Shakespeare quotes

"Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,

And banish hence these abject lowly dreams"

--Taming of the Shrew Induction II.13

"The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye." -- Richard II II.ii

"Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily."--Henry IV part 1  IV.i

"Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust." -- Cymbeline 

the worship of revenge

"Til I have set a glory to this hand

By giving it the worship of revenge"

King John IV.iii

chess axioms

remember "CCT" 

...checks, 

...captures, and 

...threats

1. to take is a mistake

2. neutralize invading pieces

3. can I counterattack

If you are behind in material, trade pawns, not pieces. If you are ahead in material, trade pieces, not pawns.

when attacked on the wing, open the center. 

a flank attack is best met by a reaction in the center. 

"Chess, like love and music, has the ability to make man happy." -- Tarrasch

the longer it takes to win, the more difficult it is to win.

"As a rule, you should try to occupy a blockading square with a piece." - Karpov

if the tactics aren't working out, switch the move order. 

For a plan: ask yourself what you would do if you had two or three moves in a row.

Make your opponent make the captures in your favor.

Throw out the move, but not the idea.

Patzer sees a check, patzer plays a check.

When behind in space, trade pieces.

If your opponent's pieces are working better than your own, trade them off.

Fixed or blockaded pawns become stationary targets.

"...a winning position can and has to be improved and perfected before material is won and it becomes a technical win." --Seirawan

Try to create play on the side of the board on which you have the advantage.

When faced with a choice of protecting a passed pawn by a rook (passive role) or sacrificing the pawn to make more active use of the rook, after careful consideration, sac the pawn.

The rook belongs behind the passed pawn, yours or the opponent's. --Tarrasch

In isolated pawn positions, trading pieces benefits the player who is facing the isolated pawn.

The player who has more space tries to keep pieces on the board.

Open positions favor the player who is better developed.

Invite all your pieces to the party!

Don't open fresh lines to a better-developed opponent. 

"It's important to continue playing accurately." -Daniel Naroditsky

Don't make unnecessary pawn moves in the endgame.

Should I participate in social media?

Should I participate in social media? Should I engage with it, spend my time on it, pay attention to it? What is it? The gibbering of millions of [REDACTED__1123ho], extorting me with their dumb ideas. Now I am one of these [REDACTED__ax58433] as well, begging for attention, spewing forth nonsense, unwelcome and unasked, unto an apathetic non-audience of imaginary people. Yet here I am, and here it is, a collection of half-wit words, tapped carefully on a keyboard, a non-message, a scream into the void. [REDACTED__55321x3] Should I participate in social media?

Of course. And here I am. This thing unposted will be cut. It will then be pasted! To multiple platforms! A platform, like the trapeze platform. I am ready to do my tricks. Now can I say something outlandish? Something controversial and new? Of course not. For if an infinity of monkeys on an infinity of typewriters can accidentally reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare word-for-word, then with the Internet, everything has been said, whether it should have been said or no.

These are the words that I have typed. If you are reading this, I have participated in social media. Should I participate in social media? 

This was a writing exercise. Should I participate in social media?

Shakes gonna Shake

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds

That sees into the bottom of my grief?

Juliet, R_and_J III.v

In Hamlet, Shakespeare accidentally described the Internet

 In Hamlet, Act 4 Scene 5, a GENTLEMAN describes Ophelia’s madness to the Queen. 

One might also imagine he describes the Internet: 

 "... speaks things in doubt,

That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,

Yet the unshaped use of it doth move

The hearers to collection; they aim at it,

And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;

Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures

yield them,

Indeed would make one think there might be thought,

Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily."

Remember, You Leave a Mark on The World

 “What are the marks on the back of this pot?”  The old man complained in his kitchen.
Then his eyes welled up, and he sat down.
“These are the marks that the children made,
Banging their pots to ring in the year.”

I just realized...

I just realized that the best weather of the year is during the week before my birthday.

The curse of the Internet

The curse of the Internet is that before the Internet, lunatics talked to themselves. Now they talk to each other.

question and answer #1

Q: Why did you get into that cheese?

A: Because I felt it was necessary. 

poemling five

We persist through time, 

But just a little while.

We take up just 

A little bit of space.

We last about

Thirty-Seven

Thousand days.

Or less.

Then poof! 

No more!

Behold,

Our troubles 

Are no more.

poemling four

Darkness, ours, is not our own

Nor are the hours of the day.

The eye and mind give no respite

To ills throughout this Worldly World.

And all the teeth are meekly gnashed,

And all the mundane tortures spread around.

The day endured in ordinary ways,

Ignoring everyone with all our might.

A world on fire, full of upright chimps,

So vain to think that they can truly think.

Featherless bipeds sulking in their cars,

Imagine future days that cannot be.

poemling three

When you became Elizabeth,
And walked along the borders of the world,
We all would genuflect and bow
And say a prayer as you passed by.

And all your tragic triumphs we would
Whisper tales around our nightly fires.
You alone, Eliza, fought the giants,
You broke the backs of tyrants,
Clawed the Cyclops eye,
Drowned the hateful witches
In the sea.

The grimness of your everlasting violence.
Your everlasting violence.

When you returned we had no way to thank you. You towered high above us, so high your stately visage was obscured by winter clouds. And we could only love you from a distance, and you could only see us for from above.

poemling two

How good it is to have a bed,

To have a pillow for my head,

A roof above, a floor below,

To have to a job where I can go.

day 20,027

work, mowed lawn, cat food, flowers.

