Watermark

Joe the Plumber

Joe the Other Plumber

Maybe if enough of us link to him, we'll overcome the other Joe the Plumber.

Checking In

So. What have I been doing, while not writing? I'm in lazy summer mode, even though we've had only a few days that qualify. I've been reading science fiction and mysteries, and watching television (science fiction and mysteries.)

The human imagination is a marvelous and limited thing. I've read two sci-fi novels recently, both written in the last decade; both positing a near future of technological marvels. But neither imagined a present in which airlines no longer serve meals.

This weekend I read Obama's The Audacity of Hope: Thoughts on Reclaiming the American Dream. I decided it was time I learn more about him. And I'm impressed. He can think; he can write. I've added his first book to my to-read list.

Speaking of books, if you like ravens, buy this one: The Raven: Soaring Through History, Legend & Lore, by Lynn Hassler from Rio Nuevo Publishers. It's charming, it's informational, it's entertaining -- and there's my Raven poem, tucked into a chapter on Ravens In Literature, along with quotes from some of the greatest writers. I.am.awed.

Another of my poems, Bell, is in this month's issue of Abalone Moon, a Journal of Poetry and the Arts.

Blogger Barbara Doduk featured some of my work on Flickr Focus Friday last week.

I notice with pleasure that Dave Pollard has included me in what he calls "MY GRAVITATIONAL COMMUNITY: People who have inspired or informed me frequently over the past few months." If I am able to inspire or inform Dave, I must be doing something right. Even if I don't know what I'm doing.

Our neighborhood is coming up: Hartman Place, Where green meets green. Actually, the neighborhood has been coming up for awhile, but still is a nice mix of students and grown-ups. This project has been in the works for some time, and I'm looking forward to seeing it go up.

Speaking of going up:

Have I mentioned that I have a cousin who's a rocket scientist? I do have a cousin who's a rocket scientist! He's the Technical Program Manager for General Dynamics, on the NASA-GLAST team:

GLAST is a powerful space observatory that will explore the most extreme environments in the universe, and search for signs of new laws of physics and what composes the mysterious dark matter, explain how black holes accelerate immense jets of material to nearly light speed, and help crack the mysteries of the staggeringly powerful explosions known as gamma-ray bursts.

I wonder what Robb would think of my sci-fi addiction? Does he share it, or might he think it, um, illogical? How can science fiction compare with what Robb is actually doing? With the questions his work seeks to answer?

Patiann Rogers once said (I'm paraphrasing) that it's the poet's job to explain science to readers, where it was once our job to explain religion. I -- an undereducated American -- don't do very well at this, I think. I look at the NASA website, and am overcome by the depth of our ambition, as humans, to understand this universe.

This unmeasurable universe.

Reflections

There was a time when no one knew what they looked like. Unless they happened upon a well lit, quiet pond, they knew themselves only in the responses of others. What would that be like? To know, by sight, one's hands, one's feet -- but your own face would be a mystery. Your only clues would lie in the faces of others; perhaps in the face of your mother, or father, or siblings -- if you knew who they were. In the faces of your tribe.

There would be no practice of gestures and smiles in the dressing room mirror. Dancing, you would move your body in response to the bodies of others, not in response to something you had seen reflected. Would these people have been less self-conscious? Would they have given more attention to others, and less to themselves?

They say, now, that we are hard-wired to recognize beauty, symmetry, in the faces of others. But I can't help suspect that beauty might have been more fluid then. If some person were gifted -- as some are -- with unusual sensuality, with power and charisma, would their appearance -- whatever it might be -- become a standard of beauty to their people? Would the tribe slowly find beauty in round faces, or short limbs, or a gap between the teeth?

Instead of "I am beautiful" or "I am ugly", would one think: "He finds me beautiful", "She thinks I'm ugly"? Would any attempt to alter that opinion involve, not examining oneself in a mirror, but changing one's behavior with that person?

Of course, on the other side, if the whole tribe agreed that you were ugly, you would find no reassurance in the mirror. But, in those cases, we seldom find reassurance there, anyway; we find confirmation. Even today, the mirror is not so powerful as to entirely overcome the opinion of the tribe. At least, not the punishing opinion.

We are still mirrors to one another, even with glass hanging in every room; even with reflective surfaces everywhere: shop windows, the burnished metal clothing of modern buildings, the shiny bodies of cars. Still, we look at one another and think: You are beautiful. You are smart. You are neurotic as hell.

Sometimes, we transfer ourselves, our highest hopes, our deepest fears, whole onto the face of another. We call this falling in love. If you stand between two people who are doing this to one another, you are likely to disappear altogether, in the brightness of what they call love. You will vanish; you will become invisible.

Until you find someone who will accept, who will reflect, your own image.

But then, too, you disappear.

It is possible to vanish into one's own reflection. It is possible to become flat and thin and empty, like a filmed old looking glass; nothing but clouded reflection.

Some scientists believe that most other animals have no sense of self; that they exist only within themselves, with no sense that they are themselves. They point to the kitten that chases itself in the glass, thinking there is another kitten there, until it tires of the pointless exercise and refuses to be fooled again. They paint orange spots on the foreheads of chimpanzees and elephants, and are amazed when the creature sees itself; points to the orange on its own head; realizes it is looking at itself.

Timothy's mother had a poodle, that, he swears, knew itself in the mirror. It would come home from being fluffed and ribboned and dyed and manicured, leap from its mistress' arms, and run upstairs to the dressing room to admire itself in the mirror. It would lift each front paw, and examine the nail polish in the reflection. It would prance and pose.

Anyone who has lived with a poodle would believe this story.

But think -- most dogs return from the groomer and go to their human for admiration: Do you like me this way? Do you still love me? Am I cute?

What shift is it that moves us from seeking such validation from our companions, to seeking it in our reflections?

That poodle is no longer a dog.

Are we still human?

The Fine Print

A postcard came in the mail, addressed to me OR CURRENT RESIDENT:

...XX High Speed Internet
   . . .
Plans as low as $24.99 per month

Then there is an asterisk *

* . . . $24.99 monthly pricing requires a 1 year service plan. Rates subject to change after one year. Modem lease required to use service, $4.00 per month.

Now we're at $28.99 per month, if my adding is correct.

* Shipping and handling fee of $12.99 applies.

Oh, plus a one-time fee of $12.99. Let's see, 12.99/12 = $1.08, so if we prorate that we're at $30.07 per month.

* Professional installation may be required depending on service area for $99 per visit.

