Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Change and decay - work in progress 3
I woke the next morning to the scraping and chattering of birds on the roof-ridge above the skylight. The thin curtain muted rather than blocked the sunlight, and it shivered in the draught. My back ached. The bed had proved to be old, damp, and broken; the blankets, starched, rough and dubiously scented. I dressed and crossed the landing to the bathroom, and then made my way downstairs. The house was scattered with furniture in that strange aristocratic manner, where a writing desk is placed in the hallway in case a visitor needs to compose a letter before removing their coat, and where chairs are placed around the rooms for the comfort of those who wish to pause on the journey from one door to the next. As I descended, I passed shabby cupboards, brass instruments of obscure and ill-omened purpose, landscape paintings of brown fields under khaki skies.
The kitchen was empty. Margaret had said that she usually rose early, taking the dogs around the grounds; Charles seldom stirred until 11. I cut an uneven slice of bread from the loaf and jammed it into the toaster. In contrast to the rest of the house, the room was clean and modern, apart from the heavily-muddied floor. The instant coffee proved to be cheap and bland. I didn't linger; it was time to get started.
The kitchen was empty. Margaret had said that she usually rose early, taking the dogs around the grounds; Charles seldom stirred until 11. I cut an uneven slice of bread from the loaf and jammed it into the toaster. In contrast to the rest of the house, the room was clean and modern, apart from the heavily-muddied floor. The instant coffee proved to be cheap and bland. I didn't linger; it was time to get started.
All about meme
1. Why did you start blogging?
I realised that I was only spending 8 hours a day staring at a computer screen, and was hoping to double or triple that.
No, I started blogging as a creative outlet. I had always felt that I would like to write a weekly column in a newspaper or magazine, since I discovered early in life that I was blessed with large numbers of strong opinions and the desire to share them with an audience. Although I had found platforms for various bits of technical writing, there was still a gap.
2. Are the reasons you blog now the same as when you started? If not, what's changed?
Pretty much. I take writing more seriously. I never really planned to do the daily journal "had cornflakes for breakfast" thing, but I am keener to exploit the freedom of the format to include interesting/funny websites I come across and silly jokes alongside more serious and considered pieces.
3. What would make blogging better for you?
More readers. More comments. Reading blogs like Monster Sarcasm Rally, the Hot Librarian, and Poetic Acceptance, half the fun is the regular commenters and their dialogue with the author.
4. Do you have comments on your blog? Why or why not? Do you comment on other blogs? What motivates you to post a comment?
Yes, at the moment, although I hate spam comments. I like to have debates about what I've written. Sometimes, I get things wrong. Shocking, huh? I comment on other blogs when I can think of something relevant, clever, and funny, so not that often. I occasionally comment to dispute something really wrong-headed, but I try not to get into it. I can't single-handed save Western democracy from its defenders. I don't comment much on poetry because I find I have to think about and re-read a poem before I get a grip on it.
5. What is your philosophy of the blogroll?
I don't have time to surf the blogosphere regularly, so I just have hard links to my 'daily fix' blogs. If I have time, I follow the blogrolls from them to my other favourites. I have to discipline myself to stop reading and start writing. But the more linking-in the better.
I realised that I was only spending 8 hours a day staring at a computer screen, and was hoping to double or triple that.
No, I started blogging as a creative outlet. I had always felt that I would like to write a weekly column in a newspaper or magazine, since I discovered early in life that I was blessed with large numbers of strong opinions and the desire to share them with an audience. Although I had found platforms for various bits of technical writing, there was still a gap.
2. Are the reasons you blog now the same as when you started? If not, what's changed?
Pretty much. I take writing more seriously. I never really planned to do the daily journal "had cornflakes for breakfast" thing, but I am keener to exploit the freedom of the format to include interesting/funny websites I come across and silly jokes alongside more serious and considered pieces.
3. What would make blogging better for you?
More readers. More comments. Reading blogs like Monster Sarcasm Rally, the Hot Librarian, and Poetic Acceptance, half the fun is the regular commenters and their dialogue with the author.
4. Do you have comments on your blog? Why or why not? Do you comment on other blogs? What motivates you to post a comment?