Day #20026

 cleared out the corner dead tree in joanne's yard. met matt, ran up to northview, five mile, plainfield, northview, and back. i weight one-hundred-ninety pounds. finished first edit of "swatch," chilled at the house after returning from flint. went to meijer with deb. saturday we did huff park and went to flint. neck doesn't hurt too bad. shoulder has been bugging me. 

writing exercise about stan the elf, unedited

 brutus, my cat, is looking out the slider window at the night backyard. the night backyard is a magical place. i assume it is. i am inside now, so how can i be sure? I cannot be sure that the nighttime backyard is a magical place. i almost hope not, because then i would be missing out on wonderful and whimsical backyard magic. elves and fairies and whatnot, lurking around cutely under bushes and toadstools. there were no toadstools back there earlier, but i have no proof that there are none there now. if there are elves and fairies in the backyard, would one of them be a malcontent? would it be sullen and contrary? would his name be stan, stan the elf, and would he refuse to partake in the elvish highjinx they get up to back there? running around and laughing and doing whatever elves do in their spare time, which i can only assume is all the time, because they probably do not have jobs in the conventional  sense. would stan be bored with the entire thing, and decide to leave the backyard? would elves remain in one backyard only? wouldn’t they just wander around, ignoring property lines altogether? and would they only frolic in suburban yards? would they go downtown, under cars in parking garages? to street festivals, dodging human feet as the humans with wristbands wander to and fro between the port-a-johns and the beer garden? stan would be there, wondering what it is all about. under a wheeled dumpster, listening to two cops discuss overtime, or their domestic situations, or politics. the people getting louder and louder under the influence of their beers, and stan would wonder what it is all about. he would find a side-street, and overhear a couple arguing about a third person. one of them is jealous, and stan feels lonely. none of the other elves are interesting to talk to. they just giggle and laugh and frolic around. mindless idiots. elves are, if compared to humans, always naturally high. they have no needs or wants to speak of. they are like animals, really, not thinking, only casting tiny spells on humans, and playing tricks, and mostly frolicking at night and having loads of sex. they are all in great shape, disease free, eternally young, usually naked, and randy for all eternity. but not stan. poor stan. he just doesn’t get it. he will wear pants, thank you very much. he thinks too much. even through the naturally high haze of his tiny elf mind, he can tell that this all does not add up. he flicks his wings sullenly and flies up into a tree. and i suppose it is here that i should introduce a second character. 

poemling one

i see a thousand spaceships crawl across the evening sky
but none of them are interested and they keep passing by

i see a million zombies with their smartphones lumber by
but none of them are interested and they keep passing by

method thirteen

the utilization of method thirteen cannot be comprehended by the mind of modern man.

"no one," says this person.

  i suppose i could begin some story, but my stories are crap, but if you must have a character, we will have this person do things. this person will say things as well. this genderless, completely unidentifiable person will come alive, and you will help me, gentle reader, bring this person to life. because this person has feelings. this person was brought up in a certain way, and this person believes certain things because of and in spite of this upbringing. this person is, of course, frustrated with life. how can this person be otherwise? look at the world. you have seen it, dearest and most cherished reader. you have seen it. the world. this person finds this person stuck on this world. a planet, to be sure, with gravity, filled with other people. who said "hell is other people?" wonders this person. i know what you are thinking, dearest reader. "i could be that person!" you think, reading on. or the author could be this person. but no, you and i are not that person. we are simply the writer and the reader. no. this person is real, and we will make this person real now.  think about this person. crystallize this person in your mind. make this person solid and real. eyes like that. hair just that way. a certain walk. a way of hold the head. there. now this person is real. now this person must do something. doing is more exciting than not doing. and it is excitement we want. we shall have it, my most loyal and trustworthy reader. we will do this together. it is incredibly important for this person to do something. this person does not exist in a vacuum. this person has a friend. this person and friend will have conversations. but they cannot hang in space having a dialog with no setting. they must be in a place, so we will make them a place. this place has a certain amount of trees and foliage; it is a very green place. you may put a fountain in it if you like, or not. perhaps there is a commercial or retail space a few streets down. but they are walking in this green space, this person and the friend. they are walking near the fountain. a car goes by, and finally the friend says, and this is the first dialog, so pay attention: "should i say something profound?" the friend says. "go ahead," this person said. "say something profound." they walk along for awhile, and the friend says, "i think it has all been said." this person says, "that is profound, it it's own way." i think i should explain here that my characters will be speaking in contractions, although i do not like to use them in my prose. this is a writing tradition to which i have kept true for over an entire page. sorry to interrupt. a car goes by. this person waves, because this person knows the person driving the car. "who was that?" the friend asks. "no one," says this person.

Let’s trouble gods and / Keep them in their places

Let’s trouble gods and
Keep them in their places—
Let’s ask them for
Uncomplicated things—

Let’s bother them with prayers
Unnecessary—
Let’s all distract them
With our tiny needs—

There are so many of them
In the heavens—
And twice as many
Dwell beneath our feet—

They sit there in the everlasting
Boredom—
They suffer in the everlasting
Heat —

I pity them in their
Eternal Sunshine—
I weep for them in their
Eternal Flame—

Let’s ask them for
An awkward-worded favor—
Let’s genuflect and kneel
and bow our heads—

For they ignore us
While we go on living—
And punish us as soon as
We are dead— 

tail-end dream fragment

 woke up, and this went through my head:

"All beliefs must be believed /

Or else the world has been deceived."