It's cimbing...

* Additional charges and taxes apply.

Wha...?!

* Service level and features my vary by rate plan and service area and are subject to change without notice.

Emphasis mine.

* Shipping and handling and installation charges are not refundable. Uninterrupted service is not guaranteed. Additional terms apply...

So, let's see -- it's not really $24.99; it's at least $30.07 plus additional charges and taxes, and, if professional installation is required it prorates to at least $38.32 per month (plus additional charges and taxes, of course.)

And, uninterrupted service is not guaranteed. So, you agree that you may not even get what you are paying more than you'd bargained for.

My point isn't that this particular company is trying to slip something by us -- I'm sure that there are similar fine print qualifications on my own internet service contract, that I didn't even read. I didn't read it, because I needed/ wanted the service.

It's more to wonder: when did we begin accepting this practice as routine and acceptable? Not even worth notice?

Just sigh and sign.

Furthermore, much to my amusement, this fine print addition is copyright noticed: All Rights Reserved.

Well. If the company concerned wishes me to credit them, hey -- just drop me a note and I'll be happy to do so.

Wouldn't want to bend the rules by stealing your fine print copy. [Yes, I had to use a magnifying glass.]

Gosh no.

Mind-Bending Visuals

What do you think of modern, cutting-edge, sci-fi artwork? Of how contemporary artists push the human form into almost mechanistic representations?

Like this, for example:

Bizzarie di Varie Figure - 1624
Braccelli, Giovanni Battista - author

Yes, that's the year 1624; the publication date of the book at Rare Book Room:

The "Rare Book Room" site has been constructed as an educational site intended to allow the visitor to examine and read some of the great books of the world . . .

This site contains all of the books (about 400) that have been digitized to date. These range over a wide variety of topics and rarity. The books are presented so that the viewer can examine all the pages in medium to medium-high resolution.

There is something to delight everyone here; give yourself time to peruse the stacks.

[Thanks to Peter Ciccariello for the pointer.]

Next, look carefully at this magical image from the odd neighbor:

Hints: it's called camouflage, and tagged with birds and cats. Click the image to see it bigger at her site.

Finally, which direction is the dancer spinning?

Clockwise? Counter-clockwise? Can you make her change direction? What does it mean?

Left-brain? Right-brain?

Brainless?

Click to go to the Herald Sun article and extensive & contentious discussion.

[This is one of those times I'm unsure of the right & legal way to link. I could, of course, send you there without showing you the image. But you're far more likely to click through once you see it -- aren't you?]

This one is thanks to randa clay design.

Edited to add:  Just after posting, I discovered this discussion on optical illusions at the flickr Utata group, which starts off with the dancer and includes links to other interesting mind-bending images. And this is by far the most interesting discussion...

Miscellaneous Unimportant Questions

Can a stupid (as in, intellectually limited; not a characterological assessment) actor successfully portray an intellectually gifted character?

Why, in this time of science, our current obsession with the supernatural? We have several television programs in which people talk with the dead, or attain special abilities, or are destined to save the world.

What do we seek with these diversions?

Sleep. Dreams. Why do we have these second, secret lives?

What really does make humans different from the other animals? Are we different from the other animals?

Why do my dogs love me? Why does this matter?

A certain smell, a singular quality of light -- and I am dropped, for a small second, into some moment from my past.

Was that a real moment? Is it manufactured from the present?

Is this just a spark, misfiring, in this mystery of a brain?

What will happen next?

Today's words of wisdom...

... are not mine. They're Dave's:

I suppose some people will read this and wonder why I have such a bleak worldview. I can hear it now: “Dave, you just need to get laid!” (Well, maybe I do, but that’s irrelevant. My beliefs are carefully thought out and entirely rational!) The thing is, the world doesn’t feel bleak to me. If you believe, as I do, that the only paradise that matters must be sought in the present moment, than what does it matter if in the long run we are all somebody else’s dinner? Right here, right now, the coffee is good, the stars are beautiful, and the night is alive with primal music — the flow of water, and the urgent and wondrous and terrifying dance that attends the creation of new life. Regardless of how attentive or distracted I may be, the ability to draw breath at such a moment feels like pure grace. I wouldn’t want things any other way.

Rich

The other night I caught a bit of Larry King Live, with Donald Trump  and Robert T. Kiyosaki, pitching their book Why We Want You to be Rich.

King asked for the definition of rich in this country. Curious?

If you make one million dollars a year, without working -- you can consider yourself rich. Any less? No cigar. Make that much, but have to work for it? You don't qualify.

So my feeling that I'm rich is just that: a feeling. I am apparently trying to create my own reality, out of almost nothing. At least by these standards. 

Many people in my situation, suddenly and completely unable to work, would be homeless, and hungry. But I own my house -- at least so far, though it's been a close thing more than once. Some people would call this an apartment, but I own it -- so it's a house. My house.

It's a house full of beautiful stuff. Well, OK, full of stuff that I think is beautiful, or useful, or amusing.

I have the collector gene. Even as a child, I collected things. When I had a job that involved a lot of travel, within a day or two the hotel bureau would have an accumulation of local objects: a shell, a feather, a stone; perhaps a piece of jewelry or other small artifact. A lifetime of collections came together in this house when I moved here thirteen years ago.

So I live here in this wonderful place, remodeled to suit me. Each day I am surrounded by things that I like -- some of them made by people I love. I share my house with dogs, and cats, and parakeets, and even, now and then, with friends. I am not hungry. I have this sweet little laptop (thanks to you.) I have been woven into the World Wide Web. I have a tiny, but beautiful, garden oasis.

Today, this country's population officially reached 300 million.

From Wikipedia:

The official poverty rate in the U.S. has increased for four consecutive years, from a 26-year low of 11.3% in 2000 to 12.7% in 2004. This means that 37.0 million people were below the official poverty thresholds in 2004. This is 5.4 million more than in 2000. The poverty rate for children under 18 years old increased from 16.2% to 17.8% over that period.

I live above these numbers. Only slightly, but above.

Am I not rich?

From Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary 

rich

1 : having abundant possessions and especially material wealth
2 a : having high value or quality b : well supplied or endowed   <a city rich in traditions>
3 : magnificently impressive  : SUMPTUOUS
4 a : vivid and deep in color   <a rich red> b : full and mellow in tone and quality   <a rich voice> c : having a strong fragrance   <rich perfumes>
5 : highly productive or remunerative   <a rich mine>
6 a : having abundant plant nutrients   <rich soil> b : highly seasoned, fatty, oily, or sweet   <rich foods> c : high in the combustible component   <a rich fuel mixture> d : high in some component   <cholesterol-rich foods>
7 a : ENTERTAINING; also : LAUGHABLE b : MEANINGFUL, SIGNIFICANT   <rich allusions> c : LUSH   <rich meadows>
8 : pure or nearly pure   <rich lime>

I would say that, by many of these definitions, I am rich, indeed.

You?

Summer's End

Summer and autumn are arguing with each other; autumn is winning.

There is a new public service ad on television -- a cowboy rides into view, then swings off his horse and lights a cigarette. Whomp! the horse falls dead. A message rolls across the screen, something like second hand smoke is deadly.

I think of this as my neighbor and I sit on the deck, in the rain, putting poison into our bodies.

I wonder how tough it was to train that horse to fall down?

Avoiding the news, distracting myself from my tiredness, I've been watching Home & Garden Television. Why do people want their bedrooms to look like hotel rooms? Designed and impersonal? I don't get it. Even if you get all shy and conservative in the rest of your house, isn't this the one room that ought to most reflect your uniqueness, as a person, as a couple?

Today, in the States, we acknowledge Columbus Day -- that most ambiguous of holidays. Some celebrate; some protest; some mourn. Another reminder of the natural diversity of this nation.

I've been thinking lately about intelligence -- what kind, how much, does it matter?

My dogs desperately need haircuts; the kitchen cupboards are bare; books and magazines and midstream projects are scattered on the livingroom floor. But I sit, and watch television, and think.

That's all.

Men

Men and the Lack-of-Communication Theory

Very entertaining piece at NewWest|Missoula.

One of my ex's was a member of a sensitive-new-age-mens' group. After he had been going to meetings for several months, I asked (it had slipped my mind) what SNAMan 1's wife's name was.

Ex didn't know.

I asked if he knew the names of any of the other women.

He didn't.

10 Blogs You Should Be Reading

If you'd like to broaden, deepen, or sometimes even lighten your life, or if you just like good writing -- these blogs can help:

3 Quarks Daily: Science | Arts | Literature | Politics | Gossip | Philosophy
Yes, it's all that. If you have wide interests and not the time to pursue them all, this is a one-stop information and inspiration station.

Ample Sanity: Blog Portal Ideas
Life is short, says Anne, make fun of it.

Echidne of the Snakes: a minor Greek goddess
Who could resist an opinionated goddess with a sense of humor, and dogs?

how to save the world: Dave Pollard's environmental philosophy, creative works, business papers and essays
Dave speaks deeply, thoughtfully, about everything. Everything.

Joy Harjo's Web Log
Joy writes personally and powerfully on a wide range of subjects, and occasionally posts poems and podcasts.

Patch of Sunlight: Turning Toward the Light
A recent find. I don't know who this is, but I love his/her writing.

Prairiemary
A very strong writer, whom I hope to meet one day. She just keeps surprising me.

qarrtsiluni: sitting together in the darkness, waiting for something to burst
... an experiment in online literary and artistic collaboration.

via negativa
poetry, photographs, reflections, meditations

whiskey river
quotes, carefully chosen

Bears & Stars

From via negativa:

“Where are the stars?” Eva asks as we follow the mowed path across the field. Besides the moon, so far only one star and a planet are visible. I explain about the darkness, how it comes in increments, and how much of it we need in order to see.

Why the neighbors might think I'm weird

I watched myself this morning.

It was raining, so I had this big bump on my chest -- where the camera hides under my jacket on wet days.

Stopped to chat with a crow that flew into a small tree and tipped its head at me.

In the park, when I bent down to pick up my dog's poop, I noticed raindrops on the bare dandelion, so stayed bent and took some pictures. Explained to the dogs that they would just have to be patient and wait for me.

Coming home, said good morning to the waiting squirrels. Visited with them a bit as I filled the feeders.

I could have told them that five thousand humans died yesterday in an earthquake, but I knew they would not understand; no more than I understand my own grief when I find one of their little bodies, stiff and ravaged in the grass.

Other than that, I'm perfectly normal.

Recently Noticed

Yet another conversation about Where Are All The Women Bloggers at Scobleizer. Lots of comments and, of course, dispute -- but so far, civilized.

Just a note, that I began reading this blog because Robert recently visited Montana, in sad circumstances. Both the real world and the virtual world are small. Click that photo up there and read the comments for another example of small worldness.

From the comments on the above post, I found two interesting sites:

The Remembering Site makes it easy for anyone, anywhere, to write and publish their life story and add to it as life unfolds. It says it is a non-profit initiative, but it does charge a fee ($25 USD) to register and get guidance in writing an autobiography. There is a Remembering Site Blog; the author says she started The Remembering Site because her father died too soon and she realized she didn't ask him all the questions about his life that she should have.

Then we have Tales from the Reading Room, which has lots of interesting stuff, including some intriguing posts on blogging: The Blog as Surrealist Legacy, for example.

Daily Linkport points to deep quote, which promises to create links to specific quotes on the Web -- links that will never expire. Now this sounds useful.

Linda Plaisted has a post at Utata on writing an artist's statement; it strikes me that this might be helpful in writing a blog/ website About Page as well -- having just struggled with this myself.

I'm feeling a bit tired, and uninspired. Also slightly worried that there has been minimal response to all the changes around here. Positive response, but minimal.

How do you motivate yourself to keep doing whatever it is you do?

Signs & Omens

Mostly because of the colors, I switched the earth view on Watermark to the water vapour view. This is a screenshot from this morning:

Lovely, isn't it?

Now, I'm not one to see images of the Madonna or Elvis on burnt toast, but consider -- with all the warnings we've been getting about global warming, climate change, rising seas, hurricanes and floods -- doesn't this make you just a bit uneasy?

Hmmm?

Chinese Translation?

