As soon as we went back up a few days ago, we went back to the placeholder for Register.com a provider with issues. Read between the lines here, friends. Certain domain name registrars really seem to have major issues with repropagation.
So, who is it that you won't register obtain your next domain through?
I can't pinpoint the moment when I decided to translate Sir Gawain, or remember how and why the idea came to me. A series of coincidences, probably: like noticing my wife's dog-eared copy of the Tolkien and Gordon edition, the "green book", poking out of the bookshelf; then the book falling open at a particular page, and my eye falling on a particular word - wodwo - a word well known to readers of Ted Hughes; then the poem coming up in a drunken conversation with Glyn Maxwell in a taxi in Poland; then remembering that Hughes himself had translated several sections of the poem, and going back to read them. Incidents which, on their own, wouldn't have amounted to anything much, but when taken together seemed like some kind of big hint. All I know is that, within about a week, the idea had gone from a fanciful notion to a superstitious (and preposterous) conviction that I was put on the planet for no other reason than to translate this poem.
It wasn't long ago that
2007 was the year the future
Was supposed to arrive
On the back of some chrome maiden
Emitting data with lightwaves
With peaceful societies dancing under sunlight
All human problems solved.
How idyllic to think of it.
Yet, walking through these intensely lit
Skinner boxes of social commerce
I cannot see but a thin facade
I cannot hear but a faint crumbling
I cannot doubt the grip of entropy
Slowly bringing it all down
Like some choking vine.
We are most certainly
Straddling a tipping point;
We've long abandoned symbiosis
And sustainability only barely clings
To the bosom of Earth in small patches.
The Arctic is breaking up, y'know?
It's winter, fucking January,
And the redbuds are blooming.
Society's masque of order
Is weathered and chipping
And can only charade
For so long.
I am the last person
To be a pessimist;
But this America just isn't working anymore.
The Western world can only import
So much shit until it explodes
While we stir sectarian pots
With meddling fingers,
And the consequences of dictating culture
Are bloody clear.
Not that hopelessness should prevail, no,
Hope and faith and real Work
Are the real tools we have
And repair must be a waking task,
Every loving minute
Filled with repair.
Every loving day
Snapping the delerium
Of the Consumer's trance
Forcefully smashing the mirror
Into which we all have stared
Mesmerized, lost, in the throes of oblivion.
This tipping point
Places America only inches, seconds away
From the chaos we've exported.
With everything, Everything,
In the balance,
As I slowly walk the parking lot
In the gentle rain,
Where quite literally you and I stand
In what world
Okay. I'm finally declaring victory over the flu on Day 12. It's done, over, kaput. Time to cut my hair, put away the countless littering of medicines, tinctures, phantastical cure-alls and recepticles of the sluice of human illness.
Time to cut my nails, shave, clean the bedroom, make omelets, go outside, socialize, converse without spitting, blog, muse, read, feel inexplicably lite-n-lively throughout my weathered body, prance again in the glimmering fields of epiphenomenon, partake in the scant but delicious joys of this bleak and desolate time of year, observe with wonder and awe the emergence of ice from the Earth, groom the cats, clean the tub, water the plants, remove offensive rotting products from the fridge, complete all things Work which are beyond self-imposed deadlines, get the new book back in gear, isolate and wear effective outfits effective for prowling, reset my metabolism, drink more green shit, actually walk downtown rather than simulate it in some glowing netherregion of my cortex, actually peek at rather than guess the bank balance, reckon with unopened mail and massive debt from the surgery, engage in sociopolitical hackery, and breathe deeply without gurgling.
It's now been 7 days since the onset of the flu, which killed my online time and thus brought posting to a screeching hault. The house is a wreck, there were a number of comic-tragic occurances related to being weak and ill, and I look a fright. But I think it's finally coming around. I'm going to *try* to work a full schedule today. And hopefully, regular posting will resume tomorrow.
'K, I'm ready to head home and needing to get it done FAST. Delaware is always too much and I'm glad this trip is short for work reasons. Love seeing my family (despite the fact I have to case manage them when I'm up here) but I need my mountains, my home, my bed and my kitties.