Most Ironic Advertising I've Seen in Awhile

 So we were watching a murder show, and there is an actual commercial for Life Insurance, and in the commercial, the wife is talking the husband into buying life insurance. And the plot of the murder show we are watching pretty much matches that setup exactly.

the portfolio of time

"...peering with steady blue eyes into the portfolio of time."

Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer

Tropic of Cancer -- Henry Miller quote

 "Lawyer, priest, doctor, politician, newspaperman—these are the quacks who have their fingers on the pulse of the world. A constant atmosphere of calamity. It's marvelous. It's as if the barometer never changed, as if the flag were always at half-mast. One can see now how the idea of heaven takes hold of men's consciousness, how it gains ground even when all the props have been knocked from under it. There must be another world beside this swamp in which everything is dumped pell-mell. It's hard to imagine what it can be like, this heaven that men dream about. A frog's heaven, no doubt. Miasma, scum, pond lilies, stagnant water. Sit on a lily pad unmolested and croak all day. Something like that, I can imagine." 

Tropic of Cancer — Henry Miller

Some Emily Dickinson on Black Friday.

 They say it's called "Black Friday" because it's the time when retailers finally go "in the black" and turn a profit. 

But it can also be, under the right circumstances, even blacker, and darker. Suppose it is overcast, and you have nothing to do on Black Friday. You're not at work, and although you imagine you can fill a spare day with productive or entertaining activity, you mostly sit around in your pajamas, unwashed, looking at the Internet. 

It isn't so much depressing, but melancholy. But can we make Black Friday even blacker? We can! How? Bring forth 

Emily Dickinson! (1830-1886)

Emily Dickinson was a shut-in who didn't give a rip about punctuation, titles, or anything else. Her poetry came from the Blackest of Fridays, an infinity-long afternoon of gloomy brooding unmatched in literature. Dickinson stared into the void and brought back reports such as this:

A Death blow is a Life blow to Some

Who, till they died, did not alive become;

Who, had they lived, had died but when

They died, Vitality begun.

Sip some chamomile tea and dwell on that for a minute. 

Oh, is it still just around two in the afternoon and this day is dragging on forever? 

I’m nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody too?

Then there’s a pair of us! – don’t tell!

They’d banish us, you know!

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring Bog!

Hm... still just a bleary overcast afternoon. Here's one more to make this Friday the Blackest Friday ever!

To help our bleaker parts

Salubrious hours are given,

Which if they do not fit for earth

Drill silently for heaven. 

"Salubrious!" What does that even mean? (it means "healthy")

And I give you this:

Did Emily Dickinson 

Smoke the Weed?

Did Emily Dickinson 

Do the Deed?

Did Emily Dickinson 

Travel Far

To spaced-out dimensions 

Beyond the Stars?

Did Emily Dickinson 

Trans-mutate?

Did Emily Dickinson 

Levitate?

Was Emily Dickinson a super-dimensional alien from a realm beyond our comprehension? We shall never know. But Google her image on the Inter-webs and decide for yourself. 

The Dubsar and The Astronaut

They do their work on the Galilean moons of Jupiter, millions of men and women, ancient beyond imagination, chiseling, one letter at a time, the entire history of mankind, on great slabs—not indigenous, of course—of purest marble. Chisels and mallets in chapped hands. Tap tap tap. The vast face of Jupiter looms overhead, shining glorious on the scribes, lined up before their pedestals.  No spacesuits. No held breath, no discomfort, just ageless fatigue. These are not lives, but afterlives. Not too old, not too young. Just that middling age that makes one almost invisible. Gray, but not completely gray.  Taught skin over lean muscle and tendon. Things happen on earth, these men and women, chosen by mysterious gods for mysterious reasons, sit for ages, chiseling the past into stone. The rise and fall of empires are recorded. The stubbing of a toe, probably not, but the loss of some minor local, obscure election, with enough pathos? This is recorded. The death of kings? Of course. Lost car keys? Not so much. 

Naram, once a dubsar in Mesopotamia, had served Sumerian kings, then Akkadian kings. He had lived what he thought was a chaste and sinless life, but here he sits on a little wooden stool, in this unexpected afterlife, on the surface of Europa tapping out the vagaries of human history, one letter at a time. For awhile it was cuneiform, but as the centuries passed he had written in every conceivable language.  The context of the events as they unfolded, the comprehension of each language, and the details of events small or of great consequence, formed in his mind as easily and simply as a dream.  He wondered sometimes if he were recording events, or making events. He knew it was the former, but he liked to imagine the latter. 

Lately, he'd been writing in Hindi, about the landing of space vehicles on his very moon. Naram found this very exciting. These Indian travelers had done several exploratory expeditions, and one traveler, one single astronaut, was approaching his valley. He watched this history unfold, on his marble stone, as he chiseled it there. 

Naram was finishing a sentence. He knew, without turning from his work, that a visitor was walking down his very row of stone slabs. Without looking up from his work, he raised his hand and beckoned over his shoulder for that visitor to approach. He didn't need to look. He knew all the details from that which he had written. He had just finished the Hindi word for "suit" when, as he expected, a shadow, the first shadow of movement he had seen for thousands of years, passed over his shoulder.  He turned to look. 

The shining sphere, a face-shield, black and gleaming, the black and white suit, not too cumbersome, but solidly built, silhouetted by Jupiter's vast glory, stood facing him, beholding the body of his endless work.

Astronaut Jenean Nayak, jaded, tired, not sure if she were hallucinating, squinted behind her face shield. Her breath went in and out. These people can't be here, she thought. I'm suffering neurologic compromise. This cannot be.  Already nervous, she had broken at least a dozen protocols coming out here on her own, so far beyond the perimeter.  She thought of the reprimand she'd get if she were discovered.  No one would believe this, even if she confessed to ignoring procedure. 