Any readers of Chinese among you? I found this in my referrers, and am very curious:

诗情画意演绎浪漫人生 [ 2006-04-25 09:54 ]

http://www.sbpoet.com/， 生活中是不是常常要人为地制造一点点的浪漫情趣呢？那么您有没有体味过诗情画意的美好呢？诗情与画意的缺失常常让人们感到遗憾。但如果把身边的每一件事都 用一幅图和一首诗来表达又会产生怎样的效果呢？这其中的滋味恐怕还要您自己来细细品尝了。不必顾忌，无须伤感，看过之后也许您会找到生命中丢失已久的浪 漫。（高月影）

 

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This is what I get from Babelfish:

Rich in poetic and artistic flavor deductive romantic life [ 2006-04-25 09:54 ] Is http://www.sbpoet.com/, in the life frequently the important person makes a spot for the place the romantic appeal? Then you do have appreciate richly in poetic and artistic flavor have been happy? The poetic appeal and the picture Italy's flaw frequently lets the people feel the regret. But how effect if all uses the side each matter a chart and a poem expresses can produce? Perhaps this taste also wanted you thin to come thin to taste. Does not need to have scruples, does not need moved, after has looked perhaps you can find in the life to lose already the long romantic. (Gao Yueying)

A List

• Erin has written a lovely haibun off one of my snapshot poems. She also says some very nice things about me. Really.
• And as long as I'm bragging -- this was awhile ago, and I put it on my sidebar, but in case you missed it, another fine review from Dave Bonta:

SB - sometimes after reading one of your "snapshot" poems, I feel a sudden, inexplicable desire for a cigarette...

• A meditation on Silence.
• I'm on day two of The End of Faith. My faith in liberalism is being shaken.
• Cheating on poetry.
• Beginning tomorrow, there will be an open discussion with Jane Hirshfield at The Well -- nonmembers can participate by email. The topic is her stunning new book of poems, After.
• I replaced the photos in my Flickr Daypix set with high-resolution images, for anyone interested in seeing better versions.
• Much cuter photo than mine. Cute cute cute.
• My dragon dream has been updated with a cool interpretation. Wouldn't it be great if TypePad offered some option you could choose, when doing a significant update, that would republish the post with the current date -- while reflecting the fact that it is, in fact, an update?
• Miriam has a nice post on art with books, art/kultur, detritus, & material culture -- doesn't she have great categories?
• I keep thinking about this.
• There's a new photoblog directory -- it tells me that 12 users have marked this blog as a favorite. Those of you who post photos might want to get on the list.
• Speaking of photos: Pets on Parade.
• Dave Pollard recently wrote a post that, among other things, questions whether AIDS is caused by the HIV virus. I'm still struggling with this. If it weren't Dave, I'd dismiss it out of hand. His post of today, though unlike his usual, is not to be missed.
• No more pop-ups here, right?

Hmm. Enough for one day?

• YIKES, I almost forgot -- sometime in the next few days, Watermark will have had 100,000 visits!
  

Synchronicity - Wasteland & Green World

In Crossing to Avalon [the book I was reading when I discovered the Blogging the Artist's Way group] in the chapter called The Wasteland: Depression and Despair, Jean Shinoda Bolen tells the story of one of her patients:

His "nightmare" was actually a waking experience that probably lasted only a matter of seconds. It had occurred . . . at 2:00 P.M. on December 21. (Though he was unaware of it, December 21 is the winter solstice, the darkest time of the year; there could not have been a more symbolic date.) He was in a crosswalk near Union Square in San Francisco, in the midst of Christmas shoppers and holiday decorations, when suddenly he felt as if a motion picture had stopped and the scene had frozen. First motion and sound dropped away, and everyone and everything was suspended in a silent vacuum; then, as he watched in horror, all color drained out -- it was like "watching the world suddenly bleed to death" -- until everything was lifeless, immobile, and in shades of gray.

A moment later, everything was as it had been before . . .

He felt like he had gotten a glimpse of the ultimate reality, and it was empty, lifeless, meaningless. "This was what life really was like, what lay beyond the maya, or the illusion of life," he thought . . .

Most depressions that take such a toll in spirit last for many, many months, while his was over in a matter of seconds, minutes at the most. I told him that it was the mystical opposite of illumination. It was an experience of "endarkenment" as profound in its capacity to affect him as an experience of enlightenment and subsequent recollection might be.

I have had this experience. This exact experience.

Except it was the opposite.

It is nearly as vivid -- and indescribable -- to me today as it was when it occurred about thirty-five years ago. I was in my early twenties. It was summer -- we could even intuit that it was summer solstice.

I was walking, as I did daily, the two miles or so between work and home, in Billings, Montana. I don't recall paying any more attention than usual to the cement schoolyard on my left, or the paved street on my right, or the sidewalk under my feet -- but I noticed a weed pushing through the sidewalk crack, and then, suddenly, I was suspended in a silent vacuum, watching the green world explode around me.

Stems pushed up from the ground, cracking pavement, becoming vines and trees. It was as though I was in a timeless bubble, watching centuries unfold before me. Plants climbed buildings; structures cracked and eroded and shattered under the weight of vines, until any indication of human habitation was gone. It was all jungle, wild and green and very, very alive.

A moment later, everything was as it had been before . . .

I was standing on the sidewalk, on an ordinary street, on an ordinary day. But I knew that what had happened to me, what I had felt, was not ordinary, and I tried to hold it all the way home -- knowing that it would slip away, that feeling that has no language. And it did.

But the memory of it did not. The certainty of it -- that this was not crazy, this was not an hallucination -- this was something else, something real, even if outside of everyday experience -- that certainty stayed with me, too. Has stayed with me, all these silent years.

Bolen says:

His particular spiritual path was taking him through the desert or wasteland; he was on the via negativa, the path where soul encounters negation and pain . . . why some travel the via positiva while others must travel the via negativa is one of those unknowables.

I suspect that those who travel any spiritual path, travel both.

Good News

The Internet fosters social contact

A Pew report issued Wednesday, supports the idea the use of the Internet expands social contact:

The Pew Internet and American Life Project also finds that U.S. Internet users are more apt to get help on health care, financial and other decisions because they have a larger set of people to which to turn.

Further rebuking early studies suggesting that the Internet promotes isolation, Pew found that it “was actually helping people maintain their communities,” said Barry Wellman, a University of Toronto sociology professor and co-author of the Pew report. 

The study found that e-mail is supplementing, not replacing, other means of contact. For example, people who e-mail most of their closest friends and relatives at least once a week are about 25 percent more likely to have weekly landline phone contact as well. The increase is even greater for cell phones.

“There’s a certain seamlessness of how people maintain their social networks,” said John Horrigan, Pew’s associate director. “They shift between face-to-face, phone and Internet quite easily.”

Meanwhile, Internet users tend to have a larger network of close and significant contacts — a median of 37 compared with 30 for nonusers — and they are more likely to receive help from someone within that social network.

