Scraps: the Sehr Gut Weblog

Medical College of Georgia Class Notes

2005-08-22T14:44:00.000-04:00

Okay, another new page (well, sub-site, really). Since I am a Ph.D. student at the Medical College of Georgia, I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and publish my notes from class lectures on my site. I figure that, besides attracting Google hits, putting all my personal class notes online as they happen should be a good study mechanism. I can't guarantee I'll put everything up, but I'd sure like to.

This semester, I'm taking Responsible Conduct of Research (SGS 8011), Scientific Communication (SGS 8012), Biochemistry (SGS 8021) Molecular Cell Biology (SGS 8022), Introduction to Faculty Research (SGS 8040), and Introduction to Research I (SGS 8050). Not all of them have notes (or a good deal of notes, anyway), but whatever I write down, I'll try to put up. I imagine it'll be a help for other students, both graduate and undergraduate, as well as people just trying to find out miscellaneous bits of information (which may be contained in the notes, if you're lucky *grin*).

Medical College of Georgia Biomedical Sciences Class Notes

'Twas Brillig: a Jabberwocky Site

2005-08-01T21:18:00.000-04:00

“The Jabberwocky” is perhaps the most well-known, well-loved, studied, and revered piece of nonsense literature in the English language (well, ostensibly English, anyway), and perhaps in any language. While it occupies a relatively minor position in Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There (commonly referred to as Alice Through the Looking Glass), its renown has spread far beyond that single opening chapter (well, and Humpty Dumpty's later expoundification thereof.

Its popularity has resulted in its translation into a number of languages, including French, German, and yes, even Latin.

Since The Jabberwocky has always been one of my favourite poems, I've recently inaugurated a shrine to the work by Lewis Carroll (aka. Rev. Charles Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) in my Alice in Wonderland pages. I'm collecting various translations of the work, along with some of the more clever and less stilted parodies. Hopefully it will grow to be a decent-sized site (though I'm sure not rivaling the Ultimate Jabberwocky Site to which I link in the shrine), and it will at least be a repository for my own thoughts and writings on subjects Jabberwockian.

So, do me a favour and visit 'Twas Brillig, which I think is as apt a name as any for the enshrinement of the ancient scrap of Anglo-Saxon poetry, eh? (For more info on the "Anglo-Saxon" bit, visit the site and look at the Anglo-Saxon translation.)

Danny Doyle, Where the Blarney Roses Grow, and C.

2005-07-20T04:47:00.000-04:00

I've just put up a new bit of content over at the Sehr Gut Web Codex:Celtic.

Spirit of the Gael (Danny Doyle)

A didgeridoo. In Irish music. Did Celts even have didgeridoos? Well, no matter, because in some surreal way, it actually works. In 2002, Cracker Barrel Old Country Store released this fabulous recording by the distinctive vocalist Danny Doyle as part of their Heritage Music collection.

With a diversity of styles from the high mournful tone of "The Fields of Athenry" to the low melancholy of "Kilkelly", from the bawdy good humour of "When the Boys Come Rolling Home" and "Danny Dougan's Jubilee" to the heady adolecent excitement of "Where the Blarney Roses Grow", there's a song to cover every inch of ground that can be covered on Celtic instruments — plus a didgeridoo.

Celtic Music

2005-07-13T04:02:00.000-04:00

New page here! I just put together the beginnings of a Celitc site (including a bit about my favourite song of all time.

I’ve always loved Celtic music, especially that of the Irish persuasion. Now, I am only 1/16th Ulster Scot (Scots-Irish, Scotch-Irish), but I figure that gives me enough Celtic blood to have some right to the music, eh? After all, I’ve been told that Celtic blood takes precedence over any other comers . . .

While I adore the music, I have a great love for all things Irish (odd, since I have more an excuse for Scottish), and hope to transmit a bit of that love of the Celts to you. Enjoy!

Celtic Music at Sehr Gut Web

Sehrgut Anachronism: New Site

2005-07-08T20:11:00.000-04:00

I’ve just launched a new subsection of Sehr Gut Web: Sehrgut Anachronism (housing the Codex Anachronisticus: Sehr Gut). Here I&rsqou;ll be depositing all my anachronistic researches and pursuits.

Currently, the Codex is comprised of some ink-related recipes: namely the preparation of yellow dextrine (“British gum”) from corn starch, testing gum solutions for starch using iodine, and the preparation of a dextrine-bound Prussian Blue writing ink using Mrs. Stewart's Bluing.

In Memoriam America

2005-07-02T00:27:00.000-04:00

In memory of those whose dreams and schemes gave us this land, of those who died for the freedom that was America, of those whose blood watered the Tree of Liberty.

We have not kept your dream. We have abandoned your hopes. We have sold the freedom you died for us to have. We have failed you.

Forgive us.

In memory of that for which which once she stood,
In hope of that for which she yet may stand.

*****

July Fourth, Two Thousand and Five, a mere two hundred and twenty-nine years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, found America in the later stages of giving up freedom for security and finding she had neither.

In Memoriam

Scraps is Being Replaced

2005-01-12T02:22:00.000-05:00

Yes, folks, at last the time has come to disembark from this port which so long held my mind and thoughts. Scraps is, as of now, an archival weblog. My new weblog, Passage to Serendipity, has sent out its first update pings. The world is now becoming dimly aware of its existance. Do please check out Passage to Serendipity. I have spent a lot of time laying out the design and tweaking the installation of Blosxom, which is fast becoming my favorite content-management scheme.