Yes, at the moment, although I hate spam comments. I like to have debates about what I've written. Sometimes, I get things wrong. Shocking, huh? I comment on other blogs when I can think of something relevant, clever, and funny, so not that often. I occasionally comment to dispute something really wrong-headed, but I try not to get into it. I can't single-handed save Western democracy from its defenders. I don't comment much on poetry because I find I have to think about and re-read a poem before I get a grip on it.
5. What is your philosophy of the blogroll?
I don't have time to surf the blogosphere regularly, so I just have hard links to my 'daily fix' blogs. If I have time, I follow the blogrolls from them to my other favourites. I have to discipline myself to stop reading and start writing. But the more linking-in the better.
Adelaide Crapsey: The Warning
I have written about Crapsey previously , and that post has led to a steady trickle of readers who find that there are few other Internet references to her (partly because a lot of longer literary content can only be accessed by typing queries into the search pages of individual resources, which is therefore invisible to Google's crawlers which can only follow hyperlinks, and is part of the 'hidden' or 'deep' web).
Judging from the specific terms searched for, it appears that many of these searchers are doing so because they have been given an assignment to interpret her poem 'The Warning'. So I thought I'd have a go.
The warning
It is a characteristic of Crapsey's work that she manages to condense a great deal of meaning into a very short form, and evokes very specific locales (as Alkalay-Gut notes about the poem 'Niagara'). To deal with practicalities first: it is dusk (l3), in autumn (moth in l4) she is indoors ("out" in l2), looking through an open window (moth flew in: l2). But this is not a single moment in time: there is an implied sequence of events, which goes: I dusk II moth flies into room III poet becomes cold.
This prepares us to look at the more mysterious elements in the poem. In l3, we have the fragmentary "as strange, as still", echoing the "strange still dusk" of l2&3, which requires as a complement "as strange, as still, as something", something like an autumn dusk, an ending, a quietude: Death. The moth is The Warning of the title, of the coming of death.
Why would a moth fly into the room? To go towards a light or a flame. What was in the room that would attract it? Possibly a real lamp, but possibly not. In lines 4 and 5, stage III of the sequence, the poet's body is becoming cold in a way that is mystifying to the poet. What is happening? The spirit is leaving the body after death. It is the light of spirit that attracted the moth; the warning is not of approaching death, but of the start of the after-life.
*
It would be easy to read the poem as mundanely autobiographical; no doubt in her last year, dying of tuberculosis and writing cinquains, she did indeed often sit with the window open to the evening, despairing. (As an aside, in the 1930s it was discovered that TB bacteria could not survive in cold dry air, leading to the creation of "Fresh Air" hospitals where TB patients' beds would be wheeled outside during the day, and large windows would be left open whenever possible [ BBC story ]. Crapsey died before this).
But the poem is better than that. It is a warning to all that time is short, and a reckoning will come. Let that guide your life.
*
Virginia Woolf, probably independently of Crapsey, wrote about moths and death in The Death of the Moth :
*
A note to students. This is MY interpretation, not yours. And it might not get many marks, anyway.
Judging from the specific terms searched for, it appears that many of these searchers are doing so because they have been given an assignment to interpret her poem 'The Warning'. So I thought I'd have a go.
The warning
1 Just now,
2 Out of the strange
3 Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . .
4 A white moth flew. Why am I grown
5 So cold?
It is a characteristic of Crapsey's work that she manages to condense a great deal of meaning into a very short form, and evokes very specific locales (as Alkalay-Gut notes about the poem 'Niagara'). To deal with practicalities first: it is dusk (l3), in autumn (moth in l4) she is indoors ("out" in l2), looking through an open window (moth flew in: l2). But this is not a single moment in time: there is an implied sequence of events, which goes: I dusk II moth flies into room III poet becomes cold.
This prepares us to look at the more mysterious elements in the poem. In l3, we have the fragmentary "as strange, as still", echoing the "strange still dusk" of l2&3, which requires as a complement "as strange, as still, as something", something like an autumn dusk, an ending, a quietude: Death. The moth is The Warning of the title, of the coming of death.
Why would a moth fly into the room? To go towards a light or a flame. What was in the room that would attract it? Possibly a real lamp, but possibly not. In lines 4 and 5, stage III of the sequence, the poet's body is becoming cold in a way that is mystifying to the poet. What is happening? The spirit is leaving the body after death. It is the light of spirit that attracted the moth; the warning is not of approaching death, but of the start of the after-life.