It does worry me just a little that even the nonusers network of close and significant contacts is quite a bit larger than my own. Introversion has its downsides.

Via The Power of Many

We don't have to remember everything

According to an Editor's Summary at Nature:

A study of brain activity in subjects performing a task in which they were asked to 'hold in mind' some of the objects and to ignore other objects has revealed significant variation between individuals in their ability to keep the irrelevant items out of awareness. This shows that our awareness is not determined only by what we can keep 'in mind' but also by how good we are at keeping irrelevant things 'out of mind'. This also implies that an individual's effective memory capacity may not simply reflect storage space, as it does with a hard disk. It may also reflect how efficiently irrelevant information is excluded from using up vital storage capacity.

Well, that explains it.

Via wake up!

And most importantly:

Poetry is good for your health

That, at least, is the premise of studies currently under way for the Arts Council and the Department of Health. One study, published a couple of years ago in the journal Psychological Reports, suggested that writing poetry boosted levels of secretory immunoglobin A. Another, undertaken by a consultant at Bristol Royal Infirmary, concluded that poetry enabled seven per cent of mental health patients to be weaned off their anti-depressants. Poetry, it seems, is not the new rock'n'roll, but the new Prozac. [...]

OK, so the rest of the article isn't quite so promising. Still, I'm practicing belief in the unlikely, remember?

Via Dumbfoundry

Double Luck Day

Thanks

This is from Dolores Flanagan of San Francisco [and The Well] who has given me her kind permission to post it here:

when i found out my brother Michael, that's James Michael Flanagan of Boston, Massachusetts, lately of San Clemente, California, had suffered a heart attack at the end of a distance run, a regular little 6 mile run, 52 year old healthy guy-  it was a shock and it didn't make any sense, really. he was in vegas, on business, and got back to his car and it hit him out of nowhere, and it was big.  Someone was right there and saw the instant it hit.  He only took the time to ask Michael if he was alright, and when Michael said, yeah, it's just gas; the guy said no it's not, your color is terrible, we don't have time to wait for 911, get in my car now, i know right where to go and we're going.  Michael got right in.

The guy called the hospital, which was just five minutes away, got the ER, said "i am in my car headed to you and will be arriving in four minutes with a witnessed heart attack, be ready to receive him." and they were.  outside the doors of the ER, with a gurney, oxygen, monitor, portable defib, doctors and nurses, and they bypassed the ER and took him straight to the cardiac cath lab, where they were also waiting for him.

i found out the next morning.  the cardiac cath procedures didn't work, he needed open heart surgery, and i made it there before that.  he did great. an *amazing* surgeon.

but what is the most amazing thing in the story is the guy.

when michael called me, to tell me this had happened, and that he was in the hospital and how he got there, and that he was waiting to recover from the hemorrhage (4 unit bleed) he'd had during the angioplasties so he could undergo open heart, I got together just a few of the photographs he's sent over the years, as he's traveled everywhere on earth, just about, every country, visiting every UNESCO World Heritage Site he could get to, hundreds of them-  I took a few of them and put them in an email asking my friends and his to keep him in their thoughts.

Just about all of those thousands and thousands of air miles over the years were flown on UAL.

Who was it that was the quick thinking, life-saving passerby guy in Las Vegas, that saved the life of James Michael Flanagan?  He didn't stick around, or leave his name, we didn't know.   but tonight Michael got to talk to him, and this fellow's an Irishman, and he's a UAL pilot.

Michael's met his real true guardian angel, and he's an Irishman with real wings.

thank you, thank you, thank you, Irish UAL guy, thank you thank you thank you, for saving my brother's life.

Later, she came back to tell us:

the guy we've been referring to for the last three weeks, since the day this happened, as 'the guy,' 'passerby-guy,' and 'guy,' ---  it's great to know his name now.  which is...   wait for it ...

Guy.

Thank you to all the Guys in the world who are there for us and our loved ones when we need them.

UPDATE 26 December 02005: Las Vegas SUN story

Scattered Thoughts

I had a lovely old-woman weekend. I walked with the dogs in the snow; watched Shrek 2 on television, with many out-loud laughs; then As Time Goes By Reunion on PBS -- more subtle but just as fun. I never imagined a life in which television would be a welcome diversion.

The Republican congressman who resigned this week after confessing to evading taxes and soliciting and accepting bribes, said he learned in Vietnam that 'The true measure of a man is how he responds to adversity.' As I watch developments in Washington, with the CIA leak investigation, the Abramoff probes, Delay and Frist and on and on, I begin to suspect that the true measure of a person is how s/he responds to the acquisition of power.

Yesterday I set my coffee mug down, as I always do, on the table next to me -- except that I didn't. I released it too soon, and down it went on the wood floor. Often this clumsiness early in the day augurs ill, but not this time. The day passed well, and brought a friend with a homemade meal: chicken, salad, pasta, and pumpkin pie!

This morning, real snow, the kind that sticks and hides icy patches. A neighbor has already taken a fall. The dogs happily shovel their noses through it. A friend and her grandson come around the corner, holding hands; she elegant even in this weather, and he with that stiff-legged child-in-winter-clothing waddle. And a many-colored hat with a ball on top.

I dream that I am oddly blind -- if light is too intense, or too weak, I cannot see. I am driving, and as I pass through areas of changing light, I no longer see my way. I clench the steering wheel in terror. Then the light settles again, I can see, I am safe. And again. I never have an opportunity to pull off the road. I must continue on, blind or not. Even if I can't see my way.

Reading for a Cold Afternoon

A review of Erin Noteboom's Seal up the Thunder, at prairiefire. Not as good as reading the book, which is a marvelous gift, but still:

Petition, dramatic monologue, Psalm, sonnet, call and response, riddle, gloss, free verse, and benediction--Erin Noteboom plunders biblical and modern lyrical styles for this original, joyous book. By turns mournful, oracular, incantatory, and funny, she is never smug or preachy. Rather, Seal up the Thunder is remarkable poetry on scripture, which recalls the sinuous, odd lyrics of Pier Giorgio Di Cicco. . .

Ron Silliman notices that most of his commenters are men, and many persons of both genders respond. I notice that I rarely comment there myself -- or on other poetics blogs. I do read them fairly often, and do some thinking about the ideas they discuss. But I find, generally, that I am less interested in poetics than in poems, and far less confident of my thinking than the men who comment.

