Psychophant's Rants
21.3.10
Poem of the gifts
As a book lover, I have a slight idea but I cannot really know what Jorge Luis Borges really felt as blindness took away his books from him. He tried to express that in the "Poema de los Dones", the Poem of the Gifts.
Translating this poem is my small attempt to share that.
****************************************
None take as complaint or tears trite
this proof of mastery extreme
from God, the irony supreme
at once giving both books and night.
Of this book city made the lord
lightless eyes, those who only can
read in a library dream hoard
those foolish paragraphs that span
the dawn's efforts. Vainly the day
offers them many endless rolls,
lost as all the missing burnt scrolls
which at Alexandria passed away.
Of hunger and thirst (says a greek tale)
dies a king among springs and grounds;
I exhaust without aim the bounds
of this tall deep library pale.
Encyclopedias, East, West,
an atlas, dynasties, reviews,
Cosm, cosmogony and crest
define the walls, but it's no use.
Slow my shadow, the hollow dark
I explore with uncertain cane
I, who pictured heaven's domain
as a bibliotheca ark.
Something, that we can't really call
with the word Chance, rules this affair;
another yet received unaware
the evenings books and a dark pall.
Wandering the slow passage maze
I feel a vague and sacred dread
that I am another, who, dead,
took the same steps in the same days.
Who is the who writing this rhyme
of one shadow and many me?
What matters the word that names me
If we are cursed at the same time?
Groussac or Borges, watch the gleam
of a world deformed and dull
Turning into a pale ashen hull
Resembling oblivion and dream. ¶ 6:08 PM
As a book lover, I have a slight idea but I cannot really know what Jorge Luis Borges really felt as blindness took away his books from him. He tried to express that in the "Poema de los Dones", the Poem of the Gifts.
Translating this poem is my small attempt to share that.
Nadie rebaje a lágrima o reproche
esta declaración de la maestría
de Dios, que con magnífica ironía
me dio a la vez los libros y la noche.
De esta ciudad de libros hizo dueños
a unos ojos sin luz, que sólo pueden
leer en las bibliotecas de los sueños
los insensatos párrafos que ceden
las albas a su afán. En vano el día
les prodiga sus libros infinitos,
arduos como los arduos manuscritos
que perecieron en Alejandría.
De hambre y de sed (narra una historia griega)
muere un rey entre fuentes y jardines;
yo fatigo sin rumbo los confines
de esta alta y honda biblioteca ciega.
Enciclopedias, atlas, el Oriente
y el Occidente, siglos, dinastías,
símbolos, cosmos y cosmogonías
brindan los muros, pero inútilmente.
Lento en mi sombra, la penumbra hueca
exploro con el báculo indeciso,
yo, que me figuraba el Paraíso
bajo la especie de una biblioteca.
Algo, que ciertamente no se nombra
con la palabra azar, rige estas cosas;
otro ya recibió en otras borrosas
tardes los muchos libros y la sombra.
Al errar por las lentas galerías
suelo sentir con vago horror sagrado
que soy el otro, el muerto, que habrá dado
los mismos pasos en los mismos días.
¿Cuál de los dos escribe este poema
de un yo plural y de una sola sombra?
¿Qué importa la palabra que me nombra
si es indiviso y uno el anatema?
Groussac o Borges, miro este querido
mundo que se deforma y que se apaga
en una pálida ceniza vaga
que se parece al sueño y al olvido.
esta declaración de la maestría
de Dios, que con magnífica ironía
me dio a la vez los libros y la noche.
De esta ciudad de libros hizo dueños
a unos ojos sin luz, que sólo pueden
leer en las bibliotecas de los sueños
los insensatos párrafos que ceden
las albas a su afán. En vano el día
les prodiga sus libros infinitos,
arduos como los arduos manuscritos
que perecieron en Alejandría.
De hambre y de sed (narra una historia griega)
muere un rey entre fuentes y jardines;
yo fatigo sin rumbo los confines
de esta alta y honda biblioteca ciega.
Enciclopedias, atlas, el Oriente
y el Occidente, siglos, dinastías,
símbolos, cosmos y cosmogonías
brindan los muros, pero inútilmente.
Lento en mi sombra, la penumbra hueca
exploro con el báculo indeciso,
yo, que me figuraba el Paraíso
bajo la especie de una biblioteca.
Algo, que ciertamente no se nombra
con la palabra azar, rige estas cosas;
otro ya recibió en otras borrosas
tardes los muchos libros y la sombra.
Al errar por las lentas galerías
suelo sentir con vago horror sagrado
que soy el otro, el muerto, que habrá dado
los mismos pasos en los mismos días.
¿Cuál de los dos escribe este poema
de un yo plural y de una sola sombra?
¿Qué importa la palabra que me nombra
si es indiviso y uno el anatema?
Groussac o Borges, miro este querido
mundo que se deforma y que se apaga
en una pálida ceniza vaga
que se parece al sueño y al olvido.
****************************************
None take as complaint or tears trite
this proof of mastery extreme
from God, the irony supreme
at once giving both books and night.
Of this book city made the lord
lightless eyes, those who only can
read in a library dream hoard
those foolish paragraphs that span
the dawn's efforts. Vainly the day
offers them many endless rolls,
lost as all the missing burnt scrolls
which at Alexandria passed away.
Of hunger and thirst (says a greek tale)
dies a king among springs and grounds;
I exhaust without aim the bounds
of this tall deep library pale.
Encyclopedias, East, West,
an atlas, dynasties, reviews,
Cosm, cosmogony and crest
define the walls, but it's no use.
Slow my shadow, the hollow dark
I explore with uncertain cane
I, who pictured heaven's domain
as a bibliotheca ark.
Something, that we can't really call
with the word Chance, rules this affair;
another yet received unaware
the evenings books and a dark pall.
Wandering the slow passage maze
I feel a vague and sacred dread
that I am another, who, dead,
took the same steps in the same days.
Who is the who writing this rhyme
of one shadow and many me?
What matters the word that names me
If we are cursed at the same time?
Groussac or Borges, watch the gleam
of a world deformed and dull
Turning into a pale ashen hull
Resembling oblivion and dream. ¶ 6:08 PM
15.3.10
Melancholy Street
Although recently a poet called me a poet lover, I am not really gifted with rhyme and meter, though I do appreciate some of it. As I explained recently what I do often is to try to translate poems, or lyrics that often means the same.