*
It would be easy to read the poem as mundanely autobiographical; no doubt in her last year, dying of tuberculosis and writing cinquains, she did indeed often sit with the window open to the evening, despairing. (As an aside, in the 1930s it was discovered that TB bacteria could not survive in cold dry air, leading to the creation of "Fresh Air" hospitals where TB patients' beds would be wheeled outside during the day, and large windows would be left open whenever possible [ BBC story ]. Crapsey died before this).
But the poem is better than that. It is a warning to all that time is short, and a reckoning will come. Let that guide your life.
*
Virginia Woolf, probably independently of Crapsey, wrote about moths and death in The Death of the Moth :
Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
*
A note to students. This is MY interpretation, not yours. And it might not get many marks, anyway.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Change and decay - work in progress 2
Part 1.
The taxi turned round in the turning circle and sped off in a cloud of dust- there as clearly some urgent sitting next to the station to be done. I admired the main facade, cleanly elegant and Classical inspiration, apart from the bow window, which lent a suburban air to the whole. Off to the left was a stable block, now a car park and junk yard. I looked back at the facade to determine which entrance to approach: the large, multi-paned door with a portico in the centre, or the small door off to the side. The main door looked unused, so I went to the other. I tried the doorbell, with no audible effect, and then knocked on the door. I heard the sound of barking approach, interspersed with shouts, and befre long there were a pair of dogs swirling around in the doorway, leaping and barking in excitement. "Oh shut up, Bugger! Shut up, Rugger!", the approaching woman scolded, pausing for breath after every few steps. She was middle-aged, dressed in a faded brown housecoat and Wellington boots. She peered out at me and then started to unlock and unlatch the door.
"Hallo there! You're the archive chap?"
I said I was, and asked if the Shelons were home. She snorted and shrugged.
"Sorry, forgot to say- I'm Margaret Sheldon. Follow me through- we're just having tea".
I stepped in, pushing the door to behind me, and fended the dogs away from my legs with my bags. We shuffled down a stone-flagged passage and into a high-ceilinged room at the back of the house. An electric fire singed the air. Margaret called out.
"Charles- here's that fellow- move the dogs".
Charles, sat in a decrepit winged chair, turned and rose, kicked a dog from his feet. "Ah, Mr Williams, Derek, is it?". We shook hands and he looked around for a chair. "Good to see you. The Trust grant came through, then?"
"Yes, Mr Sheldon- I believe they wrote to you?"
Charles' vague denial was countermanded by Margaret, who told him clearly that the letter had arrived, and that indeed it was a result of it that I was expected.
"Sorry about the mess- in the winter, we more or less live in here. The other rooms get too cold. You would have thought it might have crossed someone's mind that translating a building style from southern Italy to England might have had some serious disadvantages!"
Margaret sorted out the tea things on a tray, much interrupted by the need to toss snacks to the digs.
"There's just us here today- the children are out and about- you'll meet them soon enough. But I suppose you'll want to get on with looking at the papers?"
I said I did, but ended up listening anyway to a long and disjointed discussion of forthcoming social events, not helped by the participants' use of nicknames and poor grasp of dates and places. But eventually Margaret broke off to show me up to the bedroom they'd sorted out for me, at the top of the house.
The taxi turned round in the turning circle and sped off in a cloud of dust- there as clearly some urgent sitting next to the station to be done. I admired the main facade, cleanly elegant and Classical inspiration, apart from the bow window, which lent a suburban air to the whole. Off to the left was a stable block, now a car park and junk yard. I looked back at the facade to determine which entrance to approach: the large, multi-paned door with a portico in the centre, or the small door off to the side. The main door looked unused, so I went to the other. I tried the doorbell, with no audible effect, and then knocked on the door. I heard the sound of barking approach, interspersed with shouts, and befre long there were a pair of dogs swirling around in the doorway, leaping and barking in excitement. "Oh shut up, Bugger! Shut up, Rugger!", the approaching woman scolded, pausing for breath after every few steps. She was middle-aged, dressed in a faded brown housecoat and Wellington boots. She peered out at me and then started to unlock and unlatch the door.
