tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77374242024-03-13T08:06:33.481-04:00Scraps: the Sehr Gut WeblogSome journaling, some articles and reviews of movies and music. Scraps and ephemera, miscellany, shreds of misplaced thought. This is much easier to maintain than the <a href="http://sehrgut.port5.com">Sehr Gut Web</a> main page, and is consequently updated much more frequently. Besides that, I always meant to keep a journal . . .Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1124737505221308122005-08-22T14:44:00.000-04:002005-08-22T15:05:05.230-04:00Medical College of Georgia Class Notes<p>Okay, another new page (well, sub-site, really). Since I am a Ph.D. student at the <a href="http://www.mcg.edu" title="The Medical College of Georgia: Georgia's Health Sciences University">Medical College of Georgia</a>, I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and publish <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/codex/notes" title="Medical College of Georgia (MCG) Biomedical Sciences Class Notes">my notes</a> from class lectures on my site. I figure that, besides attracting Google hits, putting all my <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/codex/notes" title="Medical College of Georgia Biomedical Sciences Class Notes">personal class notes</a> 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.</p>
<p>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*).</p>
<p><a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/codex/notes" title="Medical College of Georgia Biomedical Sciences Class Notes">Medical College of Georgia Biomedical Sciences Class Notes</a></p>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1122945482116531762005-08-01T21:18:00.000-04:002005-08-01T21:18:02.170-04:00'Twas Brillig: a Jabberwocky Site<img style="float: left;" src="images/jab-woodcut-sm.jpg" alt="Original woodcut of the Jabberwocky from 'Alice in Wonderland'" /> <img style="float: right;" src="images/jab-matthews-sm.jpg" alt="Rodney Matthews' 'Jabberwocky'" /> <p><a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/books/alice/brillig.php" title="'Twas Brillig: a Jabberwocky Site">“The Jabberwocky”</a> 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 <cite>Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There</cite> (commonly referred to as <cite>Alice Through the Looking Glass</cite>), its renown has spread far beyond that single opening chapter (well, and Humpty Dumpty's later <a href="/codex/dict.php?expoundify" title="Definition of 'Expoundify'">expoundification</a> thereof.</p> <p>Its popularity has resulted in its translation into a number of languages, including French, German, and yes, even Latin.</p> <p>Since <cite>The Jabberwocky</cite> 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 <cite><a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/books/alice" title="Alice Again?: Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland">Alice in Wonderland</a></cite> 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.</p> <p>So, do me a favour and visit <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/books/alice/brillig.php" title="'Twas Brillig: a Jabberwocky Site">'Twas Brillig</a>, 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 <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/books/alice/brillig.php?l=as" title="The Jabberwocky in the Original Anglo-Saxon">Anglo-Saxon translation</a>.)</p>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1121849235420327762005-07-20T04:47:00.000-04:002005-07-20T04:52:15.433-04:00Danny Doyle, Where the Blarney Roses Grow, and C.<p>I've just put up a new bit of content over at the <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/codex" title="Topics for the Taking at Sehr Gut Web">Sehr Gut Web Codex</a>:<a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/codex/celtic" title="Celtic Lore, Lyrics, and Latitude at Sehr Gut Web">Celtic</a>.</p> <p><big><b>Spirit of the Gael (Danny Doyle)</b></big> <p>A didgeridoo. In Irish music. Did Celts even <em>have</em> didgeridoos? Well, no matter, because in some surreal way, it actually works. In 2002, <a href="http://shop.crackerbarrel.com/online/shopping/Product.asp?cat_id=37&sku=766401" title="'Spirit of the Gael' on CrackerBarrel.com">Cracker Barrel Old Country Store</a> released this fabulous recording by the distinctive vocalist Danny Doyle as part of their <a href="http://shop.crackerbarrel.com/online/shopping/Category.asp?cat_id=50" title="Heritage Music on CrackerBarrel.com">Heritage Music</a> collection.</p> 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 <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/codex/celtic/music.php?blarney-roses" title="Lyrics, commentary, and history of 'Where the Blarney Roses Grow'">"Where the Blarney Roses Grow"</a>, there's a song to cover every inch of ground that can be covered on Celtic instruments — plus a didgeridoo.</p>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1121241726945676692005-07-13T04:02:00.000-04:002005-07-13T19:40:46.180-04:00Celtic Music<p>New page here! I just put together the beginnings of a Celitc site