This one is "Calle Melancolía", de Joaquín Sabina. I have spent quite a while to get the baroque "serventesio" structure, alexandrine verse quartets, which in shorter English becomes the shorter Alexandrine verse (12 vs 14 syllables). It would benefit from more work, but if I do not stop now, I will never consider it finished.
Although recently a poet called me a poet lover, I am not really gifted with rhyme and meter, though I do appreciate some of it. As I explained recently what I do often is to try to translate poems, or lyrics that often means the same.
This one is "Calle Melancolía", de Joaquín Sabina. I have spent quite a while to get the baroque "serventesio" structure, alexandrine verse quartets, which in shorter English becomes the shorter Alexandrine verse (12 vs 14 syllables). It would benefit from more work, but if I do not stop now, I will never consider it finished.
Como quien viaja a lomos de una yegua sombría,
por la ciudad camino, no preguntéis adónde.
Busco acaso un encuentro que me ilumine el día,
y no hallo más que puertas que niegan lo que esconden.
Las chimeneas vierten su vómito de humo
a un cielo cada vez más lejano y más alto.
Por las paredes ocres se desparrama el zumo
de una fruta de sangre crecida en el asfalto.
Ya el campo estará verde, debe ser Primavera,
cruza por mi mirada un tren interminable,
el barrio donde habito no es ninguna pradera,
desolado paisaje de antenas y de cables.
Vivo en el número siete, calle Melancolía.
Quiero mudarme hace años al barrio de la Alegría.
Pero siempre que lo intento ha salido ya el tranvía
y en la escalera me siento a silbar mi melodía.
Como quien viaja a bordo de un barco enloquecido,
que viene de la noche y va a ninguna parte,
así mis pies descienden la cuesta del olvido,
fatigados de tanto andar sin encontrarte.
Luego, de vuelta a casa, enciendo un cigarrillo,
ordeno mis papeles, resuelvo un crucigrama;
me enfado con las sombras que pueblan los pasillos
y me abrazo a la ausencia que dejas en mi cama.
Trepo por tu recuerdo como una enredadera
que no encuentra ventanas donde agarrarse, soy
esa absurda epidemia que sufren las aceras,
si quieres encontrarme, ya sabes dónde estoy
Vivo en el número siete, calle Melancolía.
Quiero mudarme hace años al barrio de la alegría.
Pero siempre que lo intento ha salido ya el tranvía
y en la escalera me siento a silbar mi melodía.
Like a rider astride a mare shadowy as night,¶ 12:37 AM
aimless the city I walk, no design in my mind.
Wishing maybe to meet one who makes my day bright
finding doors which deny what they’re hiding behind
Chimneys belch and spread smoky vomited produce
raising up to the sky, so high above and far.
Over ochre tinted walls spreads wide the tainted juice
of a blood fed wild fruit pushing up from the tar.
Green must cover the fields, Spring has arrived merry
while an endless train traverses across my gaze,
the neighborhood I live is far from any prairie,
wasted urban landscape, aerials and cables maze.
Number seven I live, in Melancholy street.
For years I tried to move to the Joy District sweet.
But every time I try the tramway has no seat
so on the steps I sit quietly whistling this beat.
Like a rider aboard a mad boat without hope,
straight out from a dark night travelling towards no place,
so my feet do descend Oblivion’s steep slope,
tired of looking for you, and of finding no trace.
Then, once returned back home, I light a cigarette,
I order my papers, fill a crossword instead;
I get angry at shadows filling the corridor yet
and I embrace to me your absence on my bed
As ivy I climb through, memories taking hold,
without finding windows to support me,
I am an absurd street disease turning the sidewalk old
if you wish to find me, you know where I am
Number seven I live, in Melancholy street.
For years I tried to move to the Joy District sweet.
But every time I try the tramway has no seat
so on the steps I sit quietly whistling this beat.
11.3.10
P(r)o[bl]em(o)
I have loaned a bit of Mezangelle to emphasize some of the latest fad/obsessions to hold my attention (in my usual two week span). I thought I had outgrown a tendency to dabble in poetry when freshly infatuated or just dumped, but now I started spontaneously because someone commented in Twitter I was clearly a poetry lover. I found poetry adequate when emotionally distraught because my own approach to poetry is to treat it as a series of constraints on text, a message with limited degrees of liberty, to loan a thermodynamics concept. This constrained prose therefore forces me to reflect, to seek alternatives in a reduced vocabulary, and generally to think a bit more about what I am saying and why.
In fact, and this is what happens now, that I am thinking in verse without the benefit of high emotion pushing me, the constraints become so heavy that I cannot handle at the same time content and versification. So I translate instead, as in that way the content and some of the constraints are fixed, and I can focus on finding options that satisfy the limitations of the chosen form. Not very poetic, I know, resembling more a puzzle with multiple solutions. Just the way my mind works.
Roughly at the same time, and also pushed by Twitter, I decided to try my hand at Mezangelle, a multiple layered language construct. Though I had been aware of it for years, I had not realised that it is a feedback system, that as you start to write and think in it, it becomes easier to understand it (at least the obvious layers, as it also requires a good mastery of language and code to gleam all meanings, intended and unintended). Once again I approach it (and the limited 140 characters makes it workable) as a puzzle, but with the difference that here the constraints are not formal, but are the different content or subtexts that I wish to transmit. Probably too much freedom for my disorganized mind, though playing and expanding the unintended subtexts that you discover makes it exhilarating at times.
I have only dabbled for a short while, and my coding days are too far gone, but I really want to try it in my mother tongue, which is hard as Spanish is uncompromisingly fonetic. So far all my attempts become so cacofonical that I get disgusted and delete them. Maybe because I do not hear written English as I hear Spanish or French.
In a way I do not try to do it more seriously because I know that in one week time I will probably have something else in my mind, whether it is Buddhist religious wars or Kashmir silverware patterns (two subjects I have followed already). Always a dabbler, never a master.