"Hallo there! You're the archive chap?"
I said I was, and asked if the Shelons were home. She snorted and shrugged.
"Sorry, forgot to say- I'm Margaret Sheldon. Follow me through- we're just having tea".
I stepped in, pushing the door to behind me, and fended the dogs away from my legs with my bags. We shuffled down a stone-flagged passage and into a high-ceilinged room at the back of the house. An electric fire singed the air. Margaret called out.
"Charles- here's that fellow- move the dogs".
Charles, sat in a decrepit winged chair, turned and rose, kicked a dog from his feet. "Ah, Mr Williams, Derek, is it?". We shook hands and he looked around for a chair. "Good to see you. The Trust grant came through, then?"
"Yes, Mr Sheldon- I believe they wrote to you?"
Charles' vague denial was countermanded by Margaret, who told him clearly that the letter had arrived, and that indeed it was a result of it that I was expected.
"Sorry about the mess- in the winter, we more or less live in here. The other rooms get too cold. You would have thought it might have crossed someone's mind that translating a building style from southern Italy to England might have had some serious disadvantages!"
Margaret sorted out the tea things on a tray, much interrupted by the need to toss snacks to the digs.
"There's just us here today- the children are out and about- you'll meet them soon enough. But I suppose you'll want to get on with looking at the papers?"
I said I did, but ended up listening anyway to a long and disjointed discussion of forthcoming social events, not helped by the participants' use of nicknames and poor grasp of dates and places. But eventually Margaret broke off to show me up to the bedroom they'd sorted out for me, at the top of the house.
The poetry of acceptance (Book review)
Poetic Acceptance by Erin Monahan (2005, Meeting of the Minds Publications , Pittsburgh PA, USA, $10, 30pp)
through anger, to the acceptance of her title, shown to be not some unconsidered optimism but an accommodation of reality which allows for both grief and future happiness.
The term 'Internet poetry' sprang into existence as a pejorative, and is felt by some to be an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms. The explosion of post-anything forums, like the earlier vanity press anthology scams, has shown that the previous restrictions on publication by economics and reasons of space was keeping out not a small pool of competent but ignored poets, but a mass of would-be poets without either something to say or the means with which to say it. Interestingly, this has been recognised by the online poetry community, which is beginning to establish ground rules of literacy and coherence, to the annoyance of those who feel that poetry is self-expression which need take no notice of the views of readers.
But quality will prevail. One of the virtues of the internet is that it allows people's work to be judged on its merits, without preconceptions about whether it ought to be good or important. Another virtue is the possibility of fine-tuning from user feedback, so that confusions and complexities can be resolved dynamically before the poem reaches its final form.
Monahan is a beneficiary of both these factors. Her education was cut short by early marriage and motherhood, but she was inspired to return to writing poetry after the post-natal death of her child, and she has developed a distinctive style of allusive, emotionally-tough, short narrative poems, derived from her experience. The title of her collection reflects her moral stance: she realises that the world is not perfect, and there is no other, but aims for an equanamity of spirit through active engagement with it. This is not to say that her poems are doom-ridden or depressive; quite the opposite. Although she references the Beat poet Charles Bukowski and Sylvia Plath, she establishes a distance from despair and sorrow, through a forward-looking enjoyment of life in the moment. Thus "Saturday Morning Flea Market" describes a shopping expedition in simple terms, but manages to define a moment of luxuriating in the exotic appeal of foreign things and words; "Anchored" recounts a moment of reflection:
"Karma kills / like broken air conditioners and broken / hearts".Other poems deal with love, sex, and lust: in "Absentia", she says
"There is an absence / in the room tonight- / it is the want / of your lips on mine", closely allied to her explorations of the connections between words and feelings (From "Permanent": "I suppose it's all about / being needed").
But the core of this collection is the series of poems addressing the death of her child. These display a range of approaches and responses, from her anger at her mother's Christian platitudes ("Mother's love", perhaps more shocking in the God-fearing USA), bleak despair ("Free": "There were: / no miracles/ in the desert"), to comfort in fantasy ("Fantasia": "She smiles in rock-crystal / and giggles on the breeze"), and closure ("Wisdom": "You were never in pain"). In 'Time: A study in grief', the longest, most ambitious, and best poem in the collection, she traces her reactions from (literal) speechlessness:
"Now there is nothing/ and it's too much, / everything, and not nearly enough / at the same time, and the words / come out wrong, because there are / no words at all."
through anger, to the acceptance of her title, shown to be not some unconsidered optimism but an accommodation of reality which allows for both grief and future happiness.