So, the URL for Passage to Serendipity is http:// sehrgut.relatedworlds.net/cgi-bin/blosxom.cgi. (I know, I know. It's poor form to show the .cgi, and even the cgi-bin directory in a URL. However, my host is not yet able to put in a ScriptAlias (they run Apache) for me. As soon as they do, the link should be /passage on that domain, or some other such.

Loneliness

2004-12-29T16:01:00.000-05:00

Loneliness

There is in loneliness an exquisiteness which longs to be imbibed unadulterated, like absinthe without sugar. Some delicate flavour among the varied bitterness demands to be tasted of unenwrapt in words or harmony. A call to such an inception of pleasure ensues wildly from the struck gong of a lost half-chance and whips through my hair, wailing from the fenestrations of Never.

All Things Feminine

2004-12-29T09:13:00.000-05:00

All Things Feminine

There is that which running along after like a lost puppy is no shame.

I have an untoward gravitation, I think, towards all things feminine. No, not in the way that I am some girl-crazy kid, but merely in that women seem to make up a larger part of my life than they do for most men. You see, I would very much prefer being the only man anywhere in my life. It is much more pleasant, and pleasant nearly to a fault, to have anything — even the smallest task — done by a woman.

All beauty seems to spring from The Feminine — from the delicate inklings of nature: please do not misunderstand this as neo-Pagan goddess-worship — whether the clean design of a beautiful piece of architecture or a splendid poppy blowing in the wind, what makes something worth just sitting and staring at is always its feminine properties. The delicacy of the flower, the perfectly-arranged sweeping columns of some Parthenon in any country: all point to the beauty that is SHE.

The Feminine has always, as far as I can remember, held a strange fascination for me. There is that which running along after like a lost puppy is no shame. Indeed, I would be ashamed to not throw myself to the great Wind of Beauty. “From far, from eve and morning and yon twelve-winded sky, the stuff of life to knit me blew hither: here am I.”¹ To stand firm when such a mistress bids me crumble I find the greatest blasphemy; to fall at her word, the stuff of life. Careless of being crushed by such a force, I would ride high on the gales of Her mischance until swept into the face of Wonder, I live, crippled by sweetness, forever.

Above all, I am a follower of the Feminine. I am a worshipper of Beauty.

From far, from eve and morning
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither: here am I.

Now — for a breath I tarry
Nor yet disperse apart —
Take my hand quick and tell me,
What have you in your heart.

Speak now, and I will answer;
How shall I help you, say;
Ere to the wind's twelve quarters
I take my endless way.

— “XXXII”, A Shropshire Lad, A.E. Housman.

Comfort Ye My People

2004-12-29T08:02:00.000-05:00

Comfort Ye My People

Note: Yes, this piece is somewhat religious in nature. However, please do not allow that to scare you away. I think I can promise nearly every reader, of whatever creed, a line or idea or turn of phrase to carry away. I think you will be glad you read it.

“Comfort ye.” A sombre lilt of strings — no reeds, and certainly no horns — overlaid with the smoked glass of flute, opens. (The horn players are busy writing and reading, oblivious to a world which shall not require their attentions for several minutes.)
An overture of predawn and long, desert mountain trails, bears no premonitions of the victorious “Rejoice, O Ye Daughters of Zion!” and “Hallelujah!” to come. Indeed, it seems very fitting to that “story we know”¹: yet one more tale of heartache and a supposedly-inspiring moral victory somewhere near the end. But this story — that story which kept Handel sequestered months in its telling — is far from a mere moral victory (though it may be rightly called a victory of The Moral).

*****

“The real meaning of Christmas” is a phrase lost now on me and most Americans: it has become a trite “ad-word”, sermonzing catch-all, and moral to any holidy tear-jerker. It’s a phrase hijacked by anyone who wants to say that Christmas isn’t just about getting, but it’s about {giving, family, unity, etc.}. Everyone, down to the most irreligious, has heard at least one rendition of the First Christmas meant to inspire a holy fear or love or somehow-restored devotion. The thrill of that is long since gone.

What is not gone is Handel. It is one thing to tell a story of a young engaged woman found pregnant with the son of God. It is quite another to begin, not with the Anunciation (as is the manner of most religious, due to Catholic tradition), but with God’s deep desire to send comfort to His people.

Jesus was sent with the commission to “comfort ye my people”, God’s people being the Jews. With all the persecution they had faced, and were facing, and admittedly though their own folly, they were still God’s people. The same God who in the Old Testament promised Abraham that a blessing to all nations would come from his line² fulfilled that promise in the time of His people’s greatest need.

*****

Yes, sing the “Hallelujah!” chorus. It is fitting. “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain”* to receive our praises. But sing “Comfort Ye My People” as well. Handel well knew the real real meaning of Christmas. To him, it was worth what most people would never give up, for friends, family, or even self: comfort. For him, it was a story worth all in the telling, and giving all in the hearing.

“The Story We Know”

The way to begin is always the same. Hello,
Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,
And Good-bye ant the end. That’s every story we know,

And why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,

And then it’s Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
Day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
And Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know

So well we don’t turn the page, or look below
the picture, or follow the words to the next line:
The way to begin is always the same Hello.

But one night, through the latticed window, snow
Begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
Good-bye is the end of every story we know

That night, and when we close the curtains, oh,
we hold each other against that cold white sign
Of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know.
— Martha Collins

2. “In blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the sea shore; and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies; And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; because thou hast obeyed my voice.” — Genesis 22:17–18

First Sign of Winter

2004-12-29T05:33:00.000-05:00

First Sign of Winter

Written Friday, December 10^th, 2004, in Pensacola, Florida.