Here I recover my Mezangelle Twitter English attempts, outside their context, because it somehow loads them with a higher potential, and because Twitter is too transitory.
in(F)ternal_[mez]angel. [m]possible_(t)ask+[i]resist[ble] cha[lle]nge. [r]emote seed.plan[t]er. ana[cata]logue dr[t]eam. 2 [s]hard(s)
im[plicit]itate for[m]_f[latte]ry. (me[z])eed/plan.t bab[bling]y spee[ch]d no.vice. min[e]d re/wired
tot/alles hack.job ha(s)h.(ta)g(ged). Auth[or]entic cre(e)d.it 0r gAMe 0r [sub]version [D]are.devil. Min(e)d_b(r)eak pLAY B(h)ARD ¶ 3:20 PM
I have loaned a bit of Mezangelle to emphasize some of the latest fad/obsessions to hold my attention (in my usual two week span). I thought I had outgrown a tendency to dabble in poetry when freshly infatuated or just dumped, but now I started spontaneously because someone commented in Twitter I was clearly a poetry lover. I found poetry adequate when emotionally distraught because my own approach to poetry is to treat it as a series of constraints on text, a message with limited degrees of liberty, to loan a thermodynamics concept. This constrained prose therefore forces me to reflect, to seek alternatives in a reduced vocabulary, and generally to think a bit more about what I am saying and why.
In fact, and this is what happens now, that I am thinking in verse without the benefit of high emotion pushing me, the constraints become so heavy that I cannot handle at the same time content and versification. So I translate instead, as in that way the content and some of the constraints are fixed, and I can focus on finding options that satisfy the limitations of the chosen form. Not very poetic, I know, resembling more a puzzle with multiple solutions. Just the way my mind works.
Roughly at the same time, and also pushed by Twitter, I decided to try my hand at Mezangelle, a multiple layered language construct. Though I had been aware of it for years, I had not realised that it is a feedback system, that as you start to write and think in it, it becomes easier to understand it (at least the obvious layers, as it also requires a good mastery of language and code to gleam all meanings, intended and unintended). Once again I approach it (and the limited 140 characters makes it workable) as a puzzle, but with the difference that here the constraints are not formal, but are the different content or subtexts that I wish to transmit. Probably too much freedom for my disorganized mind, though playing and expanding the unintended subtexts that you discover makes it exhilarating at times.
I have only dabbled for a short while, and my coding days are too far gone, but I really want to try it in my mother tongue, which is hard as Spanish is uncompromisingly fonetic. So far all my attempts become so cacofonical that I get disgusted and delete them. Maybe because I do not hear written English as I hear Spanish or French.
In a way I do not try to do it more seriously because I know that in one week time I will probably have something else in my mind, whether it is Buddhist religious wars or Kashmir silverware patterns (two subjects I have followed already). Always a dabbler, never a master.
Here I recover my Mezangelle Twitter English attempts, outside their context, because it somehow loads them with a higher potential, and because Twitter is too transitory.
in(F)ternal_[mez]angel. [m]possible_(t)ask+[i]resist[ble] cha[lle]nge. [r]emote seed.plan[t]er. ana[cata]logue dr[t]eam. 2 [s]hard(s)
im[plicit]itate for[m]_f[latte]ry. (me[z])eed/plan.t bab[bling]y spee[ch]d no.vice. min[e]d re/wired
tot/alles hack.job ha(s)h.(ta)g(ged). Auth[or]entic cre(e)d.it 0r gAMe 0r [sub]version [D]are.devil. Min(e)d_b(r)eak pLAY B(h)ARD ¶ 3:20 PM
10.3.10
Drying up
Wow, it has been a wordy series. I had quite a few words stuck up, waiting to gush out. But it seems to be mostly over now. I no longer have several posts underway, although there will be a few more posts the coming days, as there are some unfinished businesses. Ten days of posts, a few months worth of words, fermenting.
I no longer feel that urge to write something, anything, whatever. It is not a nice image, but it was a bit like the dry heaves you get when you need to vomit but are unable to. So you just push and push. And suddenly there is nothing else left, and you realise you feel better than you have in some time.
Something in my chest I needed to let go. ¶ 9:17 AM
Wow, it has been a wordy series. I had quite a few words stuck up, waiting to gush out. But it seems to be mostly over now. I no longer have several posts underway, although there will be a few more posts the coming days, as there are some unfinished businesses. Ten days of posts, a few months worth of words, fermenting.
I no longer feel that urge to write something, anything, whatever. It is not a nice image, but it was a bit like the dry heaves you get when you need to vomit but are unable to. So you just push and push. And suddenly there is nothing else left, and you realise you feel better than you have in some time.
Something in my chest I needed to let go. ¶ 9:17 AM
8.3.10
Kids
I have of late reflected on the effect of parenthood on several of my friends. And then found a Tim Kreider quote that reflected perfectly my experience. I want to make it clear that this is some people, not all parents I know.
"Most of my married friends now have children, the rewards of which appear to be exclusively intangible and, like the mysteries of some gnostic sect, incommunicable to outsiders. In fact it seems from the outside as if these people have joined a dubious cult: they claim to be much happier and more fulfilled than ever before, even though they live in conditions of appalling filth and degradation, deprived of the most basic freedoms and dignity, and owe unquestioning obedience to a capricious and demented master."
There is certain unhappiness concerning children, or actually grandchildren, so there is some stress whenever the subject appears. Also my wife is not so unconcerned as I am, as she actually enjoys holding babies or caring for other people's kids. I hope it is more a matter of instinct and predisposition, but I cannot be sure.
Long ago we discussed this, and we agreed to avoid taking exceptional measures. We would not put obstacles, but we would not consider all the options that our childless friends were already trying, from adoption to fertility treatments. As years go by, we just got used to a certain kind of life, the one that from time to time draws the envy of our friends, usually after some travelling, attending a concert, or exquisite restaurants. We also saw what the wish for children had done to some couples, a few of which broke under the strain, or the problems of some when the children that they had staked their happiness on, did not deliver the happiness they desired.
It may well be that I am lying to myself, but my life has been self-centered so far and I doubt I will change now. Any unease I feel is surely internal, and there have been enough changes the last years for that.
Meanwhile, maybe it is the sudden change from selfishness to seflessness in parents what makes them so difficult to understand. As well as an apparent change from reason to emotion as the main decisionmaking tool. I am confused when people stop behaving either in their self interest or reasonably. There is so much fear, so much concern, that it appears to be a terrible life, most of the time, with some moments of intense happiness that, according to them, balance it all out. In retrospect, it is like being in love, for quite a long time. Whether kids are abusive, exploitative lovers will depend on the kid, and how you bring them up, but to think their education is mostly in the hands of irrational people makes me pause.
So, am I childless because I am not selfless enough, or am I still selfish because I do not have children? ¶ 1:32 PM
I have of late reflected on the effect of parenthood on several of my friends. And then found a Tim Kreider quote that reflected perfectly my experience. I want to make it clear that this is some people, not all parents I know.
