymology Dictionary

1667, first used by Milton (probably on analogy of cherub/cherubim), singular back-formation from O.E. seraphim (pl.), from L.L. seraphim, from Gk. seraphim, from Heb. seraphim (only in Isa. vi), pl. of *saraph (which does not occur in the Bible), probably lit. "the burning one," from saraph "it burned." Seraphs were traditionally regarded as burning or flaming angels, though the word seems to have some etymological sense of "flying," perhaps from confusion with the root of Ar. sharafa "be lofty." Some scholars identify it with a word found in other passages interpreted as "fiery flying serpent."

I didn't know Milton was the first one to use this word in print. I love the imagery of a smoking or flaming angel- the smoke obscuring and trailing off, Lucifer falling from heaven like a meteor, shining and burning like a falling star.

Beautiful and terrible.

The Age of the Essay

I've been approaching them all wrong. Mostly due to time constraints, I've viewed essays as arguments. The process involved is much shorter; consider the work, and then come up with a position (hopefully one that hasn't been addressed before) and defend it.

The other big difference between a real essay and the things they make you write in school is that a real essay doesn't take a position and then defend it. That principle, like the idea that we ought to be writing about literature, turns out to be another intellectual hangover of long forgotten origins.

This makes much more sense, is much more interesting, and I think makes for a much better paper overall... but one can't do it quickly. There's got to be more rumination, more rolling around of ideas to explore- it's more playful and almost counterintuitive. Start somewhere, then wander around and connect some dots.

You just can't do it in a day, or maybe even a few days. It's no good for an undergrad, in terms of academic work, but I can immediately see the value in doing this regularly.

Perhaps we'll see some essays here, in the future.

Can we please get on the ball already?

A method for classifying civilization types was introduced by Russian astronomer Nikolai Kardashev in 1964. Known as the Kardashev scale, classifications are assigned based on the amount of usable energy a civilization has at its disposal and increasing logarithmically:

Type I - A civilization that is able to harness all of the power available on a single planet, approximately 10^16W.
Type II - A civilization that is able to harness all of the power available from a single star, approximately 10^26W.
Type III - A civilization that is able to harness all of the power available from a single galaxy, approximately 10^36W.
Human civilization has yet to achieve full Type I status, as it is able to harness only a portion of the energy that is available on Earth. Carl Sagan speculated that humanity's current civilization type is around 0.7.

A major criticism directed at the Kardashev scale is that the difference between a Type II and Type III civilization is ten orders of magnitude and that significant civilization types likely reside within that range. Moreover, given the seemingly extreme energy sources available to Type II and III civilizations, the question as to why we haven't seen evidence of these advanced societies remains unanswered, a possible indication that no such civilizations exist.

Between this and the Drake Equation, I wonder whether we'll ever see anything interesting before we sputter and extinguish like a candle in the dark.

I mean, I envision a future where we eventually leave our cradle, and go on to seed other places; in order to get to a point where that is viable, we'll need to be past Level I anyway. If we manage to make it that far, chances are that we won't be anything like we are now-certainly we'll be the same physically- but the very nature of the type of space exploration I'm talking about necessitates a wholly different type of social management, government, and psychological outlook.

I'm dying to know whats out there.

I wonder whether we'll ever make it far enough to find out...

pish

pish is still an awesome game. I'd play it just to listen to the music in the background. [shockwave]

Orson Scott Card: Sci-Fi author, Social Critic, or both?

Orson Scott Card is a great writer, but there has been some recent discussion about his political stance, as well as some insight as to the author's psyche (and perhaps sexuality?) informing and infusing his fiction. I liked Ender's Game when I read it several years ago, and I'm curious to see whether I'll read it differently given some new filters. I am curious as well about "Songmaster" and "A Planet Called Treason". The latter two I haven't read yet, but I expect an interesting read, given some of the commentary I've read about them.

He's written some essays, about same-sex marriage and other current political and social issues, linked below with commentary.

Orson Scott Card on The Riots of The Faithful

America's Anti-family Experiment.

The Ornery American

above links via.

Creating the Innocent Killer

Any input from fans or critics of Card are appreciated.

totally unrelated words

slapping and biting and scratching and pulling and slipping and straining and lifting and thrusting and bending and sliding and pushing and sucking and arching and twisting and sweating and flexing and gripping and riding and caressing and pressing and clinging and stretching and mounting and churning and rolling and stroking and cupping and rubbing and licking and clasping and squeezing and parting and panting and and spreading and tensing and touching and

relaxing.

The Temporary Autonomous Zone

T.A.Z. in its entirety, with separate links for chapter headings.

While I have issues with Peter Lamborn Wilsons' views on some issues, this is still an engaging and amazing work.

ok, real content to follow this post

English Literature 1 : A-

American Literature 1 : A-

European Literature : A

Ethnic Literature of the U.S. : A

gpa : 3.81

I am trying to keep from making journal-style posts, and yet...

...one is going to slip out once in a while.

I checked out a house in town tonight, as a potential place to live next semester / year. The people that live there are really cool, at least that was the impression that I left with. The rent is completely doable- 2/3 of what I'm paying right now, if that. It's exactly the kind of situation I was looking for- responsible but not uptight people, quietish, beautiful older house with tons of art on the walls and painted unconventionally inside. It's close to the campus and even closer to the town. They seem to want to maintain a sense of community. I can get with this. Why live in a house with other people if you're not going to enjoy their company? It reminds me a little of the old "Red Balloon" House in Stony Brook. At the risk of sounding new-agey, it's got a 'good vibe'. They are seeing a bunch of applicants though, so it's not a sure thing by any means. Still, it would be a nice situation. It would also allow me to live up here year-round, which is what I wanted in the first place.

Cross your fingers for me.

Living in the technological dark ages.

I am working with a ~7 year old CompUSA AmeriNote Laptop, with a 3.5 gig hard drive, that crashes like five times every day. One of these days, it's not going to come back. I just finished my last post, and lost the whole goddamned thing.

I'm just venting. It makes me really frustrated. I suppose when it dies, I will just have to start posting from the terminals on my campus.

Translucent Concrete

I have a thing for design. I used to go to the New York Gift Show for my old job, and usually the coolest stuff there was either in the "Handmade" section, (mostly art glass and metalwork) and the "Accent on Design" section.

There's more stuff at the inhabitat website. Look at the "Tetris Shelving". (via)

You can also find similar cool stuff at MoCo Loco

purification

the trees reach up, green dendrites
arching to shock the sky.

the grey roughly kisses them, the wind
a crushing swaying embrace.

the robins are hopping close
the jays are screaming for it

then the sky cracks in half like
a fresh egg...

You walk through this mad earth-love, as
fat raindrops leap down
hammering your soul,
stripping away rough rusty ideas
blasting away thought
burnishing and polishing
until
soaked, you reach the door, turn the knob and
step in;

only to drop your bag, turn smiling
and walk back into the rain,

knowing that this is as

close to God

as you will ever get.

spring moon, first quarter

she drifts in the tide

crescent fish hook in the sky

tugging on my heart.

I am like a super-anarchist.

find out where you stand.

for a frame of reference: look here

dotlit

creative writing online mag.