The hibiscus are blooming. In the whipping breezes, long hibiscus branches rising from the ground swing and whirl their tip-tops of Hawai’ian brightness. The hibiscus are blooming, and winter is coming to Florida.

It is funny to me, that whiteness which covers so many Christmas pictures. What is it? And why are the trees dead? How, in a black-and-white death world, can one see the joy of Christmas? And my Grandmother asks how I can get into the Christmas spirit without snow!

How to Raise a Perfect Little Angel

2004-12-26T04:00:00.000-05:00

How to Raise a Perfect Little Angel

or, Training and Trusting

Of course you’ve heard teenagers and even younger children claim, “My parents don’t trust me.” Every child psychologist will tell parents that the important thing is that they trust their children: trustworthiness is sure to follow. I’m sorry, but I’m just not used to paying for something and waiting six to eight weeks for delivery with no assurance of delivery or recourse when delivery is not made. Trustworthiness is something which results from training, and not from previously-doled-out trust.

Enter Joel L. He’s a second-grader in my Sunday School class at the Campus Church, Pensacola, FL. He’s also the most trustworthy and best-behaved child in the class. In fact, when I need someone to deliver something to the Junior Church teacher (Junior Church follows Sunday School, and is in a different classroom), he is the only student whom I have ever so much as considered for the errand. Joel can spout off a semester’s-worth of Bible verses at the drop of a hat (“How about the one before that, Joel? Do you remember that one?”), answer questions about last week’s story like nobody’s business, and sit still to boot! I have an idea. Let’s follow him for a moment to see where his behaviour and trustworthiness originated: from trust, or from training.

Friday, December 17^th, 2004. Sports Center, Pensacola Christian College, Pensacola, FL.
The semester had officially ended at 9:45 that morning. Most of the student body had left, and most of us stragglers were in the Sports Center (gym, weight rooms, bowling, racquetball, ice skating, and miniature golf, along with pool, foosball, and places to just sit and chat or play games) killing time. My friends and I were sitting around watching The Artistry of Ivan¹ on Rachel’s computer and making small talk. Suddenly Joel came (from nowhere, as far as I could figure) and stood over me (I was seated on the carpet). He and I chatted a bit, and he eventually sat down to watch the movie with us.

After not too long, Mrs. L, his mom, came over. I stood up to introduce myself (as the recipient of the cookies she had sent with him to Sunday School the previous Sunday to give to his teachers), and ended up in a conversation. I mentioned rather quickly how much I enjoyed having Joel in my class, and how well he always behaved himself.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that! I worry about him . . . When we do school, the girls always do their work, but he always wants to go outside and play.”

Are you seeing where I am going with this? The kid was homeschooled (which I had found out a couple of weeks earlier — but which in no way surprised me, given his beyond-years maturity). That’s nearly a given these days when you run across the rare decorous, well-behaved child. That aside, however, did you see how even the mother of my best student was not assuming of his behaviour?

A child can sense the difference between assumption and expectation, I think. Assumption states that the child will be trustworthy because I trust him. Expectation states that the child will be trustworthy because I train him; and because I, knowing that “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked”², watch for the untrustworthiness when (not “if”) it crops up so I can immediately and lovingly correct it.

And you know, that is love.³ A kid like Joel is going to grow up and go places. A kid like D_____ (unanimously the worst-behaved kid in the class) is going to need some help. But you know, Joel’s folks could blow it. They could start trusting him — who, as sweet and obedient as he is, has a deceitful heart and a sin nature just like you or I. And D_____’s parents could stop trusting him and start training him. That would make all the difference.

1. The Artistry of Ivan is a student-produced documentary of Hurricane Ivan. Daniel Allen, a student at Pensacola Christian College, arranged for footage to be taken throughout the campus during the lockdown for the hurricane itself, as well as interviewing numerous faculty, staff, administration, students, and Pensacola residents after the hurricane had passed. The two-disc set, including a half-hour documentary and a large library of still images and short video clips, may be ordered from Brand X Multimedia by calling 815-212-3564 or 815-886-4144. The cost is $15US +S&H. It is well worth fifteen dollars to see the good coming from Ivan — the good that only God can bring from a catastrophe. As Mr. Allen said, “Ivan’s terror was not random or evil. It was all part of the Painter’s perspective to show forth the glory of God.” The Lord hath His way in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of His feet. — Nahum 1:3b

2. “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” — Jeremiah 17:9

3. “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.” — Proverbs 13:24
c.f. Proverbs 22:15 and 23:13

Art Deco and a Piano Man

2004-12-08T16:15:00.000-05:00

Art Deco and a Piano Man

This was written on November 20^th.

I have never exactly considered art deco to be a light, open, “castle-in-the-air” style. Apparently no one told that to whoever designed the central atrium of the Atlanta-Hartsfield airport.

I lounge back with my trusty PowerBook G4 500MHz (“Trillian”) in a huge, red vinyl cushioned chair designed in exactly such a way as to preclude actual comfort (probably to as well preclude missed flights), while not being specifically painful to occupy.

A man of dubious ancestry (in that he could be part Arab, or part African, or part Indian, or part Hispanic) with an odd clerical-collared green-brown suit and a basketball-sized paunch accented by the simplicity of the suit front comes and begins setting up his drums. ‘Tis a pity, as I was enjoying the jazz piano in front of Houlihan’s. The arms of the chair are covered with a sort of faux-granite formica, which isn’t very convincing.

My goodness, he’s practically in front of me. Four drums, a fallen drumstick, a five-speaker cabinet, and an electric guitar case. This looks neither pleasant or cultured. And besides, he has a lazy sneer about his lips: I know that sneer from any- and everywhere. And here come the cymbals.