"Most of my married friends now have children, the rewards of which appear to be exclusively intangible and, like the mysteries of some gnostic sect, incommunicable to outsiders. In fact it seems from the outside as if these people have joined a dubious cult: they claim to be much happier and more fulfilled than ever before, even though they live in conditions of appalling filth and degradation, deprived of the most basic freedoms and dignity, and owe unquestioning obedience to a capricious and demented master."
There is certain unhappiness concerning children, or actually grandchildren, so there is some stress whenever the subject appears. Also my wife is not so unconcerned as I am, as she actually enjoys holding babies or caring for other people's kids. I hope it is more a matter of instinct and predisposition, but I cannot be sure.
Long ago we discussed this, and we agreed to avoid taking exceptional measures. We would not put obstacles, but we would not consider all the options that our childless friends were already trying, from adoption to fertility treatments. As years go by, we just got used to a certain kind of life, the one that from time to time draws the envy of our friends, usually after some travelling, attending a concert, or exquisite restaurants. We also saw what the wish for children had done to some couples, a few of which broke under the strain, or the problems of some when the children that they had staked their happiness on, did not deliver the happiness they desired.
It may well be that I am lying to myself, but my life has been self-centered so far and I doubt I will change now. Any unease I feel is surely internal, and there have been enough changes the last years for that.
Meanwhile, maybe it is the sudden change from selfishness to seflessness in parents what makes them so difficult to understand. As well as an apparent change from reason to emotion as the main decisionmaking tool. I am confused when people stop behaving either in their self interest or reasonably. There is so much fear, so much concern, that it appears to be a terrible life, most of the time, with some moments of intense happiness that, according to them, balance it all out. In retrospect, it is like being in love, for quite a long time. Whether kids are abusive, exploitative lovers will depend on the kid, and how you bring them up, but to think their education is mostly in the hands of irrational people makes me pause.
So, am I childless because I am not selfless enough, or am I still selfish because I do not have children? ¶ 1:32 PM
7.3.10
Up in the layer cake
[Recommended listening, and even watching: this]
I am mixing my movies, I know. But I find this quote from "Layer cake" really fits in the spirit of "Up in the air", and I fear that it is no coincidence both films lack a standard happy ending.
"You're born, you take shit. You get out in the world, you take more shit. You climb a little higher, you take less shit. Till one day you're up in the rarefied atmosphere and you've forgotten what shit even looks like. Welcome to the layer cake, son. "
In a way, despite the dreadful job that Mr. Bingham (George Clooney's character in Up in the air) has, that is where he thinks he is reaching. That he has made it into the layer cake, or that he will when he gets his last miles, and nobody will be able to touch him.
My impression is that depending on your personal story, and even your attitude to travelling, you will get something different from this film. I suspect the biggest divide will be between those who have children and those who don't, but I hope to discuss that in a future piece. Or maybe my reaction is due because I also have been both on the sending and receiving end of this quote:
"I thought we signed up for the same thing... I thought our relationship was perfectly clear. You are an escape. You're a break from our normal lives. You're a parenthesis."
In a way, that is the heart of the movie. He has no normal life, he lives in the break space, the layer cake he strived to reach. Outside what others call normal life. When he believed he had met another inhabitant, he finds out she is only an occasional visitor.
Our society has a set of what is considered normal behaviour, which includes family, compromise, the whole works. Others can live in a different way, but they are not supposed to be happy as long as they do not conform. Which is the true crux of the matter for me, as I deal with the matter of happiness or lack of it, just when I am close to my own layer cake. The highest point I can hope to reach.
I will not spoil the ending of Layer cake, except to say that society gets its acceptable revenge through a filmmaker. Up in the air is worse, in a way, because Mr. Bingham betrays himself for nothing, or almost nothing. A terrible punishment for being content in a non-socially approved way. Again more of a message of conformity than the reasonable outcome of what we have seen.
What I strive for in these lines, with enlightenment, is to be simply content with life. A non-standard life. Which is why I have to work at it, rather than feeling comforted by all those banal common places thatwe get presented as acceptable happiness. We have advanced much, but not enough, on who does our society allow to be free, fully free, and who must still conform, or suffer.
Great story, even reassuring, till you get to the ending and its foreordained punishment. He went down from the Layer cake, so he took shit. ¶ 1:47 PM
[Recommended listening, and even watching: this]
I am mixing my movies, I know. But I find this quote from "Layer cake" really fits in the spirit of "Up in the air", and I fear that it is no coincidence both films lack a standard happy ending.
"You're born, you take shit. You get out in the world, you take more shit. You climb a little higher, you take less shit. Till one day you're up in the rarefied atmosphere and you've forgotten what shit even looks like. Welcome to the layer cake, son. "
In a way, despite the dreadful job that Mr. Bingham (George Clooney's character in Up in the air) has, that is where he thinks he is reaching. That he has made it into the layer cake, or that he will when he gets his last miles, and nobody will be able to touch him.
My impression is that depending on your personal story, and even your attitude to travelling, you will get something different from this film. I suspect the biggest divide will be between those who have children and those who don't, but I hope to discuss that in a future piece. Or maybe my reaction is due because I also have been both on the sending and receiving end of this quote:
"I thought we signed up for the same thing... I thought our relationship was perfectly clear. You are an escape. You're a break from our normal lives. You're a parenthesis."
In a way, that is the heart of the movie. He has no normal life, he lives in the break space, the layer cake he strived to reach. Outside what others call normal life. When he believed he had met another inhabitant, he finds out she is only an occasional visitor.
Our society has a set of what is considered normal behaviour, which includes family, compromise, the whole works. Others can live in a different way, but they are not supposed to be happy as long as they do not conform. Which is the true crux of the matter for me, as I deal with the matter of happiness or lack of it, just when I am close to my own layer cake. The highest point I can hope to reach.
I will not spoil the ending of Layer cake, except to say that society gets its acceptable revenge through a filmmaker. Up in the air is worse, in a way, because Mr. Bingham betrays himself for nothing, or almost nothing. A terrible punishment for being content in a non-socially approved way. Again more of a message of conformity than the reasonable outcome of what we have seen.
What I strive for in these lines, with enlightenment, is to be simply content with life. A non-standard life. Which is why I have to work at it, rather than feeling comforted by all those banal common places thatwe get presented as acceptable happiness. We have advanced much, but not enough, on who does our society allow to be free, fully free, and who must still conform, or suffer.