Monahan's work reflects the development of her skills as a poet to set out her responses to personal tragedy but is not limited to the ghetto of therapeutic writing. Her poetry is funny, sexy and clever, and deserves to reach a wide audience.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Change and decay - work in progress
The train muttered and grunted to a halt, and the doors hissed open. I stepped out onto the deserted platform- none of my fellow-passengers were inspired to alight. I walked through an archway, leaning to even out the weight of the laptop case and suitcase, past spare mail trolleys queued for an unexpected pre-Christmas rush. A bus timetable yellowed behind a cracked glass display, ready to be sold to some transport museum as a bygone. I began to wonder how I'd get to the Hall, but luckily the taxi rank outside wasn't completely empty. There was a beat-up car sporting a TAXI rooflight. The driver was reading a tabloid paper, or at least staring at the three-inch-high headlines with an uncomprehending frown. He looked up at my approach, and told me to jump in. I aimed for the back seat, rather than the front passenger's seat, because I'm told this discourages conversation. It didn't work, though.
After his questioning quickly established that I was visiting on business and that the weather was fine and that I had come by train, he launched into an ill-digested re-run of the paper's views. Since we weren't in London, he didn't need the Knowledge to be a cabbie- he had the lesser, more general, requirements, though: the Ignorance, the Bigotry, and the Stupidity. Perhaps, to be fair to taxi drivers across the world, their views are coloured by the people they have to deal with, the lack of respect they enjoy, the constant wheedling needed to turn a starvation wage into a living one. It reminded me of my Marxist days at university- my disbelief when I was told that the petit bourgeoisie promoted and defended the system which enslaved them. It had taken a little longer to realise that much the same was true of the proleteriat; it is a sad truth that the common factor between all hard-socialist revolutionary workers parties is that their memberships belie their title as "Popular" and that the few they can muster are students, not workers.
My reverie was interrupted as the car turned off into a grand gateway, and crunched along the gravel track. The drive was lined with trees; sheep lurked in the shadows. The view opened out and we arrived in front of a large Georgian house.
After his questioning quickly established that I was visiting on business and that the weather was fine and that I had come by train, he launched into an ill-digested re-run of the paper's views. Since we weren't in London, he didn't need the Knowledge to be a cabbie- he had the lesser, more general, requirements, though: the Ignorance, the Bigotry, and the Stupidity. Perhaps, to be fair to taxi drivers across the world, their views are coloured by the people they have to deal with, the lack of respect they enjoy, the constant wheedling needed to turn a starvation wage into a living one. It reminded me of my Marxist days at university- my disbelief when I was told that the petit bourgeoisie promoted and defended the system which enslaved them. It had taken a little longer to realise that much the same was true of the proleteriat; it is a sad truth that the common factor between all hard-socialist revolutionary workers parties is that their memberships belie their title as "Popular" and that the few they can muster are students, not workers.
My reverie was interrupted as the car turned off into a grand gateway, and crunched along the gravel track. The drive was lined with trees; sheep lurked in the shadows. The view opened out and we arrived in front of a large Georgian house.
Mel Gibson, actor ordinaire
Well actually he was ok in Mad Maxes 1-2, and maybe What Women Want and that French one with Goldie Hawn that's so memorable I can't... oh, Bird on the Wire. But Write your own Mel Gibson film is cruelly accurate.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Amis on memory
Memory's a funny thing, isn't it. You don't agree? I don't agree either. Memory has never amused me much, and I find its tricks more and more wearisome as I grow older. Perhaps memory simply stays the same but has less work to do as the days fill out. My memory's in good shape, I think. It's just that my life is getting less memorable all the time. Can you remember where you left those keys? Why should you? Lying in the tub some slow afternoon, can you remember if you've washed your toes? (Taking a leak is boring, isn't it, after the first few thousand times? Whew, isn't that a drag?) I can't remember half the stuff I do anymore. But then I don't want to much.