Naram knew not only that this masked figure was a woman, but that she was from the wealthy suburb Gulshan, she had married and divorced, drank on occasion, and was either about to live or die, depending on how fast she read what he, Naram, had just written in the stone. She was a figure of some note, for he had written her entire lifetime, on and off; her placement in school, her stellar academic achievements, and her career at IIST. 

Now this. The outcome of her story rested on her ability to comprehend what she read, and her ability to act quickly. 

"This is about me," she thought as she read. Her early advancement through St. George's in Hyderabad. Her divorce. The mission to Jupiter. 

She read:

She cast out on her own, ill-advised . . .

"This just happened."  How did this old man know? She looked at the man, thin, horribly thin, large dark eyes watching her expectantly, hammer and chisel held in slack hands between his knees. She had no way to communicate with him. How was he, or any of these people alive with no life-support? 

She continued to read. She felt so fatigued. 

#

Naram watched the astronaut crouch ever so slightly, obviously reading. "Get to the end," he thought. He watched her bend lower, reading the very last thing he had written. The movement. The flinch of recognition. He smiled and pointed back the way she had come. The figure bolted at once.

He would almost have found it comical, watching her try to sprint in her spacesuit, but too much was at stake. He watched her run as best she could. The large boots tramping, dust flying. 

He turned back to his work and read the last sentence. 

There was a tiny tear in her suit. Her air leaked out slowly, and her LS monitor, malfunctioning, did not alert her to the danger.

Now he waited. Not long. It would come to him as in a dream. 

He added, with a tap tap tap:

She read her fate, and ran for her life.

Still he waited. He could not see the future, however close. Only the past. 

A small detail came to him.  Tap tap. 

She fell.

Still he waited. Naram had never been so anxious. He had seen this person, now he was writing her history. 

Finally, he added, tap tap tap:

With the help of two others, she was dragged into the airlock, and revived. 

walking barefoot November 8th in Michigan.

passenger side heat blender 2011 Impala

a walk in Rockford

drivers side heat blender 2011 impala

got a new job

 that was easy.

"life: to some it's a miracle, to others, a curse, to most, somewhere in between."

I quit.

 Quit my job. 

reading notes

From The Razor's Edge, by W. Somerset Maugham

Masterlink, Ruysbroek, 

Plotinus, Denis the Areopagite, Jacob Boehme, Meister Eckhart, "Eleven Thousand Virgins," Cologne

"The Alone to The Alone","Dark Night of The Soul", "The Ineffable", Brague (painter), Gaugin, Renoir, "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb", Rastignac, Andre Breton, Guillaume Apollinaire, "A play of Masterlinck's", "Paolo and Francesca", Berenice(play), Tacitus, Racine (poet? playwrite?), Houdon's Voltaire, Spinoza, Aeschylus, lumbago, Goethe, Schiller, Heine, Holderlin, Rilke, Rolla, Valasquez, El Greco, Veronal, "Seven veils of Ingorance", Spinoza, Valery (writer), Baudelaire, Rimibaud;

General:

thalassocracy, The Winged Victory of Samothrace, Pindar, Rabelaisian

"The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind."

Notes from The Secret History, by Donna Tartt

Things I jotted down while reading "The Secret History, by Donna Tartt, 1992

Benjamin Jowett 

Periclean Athens

Balliol Rymme

Doggerals

Clerihew

stereopticon

bilous

Hesiod's primordal chaos

Josephine Baker

Liddell and Scott

Kouroi

London, by Pennant

Byron's Marino Faliero

"A mock thalos, Doric by way of Pomeii"

Elizabeth and Leicester

Emma Bovary

Alexander Pope

Duc de Saint-Simon

piquet (card game)

Vanity Fair (book

"Twelve Great Cultures"

Constable (writer? book?)

John Donne

Izaak Walton

Rupert Brook (poet)

"The Gautama"

Brian Eno

the Pantheon

Hegel

The Sitwells

Pindar

"Borges, the writer"

Martin Bormann

Artaud

The Fleshtones

"Traumerei"

telestic madness

"Bakcheia"

"To escape cognative mode of expression"

chiton

Pythia

oreibasia

Khairei

Carracci

Pyrrhic

"epigram of Callimachus"

Ilion

Mrs. Gamp

hoi polloi

Pliny

Comun, Tifernum

Malacca Chair

bibelot

Arthur Rimbaud

The Greeks and the Irrational Dodos

Ray Milland The Lost Weekend

Howdah

Attic vases, Meissen Porcelain, Alma-Tadema, Frith 

Jean Cocteau

dado

"Philistine" in context of a modern person

exordium, Palinurus

Theophile Gautier

Vigny's Chatterton

Schliemanns, Ilios

excavation of Hissarlik

antelion

Morris Lee Harden

Anwar Sadat

Golda Meir

garrulous

ecumenical, bravura

A.E.Houseman (poet)

"With rue my love is laden 

Lycidas, gladiola

Morphia

Phaedo

Marcel Proust

George Sand

ebullient

Cortes, Gregory of Tours 

"Mycenaean inscriptions from Knossos"

Spleenwort

Davy Balfour from Kidnapped

P.G. Wodehouse

Pluto and Persephone

Harold Acton

"duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice"

Proust

"Jacobian dramatists:" Webster, Middleton, Tourngur and Ford

    The Malcontent, The White Devil, The Broken Heart

Christopher Marlowe,

        Raleigh and Nashe

"But ture, I cried too much /
the dawns are heartbreaking

Our Mutual Friend

"Dust thou art, to dust thou shalt return>"

Hagin Sophia

Orpheus

St. Basil's in Moscow

Chartres

Salisbury and Amiens

Weekend

 Brutus killed a vole

finally played 10,000 games

huff park. saw a deer up close. Went to see Alex's new place. 

deb paints kitchen

read a good portion of "The Secret History" 

9,999 Chess Games!