Great story, even reassuring, till you get to the ending and its foreordained punishment. He went down from the Layer cake, so he took shit. ¶ 1:47 PM
6.3.10
Homage
I really like http://remotecards.blogspot.com/
So from time to time I imitate it.
La Factoría
The bar was almost empty, with the working customers already gone, while the partygoers still had not come out. The barman, looking too young for the post, was arguing with the girl in the kitchen, while the waitress, older than both of them but still in her early thirties, looked on amiably. She seemed older, but when she brought me a macchiatto, "un cortado", I noticed it was her choice of clothes and hairstyle, a long knit skirt and a long sleeved black blouse, combined with a tight bun, held together by a veritable forest of pins. Her white apron broke the severe theme of black clothes and hair, and it still was snow white, as if she had just started her shift.
The other customer was sitting at the bar, nursing a beer while waiting for someone, having exhausted the possibilities of the courtesy newspapers. Clearly I was far from his expected date, as I had received only a cursory glance and nothing else. My own waiting was helped by this notebook, but I still have time to check the decor. As the name indicates the bar goes for an old factory look. Open brick, high ceilings, catwalks, big pipes for the AC, the whole works. Too clean and dust free for an actual industry, but for a bar that is perfect.
A SMS changes the rendezvous to the cinema, so I go, leaving the place almost as it was when I came in, apart from the small cup on the table. ¶ 11:11 AM
I really like http://remotecards.blogspot.com/
So from time to time I imitate it.
La Factoría
The bar was almost empty, with the working customers already gone, while the partygoers still had not come out. The barman, looking too young for the post, was arguing with the girl in the kitchen, while the waitress, older than both of them but still in her early thirties, looked on amiably. She seemed older, but when she brought me a macchiatto, "un cortado", I noticed it was her choice of clothes and hairstyle, a long knit skirt and a long sleeved black blouse, combined with a tight bun, held together by a veritable forest of pins. Her white apron broke the severe theme of black clothes and hair, and it still was snow white, as if she had just started her shift.
The other customer was sitting at the bar, nursing a beer while waiting for someone, having exhausted the possibilities of the courtesy newspapers. Clearly I was far from his expected date, as I had received only a cursory glance and nothing else. My own waiting was helped by this notebook, but I still have time to check the decor. As the name indicates the bar goes for an old factory look. Open brick, high ceilings, catwalks, big pipes for the AC, the whole works. Too clean and dust free for an actual industry, but for a bar that is perfect.
A SMS changes the rendezvous to the cinema, so I go, leaving the place almost as it was when I came in, apart from the small cup on the table. ¶ 11:11 AM
5.3.10
Tiny soldiers
I have already mentioned that I play with small tin soldiers (for a long time they were made of lead the same alloy used in type casting, lead, tin and antimony, but toxicity concerns has made manufacturers return to a pewter alloy, tin, zinc and antimony). I still own only two full armies, a late middle ages Burgundian, Charles the Bold Ordonnances, and an Ancient Spanish, from the time of Sertorius revolt. However, using the armies available in our club I have been playing lately with an Arab Conquest army, the well motivated and well led that brought Islam out of the Arabian peninsula to conquer half of the Mediterranean coast.
It is an interesting army to play, because it is low in equipment but high in motivation, which should come as no surprise. The mix of Arabic city dwellers, Bedouins and recently converted peoples have almost no armour, no exotic weaponry, but a strong confidence in Allah. Their main historical opponents, the Sassanid (Persian) and Byzantine Empires, were ancient, with well trained specialized militaries, based on strong, well equipped, multi-purpose cavalry. The heart of both armies were armoured riders on armoured horses, skilled both with bow and lance, supported by less armoured mounted archers and some low quality infantry, usually better on the Byzantine side. The Byzantines had a professional standing army and feudal levies. The Sassanids were mostly feudal in organization, with a strong martial spirit among its nobility.
The Muslim conquerors, on the other hand, were based on citizen volunteers, usually bands of people from the same town, with long spears, shields and little armour. Bedouin nomads, armed with lances, some tribes on camels but most on horses, acted as cavalry, but without armour, they never could stand to their foes. So they acted as a hammer against the infantry's anvil.
What I like about this army is that succesful armies based on infantry are rare. Many effective armies use combined arms (such as Alexander's combination of Macedonian pikemen and cavalry), some are almost pure infantry (Republican and early empire Romans), some last till an enemy discover their weakness (the English of the 100 years War or the Swiss). In fifty years the Sassanids had fallen, the Arabs had besieged Constantinople and they had reached India and Spain. And it was mostly a military conquest, not an ideological one, though the new religion helped to make those conquests long-lasting.
Then, in a few years, the extremely succesful volunteer infantry army had almost disappeared, the infantry became once again a secondary part of the army, and its heart were now the ghilman (singular ghulam), professional soldiers, often slaves, covered in metal, skilled in bow, sword, mace and lance. Just like the Empires they had defeated. They dominated the Middle Eastern battlefields (after they adjusted to fight both the wild charge of Western knights and the withering archery of the skirmishing Mongols) for centuries, and persisted up to the beginning of the XIXth century. Both the janissaries and the mamluks are variants of this kind.
The reason for the change is social, not military. As they campaigned succesfully, the religious volunteers started to acquire armour, horses, and as one campaign succeeded another, they stopped being motivated civilians fighting with their comrades to become professional soldiers, fighting in their own way. As the original troops retire, they make sure that someone, first a poor relative, then a young slave, takes up their equipment and their duty. At the same time the caliphs prefer an army loyal to themselves than one doing the will of Allah.
It also marks an emphasis from offence to defence, as those armies are not large enough to occuppy a territory, but fast and flexible enough to defend large sections of border. It is why, as the Roman Empire stabilized its borders, cavalry replaced infantry as the most prestigious arm.
That is not to say there have not been powerful cavalry armies, but either they are huge armies, such as the ostrogoth invasion of Italy, or they practice genocide and massacre to depopulate the conquered areas (both the Huns and the Mongols used this).
Oh well, all this just to mention that I prefer the early Conquest, an army that resembles in behaviour the Greek hoplites from the Persian wars. Strong infantry, fighting against Persians that have used roughly the same tactics for a millenium. And the Bedouins give an edge the Ancients Greeks missed. Free people, fighting for themselves (or God) agains professional, caste warriors.