Martin Amis, Money: A suicide note
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Recipe: mushroom omelette with ginger wine
Ingredients: 2 eggs, handful of mushrooms, butter, salt and pepper, dried tarragon, ginger wine, double cream
Fry the mushrooms in a dab of butter until sft but not browned, then add a dash of ginger wine and a pinch of tarragon. Leave on the heat until half the liquid has boiled off and put to one side.
Beat the egg with salt and pepper and add to a hot frying pan with a little butter. When the bottom is becoming firm, turn it over and add the drained mushrooms and the cream. Keep cooking until the egg is opaque. Serve and eat.
[made this up and discovered it was great!]
Fry the mushrooms in a dab of butter until sft but not browned, then add a dash of ginger wine and a pinch of tarragon. Leave on the heat until half the liquid has boiled off and put to one side.
Beat the egg with salt and pepper and add to a hot frying pan with a little butter. When the bottom is becoming firm, turn it over and add the drained mushrooms and the cream. Keep cooking until the egg is opaque. Serve and eat.
[made this up and discovered it was great!]
Monday, July 04, 2005
The naming of parts
Found this parody today:
Scanning For Viri (Peter Sheil, 2003)
(In the style of Lessons of the War, Part I. "Naming of Parts" by Henry Reed - see below for the original poem)
Reed, Henry. "Naming of Parts." New Statesman and Nation 24, no. 598 (8 August 1942): 92.
LESSONS OF THE WAR
To Alan Michell
Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria
I. NAMING OF PARTS
To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers
They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.
from http://www.solearabiantree.net/namingofparts/namingofparts.html
Scanning For Viri (Peter Sheil, 2003)
(In the style of Lessons of the War, Part I. "Naming of Parts" by Henry Reed - see below for the original poem)
Today we scan for viri.
Yesterday we did real work
And tomorrow, hopefully, we'll do real work
But today, today we scan for viri.
The wind blows the trees,
Waves of branches breaking against a metal fence,
And the clouds scuttle by.
First we run stinger.exe.
This removes the stinger virus
Which blocks your SQL servers
And distresses your children.
There are blue and red and silver and black
cars in the car park.
There were drops of rain, falling and blowing
whilst we scanned for viri.
And the Stinger program will find 30 other viri
When you run it on your PC;
But copy it to you C: drive first.
And if you don't have a CD drive here is a floppy disk
To scan for viri.
The car windows glitter as the sun
Moves - and clouds pass.
My eyes, blinded by reflections,
Peer at the screen
As I scan for viri.
And when you have run the Stinger.exe
You must run the FixWelch.exe
Which is found in the "Other" folder.
Sometimes, early, a white and black cat
Stalks the empty car park - owning the tarmac
And all small living things it sees.
It never scans for viri.
When the FixWelch.exe has finished
You must patch you operating system.
The patch files are in the folder with
The name of your version of Windows.
But not for Windows NT - I have to find
That patch myself, from when I patched my machine
Two days ago, before we started
Scanning for viri.
At lunch time some cars go;
Visits to the shops, the bank,
To buy tickets for the game
And cards for our loved ones.
If you are running Windows 2000
Then you must have Service Pack three or four.
The Service Pack disk is in the MSDN library
Locked in the third cupboard on the left.
There are no birds flying past today -
Too windy; too gusty to fly close
To a hard object that might
Give you a virus.
And if you are running Windows NT
Then you must have service Pack 6
But we don't have a copy of Service Pack 6
So you will not be able to patch your machine
Until you do find a copy.
A white van drives past, delivering something
From somewhere to somewhere else;
Unaware that we are
Scanning for viri.
And when you have patched your machine
You must change the administrator password
(which I will not write down here to keep it secret)
And you will remember it, and I will remember it
But the viri won't know it, for it is secret.
My hand rubs my chin, feeling the small bristles
And roughnesses that have come since the morning.
The sun dries the ground, the shadow of the building moves across the cars.
A blackbird hops among the grass at the foot of the trees
And a patterned brown butterfly flashes by.
And when you machine is finished we will stick a sticker on it
To show that you are now clean of viri and patched correctly.
And when every machine has been done and you are all clean of viri
We will allow you to reconnect to the network, a few at a time;
For we are cautious and do not trust these things electronic.