From bhikku, 18th november 2005

Thoreau's Journal: 27-Nov-1857

Crawlspace, from Eeksy-Peeksy

This most excellent canopy, the air

I must have more energy . . .
. . . because I've washed my teapot

Aftershock

& we end, again, with Erin, because I'm in love with this piece: Manna

Oh, yes -- and a note to Sour Duck: I think that stumbling into their blogs cursing and exclaiming how well they write is a fine way to make blog buddies.

Foggy Sunday

It's an odd and foggy day, both inside and out. I've been sleeping restlessly, so doubled my nighttime meds last night, and woke at 1:00 this afternoon. In retrospect, not a good idea. Sometimes my dogs are too patient.

We have been held in this grey fist for two days now. Local airports are closed, and our friendly newsfolk warn of dangerous roads. Fog is so . . . evocative. Mysterious.

Many years ago I worked nights, and walked across the bridge both late and early. This time of year was my favorite; on nights like this one, the bridge seemed to float in nothingness. At the center, it was like being alone in a thick but lovely universe. Sound and light would bend in unexpected ways. Sometimes the ducks seemed to be muttering right next to my ear; sometimes the river seemed to vanish entirely.

So it's an evening to curl up with a good website. Tonight I recommend Issue 3 of the Carnival of Feminists at Sour Duck.

Weekend Reading

Today's featured image at New West

Go welcome Small Bow!

God Interview Number Fifteen - an inner world tour

Gleaning - one perfect moment

"Does the self really exist?"   - Whiskey River explores this in a series of posts

Somehow, during my partial absence from the web, I missed the inauguration of the Carnival of Feminists. Here is Carnival One; here is Carnival Two. Here is the Call for Nominations for Carnival Three. Discovered via scribblingwoman, who will host on December 21st.

New Puritanism - umm, no.

A walk to the park - a really fabulous photograph

How to fix it when polls show that the people think you don't tell the truth? Why, duck and cover with a few more easily controverted, um, inoperative statements.

rock 'n' roller - another favorite photo

Anne's Holiday gift ideas -- it's never too early to start dreaming . . .

First Snow

A snow-bright morning. Crows, ducks, kingfishers. Glowing spots on the mountains where the sun shines through brilliant clouds. All this on a day that our leaders discuss whether or not we, Americans, will give ourselves permission to torture. Whether we will step even further from the international community.

These ducks passed over the guns of hunters. Now they settle together on this river in the center of the city. They will be fed through the winter by the river and human children bringing bread and popcorn. The crows circle and argue for the leftovers. Bird feeders, put away from bears in the summer, reappear for all the backyard birds.

As our president flies back from a South American summit, his plane crosses the paths of migrating flocks going south. Our soldiers come home in pieces. They leave behind them enemies and friends; the guilty and the innocent dead.

Around the world, birds are slaughtered and tested for plague.  Birds acknowledge no boundaries, not those of nations or geography. Plague ignores even the boundaries of species. All are at risk -- our wild birds, our domesticated pets, and our cruel and untamed selves. 

Do You Like Your Job?

Given everything there is to think about this week, this may seem an odd one to choose, but -- I've noticed that a couple of my younger friends (30-ish) hate their jobs. In fact, they have hated all of their jobs, without exception, and I'm wondering what that's about. Is it a generational thing? Or just a coincidence that I happen to know these particular folks?

I have had a lot of jobs in my life -- grocery clerk, nurses' aide, waitress, data-entry clerk, secretary, executive secretary, therapist, program manager, agency director, psychiatric social worker -- and more. And I liked them all.

Of course, there's always something. An irritating coworker; an incompetent boss; an inadequate paycheck. And I was not an ideal employee by any means. I tended to be difficult. A boss once told me he wanted to fire me (I was always late) but he couldn't, since I was the best he had. Heh.

But still, I can't think of one job I didn't like. Even the ones I quit for one reason or another had redeeming qualities. Wonderful, funny coworkers; a boss I could learn from; good pay; challenging work. Something.

It occurs to me, I quit all of them, except the last. Maybe it has something to do with that? The confidence, and the economy to support the confidence, that there's another job around the corner? I always knew -- until I got sick -- that I could support myself; I could take care of myself; my skills were saleable.

It saddens me to see young people so unhappy, so miserable, so full of complaint. So I wonder, is this just the time, the generation? Is such unhappiness in the world, or in the individual? How would one go about changing it, when changing the job seems to have no effect?

Jane Austen Action Figure!

Trust scribblingwoman to find the only action figure I have ever coveted. And oh, I do!

One Small Life

 

 

How is it, that on this day, I am saddened at the loss of one small life.

Rain

Rain. Rain on the park lawn. Rain on the bicycles lined up by the shed. Rain on the tennis court. Rain on the tennis players; rain on their black skin, on their white clothes, on the green ground. Rain on the mountains. Rain on the river. Rain on the voices of people sheltering on front porches.

Rain on the crows and on the happy waggy dogs. Rain on the noisy children splashing their short legs toward the bicycles by the shed. Rain on the black helicopter chopping through the mist. Rain on the Tom Selleck look-alike who eyes me suspiciously, as I photograph the black helicopter, in the rain.

Interesting Reading

10 Things I Have Learned, Milton Glaser
via Lifehacker

Everyone always talks about confidence and believing in what you do. I remember once going to a class in Kundalini yoga where the teacher said that, spirituality speaking, if you believed that you had achieved enlightenment you have merely arrived at your limitation. I think that is also true in a more practical sense. Deeply held beliefs of any kind prevent you from being open to experience, which is why I find all firmly held ideological positions questionable. It makes me nervous when someone believes too deeply or too much. I think that being sceptical and questioning all deeply held beliefs is essential. Of course we must know the difference between scepticism and cynicism because cynicism is as much a restriction of one’s openness to the world as passionate belief is. They are sort of twins.

today as yesterday revisited, Chief Blogging Officer
via Sandhill Trek

What stands in the way is a little item called ideology. Call them belief systems if it makes you more comfortable. Americans, especially, seem to be made easily uncomfortable by talk of ideology. Like class, ideology is what other  people -- people somewhere "over there" -- have. Not us. What we have is the plain vanilla truth. This charming naivete quickly shades into the kind of unconscious arrogance that makes those other people over there want to blow up our buildings and give us all anthrax. Nasty, yes. Despicable, yes. Understandable? Unfortunately, yes. Because if you say you have no ideology, only the truth of the "way things are," then there is no possibility of having a conversation. Because if you say you have no "system of belief" but rather perceive reality as it truly is, then there's no use talking.