 

A Timeline of People and Things.

Ancient Greeks

Pericles                         495-429 BC

Existentialists

 Søren Kierkegaard     1813-1855

Friedrich Nietzsche     1844-1900

Jean-Paul Sartre     1905-1980

Poets

John Keats                        1798-1821

Alfred, Lord Tennyson     1809-1892

Authors

Jane Austen                 1775-1817

Virginia Woolf             1882-1941

Firewood weekend

 760 logs, 26 trips from the pile to the stack using my hand cart. Took about two hours to stack. 

Saugatuck: We did not get eaten by a bear.

Also, I pulled all the weeds in the driveway. 

 

i made another tiny zen garden.

 

I made a tiny zen garden.

I made a tiny zen garden. Also this weekend: cleaned sink trap, went to Horrock's and got pickled quail's eggs. Also, got a new pillow.  

weekend accomplished!

Painted the house, fixed the switch in the upstairs bathroom, and made a tiny fountain. Weekend accomplished!

The Best Two Paragraphs from The Island of Dr. Moreau (spoiler)

From the last chapter. The narrator has returned to London.

My trouble took the strangest form. I could not persuade myself that the men and women I met were not also another Beast People, animals half wrought into the outward image of human souls, and that they would presently begin to revert,—to show first this bestial mark and then that. But I have confided my case to a strangely able man,—a man who had known Moreau, and seemed half to credit my story; a mental specialist,—and he has helped me mightily, though I do not expect that the terror of that island will ever altogether leave me. At most times it lies far in the back of my mind, a mere distant cloud, a memory, and a faint distrust; but there are times when the little cloud spreads until it obscures the whole sky. Then I look about me at my fellow-men; and I go in fear. I see faces, keen and bright; others dull or dangerous; others, unsteady, insincere,—none that have the calm authority of a reasonable soul. I feel as though the animal was surging up through them; that presently the degradation of the Islanders will be played over again on a larger scale. I know this is an illusion; that these seeming men and women about me are indeed men and women,—men and women for ever, perfectly reasonable creatures, full of human desires and tender solicitude, emancipated from instinct and the slaves of no fantastic Law,—beings altogether different from the Beast Folk. Yet I shrink from them, from their curious glances, their inquiries and assistance, and long to be away from them and alone. For that reason I live near the broad free downland, and can escape thither when this shadow is over my soul; and very sweet is the empty downland then, under the wind-swept sky.

When I lived in London the horror was well-nigh insupportable. I could not get away from men: their voices came through windows; locked doors were flimsy safeguards. I would go out into the streets to fight with my delusion, and prowling women would mew after me; furtive, craving men glance jealously at me; weary, pale workers go coughing by me with tired eyes and eager paces, like wounded deer dripping blood; old people, bent and dull, pass murmuring to themselves; and, all unheeding, a ragged tail of gibing children. Then I would turn aside into some chapel,—and even there, such was my disturbance, it seemed that the preacher gibbered “Big Thinks,” even as the Ape-man had done; or into some library, and there the intent faces over the books seemed but patient creatures waiting for prey. Particularly nauseous were the blank, expressionless faces of people in trains and omnibuses; they seemed no more my fellow-creatures than dead bodies would be, so that I did not dare to travel unless I was assured of being alone. And even it seemed that I too was not a reasonable creature, but only an animal tormented with some strange disorder in its brain which sent it to wander alone, like a sheep stricken with gid.

OLIVE LOAF NONSENSE

I have learned of [maledicite oliva tortam,] the curse of the Olive Loaf, but only too late. My sleep at night is banished, and my waking sleep day everlasting. Woe is the day I chose Olive Loaf. What hubris was there, that I would choose this accursed deli-meat, challenging the gods that I too was worthy of such ambrosia. 

A malignant gloom lurks over all my proceedings. Dark figures peer at me at every corner. The commute is darker, the trucks and cars more threatening, swerving in my lane and riding my bumper, they are like an army of well-coordinated enemies, seeking my life by their bad driving. 

Or is it my imagination? Perhaps I am only sick in the mind, but are those little green worms wriggling about up there? Those olive loaf green circles, excreting paranoia into my brain noodles? What difference, fancy or reality? To me they are the same! O cursed deli-meat! I cast thee out!

Oh Olive Loaf! Why did I not shun thee as I have in the past. Oh deli-meats! Why didn’t I choose a less exotic foodstuff? My life is in the balance. I must return to the market and choose a less offensive meat-stuff to appease the gods! Woe! Woe is me!

all is right in the world again... TP

At the grocery store this morning -- we were out of cat food -- I went to get a few things. And of course, I had to check the toilet paper aisle, just in case they finally had TP. And they DID have TP. Lots of it.

I almost took out my phone to take a picture of it. To post it to Instagram, as if to say, "Look how much TP we have at our supermarket!" But I didn't. I just stood there as a feeling of relief and hope washed over me.

We don't even need toilet paper. We never ran out. We were well stocked. A few weeks ago, I caught a stocker putting out a box, and I got a huge package of Charmin, and we've been good since then.