Which is one of the charms, for me, of wargaming, seeing the similitudes and differences, and how that interplays with the culture and society of a people. ¶ 2:35 PM
I have already mentioned that I play with small tin soldiers (for a long time they were made of lead the same alloy used in type casting, lead, tin and antimony, but toxicity concerns has made manufacturers return to a pewter alloy, tin, zinc and antimony). I still own only two full armies, a late middle ages Burgundian, Charles the Bold Ordonnances, and an Ancient Spanish, from the time of Sertorius revolt. However, using the armies available in our club I have been playing lately with an Arab Conquest army, the well motivated and well led that brought Islam out of the Arabian peninsula to conquer half of the Mediterranean coast.
It is an interesting army to play, because it is low in equipment but high in motivation, which should come as no surprise. The mix of Arabic city dwellers, Bedouins and recently converted peoples have almost no armour, no exotic weaponry, but a strong confidence in Allah. Their main historical opponents, the Sassanid (Persian) and Byzantine Empires, were ancient, with well trained specialized militaries, based on strong, well equipped, multi-purpose cavalry. The heart of both armies were armoured riders on armoured horses, skilled both with bow and lance, supported by less armoured mounted archers and some low quality infantry, usually better on the Byzantine side. The Byzantines had a professional standing army and feudal levies. The Sassanids were mostly feudal in organization, with a strong martial spirit among its nobility.
The Muslim conquerors, on the other hand, were based on citizen volunteers, usually bands of people from the same town, with long spears, shields and little armour. Bedouin nomads, armed with lances, some tribes on camels but most on horses, acted as cavalry, but without armour, they never could stand to their foes. So they acted as a hammer against the infantry's anvil.
What I like about this army is that succesful armies based on infantry are rare. Many effective armies use combined arms (such as Alexander's combination of Macedonian pikemen and cavalry), some are almost pure infantry (Republican and early empire Romans), some last till an enemy discover their weakness (the English of the 100 years War or the Swiss). In fifty years the Sassanids had fallen, the Arabs had besieged Constantinople and they had reached India and Spain. And it was mostly a military conquest, not an ideological one, though the new religion helped to make those conquests long-lasting.
Then, in a few years, the extremely succesful volunteer infantry army had almost disappeared, the infantry became once again a secondary part of the army, and its heart were now the ghilman (singular ghulam), professional soldiers, often slaves, covered in metal, skilled in bow, sword, mace and lance. Just like the Empires they had defeated. They dominated the Middle Eastern battlefields (after they adjusted to fight both the wild charge of Western knights and the withering archery of the skirmishing Mongols) for centuries, and persisted up to the beginning of the XIXth century. Both the janissaries and the mamluks are variants of this kind.
The reason for the change is social, not military. As they campaigned succesfully, the religious volunteers started to acquire armour, horses, and as one campaign succeeded another, they stopped being motivated civilians fighting with their comrades to become professional soldiers, fighting in their own way. As the original troops retire, they make sure that someone, first a poor relative, then a young slave, takes up their equipment and their duty. At the same time the caliphs prefer an army loyal to themselves than one doing the will of Allah.
It also marks an emphasis from offence to defence, as those armies are not large enough to occuppy a territory, but fast and flexible enough to defend large sections of border. It is why, as the Roman Empire stabilized its borders, cavalry replaced infantry as the most prestigious arm.
That is not to say there have not been powerful cavalry armies, but either they are huge armies, such as the ostrogoth invasion of Italy, or they practice genocide and massacre to depopulate the conquered areas (both the Huns and the Mongols used this).
Oh well, all this just to mention that I prefer the early Conquest, an army that resembles in behaviour the Greek hoplites from the Persian wars. Strong infantry, fighting against Persians that have used roughly the same tactics for a millenium. And the Bedouins give an edge the Ancients Greeks missed. Free people, fighting for themselves (or God) agains professional, caste warriors.
Which is one of the charms, for me, of wargaming, seeing the similitudes and differences, and how that interplays with the culture and society of a people. ¶ 2:35 PM
4.3.10
Speed Reading
I suppose it is a must that to read many books, you better read them fast. My family has always been a reader haven, so at three, before going to kindergarten, I already had the basics, and at five I was pointed towards the encyclopaedia as a way to limit my unrelenting questioning. Also around that age, and for the rest of my life, I have been getting books as presents, usually several years earlier than the target age. I still remember those heady days I read all books in one go.
When I was fourteen I read between 80 (tough but interesting books for a teenager, such as Asimov’s introduction to Science or Sagan’s Cosmos) and 120 (Lord of the Rings, Neverending Story…) pages per day. When I was fourteen I started reading books in English. The first full book I read in English was Battlestar Galactica, the novel. The second, and a bigger impact, was Heppenheimer’s Colonies in Space . At first my speed was glacial, but I wanted so much to share the promised goodies in those books (and the Silmarillion, ah the abilities of youth) that I soon was reading English at a respectable 50 pages per hour.
As an aside, yes, I already was enough of a geek back then that I calculated my reading speed with different books and in different conditions, a custom that continues today.
It is this habit what validates an observation that my mother, also an avid reader, had already warned me about. The reading speed decreases with time. As I kept reading more and more books in English, it disguised the effect, as my English reading speed increased while my Spanish reading speed decreased. Now they are roughly equal (my reading speed in French is roughly half what it is in the other languages). As well, in my thirties I saved book purchasing money by rereading a lot, and rereading increases speed by 20-50%, so I reached at times 150 pages per hour, a mark I doubt I will reach again. I tried to make more accurate measurements, counting words, but estimating words per pages for different books is a boring chore, so I prefer the easier though inexact page count. Speed depends on the effort, so Karl Popper or Edward Said go at around 20 pages per hour of hard work, while a Harry Potter may breeze over 100.
Fortunately my sight keeps going well, or as well as it used to be, so I fear the speed decrease is more a mental ability decrease than a physical one. Few times now do I get the exhilarating feeling of discovery that was all so usual thirty years ago. Now most books remind me of another, and most situations seem familiar. At times I spend more times arguing with myself the accuracy of certain historical detail than reading. Or checking in the internet that nagging detail.
Of the last books I have read, McCarthy’s The Road, took almost five hours (in one day, spread in train and planes), an average of 60 pages per hour, but it is a new book, with curt language. Then came Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, that took also five hours, but this time a re-read (fourth time, I think), so the actual speed was better, 80 pages per hour. Just a few days before I had read Yoko Ogawa in French, and her style and the language had me at 25 pages per hour.