I was lying in the chair. Yes. Hmmm . . .

Above me — and ahead of me if I stare up through it, is a great eye of a skylight. Decagon bifurcating to icosagon bifurcating to whatever a forty-sided polygon is called in a great display of monochromatic stained glass. If I stared at the fog above long enough, I am certain I'd see my future in its swirling slight eddies.

In the grand tradition of Wonka’s square candies that look ‘round, the whole atrium is undecidedly a squircle. The rail-rimmed eye of skydome surrounded by what looks like a floor of grey slate tiles studded with fire-extinguishing circles, inscribed in the vast circumference of a round atrium with pillared and balconied corners. Running in recesses below each rim round and round the room are neon lights of an almost-pink, except for the three lights above the “Terminal South” — these are forebodingly out.

Around me slides the music from Houlihan’s. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him twice now in three days. Mayhap I’ll see him again next time I’m through this way. Mayhap I’ll give him a tip next time. Mayhap he’ll play “Piano Man” for me . . .

The Wavering Misogynist

2004-12-07T23:49:00.000-05:00

The Wavering Misogynist

-or- “A tame, vacant, doll-faced, idle gal!”

I came to the realization yeterday that there are no women worth any time whatsoever. Time is a most valuable commodity — even more so than heart, I think — and I refuse to bestow it where it would be wasted. (Heart may be wasted with more validity than may time, since a true bestowing of one’s heart precludes the tedium of waste — who’s to complain about truly enjoying something, even if it may not be the best thing to enjoy?) I cannot spend my life talking down to a beautiful, vacant woman.

That was yesterday. Today, I found that (even if this is deceiving myself) some women may be worth my time. You see, I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty girl (and might I cite Hemingway on “pretty, rather than beautiful”^*), so when I saw two such (whom I happened to be lucky enough to know) walking ahead of me, I naturally took notice. Picking up my pace, I caught up with them and greeted them in the name of Trouble. A quite enjoyable walk ensued, and I parted company in a graceful sense of satisfaction.

So women may not be so tedious after all.^◊ If I can find one truly at my level — one who will not ask condescension, the one boon I steadfastly refuse to grant — my time could I easily bestow, and that “unto the half of my kingdom.”^†

*The Snows of Kilimanjaro, by Ernest Hemingway, included a story by the name of “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber,” in which Mrs. Macomber was described as “pretty, rather than beautiful”. I might add that, though the allure of “pretty” is that it is more trustworthy than is “beautiful” (see Ben Johnson’s “Still to be Neat”^§), Mrs. Macomber ended up killing her husband.

†

And when the daughter of the said Herodias came in, and danced, and pleased Herod and them that sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give it thee. And he sware unto her, Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom.
— Mark 6:22–23

◊ In 1873, Judge Thomas Chandler Haliburton wrote The Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick, Esq., together with his opinion on matrimony (available from the University of Michigan’s Making of America division of their Humanities Text Initiative. While this book has been largely lost to time, Sam Slick's “sayings and doings” do deserve some consideration. Without further ado, I leave you to peruse an excerpt I have entitled “A Woman Worth Having”.

While musing on this subject, my attention was directed by Mr. Slick, who suddenly reined up his horse, to a scene of a different description. "There," said he, "there is a pictur' for you, squire. Now, that's what minister would call love in a cottage, or rural felicity, for he was fond of fine names was the old man." A neat and pretty little cottage stood before us as we emerged from a wood, having an air of comfort about it not often found in the forest, where the necessaries of life demand and engross all the attention of the settler. " Look at that crittur," said he, "Bill Dill Mill. There he sets on the gate, with his go-to-meetin' clothes on, a-doin' of nothin', with a pocket full of potatoes, cuttin' them up into small pieces with his jacknife, and teachin' a pig to jump up and catch 'em in his mouth. It's the schoolmaster to home, that. And there sets his young wife a-balancin' of herself on the top rail of the fence opposite, and a-swingin' her foot backward and forrerd, and a-watchin' of him. Ain't she a heavenly splice, that? By Jacob's spotted cattle, what an ankle she has! Jist look! a rael corn-fed heifer, that, ain't she! She is so plump she'd shed rain like a duck. Them Blue-noses do beat all in galls, I must say, for they raise some desperate handsome ones. But then there is nothin' in that crittur. She is nothin' but waxwork -- no life there; and he looks tired of his bargain already -- what you called fairly onswaggled. Now, don't speak loud, for if she sees us she'll cut and run like a weasel. She has got her hair all covered over with papercurls, and stuck thro' with pins, like a porcupine's back. She's for a tea-squall to-night, and nothin' vexes women like bein' taken of a nonplush this way by strangers. That's matrimony, squire, and nothin' to do; a honeymoon in the woods or young love grow'd ten days old. Oh, dear! if it was me, I should yawn so afore a week, I should be skeerd lest my wife should jump down my throat. To be left alone that way idle, with a wife that has nothin' to do and nothin' to say, if she was as pretty as an angel, would drive me melancholy mad. I should either get up a quarrel for vanity sake, or go hang myself to get out of the scrape. A tame, vacant, doll-faced, idle gall! O Lord! what a fate for a man who knows what's what, and is up to snuff! Who the plague can live on sugar-candy? I am sure I couldn't. Nothin' does for me like honey; arter a while I get to hate it like sin; the very sight of it is enough for me. Vinegar ain't half so bad; for that stimulates, and you can't take more nor enough of it if you would. Sense is better nor looks any time; but when sense and looks goes together, why, then a woman is worth havin', that's a fact.

§ Still to Be Neat

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast.
Still to be powdered, still perfumed.

Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet. All is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace.
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,

Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th’ adulteries of art.
They touch mine eyes, not mine heart.
— Ben Johnson

Heart Basket

2004-11-06T10:19:00.000-05:00

Heart Basket

   Everything eventually becomes a hobby in my life, whether that be good or bad.
   In place of relationships I think I keep a heart basket: a kind of vasiculum of feminine emotions gleaned from those who granted them to me. My heart will rarely stay with another for long, so I have no connection with the hearts in my basket other than that of owner to trinket.
   Now, lest you think me cruel, I must say that I am not aware of ever keeping whole hearts imprisoned. It seems that when my heart begins again to rise from its temporary resting place on a woman, her heart seems as well to become more her own. Lest, though, I be left utterly destitute, I wield the fine scalpel of time and chance which happeneth to them all and take a small piece of her heart to keep, as a page in a memorandum-book, as a reminder and a possession.
   Few women own such a scalpel, else would my heart be disseminated across continent and perhaps globe; and I would have little with which to purchase hearts for my own collection and much sorrow about which to write &mdash(for everywhere a piece of your heart goes, there follows a portion of your soul, like an all-seeing eye).

Ephemera

William Butler Yeats

‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,
Because our love is waning.’
And then she:
‘Although our love is waning, let us stand
By the lone border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep.
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!’
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
‘Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.’

The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
Autumn was over him: and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more:
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,
In bosom and hair.
‘Ah, do not mourn,’ he said,
‘That we are tired, for other loves await us;
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
Before us lies eternity; our souls
Are love, and a continual farewell.

Find this poem on PoemHunter

Eratosthenes

2004-09-29T00:14:00.000-04:00

Eratosthenes

   Eratosthenes had my job. Or anyway, I want his job. The life of a scholar is one not often available in our common times (for I would venture to say that times past were most uncommon). Life, and even learning, must be ever compartmented — and he who would venture to another compartment not alotted to him . . . he might be thought “worse than an infidel”* by this pragmatic world.
   Not too terribly long ago, I would not be looked at askance for being a writer studying to become a professor of Biology and Biochemistry. Eratosthenes was a librarian (and I am firmly convinced that there is no other profession more suited to my tastes — in being closer to work as a scholar of the classical type), but he also was a scientist (say, “natural philosopher”). In fact, he was the first to accurately measure, or calculate, the circumference of the earth; he did it with an accuracy of only several hundred miles different from what we now know to be the correct value.
   As well, some of his other accomplishments would, in such common times as today, be compartmented out of his reach, he being librarian of Alexandria or not!

Known for his versatility, he wrote poetry and works (most of them lost) on literature, the theater (notably on ancient comedy), mathematics, astronomy, geography, and philosophy; he also drew a map of the known world and evolved a system of chronology.
— The Columbia Encyclopedia, Ed. 6, 2001

Oh for the life of a scholar! I believe I could be happy ad infinitum surrounded by books and ink and — oh well, I suppose these days I must put up with computers musn’t I? — forever writing and reading and writing about what I read. But you see what I’m saying, don’t you? Now most people would think it odd that a mathematician would write poetry; and much less philosophy! I suppose there is no rule absolutely against such a mix as I, but there is definitely sentiment — expectation, perhaps — against me. I also suppose I don’t care.
I would not live in any other fashion. Boxes, cells, compartments are not for me.

But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.
— I Timothy 5:8

I view askance a book that remains undisturbed for a year. Oughtn’t it to have a ticket of leave? I think I may safely say no book in my library remains unopened a year at a time, except my own works and Tennyson’s.

— Carolyn Wells

Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, and Academic Musings

Eight Oh Seven

2004-09-18T19:36:00.000-04:00

Eight Oh Seven

   True colours do begin to show. In the absence of any organizing influence, the rebellion latent — and obvious to only a few observant — in so many rises like a green film to the surface of life.
   Man in general is not a civilized being, and has not been for almost one hundred years. The days of gaslamps and hansoms and the last of the steamships were man’s last days of full and true civilization. Now civilization is provided for — or hung upon — the many by the few.
   Few there be who still know what consitutes actual civility. To most it is in this chimera of electric lights and Roman running water and then that fifth of the simple machines, the internal combustion engine. Deprived of these that separate most men from the animals, they swing from trees.
   Clothing becomes at best a somehow-still-necessary annoyance and at worst illogical and optional. Crisp and trim dormitories take on the look of Manhattan slum apartments with unwashed clothes hanging from the windows to dry the sweat. An awful din of cleanup from the Czar’s^† violent visit thickens the air with chainsaws, chippers, and pressure washers; and the utterly non-sophisticates (revealed by their now loosely-regulated dress) make my campus — my den of sophistication — look like downtown Gary, Indiana.
   Houses bisected by hurricanes happen: there is nothing unconquerable about such damage. Trees will be uprooted — testimony to their foolish stand against the inevitable. A diadem of roots shading where I stand bodes no ill at all.
   The clock stopped. Windows can be deglazed, and fenestrated storeys boarded over, and still I would not breather “savagery”. But for days, imposingly erect and yet unlit, the tower has read “eight oh seven”.
   Eight oh seven is when civilization ceased as an imposition upon savagery. Eight oh seven, two mornings ago. How Golding is proven, even in macrocosm^◊ and two days’ time! Eight oh seven, and all is not well.

† This is in reference to Hurricane Ivan. The Czar has deprived most of Pensacola, Florida of water and power.
◊ William Golding, author of Lord of the Flies. LOTF was set among a small group of boys on a deserted island: a microcosm of society (sans restraint).