Life began in a circle;
From the first free-floating single cell
To our ancestors, in orbit to fire
Weaving with laughter and song
Myths as real as snow,
Legends as present
As the warmth of your skin.
There may be no direct line to the Holy
Though we certainly seem to circle our way to it
As the turkey buzzards trace with their wings
The spiral updrafts...
As the stars spin above our wintry breath
In the most ancient and unspeakable of dances.
This day, we encircle around a brightening of days
Even as the ice will tickle our rooftops
And the frost will overtake autumn's golden leaves.
This is the poetry of creation-
The sweet irony of biting cold and the promise of the sun
The renewal which, year after year,
Lengthens the shadows of our wisdom
As we ourselves spin our soul to the Infinite.
One can never be truly linear
Living upon the thin curve of life
Atop this place we call Earth;
Intuitively, we revere the circle
With the same mind as the schooling mackerel
And summer's ecstatic gnats, making mystical all about your head.
We draw it closer around as we ourselves
Are drawn closer to the light.
Compelled to be face to face with ourselves
As expressed through huddled and chilled dancers
Amid the holly and ivy
With misty exhalation of thanksgiving
With mitten'd hands grasping Love Itself
On some winter's field
On some solstice day.
Dutch artists took up Bruegel's new snow scene genre as winters deepened and hardened and the frosts that seemed novel in 1565 became routine (though still magical). In making everything look new and alien - stopping school and work, severing the chains of rural habit - snow created a wonderland that is celebrated, for example, in the paintings of Hendrick Avercamp, where entire Dutch towns are shown out on the ice while old people sit watching, wrapped up warm.
In Britain, the 17th-century English diarist John Evelyn recorded that when the Thames froze over, from December 1683 to February 1684, people treated it as a "carnival of winter". A carnival was a mad collective escape from drudgery, and in Abraham Hondius's painting, A Frost on the Thames, you can see what Evelyn means. Long-haired dandies glide across the solid river, visiting booths and tents, while cannons fire to salute a royal visit and children play ball games.
Yet, Evelyn points out, this midwinter celebration skated over the chilling facts: the poor were perishing from cold and hunger, the next year's harvest was dead in the ground, and trees were dying. It was a catastrophe. Somehow, the Thames "frost fairs" turned it all into a joyous Bruegelian celebration of life.
Teachers are meant to be driving forward the Government's campaign to improve children's grammar. But a survey has revealed that they — like greengrocers — can have a tenuous grasp on the proper use of the apostrophe.
While not quite bottom of the class in an online punctuation and literacy test, the teaching profession was beaten by those employed in the creative and arts sectors and managed only to match financial workers — hardly renowned for literary skills.
Nearly half of teachers failed to pick out this sentence, which uses the apostrophe correctly, from a choice of four: "The Smiths' house is a disused windmill." The alternatives were: "The Smiths's house…"; "The Smiths house…"; and "The Smith's house…". Two-thirds failed to approve "The 70s was a great decade for music" above its alternatives, "The 70's…" and "The 70s'…".
I have been so absolutely fuckety busy I've given up on circadian rhythms and have begun to duplicate myself in multiple dimensions. School, work, finishing annoyingly detailed web contract work, more work, lighting, rigging, and making everyone happy... it's too much. I'm just about to come completely undone... the stitching will burst if things don't slow down and I am given time to breathe.
If anyone out there has a pause button, please hit it now. Thankee.
Okay, so the four column thing was a bit of an interesting experiment. Some like it but many more of you are choosing the simplified layout option, which tells me it's time to rethink the design. I've got a pretty neat idea, and I hope to roll out a retooled and easier to navigate site by the first of the year.
Once, I had a dream
That I was riding a piece of driftwood
Among the stars
Whose only sound was poetry.
Walking under winter's tree, tonight,
I could see stars above it, circling slow
Brilliant yet through the buzz
Of the artificial suns we moor to poles
To feel secure in the black.