So today, I thought, "Should I get a pack just in case?" and I didn't. There was no need.

So I left the store relieved. I mentioned it to the cashier on my way out. "You have so much toilet paper," and she told me they had hand sanitizer too. "Huge bottles," she said.  Indicating the size of the bottles with her blue-gloved hands, behind the Plexiglas shield.

"All is well in the world,"  I thought as I left the store, morning glowing over the smattering of parked cars.

weekend

Saw "Joker"

Ran 3 miles

Black Rock restaurant

Saw "Knives Out"

weekend

Started reading Other Voices Other Rooms by Truman Capote. Started reading Civil Disobedience by Thoreau. Finished "The IT Crowd"

Put up towel racks. 

Started <The Casual Guild>

Started the Timon of Athens app.

Yield not...

"Yield not thy neck to Fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind still ride in triumph over all mischance." -- Henry VI, Part III, 3.3

this weekend's chess

(+9=0-4) put up Christmas tree.

quote

"Even the gods cannot strive against necessity." -- Diogenes Laertius

FIRECRACKERS

FIRECRACKERS

1 lb unsalted saltine crackers (4 sleeves)
1 cup canola oil
1 (1 ounce) packet ranch dressing mix
2 tablespoons crushed red pepper flakes
1⁄2 teaspoon garlic powder

Line crackers on ends (like dominoes) in an air-tight container.
In a small bowl, mix oil, dressing mix, peppers, and garlic powder.
Stir until all ingredients are well mixed.
Continue to stir to prevent the pepper from settling on the bottom of the bowl.
Spoon mixture evenly over crackers, like drizzling icing on a cake.
Close lid tightly and flip the container over every 5 minutes for about 20 minutes. Lightly shake back and forth to make sure all the crackers are coated.
Store in a ziplock bag. Will keep for about a week.

5 DAY WEEKEND!

5 DAY WEEKEND!

Working on Romeo and Juliet. Find other plays by searching "The Tiny Stage Shakespeare Company", on Google Play (and start scrolling!). Find them there or find links at www.danmanning.com. 

don't lose your bearings.

Don't lose your bearings.

bookmark on your head!

"There was a bookmark on your head!"

this weekend's chess

I played 21 games: (+11=0-10)  https://lichess.org/@/danmanning

sunday: what happened

raked leaves.
did some programming, working on Romeo and Juliet for The Tiny Stage Shakespeare Company.
played some chess.
played some world of warcraft.

Books I Might Read

Some books I might read, as opposed to 

some books I have read

The Castle of Crossed Destinies

Beowulf Michael Alexander version (prose) Seamus Heaney (verse)

Shahnameh: The Persian Book of Kings, Ferdowsi

Storm of Steel, Junger

Heraclitus

Discourses, The Social Contract, Confessions, Rousseau

The Private Memoirs...James Hogg

Ghost Stories, Uncle Silas, Sheridan Le Fanu

Collected Ghost Stories, M.R. James

Satyricon, Petronius

The Anatomy of Melancholy, Burton

The Golden Bough, Frazer

The House of Mirth Edith Wharton

Castle of Otranto by Walpole

White Wine Wednesday + Lightning Storm

It's Wednesday, Deb's off work, and it's payday.

Strong lightning storm, tornado sirens, the works.

Four Black Crows

There were four huge black crows in the backyard when I got home from work today. Omens and Portents.

Also, I'm reading Tartuffe, or The Impostor, or The Hypocrite , by Molière .

Also, also, I' m almost finished with The Taming of The Shrew, writing the app for the Tiny Stage Shakespeare Company.  If you've got an android phone, check it out. 

Motor Scooter on fire.

Firemen hosing down a motor scooter. I'm trying to sleep damnit.

Two cats.

Got two cats yesterday. Brutus and Gus.

Let Them Loiter on The Screen Awhile

A chasm has yawned between myself and my writing. I find it difficult to write as I used; it seems an idle pastime of my recent slightly less-old days. My conceit that no one would ever read my words, as if that matters, seems, irrationally, to matter. No one will read my books, it seems. I have no head for self-promotions. The uncounted keyboards of the world, matched with minds yearning to express that inner-world of subjective thought has flooded the Internet with garbage words, these included. These words, spewing forth from my brain like an overflowing sewer, typed off-hand on some Sunday morning, unsolicited by an uninterested world, flow nonetheless. Not edited, no reverse, just typing forth rubbish into the Internet. Howling into the void, an aging man types on the Chromebook of his dead father. Yet here I sit, starting another sentence that might lead anywhere, as this stream-of-consciousness thing, this aging brain attempting to convey its subjective existence, unable to wrestle down its own thoughts, cannot fathom that there is no reason to continue. The sun shines on half the backyard, shade and bright green grass share a plot of land behind the house I pay the bank to let me use. There is a great tree back there, which for a long time I mistook for a Honey Locust, and maybe it is some species of that line, but it is large, and it is there every day, immobile, but more importantly, unthinking, unworried about the purpose of life or the cost of the mortgage. It will be there, if left unmolested, for years to come, yet I will, restless and malcontent, move about in various circles, getting, spending, worrying and finding distraction, all the while approaching a certain and immobile grave. Then I will be as content as the tree in my backyard, immobile, unthinking, unworried about "the purpose of life or the cost of the mortgage." So. A chasm has yawned between myself and my writing. But maybe not. Because here is a cluster of words, more stuffing for the great Internet, read yet unread, loitering on a screen.

two midnight trifles harvested from dreams.

i.