Crosspost: Scraps and Academic Musings

Green Tea and Red China

2004-09-03T18:36:00.000-04:00

Green Tea and Red China

or The Way of Tea

   Jun loved his tea. About my age, or a little older, or a little younger perhaps, Jun was on his way to William Penn University, a small Quaker institution outside of Des Moines.
   He grew up in Communist China with its grey prospects and simplified characters. True, the western Schezuan area was not as oppressively militarized as more populous areas such as Beijing; still, Chairman Mao’s flabby hand lay heavy on Jun’s life.
   But he loved his country all the same. I guess patriotism is a concept foreign to me — but after experiencing for three years America, how could he rationally love China?
   Green tea.
   Yes, I mentioned my love for tea to him; and for the next quarter of an hour, received a monologue both historical and technical, with some generous helping of fervor and nearly-religious zeal thrown in.
   Five kinds — and all expensive: that’s all he brought with him to the states. And a tea-pot, clay (or “soil”, as his broken translation-dictionary English put it), because you can’t make good tea in a metal pot.
   “The Way of Tea,” he kept saying. “The Way of Tea” dictates you cannot just “make a pot of tea.” Tea is nearly supernatural, to be catered to, appeased, and worshipped through its preparations.
   Funny, isn’t it? All he really wanted was a perfect cup of hot green tea. China was the only place in the world where one could be had. Red China. Communist China. Chairman Mao’s China. So he loved China.
   Though, if we are not prevented from enjoying — and I mean really enjoying, falling-into-a-reverie enjoying — a cup of tea, are we really oppressed? Are we really misused?
   Not for that moment, however short.
   Not for that moment.

Wonder ’tis how little mirth
Keeps the bones of men from lying
On the bed of earth.
— A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad

Crosspost: Scraps and Harbour in the Scramble

Project English Language (on Leet)

2004-08-28T01:46:00.000-04:00

Project English Language

on (LEET, L337, 1337) and its followers

I may be part of an breed unwelcome online, so the following may not be a common opinion. Then again, I hope I only attract an audience of the quality which would share this opinion (and yes, that is a biased statement). I hate weblogs run by dumb thirteen-year-old girls which overuse (read: “use even once”) any of the following “leet”-type words, phrases, and practices.

fren(s) lol ttfn rotfl nvm omg jk imho brb ttyl lmao lmfao atm g2g stfu wtf w/e Â banned words: neenjaaaaar ppl grrl guestbook ne1 neways every1 cya rox rawks womyn da dat lyk u w/ 4 2 n o u y? r yur ur peeps wen gurl boi sry any1 thanx ya wel teh sk8 gr8 [any substitution of the number 8 for the letter sequence A T E] luv dat plz jus 2moro cuz enuff yu yr wut nuthin meen leet sux pwn[3d] skewl tho liek w00t!@# wateva hear/here no/know their/they're/there rite/right to/too/two your/you're waste/waist -ors -0R5 -orz -z ALL CAPS sTiCkY cApS [Capitalizing Every Single Word In A Title Sentence] !!!11!!111!! a/s/l <g> :) <3 31337 L337

   Just so perpetrators of this linguistic murder know, I automatically write off any infested web page, with whatever content contained, however otherwise-useful it may have been, as worthless. Yes, worthless, uneducated junk. Trash. Shmuts and shmattes*. Scraps of thoughtlessness not worth my time. I don’t care how smart and web-savvy you think you are, if you use “leet”, you are either stupid or fast becoming so.
   Which brings me to the irony of the very moniker the system (if you want to glorify babble by calling it a system) proudly bears. Derived from, or more accurately, a corruption of the word “elite”, “leet” marks it users as far from such. It would fit under the phrase “legends in their own eyes”, I think.
   Anything but elite, “leet” users are merely part of a growing, glassy-eyed herd of media thralls who, like James Whitcombe Riley’s “wee little worm”, imagine themselves as the rulers of all the world, because they know nothing outside their inconsequential hickory-nut:

A wee little worm in a hickory-nut
Sang out, as happy as he could be,
“Oh, I live in the heart of the whole, round world,
“And it all belongs to me!”

Which brings me to the banner and link introducing this entry. Opposition to “leet” is important to anyone who values his language, and especially to teachers who I’ve heard tell of students daring to turn in papers written in this garbage. Project English Language maintains a blacklist of “leet” words, phrases, and typographic/grammatical practices which I highly recommend (the list, that is: not the words). Though not exhuastive, it comes close enough to make its point — and mine too!

Oh, and if you use so much as a single word from the above unfortunate lexicon, I will assume, until shown otherwise, that you are a thirteen-year-old know-nothing (or are at least on a similar intellectual level). You probably also had to use a dictionary (do you know how to use a dictionary?) to read this post.

Crosspost: Scraps and Harbour in the Scramble

An “Edumacation” Devoutly to Be Wished

2004-08-24T15:06:00.000-04:00

Now, I can’t say I would recommend the weblog this came from as a general rule, but the irony of someone as liberal as the author making this suggestion just kills me. (I’m not going to provide a link, since many of the other posts are downright foul.)

Mothers let their wild little beasts roam free like giraffes on the Serengeti. They apparently believe that to control them will somehow stunt the growth of their self-esteem. In the radiology waiting room, there was one wild little beast, age approx. three who kept licking his mother's arm and laughing like Hannibal Lechter until she said, “Stop it, go away”, at which point he crawled over to me and started licking MY flip-flopped feet. I had a feeling that I couldn't gently kick him to get him to stop, so I just glared at the mother. She gave me a sheepish look like, “Well, what can you do, haha.” What can you do? Oh I don't know, you could yank your little [brat] up off the ground and edu-ma-cate him a little with the ol’ spankin’ hand. Conclusion: Parents today are . . . wimps that want to be “pals” with their kids instead of parents.