If books keep getting thicker, around 500 pages nowadays, that means roughly 9 hours reading time. Depending on the week I manage between 15 and 25 hours worth, much less when addicted to a computer game, more when travelling. The last two years average is roughly two books per week, which fits quite well with 18-20 hours per week. 100 books, which half are rereads, and I love rereading, besides cutting on book expenses. If I am optimistic and keep the rhythm (my mother has more free time but reads more slowly, and she manages almost the same speed) for fifty years, I will read 2500 more books. Which ones to choose? May I afford to give a 0.04% of my book capital to an author like Dan Brown, in order to keep up to date in my society’s fears? Is a book like Gravity’s Rainbow, as time-consuming as five "normal" books, worth the time spent?
I have no answers, except to paraphrase the famous (and disputed) quote: Read this book as if there was no tomorrow. Choose the next book as if you had all the time in the world. ¶ 5:07 PM
I suppose it is a must that to read many books, you better read them fast. My family has always been a reader haven, so at three, before going to kindergarten, I already had the basics, and at five I was pointed towards the encyclopaedia as a way to limit my unrelenting questioning. Also around that age, and for the rest of my life, I have been getting books as presents, usually several years earlier than the target age. I still remember those heady days I read all books in one go.
When I was fourteen I read between 80 (tough but interesting books for a teenager, such as Asimov’s introduction to Science or Sagan’s Cosmos) and 120 (Lord of the Rings, Neverending Story…) pages per day. When I was fourteen I started reading books in English. The first full book I read in English was Battlestar Galactica, the novel. The second, and a bigger impact, was Heppenheimer’s Colonies in Space . At first my speed was glacial, but I wanted so much to share the promised goodies in those books (and the Silmarillion, ah the abilities of youth) that I soon was reading English at a respectable 50 pages per hour.
As an aside, yes, I already was enough of a geek back then that I calculated my reading speed with different books and in different conditions, a custom that continues today.
It is this habit what validates an observation that my mother, also an avid reader, had already warned me about. The reading speed decreases with time. As I kept reading more and more books in English, it disguised the effect, as my English reading speed increased while my Spanish reading speed decreased. Now they are roughly equal (my reading speed in French is roughly half what it is in the other languages). As well, in my thirties I saved book purchasing money by rereading a lot, and rereading increases speed by 20-50%, so I reached at times 150 pages per hour, a mark I doubt I will reach again. I tried to make more accurate measurements, counting words, but estimating words per pages for different books is a boring chore, so I prefer the easier though inexact page count. Speed depends on the effort, so Karl Popper or Edward Said go at around 20 pages per hour of hard work, while a Harry Potter may breeze over 100.
Fortunately my sight keeps going well, or as well as it used to be, so I fear the speed decrease is more a mental ability decrease than a physical one. Few times now do I get the exhilarating feeling of discovery that was all so usual thirty years ago. Now most books remind me of another, and most situations seem familiar. At times I spend more times arguing with myself the accuracy of certain historical detail than reading. Or checking in the internet that nagging detail.
Of the last books I have read, McCarthy’s The Road, took almost five hours (in one day, spread in train and planes), an average of 60 pages per hour, but it is a new book, with curt language. Then came Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, that took also five hours, but this time a re-read (fourth time, I think), so the actual speed was better, 80 pages per hour. Just a few days before I had read Yoko Ogawa in French, and her style and the language had me at 25 pages per hour.
If books keep getting thicker, around 500 pages nowadays, that means roughly 9 hours reading time. Depending on the week I manage between 15 and 25 hours worth, much less when addicted to a computer game, more when travelling. The last two years average is roughly two books per week, which fits quite well with 18-20 hours per week. 100 books, which half are rereads, and I love rereading, besides cutting on book expenses. If I am optimistic and keep the rhythm (my mother has more free time but reads more slowly, and she manages almost the same speed) for fifty years, I will read 2500 more books. Which ones to choose? May I afford to give a 0.04% of my book capital to an author like Dan Brown, in order to keep up to date in my society’s fears? Is a book like Gravity’s Rainbow, as time-consuming as five "normal" books, worth the time spent?
I have no answers, except to paraphrase the famous (and disputed) quote: Read this book as if there was no tomorrow. Choose the next book as if you had all the time in the world. ¶ 5:07 PM
3.3.10
Fundamental Knowledge
One of my old books is a German chemistry handbook, from 1935, translated to Spanish in the 40s. It was used as a chemical technology textbook in university. I like how practical it is, compared to the kind of handbooks we had. Mainly because it deals openly with all those things that are more or less censored these days.
Maybe it was the influence of the Great War, or the author's throughness, but the sections on explosives and toxic gases were fascinating to a young student. With the advantage that it is not a series of recipes taken from the internet, but a set of accurate indications to make tons of the material in adequate conditions.
Fortunately the adequate conditions usually are not feasible outside a chemical plant, with steam, tanks and all that. As well as basic reactives, that you can also find how to do. The kind of book that a time traveller willing to face paradox would take to the XIXth century.
When I talk with students, with very few exceptions, I miss the kind of curiosity that took me towards that book, the curiosity of knowing how things were done before. Maybe it is the combined love for chemistry and history. Or for things going boom.
It is a cliche that chemistry students love explosions. Only five out of my course of ten dozens made black gunpowder, the basic entry level explosive. Only one, and it was not me, cracked his house's bathtub trying to make trinitroglycerin. Something that fortunately is not easy to do.
Fortunately one of the lab technicians has that gleam in the eye. Unfortunately it is my duty to keep him from cracking his own bathtub. But it is nice to share the interest.
We did have one girl in our blackpowder circle, so stereotypes are not always true. We only had one out of five, when the split was close to 50/50, so they have some truth.
Modern control of toxics and explosives, as well as drugs, start by controlling the reagents. With the right knowledge, that is not a problem. Our educative system does not prepare the students for that, simply by assuming that their work will be performed at the level we have now, or rather, what we had five years ago. Maybe I am a pessimistic, but that means they will not be able to think outside that box, because they ignore there is something outside the box. Probably one of the reasons I knew there was a box was because we had some old books in my time. Books that went back to basics.
Now, how do we make them start looking outside the box? Or should we get to the boom crew before the bad guys do, as they are the ones filled with curiosity. ¶ 1:20 PM
One of my old books is a German chemistry handbook, from 1935, translated to Spanish in the 40s. It was used as a chemical technology textbook in university. I like how practical it is, compared to the kind of handbooks we had. Mainly because it deals openly with all those things that are more or less censored these days.
Maybe it was the influence of the Great War, or the author's throughness, but the sections on explosives and toxic gases were fascinating to a young student. With the advantage that it is not a series of recipes taken from the internet, but a set of accurate indications to make tons of the material in adequate conditions.