(including a bit about my <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/codex/celtic/
music.php?sidhe" title="Sheebeg and Sheemore">favourite song</a> of
all time.</p><p>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 . . .</p><p>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!</p><p><a href="http://
sehrgut.co.uk/codex/celtic/music.php" title="Celtic Music">Celtic
Music at Sehr Gut Web</a></p>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1120867876842212772005-07-08T20:11:00.000-04:002005-07-16T01:20:49.073-04:00Sehrgut Anachronism: New Site<p>I&rsquo;ve just launched a new subsection of <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk" title="Sehr Gut Web">Sehr Gut Web</a>: <a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/sca" title="Sehrgut Anachronism">Sehrgut Anachronism</a> (housing the <i>Codex Anachronisticus: Sehr Gut</i>). Here
I&rsqou;ll be depositing all my anachronistic researches and
pursuits.</p>
<p>Currently, the <i>Codex</i> is comprised of some ink-related
recipes: namely the preparation of yellow dextrine (&ldquo;British
gum&rdquo;) from corn starch, testing gum solutions for starch using
iodine, and the preparation of a dextrine-bound Prussian Blue writing
ink using <a href="http://www.mrsstewart.com" title="Mrs. Stewart's Bluing">Mrs. Stewart's Bluing</a>.</p>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1120278584716479802005-07-02T00:27:00.000-04:002005-07-02T00:29:44.720-04:00In Memoriam America<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><strong>Forgive us.</strong></p>
<p>In memory of that for which which once she stood,<br />In hope of that for which she yet may stand.</p>
<p align="center">*****</p>
<p>July Fourth, Two Thousand and Five, a mere two hundred and twenty-nine years after the signing of the <cite>Declaration of Independence</cite>, found America in the later stages of giving up freedom for security and finding she had neither.</p>
<p><a href="http://sehrgut.co.uk/memoriam">In Memoriam</a></p>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1105514574587371792005-01-12T02:22:00.000-05:002005-01-12T02:22:54.586-05:00Scraps is Being Replaced<p>Yes, folks, at last the time has come to disembark from this port
which so long held my mind and thoughts. <i>Scraps</i> is, as of now,
an archival weblog. My new weblog, <i><a
href="http://sehrgut.relatedworlds.net/cgi-bin/blosxom.cgi">Passage to
Serendipity</a></i>, has sent out its first update pings. The world is
now becoming dimly aware of its existance. Do please check out
<i>Passage to Serendipity</i>. I have spent a lot of time laying out
the design and tweaking the installation of <a
href="http://www.blosxom.com" target="_blank">Blosxom</a>, which is
fast becoming my favorite content-management scheme.</p>
<p>So, the URL for <i>Passage to Serendipity</i> is <a
href="http://sehrgut.relatedworlds.net/cgi-bin/blosxom.cgi">http://
sehrgut.relatedworlds.net/cgi-bin/blosxom.cgi</a>. (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.</p>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1104354084393169992004-12-29T16:01:00.000-05:002004-12-29T16:01:24.393-05:00Loneliness<h2>Loneliness</h2>
<p>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.</p>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1104329616760738922004-12-29T09:13:00.000-05:002004-12-29T09:13:36.760-05:00All Things Feminine<h2>All Things Feminine</h2>
<small><i>There is that which running along after like a lost puppy is
no shame.</i></small>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The Feminine has always, as far as I can remember, held a strange
fascination for me. <B>There is that which running along after like a
lost puppy is no shame.</B> Indeed, I would be ashamed to not throw
myself to the great Wind of Beauty. <i>“From far, from eve and
morning and yon twelve-winded sky, the stuff of life to knit me blew
hither: here am I.”<small><sup><a
href="#housman32">1</a></sup></small></i> 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.</p>
<p>Above all, I am a follower of the Feminine. I am a worshipper of
Beauty.</p>
<hr width="80%">
<small>
<p><a name="housman32"><b>1.</b></a>
<blockquote>
<P>From far, from eve and morning<BR>
And yon twelve-winded sky,<BR>
The stuff of life to knit me<BR>
Blew hither: here am I.</P>
<P>Now — for a breath I tarry<BR>
Nor yet disperse apart —<BR>
Take my hand quick and tell me,<BR>
What have you in your heart.</P>
<P>Speak now, and I will answer;<BR>
How shall I help you, say;<BR>
Ere to the wind's twelve quarters<BR>
I take my endless way.</P>
<p align="right">— “<a
href="http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/housm03.html#32"
target="new">XXXII</a>”, <i>A Shropshire Lad</i>, A.E.