A titan of such savage grace,
That all who see him genuflect in awe
Or stand aloof,
It matters none to him.
For such is his security
That opinions pass unnoticed,
Like shadows scattered
In the wind.

ii.

Long the sweet sweet
Slumber of the night.
Low murmurs crowd
The echoed canyons
Of the mind.
Crisp sheets and
Darkness sanctify
Death's twin . . .
And morning,
Tardy with indifference,
Charms the starry welkin
With a sigh.

Saturday post

Watched regatta. Read Shakespeare in 1599. Girls went to see Lion King. Played chess. Watched Sinquefield Cup.

R.I.P Lilly

Our cat, Lilly, died.

Saturday Post

Ran three miles. Company is moving this month, very odd this week. Started working on 'THE TAMING OF THE SHREW' as part of my collection of Shakespeare plays.  I am the director of The Tiny Stage Shakespeare Company.  

Friday. It isn't raining. For once.

Worked on an app I'm developing. Shakespeare-adjacent stuff.

Mowed lawn.

Going to buy paint.  Silver Leaf 4006-1A and Roadster Blue 4006-6B

It's finally nice out.

back to writing

After a few changes of workplace, a hiatus, and a chess-distraction, I'm back to writing. Bing-watched Game of Thrones with Deb. After watching the series, I got depressed, and wondered to myself, "Why am I not writing? I should be writing."

So now I'm working on something again, and reading all the Hugo-award winning books I can get my hands on, for inspiration.

It feels good to be writing again. I'm creating something. Not much at first, but every paragraph counts.

Junk-mail Credit card offers are nothing new

"and there were several very courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest."

From The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde, first published in 1890.

Cold today

Made fire. Bought steak. Programmed. Played chess. Shaved.

A Post on Friday

Replaced license plate. Planted books. Chess at Common Ground. Ran. Read Shakespeare and Programming book. Moderate whisky.

Four Minutes.

It took four minutes to watch an inch of incense burn.  Later, I ate oysters and saltines on the patio.

My feet are cold.

I'm wearing two pairs of socks, but my feet are still cold. Doing chess puzzles and drinking coffee.

A good time had by all.

Winter lingers...just cold enough to stay indoors. Visited old friends yesterday. A great March Madness gathering, our generous host made food and drink abundant, there were games and conversation, and a good time had by all.

A Post on Friday.

Got a crown put in today. They didn't have laughing gas, but I went through with it anyway. My dentist is good about no pain, but I am a fan of the laughing gas. All went well.

Installing Python 3.7.2

Rain. 37 degrees. 

"dice, Venus, and the tavern!"

'"Poor purse ... How cruelly thou hast been gutted by dice, Venus, and the tavern!"'

-- The Hunchback of Notre Dame book VI chapter IV

Android Down, serialized, Chapter 7

Android Down, serialized, Chapter 7 http://www.danmanning.com/androidWeb/chapter7.asp

Android Down, serialized, Chapter Five

Android Down, serialized, Chapter Five

http://www.danmanning.com/androidWeb/chapter5.asp

wrong number

Went to microwave a cup of coffee: punched in the last four of my SSN.

Read more poetry

Emily Dickinson or GTFO.

Reading

Reading Why Buddhism is True, by Robin Wright

2018 in Review

This year that thing happened and we were all like, NO WAY! And some people wore suits or pant-suits and spoke into microphones. Then some political stuff happened, and we were like, NO WAY! ARGUE ARGUE ARGUE! But then something new happened, probably on television or in the news.

Some good TV series ended or began, and some people were like, THIS IS SO AWESOME, and others were like, "Meh."

There were some award shows, where men wore tuxedos and women showed off their fancy dresses, and everyone was like, "She looked this way or that!"

Then some science stuff happened, and robots. Just last year, we were all thinking, I can't believe 2016 is already over with, there was so much bullshit. What bullshit is going to happen next? And bullshit DID happen. This year we are all thinking, I can't believe 2017 is over with, there was so much bullshit, What bullshit is going to happen next?

Sports and award shows, and weather happened. There were some emergencies. Some people got all shot up and we were all sad for a few days, but then sports happened.

And economy. Gas prices were one price, and then another. There were jobs and stuff, or no jobs, and men in ties stood at microphones and said some stuff.

So anyway. Freedom 2018.

Puzzle

http://lichess.org/training/69448

description of "Resting Bitch Face" found in classic literature

Here is Nathaniel Hawthorne, in the mid 1850s, describing Resting Bitch Face (alternatively known as Bitchy Resting Face) in his book, The House of the Seven Gables

"Face to face with this picture, on entering the apartment, Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon came to a pause;regarding it with a singular scowl, a strange contortion of the brow, which, by people who did not know her, would probably have been interpreted as an expression of bitter anger and ill-will.  But it was no such thing.  She, in fact, felt a reverence for the pictured visage, of which only a far-descended and time-stricken virgin could be susceptible; and this forbidding scowl was the innocent result of her near-sightedness, and an effort so to concentrate her powers of vision as to substitute a firm outline of the object instead of a vague one.

We must linger a moment on this unfortunate expression of poor Hepzibah's brow.  Her scowl,--as the world, or such part of it as sometimes caught a transitory glimpse of her at the window, wickedly persisted in calling it,--her scowl had done Miss Hepzibah a very ill office, in establishing her character as an ill-tempered old maid; nor does it appear improbable that, by often gazing at herself in a dim looking-glass, and perpetually encountering her own frown with its ghostly sphere, she had been led to interpret the expression almost as unjustly as the world did.  "How miserably cross I look!" she must often have whispered to herself; and ultimately have fancied herself so, by a sense of inevitable doom.  But her heart never frowned.  It was naturally tender, sensitive, and full of little tremors and palpitations; all of which weaknesses it retained, while her visage was growing so perversely stern, and even fierce."