There is thrill and terror
Knowing that there are stars without I
Moons without I
Someday Earth without I.
But being and once having been
Is the I displaced, or somehow infused
For ever and a day?
I ask knowing there is no knowing
While watching the little stars of sleek cars
Moving around obstaces
Hurrying some names to warmth.
What fortifications have been made
To protect from that question
Which tugs at every nerve,
Some kind of ontological gravity
Many resist, some fly away
Unbound but mad all the same.
Puff my breath into the cold
And know it somehow lasts for ever and a day
And there's letting go to let gone
Of my name, my shape, my silly ideas
But the stars flame on
Taking my molecules
My memories, moments,
And turning them to dreams
With a few poems sung for young suns.
I know the sunset looked, felt, tasted different
On the other side of the glass
By the bed, where, at night,
The soul is composed, recomposed, set loose.
I know the immersion into the cold
Wouldn't have really been a bother,
Would've been invigorating.
Yet, head on pillow,
I get to see the sun set in an odder angle
A quarter rolling to the bells and whistles
Of some holy pinball game of improbable orbits...
A goalie's fantasy of exploding light...
A flaming arrow, piercing a stoic bosom
In a battle which repeats nightly
With remarkable stagecraft.
The fact is, lying here, letting words drip
From ear to ear, I am descending with such light
Into the sweet starlit dark of contemplation.
I've been reckoning with this incarnation
For thirty three years full of stories, hardship, hope.
I will in a few days enter another year of this.
I will find in that morning's mirror
A face which knows its own truth
But whose mouth is just beginning to make the
First syllables out of it.
My demons and angels cavort like flirts at a party
And never have managed to completely
Dominate the conversation.
Each has their turn to bedazzle.
Personal truth is hard-won, if there can be a
Victor in such a game.
Perhaps it is found in lightless density of inner body
An organ unto itself
Whereupon, for the next several days,
I shall make a camp of sorts.
To meet myself.
To fall into the morning's mirror
And emerge on some other side.
The sun is now down,
Sinking the metaphors with it, for now.
I hear the city whisper to itself
In the pronouncement of night.
The cat purrs.
The house settles.
The self sees itself
Through odder angles,
A sweet golden light
Runs through the door
An eager child
Or an eager star
Telling in waves and protons
That the day was good
The mood that swept through the valleys
Was pleasant and amiable
And there wasn't much of anything for anyone
To complain about.
You cannot blame the sun
That puts us to bed
And rises us from the black unknown of sleep
For being optimistic.
I know Fliss will be doing this too, and a few miles away at that! So, in the spirit of thematic liveblogging, here's what's on the stove:
*Sausage for the stuffing
*Celery, onion, and lots of mushrooms for stuffing
*Misc. turkey bits to create stock for stuffing
Next on the stove is the glaze for the bird; honey, butter, bourbon and Herbes de Provence. Once the bird is in, it will be on it's breast for the first hour. Then we flip. During that first hour I will take a luruxious bath and begin to work on the side dishes, which will be detailed in the next post.
So, I was just about through reading my Bloglines subscriptions when the noise from the high school party upstairs (with mom out of town) just became unbearable. I went up and told the landlady's kid that it had to stop or I'd call the po-po, as there was also underage drinking and puffin n' stuff. Well, he rolls downstairs, completely shitfaced, and starts crying that mom can't know about it, and he's per-ffffectly capable of dri-i-hiving people [hic] home. He passes out on my couch as I'm trying to get him stabilized. I go back up and calmly tell the kids to stay the fuck here if they are drunk and not try to drive. Well, they disperse to the four corners and leave their friend in my care. Only his bud G stays behind. I go back to my place to check on the kid and he's vomited all over my couch, my floor, and himself. At this point, all that's left for me to do is to call the ambulance. As I get him barely up the stairs, his out-of-town sister and bro in law emerge from mom's bedroom after what appears to be a good American romping. Bewildered they seem to be in denial over the party, which has left booze bottles everywhere and paraphrenalia in open view. The po-po come in and about bust the sister for complicity (which they totally should've) and bust the kid for underage and possession. The best he can do is continue to vomit in response. His friend, who seemed fairly cool as underage wasters go, is charged too. I want the kid to go to the hospital but sis insists he stays home.