Housman.</p></blockquote>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1104325325628574992004-12-29T08:02:00.000-05:002004-12-29T08:02:05.626-05:00Comfort Ye My People<h2>Comfort Ye My People</h2>
<p><small><i><b>Note:</b> 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.</i></small></p>
<p>“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.)<br>
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”<small><sup><a
href="#collins">1</a></sup></small>: 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).</p>
*****
<p>“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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 line<small><sup><a
href="#abraham">2</a></sup></small> fulfilled that promise in the time
of His people’s greatest need.</p>
*****
<p>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 <i>real</i> 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.</p>
<hr width="80%">
<small><a name="collins"><b>1.</b></a><blockquote><h3>“The Story
We Know”</h3>
<p>The way to begin is always the same. Hello,<br>
Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,<br>
And Good-bye ant the end. That’s every story we know,</p>
<p>And why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?<br>
Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?<br>
The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,</p>
<p>And then it’s Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow<br>
Day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine<br>
And Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know</p>
<p>So well we don’t turn the page, or look below<br>
the picture, or follow the words to the next line:<br>
The way to begin is always the same Hello.</p>
<p>But one night, through the latticed window, snow<br>
Begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.<br>
Good-bye is the end of every story we know</p>
<p>That night, and when we close the curtains, oh,<br>
we hold each other against that cold white sign<br>
Of the way we all begin and end. Hello,<br>
Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know.</p><p
align="right">— Martha Collins</p></blockquote>
<p><a name="abraham"><b>2.</b></a> “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.”
— <a href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Genesis/22.html#17"
target="new">Genesis 22:17–18</a></p></small>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1104316380523102952004-12-29T05:33:00.000-05:002004-12-29T05:33:00.523-05:00First Sign of Winter<h2>First Sign of Winter</h2>
<small><i>Written Friday, December 10<small><sup>th</sup></small>,
2004, in Pensacola, Florida.</i></small>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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!</p>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1104051625938032982004-12-26T04:00:00.000-05:002004-12-26T04:00:25.936-05:00How to Raise a Perfect Little Angel<h2>How to Raise a Perfect Little Angel</h2>
<h4>or, <i>Training and Trusting</i></h4>
<p><b>Of course</b> 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><b>Friday, December 17<sup><small>th</small></sup>, 2004. Sports
Center, Pensacola Christian College, Pensacola, FL.</b><br>
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 <i>The Artistry of Ivan</i><a
href="#artistryofivan"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a> 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>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”<a
href="#jeremiah17-9"><small><sup>2</sup></small></a>, watch for the
untrustworthiness <i>when</i> (not “if”) it crops up so I
can immediately and lovingly correct it.</p>
<p>And you know, that <i>is</i> love.<a
href="#proverbs13-24"><small><sup>3</sup></small></a> 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.</p>
<hr width="80%">
<small>
<p><a name="artistryofivan"><b>1.</b></a> <i>The Artistry of Ivan</i>
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.” <i>The Lord hath His way in the
whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of His feet.
— <a href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Nahum/1.html#3"
target="new">Nahum 1:3b</a></i></p>
<p><a name="jeremiah17-9"><b>2.</b></a> “The heart is deceitful
above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?”
— <a href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Jeremiah/17.html#19"
target="new">Jeremiah 17:9</a></p>
<p><a name="proverbs13-24"><b>3.</b></a> “He that spareth his rod
hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.”