The importance of feminism to liberalism, Mouse Words

There's been a lot of ink spilled as of late bemoaning the lack of direction and lack of goals for progressives. This sort of thing really perplexes those of us who concentrate on feminist progressivism--I have no problem whatsoever stating what my direction and goals are for feminism. Feminists want full legal equality for women, parity between the sexes in every aspect of public life, social relationships between men and women based on equality, the rights of children to be acknowledged and respected, the right of women to use every tool science has to offer to maintain control over our bodies, wage equity, social policies to help parents, and healthy social attitudes towards sexuality. We also have tons of plans and ideas that we'd like to implement. You want goals and ideas? Feminists got 'em.

Squid? Or Octopus?, alphabitch
via Trish Wilson's Blog

It's not all that long ago (a few days? weeks?) that Pharyngula came to my attention, but I've become what I guess you could call an admirer of PZ Myers.  And since it's his birthday, and he likes cephalopods, I thought I'd post this story about a squid.  Well, it's not a squid, actually, but the squid plays a very important role.  Plus it does take place in Minnesota.  Well, my dad lives very close to Minnesota, anyway. Just across the river in Wisconsin.

Creating a Post-Civilization Culture, How To Save The World

Principles: Because it's so difficult to get consensus on principles, and because principles cannot be imposed, I think it's important that the new culture have as few principles, and as inclusive and intuitive principles as possible. The smallest set I can come up with that will do the job is these five, and they're all about responsibility:

• Legacy Principle: We must leave the world at least as healthy, abundant and well-off for future generations as we found it.
  
• Gaia Principle: We recognize that Earth is a single, self-balancing, self-managing organism of which we are an inseparable part, and we have a sacred responsibility to respect and live in harmony with all other life on Earth, not treat it as our 'property', and to waste nothing.
  
• Stop at One Principle: Until we can restore a healthy balance to life on our planet, and live up to the Legacy and Gaia Principles, we must procreate no more than one child for each two human inhabitants until our population is reduced to one billion.
• No Debts No Deficits Principle: We must always live within our means, be beholden to no others, and never encumber our descendants.
• Trade Only Surpluses Principle: We will buy from other communities only those things which we cannot reasonably produce ourselves, and sell to other communities only those things which we do not need ourselves.

The Religious Left, Salon

And yet there was a time -- not so very long ago -- when the religious left was a powerful institution in American society and politics, when the term "religious" was not immediately assumed to connote "conservative." Moral giants with names like Reinhold Niebuhr and Dorothy Day and Martin Luther King Jr. led intellectual and social justice movements. It's nearly impossible to page through American history without coming across political causes that were driven either partly or entirely by progressive people of faith -- abolition, women's suffrage, labor reforms of the progressive era, civil rights, and any number of antiwar movements.

A Matter of Meaning

K. and I were discussing religion and philosophy, when one of us mentioned the aphorism:  The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Luckily, we listen to one another, and so discovered that we had completely different understandings of what this means.

K. grew up under this, much disliked, adage that intentions are insufficient; one must act for the good intention to be meaningful. But I was taught that even well- intentioned actions can have evil consequences (as so powerfully depicted in The Sparrow.)

And so now it becomes a reminder of how easily we can, unknowing, talk past each other.

Woodpecker

A slow morning.  Nearly half-an-hour to get my body to move in my bed -- this is not because of pain; it's more like pushing against great weight.  I notice that my fancy bruises are fading. A hot bath to warm the muscles and ease a spasm, then downstairs where I opened the shutters to a wide expanse of wings -- woodpecker. 

I did not start hunting for the camera, just stood at the window and watched as he flew from one spot to another.  He landed on the fence and leaned over to glare at the empty suet feeder, like an angry little old man in a red cap.  And off he went.

Perhaps I will go out today after all. One mustn't earn the wrath of the bird gods.

Pelicans feeding in the Slave River...

Pelicans feeding in the Slave River...
Originally uploaded by The MediaMentor.

This is one of a marvelous Pelican Set, by Georges Lessard -- be sure to go see the rest.

I live in a building that was built in 1948, to provide low-cost, post-war housing.  There are two buildings, which face each other across a driveway/ courtyard -- six units in one building, four in the other.  In front of each unit is a small dirt triangle, with a birch tree and various other plantings.

One day a few years ago, I was tending to my triangle and looked up -- there above me, moving very slowly, was a large flock of pelicans -- so low that even near-sighted I could see the black tips of the wing feathers. In my memory, there is no sound, just the slow flight of these great white birds against the clear blue sky.

When I lived in Alaska, I expected to see amazing things nearly every day; here in Montana, such experiences are more surprising. People speak of  treasured memories -- usually large events, birthdays, weddings, graduations.  For me, large events fade with time, the edges tatter.  It is these small moments that arise, still clear and bright, white against a blue sky.

Erosion

The kestrel is hunting in my garden again today; a garden that saw a brief flurry of snow yesterday, but is now bare. I have been feeling tired, physically, emotionally, spiritually. I think, 'my heart is breaking' -- but that is not exactly it -- it's more like erosion. My heart is eroding. 

The photographs from Fallujah -- which I will not link to here, but they are easily found; the loss and dismembering of lives there, in the Sudan, in so many places -- and not by acts of god.  The preoccupation here, and there, not with god, but with religion. 

They say we may be hard-wired with the need for worship, for god, for some kind of spirituality. I think some of us may be hard-wired for logic and rationality as well, and such a dilemma this creates.

The kestrel takes a sparrow from the fence; the light fades earlier each day; and I am so tired.

Recently Noticed

Last night, thanks to Kim, who took a minute on her way out the door to leave a note for the rest of us, I watched the Northern Lights, a thin dance of gauze across a starred sky.

My recent obsession with maps (and need for perspective) has led to this: instead of goldfish, you will now see a current image of the earth, from Earth and Moon Viewer, each time you come to Watermark.  I have put different versions of this on several of my sites.

I like this, from Writing for the Web:

In Latin, "weaving" or "web" is "textus," and the weaver is a "textor." So I suggest that instead of the vague and wordy term "Web content," we use textus as the term for what we put on a computer monitor. (Once printed out, it becomes good old text.) And instead of calling ourselves "Web content developers" (as if we built housing tracts or worked in a darkroom), we could be textors.

And this, from Margaret Cho, via culturekitchen:

Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think.

Not the whole truth, but true enough to be amusing.