I just got done cleaning up the kid's vomit. I think he owes the crazy weird neighbor downstairs a favor or two. Thanksgiving, meh.
Two weeks on after surgery. I've got full range of motion, but occasional and weird sensations while walking. I should get measured for my unloader brace today. While at PT today, I'm going to ask about the apparent joint degeneration they were alluding to last time, and to see if I can get a spare meniscus or a "unispacer" put in so I don't have to be beholden to the brace for the remainder of my days.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Perhaps the best I can offer you
Is to say that I do not know what is right
But I do know that which drives my heart.
I cannot approach the Universe
With the clout to say what is what
But with the wonder and gratitude
Of a child, blissed under stars,
Entranced by the tracings of the morning spider.
I may be wrong
About innumerable things
Some sad mystic-eyed fool
Dancing in lunacy cliff-side.
It is what I, through discernment and trial
Have chosen to do.
I jumped from the ivory tower of intellectual piety
Into the swarming, teeming masses
Who've unwittingly suffered at their own hand
...to just be there, to just witness, to just accept,
I ultimately no different from they.
All I have to work with are the conjurings of
A few thousand years of dizzied, contested thoughts.
I do the best I can with what I got.
Could that not be
The singular cry of all we lost and
Of a foolishly hopeful humanity?
I cannot know the truth
So I must bless and validate the best anyone can do,
Even if the word on the street is that it's
There is a comfort in imagining
That we know the thoughts, whimsies, and dreams of
Those with whom we must rub shoulders,
Do battle with, and screw to the end of dawn.
The comfort itself a confabulation
Made out of scraps of truth toss'd in the wind
Stitched together as banners
Proclaiming territory of knowledge of the Universe
Over knowledge of the self.
All I can do is love
With gratitude for whatever made it happen
With checked pride for having the chance to test my ideas,
With perhaps idiotic, perchance damnable faith
That everyone is right
Everyone is wrong
And everyone has had the chance
To choose their folly,
And thier fulfillment.
It's been a busy week. Even since yesterday, its alleged beginning, it has been nutty. Opened and closed a play with a four day run, lots of physical therapy, and working at a breakneck pace to play catch up. Or ketchup. Or something.
Today is my best friend's birthday, which each year gets a lil' trippier as time expands and the long cord between us both, connected to many others, stretches without fraying. Happiest, amigo.
I'm tired and slightly unmotivated right now. Coffee is on the stove, but I think something more like a lightening bolt to jolt me into the day and its challenging heuristics would be far more useful.
I'm in the middle of what could be a very long, drawn out tech rehearsal. I'm really only in a few scenes on this one, and the wait is teeeeeeedious. Knee is holding up okay getting a bit painful, today was the first "real" day back at work. I can't believe surgery was a week ago. Time flies, &c.
I've just added a few tiny little new features. In the above link field, take note of subscribe and simple layout. If you clicky subscribe, a happy little popup window will give you a slew of options to keep up with the posts in your handy newsreader. If you clicky simple layout, you'll be magically transported to a simplified, two column view with all the content nice and ready fer ya.
Since the crash and subsequent redesign, traffic has remained more or less steady, and so has subscribership. Rock on readers, and thankee.
UPDATE: You'll notice I've added social bookmarklet capability. What other sites would you like to see (already have digg, de.licio.us, reddit and technorati)... Furl? Newsvine? Co.mments? Lemme know.
It is said that four walls cannot contain the man
Nor the four cardinal corners of the body
Contain the spirit, that unknown indwelling.
Oft spoken is this condition of flesh, bone, and blood
This slight entrapment of the infinite,
This shelter for a wandering ghost,
This vessel of utmost mystery.