— <a href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Proverbs/13.html#24"
target="new">Proverbs 13:24</a><br>
c.f. <a href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Proverbs/22.html#15"
target="new">Proverbs 22:15</a> and <a
href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Proverbs/23.html#13"
target="new">23:13</a></p>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1102540507907439652004-12-08T16:15:00.000-05:002004-12-08T16:15:07.906-05:00Art Deco and a Piano Man<h2>Art Deco and a Piano Man</h2>
<small><i>This was written on November 20<sup>th</sup>.</i></small>
<p>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.</p>
<p>I lounge back with my trusty PowerBook G4 500MHz (“<a
href="http://www.empirenet.com/~dljones/" target="new" title="The
Significance of 42">Trillian</a>”) 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<br>
<p>I was lying in the chair. Yes. Hmmm . . .</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 . . .</p>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1102481362804800832004-12-07T23:49:00.000-05:002004-12-07T23:49:22.803-05:00The Wavering Misogynist<h2>The Wavering Misogynist</h2>
<h3><i>-or- “A tame, vacant, doll-faced, idle gal!”</i></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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”<sup><small><a
href="#hemingway">*</a></small></sup>), 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.</p>
<p>So women may not be so tedious after all.<sup><small><a
href="#samslick">◊</a></small></sup> 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.”<sup><small><a
href="#mark623">†</a></small></sup></p>
<hr width="80%" align="center">
<p>*<a name="hemingway"></a><i>The Snows of Kilimanjaro</i>, 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”<sup><small><a href="#neat">§</a></small></sup>), Mrs.
Macomber ended up killing her husband.</p>
<p>†<blockquote><small><a name="mark623"></a>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.<p
align="right">— <a href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Mark/6.html#22"
target="new">Mark 6:22–23</a></p></small></blockquote></p>
<p>◊ In 1873, Judge Thomas Chandler Haliburton wrote <a
href="http://www.hti.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?sid=a0580172a4a7be4410904
3acb7c536df;c=moa;iel=1;view=toc;idno=AAM9841.0001.001" target="new"><i>The
Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick, Esq., together with his opinion on
matrimony</i></a> (available from the University of Michigan’s
<i>Making of America</i> division of their <a href="http://hti.umich.edu/"
target="new"><i>Humanities Text Initiative</i></a>. 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”.
<blockquote><small>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,
<b>then a woman is worth havin', that's a fact.</b></small></blockquote></p>
<p><h4>§ <a name="neat"></a>Still to Be Neat</h4>
<blockquote>Still to be neat, still to be drest,<br>
As you were going to a feast.<br>
Still to be powdered, still perfumed.<br>
<br>
Lady, it is to be presumed,<br>
Though art’s hid causes are not found,<br>
All is not sweet. All is not sound.<br>
<br>
Give me a look, give me a face<br>
That makes simplicity a grace.<br>
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,<br>
<br>
Such sweet neglect more taketh me<br>
Than all th’ adulteries of art.<br>
They touch mine eyes, not mine heart.<p align="right">— Ben
Johnson</p></blockquote></p>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1099754354897690392004-11-06T10:19:00.000-05:002004-11-06T10:19:14.896-05:00Heart Basket<h2>Heart Basket</h2>
<p> Everything eventually becomes a hobby in my life,
whether that be good or bad.<br>
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.<br>
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.<br>
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).<br></p>
<p><i><h3>Ephemera</h3><h5>William Butler Yeats</h5></i></p>
<span style="font-size: 80%;"><blockquote><p>
‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine<br>
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,<br>
Because our love is waning.’<br>
And then she:<br>
‘Although
our love is waning, let us stand<br>
By the lone border of the lake once more,<br>
Together in that hour of gentleness<br>
When the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep.<br>
How far away the stars seem, and how far<br>
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!’<br>
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,<br>
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:<br>
‘Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.’</p>
<p>
The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves<br>
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once<br>
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;<br>
Autumn was over him: and now they stood<br>
On the lone border of the lake once more:<br>
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves<br>
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,<br>
In bosom and hair.<br>
‘Ah, do
not mourn,’ he said,<br>
‘That we are tired, for other loves await us;<br>
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.<br>
Before us lies eternity; our souls<br>
Are love, and a continual farewell.</p></blockquote></span>
<small>Find this poem on <a href=
"http://www.poemhunter.com/p/m/poem.asp?poem=13804&poet=3057&num=108&r=95673
7"
target="new">PoemHunter</a></small>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1096431270350913752004-09-29T00:14:00.000-04:002004-09-29T00:14:30.350-04:00Eratosthenes<h2>Eratosthenes</h2>
<a
href="http://www.bartleby.com/65/er/Eratosth.html"
target="new"><b>Eratosthenes</a> had my job.</b> 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 <i>most</i> 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”<a
href="#timothy">*</a> by this pragmatic world.<br>
Not too terribly long ago, I would not be looked at <a
HREF="#askance">askance</a> for being a <a
href="http://randomquill.blogspot.com/2004/08/philosophy-what-is-artist.html
"
>writer</a> 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.<br>
As well, some of his other accomplishments would, in such
<b>common</b> times as today, be compartmented out of his reach, he being
librarian of Alexandria or not!