Today I've been busy; copying CDs and floppies, running programs, showing people what to do.
Yesterday we did real work
And tomorrow, hopefully, we'll do real work
But today, today we scan for viri.
Reed, Henry. "Naming of Parts." New Statesman and Nation 24, no. 598 (8 August 1942): 92.
LESSONS OF THE WAR
To Alan Michell
Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria
I. NAMING OF PARTS
To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers
They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.
from http://www.solearabiantree.net/namingofparts/namingofparts.html
The obligatory Live8 post
[IRONY MODE: ON]
There's been quite a backlash against the rich and famous people who used to be quite popular who took part in the concerts, suggesting that they are ignorantly and hypocritically spouting off about trendy issues without understanding them. This has annoyed political commentators, because that's their job.
I for one would rather hear a multimillionaire tell me about the importance of looking after other people than their more usual topics, encouraging gun crime, drug abuse, or vague New Age mysticism. I remember being shocked when Nelson Mandela agreed to be photographed meeting the Spice Girls; but now he's had his garden done up by Alan Titchmarsh and the Ground Force team, it's clear he's just a has-been C-list celebrity who would attend the opening of a packet of crisps if there was going to be a photographer there.
I saw in one comment the view that "Live8 has proved that miracles can happen - if the members of Pink Floyd can be persuaded to share a stage for 10 minutes then sorting out poverty and the environment will be easy".
I didn't actually catch much of the concert, partly because the BBC TV coverage seemed to assume that having assembled a panoply of stars unparalleled in the history of pop (or whatever), the music should be punctuated (and obscured) by witless interviews backstage, mainly by Fearne Cotton (who is born to do witless). (Incidentally, the BBC seem desperate to try to turn her into a happening presenter, unaware that she was disqualified for a Best New TV Personality award because she hasn't got one).
Our 4-year-old was happily dancing to Ms Dynamite, and my wife said "She would love to be there if she was older". I said that with any luck there would be another global catastrophe in 20 years time, and she could go to that.
I'd've liked to see Neil Young closing the Canada concert, but the BBC ignored that one completely. (Apparently it was very good. Thanks, BBC)
[IRONY MODE : OFF]
Overall, though, I'd have to say that any event which united the 18-25 lads and ladettes in thinking about the world, the future, and other people, is a good thing, and that the Big Brother gang cannot be taken as representing a true cross-section of the population. Thank St Bob for that.
There's been quite a backlash against the rich and famous people who used to be quite popular who took part in the concerts, suggesting that they are ignorantly and hypocritically spouting off about trendy issues without understanding them. This has annoyed political commentators, because that's their job.
I for one would rather hear a multimillionaire tell me about the importance of looking after other people than their more usual topics, encouraging gun crime, drug abuse, or vague New Age mysticism. I remember being shocked when Nelson Mandela agreed to be photographed meeting the Spice Girls; but now he's had his garden done up by Alan Titchmarsh and the Ground Force team, it's clear he's just a has-been C-list celebrity who would attend the opening of a packet of crisps if there was going to be a photographer there.
I saw in one comment the view that "Live8 has proved that miracles can happen - if the members of Pink Floyd can be persuaded to share a stage for 10 minutes then sorting out poverty and the environment will be easy".
I didn't actually catch much of the concert, partly because the BBC TV coverage seemed to assume that having assembled a panoply of stars unparalleled in the history of pop (or whatever), the music should be punctuated (and obscured) by witless interviews backstage, mainly by Fearne Cotton (who is born to do witless). (Incidentally, the BBC seem desperate to try to turn her into a happening presenter, unaware that she was disqualified for a Best New TV Personality award because she hasn't got one).
Our 4-year-old was happily dancing to Ms Dynamite, and my wife said "She would love to be there if she was older". I said that with any luck there would be another global catastrophe in 20 years time, and she could go to that.
I'd've liked to see Neil Young closing the Canada concert, but the BBC ignored that one completely. (Apparently it was very good. Thanks, BBC)
[IRONY MODE : OFF]
Overall, though, I'd have to say that any event which united the 18-25 lads and ladettes in thinking about the world, the future, and other people, is a good thing, and that the Big Brother gang cannot be taken as representing a true cross-section of the population. Thank St Bob for that.
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