   An “edumacation” devoutly to be wished, in the case of many wild little beasts, no? “Spare the rod and spile the chile,” is some down-home wisdom which could make many parents better wild animal trainers — which our society has thrust aside to its own undoing.
   You know, that brat is going to grow up to be shocked when the world does not cater to him as does his misguided mother. How much better would it be for him to grow up strong and self-controlled than pampered? And as far as a healthy relationship goes, I know that well-disciplined children are much closer to their parents than free-roaming Serengeti wildlings. One British woman who had never much disciplined her children, soon after beginning a systematic, fair, and predictable order of discipline, was told by her now under-control and loving son, “Mummy? You do a very good job being a mummy.” (No Greater Joy, Jul/Aug 2004, pg. 20)
   It’s certainly not for no reason the Bible says, “He that spareth the rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.” (Proverbs 13:25)

Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, Academic Musings

The Y1K Bug, Canterbury, England, A.D. 999.

2004-08-22T02:28:00.000-04:00

Here’s a pull from the stale joke file. This just might be old enought to be funny now. Do you remember in 1999 the whole Y2K media-hyped “crisis”? Of course, for a variety of technical reasons, there never was any reason to despair, except for the fact that those frightened by the hype would undoubtably (and did, to a small degree) cause problems. Well, it turns out that the scare was just as bad when making the even-greater transition from three-digit dates to four-digit dates.

By Ashleigh Brilliant

Canterbury, England. A.D. 999
An atmosphere close to panic prevails today throughout Europe as the millennial year 1000 approaches, bringing with it the so-called “Y1K Bug” — a menace which, until recently, hardly anyone had ever heard of. Prophets of doom are warning that the entire fabric of Western Civilization, based as it now is upon monastic computations, could collapse, and that there is simply not enough time left to fix the problem.

Just how did this disaster-in-the-making ever arise? Why did no one anticipate that a change from a three-digit to a four-digit year would throw into total disarray all liturgical chants and all metrical verse in which any date is mentioned? Every formulaic hymn, prayer, ceremony and incantation dealing with dated events will have to be re-written to accommodate three extra syllables. All tabular chronologies with three-space year columns, maintained for generations by scribes using carefully hand-ruled lines on vellum sheets, will now have to be converted to four-space columns, at enormous cost. In the meantime, the validity of every official event, from baptisms to burials, from confirmations to coronations, may be called into question.

“We should have seen it coming,” says Brother Cedric of St. Michael’s Abbey, here in Canterbury. “What worries me most is that ‘thousand’ contains the word ‘Thou,’ which occurs in nearly all our prayers, and of course always refers to God. Using it now in the name of the year will seem almost blasphemous, and is bound to cause terrible confusion. Of course, we could always use Latin, but that might be even worse — The Latin word for ‘thousand’ is ‘mille’ — which is the same as the Latin for ‘mile’. We won’t know whether we’re talking about time or distance!”

Stonemasons are already reported threatening to demand a proportional pay increase for having to carve an extra numeral in all dates on tombstones, cornerstones and monuments. Together with its inevitable ripple effects, this alone could plunge the hitherto-stable medieval economy into chaos.

A conference of clerics has been called at Winchester to discuss the entire issue, but doomsayers are convinced that the matter is now one of personal survival. Many families, in expectation of the worst, are stocking up on holy water and indulgences.

Honour, Honesty, and One of Those Silly Web Quizzes

2004-08-20T04:44:00.000-04:00

I hate those silly online quizzes. I really do. But this one is a bit different: it provides some framework for discussing my philosophies of honour and honesty. (Except for that typo right in the image text . . . aargh!)

You are a fencer. You fight honerably. You try not to kill your
opponents, but only disarm them, to force them
to surrender. In a duel you will go all
out and kill your oponent. You use a rapier.

What type of Swordsman are you?

My answers to some of the questions I consider more important to life in general, and explanations of them follow. What does honour truly entail, and what is mere foolishness?

When you find a women in distress, what do you do? Hide in the shadows until the time is right.
It's foolish to charge in unprepared, make pointless, prideful shows of bravado, or attack before you can make a rational evaluation of the situation.

When your oponent drops their weapon, what do you do? Put my sword to his throat, and ask if he surrenders.
Again, pointless shows of bravado are foolish, and taking full advantage of the situation by using the opportunity for a death-blow is dishonourable. In such a situation, the opponent ought to be given a chance to surrender. Otherwise, certain death.

When you finally confront your true enemy, what do you do? Stare him in the eye, draw my sword, and vow that I will kill him.
No need to formalize it with a duel here. A duel is for a purpose: to settle a specific, usually social, dispute. (This is another of Hollywood’s misused standard scenes, merely for drama’s sake. Not every fight is a duel!) No skullduggery here, no foolish charges, but no non-required concessions: I am a capitalist above all.

When you defeat your enemy, he is on his knees, begging to be spared. What do you do? Say to him "We agreed to a duel. I shall not go aganst my word," and slit his throat.
Honour once, honour always. A duel is a duel, a deal is a deal, and I am not one to go back on my word, much less to give up that which I have rightfully earned. No cruelty here, but no touchy-feely “he’s really not bad enough to kill” nonsense. Hollywood has had a decades-long field day with that whole idea — though it is rationally, morally, and philosophically bankrupt.

Honour is really a part of how you live your life? How honourable are you? This quiz just might make you think, if you can take it out of its period context and seriously look at the philosophical underpinnings of your answers.