<blockquote> 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.<p align="right">—
<i>The Columbia Encyclopedia</i>, Ed. 6, 2001</p></blockquote>
Oh for the life of a scholar! I believe I could be happy
<i>ad infinitum</i> 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. <b>I
also suppose I don’t care.</b><br>
<big><i>I would not live in any other fashion. Boxes,
cells, compartments are not for me.</i></big><br>
<hr width="80%" align="center">
<blockquote><small><a name="timothy"></a>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.<p align="right">— <a
href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/1_Timothy/5.html#8"
target="new">I Timothy 5:8</a></p></small></blockquote>
<hr align="center" width="20%">
<blockquote><small><a NAME="askance"></a>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.<br>
<p align="right">— Carolyn Wells</p></small></blockquote>
<small>Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, and Academic
Musings</small>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1095550571119584182004-09-18T19:36:00.000-04:002004-09-18T19:36:11.120-04:00Eight Oh Seven<h2>Eight Oh Seven</h2>
<p>
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.<br>
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.<br>
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.<br>
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<sup>†</sup> 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.<br>
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.<br>
<b>The clock stopped.</b> 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”.<br>
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<sup>◊</sup> and two days’ time!
<b>Eight oh seven, and all is not well.</b></p>
<hr width="80%" align="center">
<small>† This is in reference to Hurricane Ivan. The Czar has
deprived most of Pensacola, Florida of water and power.</small><br>
<small>◊ William Golding, author of <i>Lord of the Flies</i>.
<i>LOTF</i> was set among a small group of boys on a deserted island: a
microcosm of society (sans restraint).</small><br>
<p><small>Crosspost: Scraps and Academic Musings</small></p>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1094250986700225522004-09-03T18:36:00.000-04:002004-09-03T18:39:05.306-04:00Green Tea and Red China<h3>Green Tea and Red China</h3>
<h4><i>or</i> The Way of Tea</h4><p>
Jun loved his tea. About my age, or a little older,
or a little younger perhaps, Jun was on his way to <a
href="http://www.wmpenn.edu/"
target="new">William Penn University</a>, a small Quaker institution
outside of Des Moines.<br>
He grew up in Communist China with its grey prospects
and <a
href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simplified_Chinese"
target="new">simplified characters</a>. 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.<br>
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 <i>love</i> China?<br>
Green tea.<br>
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.<br>
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.<br>
“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.<br>
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.<br>
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?<br>
Not for that moment, however short.<br>
Not for that moment.<br></p>
<blockquote>
Wonder ’tis how little mirth<br>
Keeps the bones of men from lying<br>
On the bed of earth.
<p align="right">— A.E. Housman, <i>A Shropshire
Lad</i></blockquote>
<small>Crosspost: Scraps and Harbour in the Scramble</small>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1093671979374815372004-08-28T01:46:00.000-04:002004-08-28T01:46:19.373-04:00Project English Language (on Leet)<h3>Project English Language</h3>
<h4><i>on (LEET, L337, 1337) and its followers</i></h4>
<TABLE BORDER="2" CELLSPACING="0" CELLPADDING="0" align="center"><TR
ALIGN="center" VALIGN="top"><TD><a
href="http://homepage.mac.com/dataguy42/pel/"
target="new"><IMG
SRC="http://homepage.mac.com/dataguy42/pel/thisweek.jpg"
border="1"></a></TD></TR></TABLE>
<p> 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). <em>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.</em></p>
<blockquote><SMALL>fren(s) lol ttfn rotfl nvm omg jk imho brb ttyl lmao
lmfao atm g2g stfu wtf w/e  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</SMALL></blockquote>
<p> 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. <i>Shmuts</i> and
<i>shmattes</i><a href="http://www.pass.to/glossary/gloz3.htm#lets"
target="new">*</a>. 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.<br>
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.<br>
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:<br>
<blockquote>
A wee little worm in a hickory-nut<br>
Sang out, as happy as he could be,<br>
“Oh, I live in the heart of the whole, round world,<br>
“And it all belongs to me!”</blockquote>
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.