And finally, I am about to take down my Political Humor Poll.  The results, from a very small sample of nine ten votes, are about what I expect from my readers: 70% thought both the site mocking Democrats and the one mocking Republicans were funny; 30% wondered what is wrong with me.

Have a good Monday.

Some Stuff

My crafty friend Niki brought me this a few days ago, in celebration of Halloween, and the New York Times article; the little kitten purrs when squeezed.  Gifts like this help make one real.

Lots happening in the blogosphere:
The IT Kitchen and the Weblogpedia continues with new new topics:  how has weblogging influenced politics; how has politics influenced weblogging; and should webloggers be accountable for what they write. NehaBawa is writing about Social Blogging, including this intriguing idea:  "the blog-as-genre is a contemporary contribution to the art of the self." And grow-a-brain has a blogging post up,  with a link to The Hierarchy of Blogging: Who looks down on whom? -- which puts cat bloggers at the bottom of every ranking. Heh.

Exclamation Mark has luckily not stopped blogging after all, and has some interesting posts on Halloween and All-Saints Day.



Am I really going to do this? 
Not likely . . . but we'll see.

From Kat's Paws, here is an alternative for those who want to create, but not necessarily novelistically. 

And finally, I've put a Political Humor Poll on the sidebar.  What we know so far is that readers of this blog don't take polls. 

Oops, one more thing. 

Smooth Green Snake

This fabulous photograph is from Fragments From Floyd, via Via Negativa.

. . . And out of that mundane chore of autumn, in this world of orange and ochre, in that cool, safe space under the flat roof of rock where it would have spent its anonymous days fattening on spiders before winter, a newly-hatched Smooth Green Snake lay coiled in an emerald knot. . .

Wildlife Morning

There is a dead snake on the path, bicycle tracks across its body.  Two noisy kingfishers fly from the tennis court fence to the river and back again.  A blue heron lifts from behind some bushes; passes by me with its awkward grace; turns so that its slate-grey self has a backdrop of brilliant autumn maples; and flies downriver.  A beaver lazily enters the water.

I'm glad that I have forgotten my camera, as I would doubtless be fumbling with that, instead of just feeling the embrace of this glorious grey morning.

In the Park

In the park this morning:

I watch a dipper harvest the riverbank, until it sees me and skitters off.

A park worker cuts sod to enlarge the volleyball court.

Five geese seem to argue about which direction to go -- two want to go west; three want to go north. After a time, west wins.

Crows, magpies, ducks. Bees and grasshoppers. Crabapple trees catching fire.

Much pain and fatigue this past few days. It is hard to see the world around me.

Raccoon Morning

This is what I woke to the other morning -- a raccoon managed to bend the iron bar with the 'squirrel proof' bird feeder and bring it down nearly to the ground (it usually hangs at the same level as the suet feeder in the upper right of this photo.)  It also managed to get the lid off of the galvanized steel bucket that holds the feed -- and bent the entire bucket so out of shape that the lid won't fit anymore. 

[Note:  I say "it" not to deny its personhood, but because I don't know if it's a girl raccoon or a boy raccoon.]

It also left raccoon prints at my neighbor's house/ building site -- I'm glad for that, since I briefly feared it might have been a bear.  We get bears in Missoula, but not generally this far into town.

Now I must come up with a more raccoon-proof feeding system.  At least it did not get any of the pond goldfish.

Moon

I float through my days on a soft cushion of medication.  I am in a big blow-up raft, high, and dry, and well away from deep water.  I focus on minutiae -- the foam bubbles at the surface; reflections of sky and trees.  Softly up, softly down, the current carries me where it will.

At mid-night, startled from a dream, I open my eyes to the glare of the full moon.   

Magpies

There was a tiding of magpies in the park this morning; young ones, I think.   One caught my eye, then flew directly at me and rolled in the air about six inches from my face, showing me its lovely belly.  I did not flinch, wince, cringe . . .

(Digression:  flinch, wince, cringe -- aren't these lovely words?  They feel in the mouth and ring in the ear as exactly what they mean.  To say wince is to wince. Clench -- there's another one. )

How did I know that this youngster was not attacking me, that it was only saying good morning?  How did it know that I would welcome its greeting?

What cues do we read in each other to recognize no danger here? 

Minor Things

Yesterday, Abigail came to visit, and brought me a brioche. After some discussion with my internal parent, this is what I had for dinner: a cup of cocoa, and a brioche.

This morning, walking the dogs, an eagle flew upwind & upriver. Fighting the wind, it hovered in front of us. I wondered, is it eyeing me? Eyeing my dogs? (It is so difficult to resist making the world be about oneself.) For a long time, it hovered there, then plunged into the river and came up -- fishless.

Today another friend comes to visit from far away. Yesterday spent clearing surfaces of mail, magazines, books, long-lost & scattered notes. Pointless, really, as he and his partner are considering buying here, so will soon enough know my daily chaos anyway. Add illness to a messy & readerly temperment, and one has this disorderly mass of paper, plus dust, plus cat fur and the odd buried hair clip. I become the spinster crone.

How To Be Creative

Very cool thread at gapingvoid.com, via boingboing.

Teeth

Has anyone else noticed that television political pundits are suffering some weird epidemic that makes their teeth whiter, and whiter, and whiter?

One can hardly see their faces anymore, for the glare.

Breathe

Whiskey River so often has what I need. Usually it is words, but today it is this, from the bottom of the Whiskey River page.

Sudden Happiness

At the end of a long, dim day I sit in my rain-drenched garden and am suddenly overcome with happiness -- for absolutely no reason.

Sun

The first blue morning in six days. In drought country, it is bad form to complain about rain -- and I don't -- but surely I can be forgiven for welcoming the sun?

Glorious Translation

From Adufe.pt -- "Adufe: s.m. (sXV) Type of squared pandeiro of Arab origin, light fact wooden with membranes retesadas of both the sides, used especially in Portuguese and Brazilian folclóricas parties "in" Dictionary HOUAISS of the Portuguese Language, Circle of Readers, 2001, Portugal " One blogue of White Rui

English (Almost) translation provided onsite by SYSTRAN:

IN THE TV

Yesterday I did not obtain to see the minister to run away to the cannon from water and today the only thing that vi were a cloud of dust folloied for strident shouts in a great enterprise of terraplanagem algures in one such of Band of Gaza, or would be of Gauze?

At last, I disconnect the device as if it was not nothing with me and thus I was in silence, to the wait of retakes.

God is great!