Haiku171107

Thundering silence
The public restroom
Too quiet

Haiku 171104

"Clever as a gizzard"
The Scarecrow
Makes no sense

Haiku171103

Stairway to Heaven
At memorial service
Turn off your cell phones

Haiku171102

Anything is possible
Except folding clothes
While eating Cheetos

Haiku 171101

The panicked
Old woman
Sees a message
On her screen

Ars longa est

Ars longa est; vita brevis est." A Latin expression roughly meaning "art is long; life is short."

Dentist

Got my tooth fixed. My dentist is really good about making sure I don't feel a thing.

Raining today.

Yesterday a possum played possum.

2016 In Review

This year that thing happened and we were all like, NO WAY! And some people were naked too much, and others were wearing suits and they spoke into microphones. Then some political stuff happened, and we were like, NO WAY! ARGUE ARGUE ARGUE! But then something new happened, probably on television or in the news.

Some good TV series ended or began, and some people were like, THIS IS SO AWESOME, and others were like, "Meh."

There were some award shows, where men wore tuxedos and women showed off their boobies, and everyone was like, "She looked this way or that!"

Then some science stuff happened, and robots. Just last year, we were all thinking, I can't believe 2015 is already over with, there was so much bullshit. What bullshit is going to happen next? And bullshit DID happen. This year we are all thinking, I can't believe 2016 is over with, there was so much bullshit, What bullshit is going to happen next?

Sports and award shows, and weather happened. There were some emergencies. Some people got all shot up and we were all sad for a few days, but then sports happened.

And economy. Gas prices were one price, and then another. There were jobs and stuff, or no jobs, and men in ties stood at microphones and said some stuff.

So anyway. Freedom 2017.

ACTUAL-REALITY ORBS (A-RO)

Virtual Reality is all the rage, and will soon be everywhere. But I'd like to tell you about something even better.

Actual-Reality Orbs are biologic devices that use light waves to transmit signals DIRECTLY INTO THE BRAIN. Using light refraction technology, if you move your arm, you can actually SEE your arm move. (H.A.N.D.S.) can be used to pick up actual objects in the real world. Audio collectors are located on the sides of the cranium, to deliver High-Fidelity sound directly to the brain.

Physics and gravity aren't only simulated, but actuated by unseen forces that work automatically. Set an object down, it stays there! Momentum, velocity, mass and energy are all synthesized using seamless physics that seem to work all by themselves! It's REAL!

The detail is amazing. Just look around. There are buildings, landscapes, rooms, and weather patterns! Rotate your head left or right, and your perspective rotates as well. Now you can see MORE real objects in the real world. So many objects! Maybe too many. Move them away from yourself if you feel crowded. You might feel crowded. Arrange them any way you want! Use in-game credits to accumulate more objects, or get rid of objects. The choice is yours!

Move around this actual world using (F.E.E.T.) ambulatory technology.

Other players look so real! The people you see in the game are other people, who are also playing in a realistic ACTUAL world. Communicate and interact with other players to unlock various secrets and bonus activities. You could spend a literal lifetime with your new friends (and rivals!). EVERYONE is into actual reality, whether they like it or not!

Experience is earned by repetitive activity. There are different levels. The game starts with the player having almost no abilities, but as the game goes on, the player collects experiences and develops skills. These skills can be used to earn CREDITS, which can be used as actual money. Money can be traded with other players for actual goods and services. It's an imperfect conceptual fabrication, but it works well enough!

There are lots of activities in this ACTUAL WORLD available while using your A.R.O. technology. Literally BILLIONS of players are already playing, collecting credits based on performing lots of tasks, like cooking actual food for others, selling vehicles or household items, or arranging symbols by tapping little squares. There are various rules and limitations put in place to make things interesting.

The game seems to be based on various boxes. Get lucky, or play the game right, you get to spend your time in a FANCY box. Break the rules, and you get put into a PENALTY box, (unless you have lots of credits.) You will probably end up in a AVERAGE box. Make sure you have some kind of box, because weather.

At the end of the game, you are placed in a TINY box.

Surprise! You're already playing. Good luck, play nice. For a limited time only. Act now! Actual reality: try it today!

I wrote you another book. You can order it at Amazon.com

Cheese Bus

...What biblical scholars are wrestling with is how to inform the public and theological leaders that interpretations of ancient scripture must be re-examined after a mistake in translation, dating back to antiquity, has revealed that what has always been taken for the Lord's name, "Jesus," is really a mistaken translation for the two words, "Cheese Bus."

"It isn't figurative," Professor ______ of the _______ institute said on Friday. "An actual bus made of cheese, according to these new, more accurate translations, will ferry souls to the afterlife."

The type of cheese is unknown at this time. "We're working on newly discovered texts, but it may take several months to decipher."

In the meantime, the official announcement is proving difficult to make.

"People will not be happy about this," the professor said. "Believers around the world have been praying to a anthropomorphic deity, when really, it seems as if it is some sort of school bus made of cheese. There's no mention of a driver. I guess it drives itself."

When someone overshares:

"This has been fascinating. You know, a journal is a great, great place for private thoughts."

Stolen from the "Lady Dynamite" series (Netflix)

the price is too high

They say that if you listen to the song "Stayin' Alive" ten times in a row, the ghost of Maurice Gibb will materialize in your kitchen and make you a sandwich. But the price is too high.