<I>Project English Language</I> 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!</p>
<p> <b>Oh, and if you use so much as a single word</b>
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.<p>
<small>Crosspost: Scraps and Harbour in the Scramble</small>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1093374388723064502004-08-24T15:06:00.000-04:002004-08-24T15:06:28.723-04:00An “Edumacation” Devoutly to Be Wished<p> <b>Now, I can’t say</b> 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.)</p>
<blockquote>
Mothers let their wild little beasts roam free like giraffes on the
Serengeti. <b>They apparently believe that to control them will somehow
stunt the growth of their self-esteem.</b> 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.
<b>Conclusion:</b> Parents today are . . . wimps that
want to be “pals” with their kids instead of
parents.</blockquote>
<p> <b>An “edumacation” devoutly to be
wished, in the case of many wild little beasts, no?</b> “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.<br>
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.”
(<a
href="http://www.nogreaterjoy.org/"
target="new">No Greater Joy</a>, <a
href="http://www.nogreaterjoy.org/index.php?id=27"
target="new">Jul/Aug 2004</a>, pg. 20)<br>
<b>It’s certainly not for no reason the Bible
says,</b> “He that spareth the rod hateth his son: but he that
loveth him chasteneth him betimes.” (<a
href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Proverbs/13.html#24"
target="new">Proverbs 13:25</a>)</p>
<small>Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, Academic
Musings</small>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1093156134877080012004-08-22T02:28:00.000-04:002004-08-22T02:28:54.876-04:00The Y1K Bug, Canterbury, England, A.D. 999.<p> 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.</p>
<p><small>By <a
href="http://www.ashleighbrilliant.com/writings.html#Y1K%20CrisisS"
target="new">Ashleigh Brilliant</a></p>
<blockquote>
<b>Canterbury, England. A.D. 999</b>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“We should have seen it coming,” says Brother Cedric of
St. Michael’s Abbey, here in Canterbury. “What worries me
most is that ‘<i>thousand</i>’ contains the word
‘<i>Thou</i>,’ 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 ‘<i>thousand</i>’ is
‘<i>mille</i>’ — which is the same as the Latin for
‘<i>mile</i>’. We won’t know whether we’re
talking about time or distance!”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
</blockquote>Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1092991490412917852004-08-20T04:44:00.000-04:002004-08-20T04:51:45.306-04:00Honour, Honesty, and One of Those Silly Web Quizzes 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!)<p>
<div align="center"><img
src="http://images.quizilla.com/A/acteo/1053568720_CL33tquizpicsfencer.jpg" border="0" alt="You Are a
Fencer"><br>You are a fencer.
You fight honerably. You try not to kill your<br>opponents, but only
disarm them, to force them<br>to surrender. In a duel you will go
all<br>out and kill your oponent. You use a rapier.
<br><br><a
href="http://quizilla.com/users/acteo/quizzes/What%20type%20of%20Swordsman%20are%20you%3F/"> <font size="-3">What
type of Swordsman are you?</font></a><br></div>
<b>My answers</b> 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?<p><br>
<b>When you find a women in distress, what do you do?</b> <i>Hide in
the shadows until the time is right.</i><br>
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.<p>
<b>When your oponent drops their weapon, what do you do?</b> <i>Put my
sword to his throat, and ask if he surrenders.</i><br>
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.<p>
<b>When you finally confront your true enemy, what do you do?</b>
<i>Stare him in the eye, draw my sword, and vow that I will kill
him.</i><br>
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.<p>
<b>When you defeat your enemy, he is on his knees, begging to be
spared. What do you do?</b> <i>Say to him "We agreed to a duel. I shall
not go aganst my word," and slit his throat.</i><br>
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.<p>
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.Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1092437527843619692004-08-13T18:52:00.000-04:002004-08-13T18:52:07.843-04:00Movie: Oceans 11 From <a