All of the passion of the world
Is known through the peaks and valleys
Of this map of skin, expressed in sweat
Through it; the words it utters, we are told,
Belong to some thing in some elsewhere
That in turn tames the animal
That builds with his hands
Destroys with her feet
And pleasures madly in mutual enfolding.
Does it walk for you, or you it?
In the improbable mechanics of awakening
Who or what initiates the calculus of joint and muscle
That we may rise, and be as artful, crazy, and free
As a day on Earth demands?
I do not know. Nor you, or anyone,
And that is but slim comfort
When time mercilessly wrinkles the map,
Wears the bone to cinder,
And departs, as a city pigeon, from the frame.
Not enough days to ask, let alone answer.
Thus, these four walls and cardinal corners
Must endure vexation to the point of madness,
Irksome storms of riddles
And the blessed confusion of body and soul
Until time falls back into itself
And your name explodes with the birthing of stars.
The leg, well, it does hurt at times. I am getting around better, and there is now a range of motion machine installed in my bed. I've avoided having to take the daily shots, and will now be on aspirin. W00t! And, of course, the actionblog will happily detail my joy of the new turn America is taking, away from the stinking bunghole that is Chimpus and Company.
It truly is amazing how quickly one can recover from something so invasive. True, I cannot shower or bathe so as to protect the wound, and there is the issue of a perma-brace that I'll have to wear for some time. But, all in all, I am recovering, and swimmingly so. The national news certainly helps quite a bit.
That's what I'll eventually get out of my right leg in terms of functioning. My medial meniscus is gone, so long, buh-bye. This is a little sad, as I was hoping for a partial. Okay, though, I can live with 95%.
However, what I'm a little unsure about living with are daily shots I'm going to have to take to prevent Deep Vein Thrombosis. This was news to me, and it wasn't even told to me, but to Joshua in the waiting room. Why in the hell did my doc not tell me this before surgery? Either myselfor a visitng nurse will have to give the shots. What a load of suck. Alas, grin and bear it, and all that. There's also some kind of machine that's going to be installed here, in my home, to increase my range of motion. While I'm thankful for all these life-sustaining technologies, I wish I'd had more of a heads up.
I'm still, overall, a very lucky human being. I'm grateful to have two working legs, the ability to walk, and access to all of this medical technology. Many could not have this type of treatment, so as much as I'm being compassionate to myself, it's vitally important to be compassionate to the rest of the world that deserves a decent chance to live, and live well.
In a few hours, I will begin taking the medications that will guide me, ultimately, to surgery tomorrow. I would be lying if I didn't say that anxiety and electricity are coursing through my veins. I would be lying if I told you that my breathing was nice, slow, and deliberate. Instead, I opt for truth, throw my feelings into the public repository, and quietly await the mystery of the twilight that will hover about me as a cloud until the knife cuts.
The other side of this is that I know I will recover. I will heal. The pain will not last all my days, and I embrace that the pain is a sure sign of healing. I cannot feel the exploded cartilage in my knee, tomorrow and a few days after it will be so apparent. Thousands of people undergo this type of surgery every day, and live to tell about it. I know that, a year from now, whole weeks may go by where tomorrow's experince is not thought of. Survival is inevitable, as is deep healing and transformation. I know these things, but it's the automatic quivering of the body that, as a scared animal, that is the last to accept this. Bringing to he twain into harmony is the task of these waning daylight hours.
I will try to update as we either get closer or cross the threshold. Deep breaths, until then. Deep understanding. Deep healing.
This is a town
Of a thousand pretty windows
Ten thousand secret innuendos
And brazen weeds that grow green
At the foot of stop signs
Even as the fall turns 35 degrees.
This is a town
Where a grown man is crying
Sipping alone counting the pearls of years
His lip takes a brave upward curl
Having heard his song, in passing,
Having seen his shadow divert in wanting
Tears are weather, and as surely alive,
You never know the forecast here.
This is a town
Where the beautiful people copulate for show
With flesh as much as flash
With pricks as much as cash
Love is a store window,
St. Valentine's Day, some crimson display
So one is lead to believe
So the shopkeeper winks to deceive.