Fortunately the adequate conditions usually are not feasible outside a chemical plant, with steam, tanks and all that. As well as basic reactives, that you can also find how to do. The kind of book that a time traveller willing to face paradox would take to the XIXth century.
When I talk with students, with very few exceptions, I miss the kind of curiosity that took me towards that book, the curiosity of knowing how things were done before. Maybe it is the combined love for chemistry and history. Or for things going boom.
It is a cliche that chemistry students love explosions. Only five out of my course of ten dozens made black gunpowder, the basic entry level explosive. Only one, and it was not me, cracked his house's bathtub trying to make trinitroglycerin. Something that fortunately is not easy to do.
Fortunately one of the lab technicians has that gleam in the eye. Unfortunately it is my duty to keep him from cracking his own bathtub. But it is nice to share the interest.
We did have one girl in our blackpowder circle, so stereotypes are not always true. We only had one out of five, when the split was close to 50/50, so they have some truth.
Modern control of toxics and explosives, as well as drugs, start by controlling the reagents. With the right knowledge, that is not a problem. Our educative system does not prepare the students for that, simply by assuming that their work will be performed at the level we have now, or rather, what we had five years ago. Maybe I am a pessimistic, but that means they will not be able to think outside that box, because they ignore there is something outside the box. Probably one of the reasons I knew there was a box was because we had some old books in my time. Books that went back to basics.
Now, how do we make them start looking outside the box? Or should we get to the boom crew before the bad guys do, as they are the ones filled with curiosity. ¶ 1:20 PM
2.3.10
Dates, a series of musical events
As I mentioned the other day, there are certain melodies that, for many reasons, not all of them clear, become important to me, beyond their relative merits. Usually they are either linked to an event or a person. Today I will focus on events, because people are always changing, so no single piece can expect to describe them accurately.
As usual I will burn a copy for my car, and send one abroad. This time round I will not put the list, as it probably says too much about me, and it is not made for listeners, but for myself. As usual I will mail a copy to anyone interested. An exhibitionist streak.
In that case, why do I make it in the first place? Won't it dull the memories, losing its shine, its worth?
In brief, yes. One of the incarnations of this blog claimed to be an attempt to find the path, the Way, even if I am a stalwart atheist, mainly because I thing the Way is an internal stage, not something that exists outside. And one of the steps you need, and one I have trouble with, is letting go.
So this is a homebrew system to defuse those memories, to develop a resistance, to hammer myself. It is bound to be painful, to make me morose, or angry. But the last months I have been trying to bury all feeling, and that not only does not work, but it killed all spontaneity and fun for a while, so I would prefer to avoid too much reflection on it. Enlightenment is just a word for seeing things as they are. Not yet there, but I am willing to try.
It could be considered an exorcism, banishing certain excesses, hopes or mistakes. It also pobably will say something about me, and the dates that matter to me. Introspection is also part of the process. The why of things.
My own reading of the Way does not require you to become a classical Taoist heartless, without feelings, and certainly not immortal. What I aim for is to live without the burden of past emotions. Keep the memories, enjoy the present rather than the past. Smooth the old fresco and paint something new over it.
That I feel I need to take action to forget says probably too much on how much the past usually weighs on me, as this blog also shows. It is the same as letting a wound air out, to scab, itch and eventually heal. A scar collection, rather than bleeding wounds.
So the unwanting soul sees what's hidden, and the ever-wanting soul sees only what it wants. ¶ 1:49 PM
As I mentioned the other day, there are certain melodies that, for many reasons, not all of them clear, become important to me, beyond their relative merits. Usually they are either linked to an event or a person. Today I will focus on events, because people are always changing, so no single piece can expect to describe them accurately.
As usual I will burn a copy for my car, and send one abroad. This time round I will not put the list, as it probably says too much about me, and it is not made for listeners, but for myself. As usual I will mail a copy to anyone interested. An exhibitionist streak.
In that case, why do I make it in the first place? Won't it dull the memories, losing its shine, its worth?
In brief, yes. One of the incarnations of this blog claimed to be an attempt to find the path, the Way, even if I am a stalwart atheist, mainly because I thing the Way is an internal stage, not something that exists outside. And one of the steps you need, and one I have trouble with, is letting go.
So this is a homebrew system to defuse those memories, to develop a resistance, to hammer myself. It is bound to be painful, to make me morose, or angry. But the last months I have been trying to bury all feeling, and that not only does not work, but it killed all spontaneity and fun for a while, so I would prefer to avoid too much reflection on it. Enlightenment is just a word for seeing things as they are. Not yet there, but I am willing to try.
It could be considered an exorcism, banishing certain excesses, hopes or mistakes. It also pobably will say something about me, and the dates that matter to me. Introspection is also part of the process. The why of things.
My own reading of the Way does not require you to become a classical Taoist heartless, without feelings, and certainly not immortal. What I aim for is to live without the burden of past emotions. Keep the memories, enjoy the present rather than the past. Smooth the old fresco and paint something new over it.
That I feel I need to take action to forget says probably too much on how much the past usually weighs on me, as this blog also shows. It is the same as letting a wound air out, to scab, itch and eventually heal. A scar collection, rather than bleeding wounds.
So the unwanting soul sees what's hidden, and the ever-wanting soul sees only what it wants. ¶ 1:49 PM
1.3.10
International Trouble, er, Travel
I was planning to write once again about travelling, having spent a good chunk of the past week travelling, including several airports and several planes, with a star cameo of a replacement plane, out of mothballing, with undefined stains on a seventies electric green carpeting and duct tape holding the seats together. The real tight moment was just before take off, when the hostess forbid people to exchange seats in the mostly empty plane, because "it would create balance problems". Talk about a relaxing thought!
However I will link instead to Charles Stross ideas on the same, as he writes much better than I do (I should know, I pay money to read him). International Travel Redux ¶ 1:31 PM
I was planning to write once again about travelling, having spent a good chunk of the past week travelling, including several airports and several planes, with a star cameo of a replacement plane, out of mothballing, with undefined stains on a seventies electric green carpeting and duct tape holding the seats together. The real tight moment was just before take off, when the hostess forbid people to exchange seats in the mostly empty plane, because "it would create balance problems". Talk about a relaxing thought!
However I will link instead to Charles Stross ideas on the same, as he writes much better than I do (I should know, I pay money to read him). International Travel Redux ¶ 1:31 PM