Movie: Oceans 11

2004-08-13T18:52:00.000-04:00

From a time less objective (Jason).

Later that day I went to Sara’s house to watch Ocean’s 11 for the first time. It was really stylized and witty, but I found it rather dry for deeper themes and ideas. The good guys are the ones who steal $160,000,000.00 of legitimately earned cash…it’s kind of sad in hindsight that American culture this desperate for entertainment ideas. It may relect some kind of Robin Hood theme, but one on a massive steroid overdose.

   And might I contrast my view with Jason’s implied approval of Robin Hood. While the original Robin Hood, I would argue, was a capitalist, stealing from the thieves (rich tax-collectors and extortioners) and giving to the robbed (poor tax-payers and extorted), he has in our present day been recast as a social (read: socialist, communist) “hero” — so much so in fact that ”steal from the rich and give to the poor” has become an idiomatic synonym for Robin Hood.
   The fact, then, that Ocean’s 11 can be viewed as having a “Robin Hood theme” is one more count against it, philosophically. Ayn Rand’s John Galt, in fact, vowed to slay Robin Hood (meaning the present misinterpretation of Robin Hood as an ideal), and never to rest until he did.
   Ocean’s 11, then, is just philosophically bankrupt in one more way. Not only does it glorify thievery, it flaunts socialism (and from there, humanism and relativism) in the face of capitalism (and hence the “Protestant work ethic” and the Law of Sowing and Reaping).

Crosspost: Scraps, Academic Musings, Harbour in the Scramble, and Ergle Street

The Gashlycrumb Tinies, by Edward Gorey

2004-08-13T18:01:00.000-04:00

The Gashlycrumb Tinies

or, After the Outing
by Edward Gorey

An Appalling Alphabet Which Introduces A Gallery Of Enchanting Tots And Produces A Gasp Of Involuntary Mirth When They Attain Their Dreadful Demise

A is for Amy who fell down the stairs,
B is for Basil assaulted by bears.
C is for Clara who wasted away,
D is for Desmond thrown out of the sleigh.
E is for Ernest who choked on a peach,
F is for Fanny, sucked dry by a leech.
G is for George, smothered under a rug,
H is for Hector, done in by a thug.
I is for Ida who drowned in the lake,
J is for James who took lye, by mistake.
K is for Kate who was struck with an axe,
L is for Leo who swallowed some tacks.
M is for Maud who was swept out to sea,
N is for Nevil who died of enui.
O is for Olive, run through with an awl,
P is for Prue, trampled flat in a brawl.
Q is for Quinton who sank in a mire,
R is for Rhoda, consumed by a fire.
S is for Susan who perished of fits,
T is for Titas who flew into bits.
U is for Una who slipped down a drain,
V is for Victor, squashed under a train.
W is for Winie, embedded in ice,
X is for Xerxes, devoured by mice.
Y is for Yoric whose head was bashed in,
Z is for Zilla who drank too much gin.

(The which is really much better with pictures. Also, see Susan Barnes’s wonderful new Tinies.)

I don’t imagine it is possible to make better children’s poetry and illustrations than did our illustrious friend Mr. Gorey.

Music: I Am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger (MP3)

2004-08-13T17:10:00.000-04:00

I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
While traveling through this world of woe.
Yet there’s no sickness, toil nor danger
In that bright world to which I go.
I’m going there to see my Father;
I’m going there no more to roam.

Refrain

I’m only going over Jordan,
I’m only going over home.

I know dark clouds will gather round me;
I know my way is rough and steep.
But golden fields lie out before me
Where God’s redeemed shall ever sleep.
I’m going there to see my mother,
She said she’d meet me when I come.

Refrain

I’ll soon be free from every trial,
My body sleep in the churchyard;
I’ll drop the cross of self denial
And enter on my great reward.
I’m going there to see my Savior,
To sing His praise forevermore.

Refrain

Isn’t that a great song? It’s an old spiritual, I think. You’ll have to pardon my singing (that MP3 file of the music is me), though: I’m not especially good.

Scraps: the Sehr Gut Weblog

Medical College of Georgia Class Notes

'Twas Brillig: a Jabberwocky Site

Danny Doyle, Where the Blarney Roses Grow, and C.

Celtic Music

Sehrgut Anachronism: New Site

In Memoriam America

Scraps is Being Replaced

Loneliness

Loneliness

All Things Feminine

All Things Feminine

Comfort Ye My People

Comfort Ye My People

“The Story We Know”

First Sign of Winter

First Sign of Winter

How to Raise a Perfect Little Angel

How to Raise a Perfect Little Angel

or, Training and Trusting

Art Deco and a Piano Man

Art Deco and a Piano Man

The Wavering Misogynist

The Wavering Misogynist

-or- “A tame, vacant, doll-faced, idle gal!”

§ Still to Be Neat

Heart Basket

Heart Basket

Ephemera

William Butler Yeats

Eratosthenes

Eratosthenes

Eight Oh Seven

Eight Oh Seven

Green Tea and Red China

Green Tea and Red China

or The Way of Tea

Project English Language (on Leet)

Project English Language

on (LEET, L337, 1337) and its followers

An “Edumacation” Devoutly to Be Wished

The Y1K Bug, Canterbury, England, A.D. 999.

Honour, Honesty, and One of Those Silly Web Quizzes

Movie: Oceans 11

The Gashlycrumb Tinies, by Edward Gorey

The Gashlycrumb Tinies

or, After the Outing by Edward Gorey

Music: I Am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger (MP3)

or, After the Outing
by Edward Gorey