href="http://www.paracletesystems.com/atlo/2004/08/shutterbug.html"
target="new" title="A Time Less Objective: Shutterbug">a time less
objective</a> (Jason).<p>
<blockquote>Later that day I went to Sara’s house to watch
<i>Ocean’s 11</i> 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.</blockquote>
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.<br>
The fact, then, that <i>Ocean’s 11</i> 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.<br>
<i>Ocean’s 11</i>, 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 <a
href="http://www.cforc.com/kjv/Galatians/6.html#7"
target="new" title="Be not decieved . . .">Law of Sowing and
Reaping</a>).<p>
<small>Crosspost: Scraps, Academic Musings, Harbour in the Scramble,
and Ergle Street</small>
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1092434489937808212004-08-13T18:01:00.000-04:002004-08-13T18:01:58.370-04:00The Gashlycrumb Tinies, by Edward Gorey<h2><i>The Gashlycrumb Tinies</i></h2>
<h3>or, After the Outing<br>
by Edward Gorey</h3>
<b><i>An Appalling Alphabet Which Introduces A Gallery Of Enchanting
Tots And Produces A Gasp Of Involuntary Mirth When They Attain Their
Dreadful Demise</i></b><p>
A is for Amy who fell down the stairs,<br>B is for Basil assaulted by
bears.<br>
C is for Clara who wasted away,<br>D is for Desmond thrown out of the
sleigh.<br>
E is for Ernest who choked on a peach,<br>F is for Fanny, sucked dry by
a leech.<br>
G is for George, smothered under a rug,<br>H is for Hector, done in by
a thug.<br>
I is for Ida who drowned in the lake,<br>J is for James who took lye,
by mistake.<br>
K is for Kate who was struck with an axe,<br>L is for Leo who swallowed
some tacks.<br>
M is for Maud who was swept out to sea,<br>N is for Nevil who died of
enui.<br>
O is for Olive, run through with an awl,<br>P is for Prue, trampled
flat in a brawl.<br>
Q is for Quinton who sank in a mire,<br>R is for Rhoda, consumed by a
fire.<br>
S is for Susan who perished of fits,<br>T is for Titas who flew into
bits.<br>
U is for Una who slipped down a drain,<br>V is for Victor, squashed
under a train.<br>
W is for Winie, embedded in ice,<br>X is for Xerxes, devoured by
mice.<br>
Y is for Yoric whose head was bashed in,<br>Z is for Zilla who drank
too much gin.<p>
<small>(The which is really much better with <a
href="http://www.phobos-deimos.com/Edward_Gorey/Gashlycrumb_Tinies/Pages/gashlycrumb_tinies%201.htm" target="new" title="The Gashlycrumb
Tinies">pictures</a>. Also, see Susan Barnes’s wonderful new <a
href="http://www.mercuryhouse.org/SisforSusan.html" target="new"
title="S is for Susan">Tinies</a>.)</small><p>
I don’t imagine it is possible to make better
children’s poetry and illustrations than did our illustrious
friend <a href="http://www.fearofdolls.com/gorey.html" target="new"
title="Edward Gorey Bibliography">Mr. Gorey</a>.Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737424.post-1092431448248363302004-08-13T17:10:00.000-04:002004-08-13T17:10:48.246-04:00Music: I Am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger (MP3)<div class="audblog"><a
href="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/30156/85545.mp3"
class="audLink"><img
src="http://www.audioblogger.com/media/images/audioblogger.gif"
class="audImg"border="0" alt="MP3 file of me singing the first verse
and refrain of I am a poor wayfaring stranger" /></a></div>
<p>
I am a poor wayfaring stranger,<br>
While traveling through this world of woe.<br>
Yet there’s no sickness, toil nor danger<br>
In that bright world to which I go.<br>
I’m going there to see my Father;<br>
I’m going there no more to roam.<p>
Refrain<p>
I’m only going over Jordan,<br>
I’m only going over home.<p>
I know dark clouds will gather round me;<br>
I know my way is rough and steep.<br>
But golden fields lie out before me<br>
Where God’s redeemed shall ever sleep.<br>
I’m going there to see my mother,<br>
She said she’d meet me when I come.<p>
Refrain<p>
I’ll soon be free from every trial,<br>
My body sleep in the churchyard;<br>
I’ll drop the cross of self denial<br>
And enter on my great reward.<br>
I’m going there to see my Savior,<br>
To sing His praise forevermore.<p>
Refrain<p>
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.
Sehrguthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14564006411768194836noreply@blogger.com0