This is a town
Where the third person is an elusive fourth
An ideal in the corner,
The holy bats in the writer's belfry
And all the names we count
Wind back to imagination,
A left at the intersection
Where the drunks play tennis at night.
This is a town
Where concrete is abstract
Windows could just be mirrors
For the empty rooms we long, we lust
To fill with touch and soft words
Billowing curtains of the soul
Behind which the carnal embrace
Rises like the bank building downtown...
...Seen from so far away.
This is a town
Where poems are the visible breath
We puff in novelty as the fall
So benignly chills.
Here, and gone, these haikus of respiration
Formed with the mouth
That quivers formless words, no-things,
On a night like this,
Everyone's writing goddamn poetry.
This is a town
That is just a metaphor, in the end
Of exits and entries, of parties and parting
Where, bless it, someone is being loved tonight.
Someone had to build it.
Someone had to make it happen, name it.
Someone looked out of one of those
Thousand pretty windows, down on me,
While fearless I walked
Into the map of this body, this time,
Wiping my eyes as the lights came on.
I was in a cinder block room with an Iraqi POW and an American soldier. Apparently, the Iraqi and I were supposed to blow eachother's brains out with the guns we held, in a sick game set up by the soldier. As the Iraqi (who was handsome) held the gun to my face, he started to recite a litany of woes: his home was bombed by the yanks, he had no way to get a job, his verve for life was lost, and he had to (quivering now he was) face daily the shame and humiliation of being gay. Wait right there, I said, sharing with him my own orientation. He dropped the gun, kissed me, and tried to give me a hickey. While the game was over, I told him as he was trying to purple up my neck that hickies aren't haram.
The objective was simple: to get to the top of the skyscraper on the elevator. Problem: the elevator was omnidirectional, self-aware, and determined to do as it pleased.
A giant rainbow was being erected over a new grocery store. I tried to take pictures of its construction, but kept getting blindsided by real rainbows.
I think I'm having second thoughts about this surgery. My knee is gradually feeling better, and the up to 6 month recovery time is intimidating. No weight on the knee for six weeks? I'll really be having some challenges living in a world where gravity is more or less a constant. And, of course, the pain... the fucking pain. Right now Wounded Knee is happily tucked and snuggling with Mr. Left Knee, pain free and more or less with full range of motion. Yet advice sought on the matter suggests biting the bullet, which as of yesterday I was prepared to do. Now I'm flip-flopping. Now I don't know. I think I'm going to use tomorrow to let my body tell me what exactly needs to be done.
And so it is, this old knee of mine will go under the knife in about 9 days. I've never had any kind of surgery before (well, other than oral, but that story is way too long) and this news has been a tad unnerving. In July, whilst hiking the awesome beast Mount LeConte, unbeknownst to me my meniscus decided that it would rather like to discombobulate itself. Then, I had no idea what a meniscus was, perhaps an arcane Greek philosopher or exotic, phallic Fiscus tree. Nope. I know the anatomy of this crucial place all too well now, and a few days ago I learned that going without could make future hikes much more difficult and risky. It has to be done.
I've moved through denial, fear, and even relief, but these feelings about what's coming up seem to shift with the wind. It seems that so many people have had this surgery and they aren't gimped out, dragging their leg like a pirate, and stuck in a Lazy Boy for the rest of their natural or artificial lives. So, I seem to be accepting of it now, but strength will be summoned, endurance gathered, and pain transformed in order to pass through this most curios, looming event.
Welcome to the newly redesigned, revisioned, and re-re'd birdonthemoon. I've decided to take a whole new approach to this site, dividing it into four easy to navigate sub-blogs. We'll see how it goes, but we're using some bold new technologies I've long since quivered in fear of: CSS and SSI.
Please comment with any bugs, issues, or suggestions. Watch this site over the next few weeks as the columns fatten with delectable content. Thanks for your support while we were in the dark. There's a lot going on in the world, a lot going on in mine, and it's high time to get the groove going again.