Year-end thoughts

Been away for a couple of weeks -- twelve days actually, like in the Christmas song. Will be posting some pictures of our trip to Hong Kong and Macau, within the next week or so, after all the year-end hullaballoo is behind us. Grateful for the wonderful hospitality of friends, for the absence of rain except for the last day, for not catching any bugs on this trip (though I could sense that they were hovering close just waiting to breach our defense systems), and even for the additional security checks that assured a safe flight and return.

Hong Kong International Airport has a lot to commend it in the many choices of dining available, from burgers to Chiu Chow noodle soup.

Looking forward to tomorrow and a big New Year's Eve party with agreeable companions.
_

Waiting for Bart

Dvořák - Cello Concerto - Adagio ma non troppo

Nice day

Interesting lines and angles

Grey wall in sunlight

Donuts and bicycles

Brian's Field

San Mateo - Downtown Views

El Camino Real

View of the Bay

Downtown roofs

Luxury apartment buildings

Abandoned at 100 Years

Morning, Winter, Downtown

Pictures of downtown San Mateo taken on this chilly, lovely morning.

Panettone

This from the bottom of a cardboard box containing one Panettone, the popular Christmas loaf from Italy

Da consumarsi preferibilimente entro

A consommer de préfèrence avant le

A consumir preferentemente antes de

Best before

(and right below these, an imprint of the date)

The point I’m making is that the Romance languages are so much wordier than English.

_

Full Frontals

Took my car in today for an oil change and regular service.

Had an hour to kill, so strolled through the neighborhood
and snapped a few photos of some storybook houses.

In these parts, we have fall colors in the wintertime.

A stroll in San Bruno

Forget the Christmas lights. Just repaint the shutters.

No garage, but there's ample outdoor parking.

A sunlit back room in a quiet neighborhood.

A charming entry but no front yard to speak of.

Elina Garanca sings "Ave Maria"

This will bring tears to your eyes.

Pills

It's what you put

into your mouth –

all those chemicals

with long names

that you

don't bother

to question —

that in the end

will meet

their cousins

inside you

to make

trouble.

Bernstein and Mahler's 'Adagietto'

More information than you'll ever need in one photo

Below is the EXIF data in one simple digital photo

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Imagine that!

Painted Lady - Halifax, Nova Scotia

Compared to San Francisco's painted ladies, this one is not quite so elegant.

The Avian Society of Digby, Nova Scotia

Gathering to chew the suet.

Northeastern Salt boxes

Hand-drawn signs on the shiplap siding of a restaurant

A house for sale by owner

An Original Thought, Or Maybe Not.

It is a realization that arrives later in life – that you are not as smart as you once thought.

Famous guy quote

Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t come to yours.

-- Yogi Berra

.

Verde Vinho

Ninguém na rua, na noite fria,
só eu e o luar
Voltava a casa,
quando vi que havia
luz num velho bar

Não hesitei, fazia frio e nele entrei
Estando tão longe da minha terra,
tive a sensação
de ter entrado numa taberna
de Braga ou Monção
E um homem velho
se acercou e assim falou

Vamos brindar
com vinho verde que é do meu Portugal
e o vinho verde me fará recordar
A aldeia branca que deixei
atras do mar

Vamos brindar
com verde vinho pra que eu possa cantar
Canções do Minho que me fazem sonhar
com o momento de voltar
ao lar.

Falou-me então daquele dia triste
o velho Luiz
em que deixara tudo quanto existe
para ser feliz
A noiva, a mãe,
a casa, o pai e o cão também

Pensando agora naquela cena
que na estranja vi
Recordo a mágoa, recordo a pena
que com ele vivi.
Bom português,
regressa breve, vem de vez...

Vamos brindar
com vinho verde que é do meu Portugal
e o vinho verde me fará recordar
A aldeia branca que deixei
atras do mar

Vamos brindar
com verde vinho pra que eu possa cantar
Canções do Minho que me fazem sonhar
com o momento de voltar
ao lar.

Frontispiece

-
It was about time for me to replace the two Grecian ladies in traditional garb with a sunny Mediterranean scene (above).
-

The Feeder

The hummingbird feeder I put up a few weeks ago has been visited regularly by those it was intended for,and also by others.

First, a word about the hummingbirds. I had not realized how territorial these little creatures are. There's one (I'm 99% sure it's the same one) who will chase away intruders whenever they show up. He seems to own the feeder and the surrounding air. He's never far away, and usually he remains out of my line of sight as I look out the kitchen window. But the instant a trespasser comes near the feeder, out he swoops like a well-aimed crossbow dart and chases the newcomer away in a high-speed pursuit, until the two disappear into the trees across the backyard. You may think I don't know one hummingbird from the next, but I think I do. This guy is aggressive like you would not believe. I wonder how many intruders he may have damaged with his sharp little beak.

Second, hummingbird nectar is nothing more than one part pure sugar to four parts pure water. The manufactured stuff has red coloring added, because it is believed that the red will attract the birds. Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn't. When I'm out of the store-bought stuff, the next fill-up will be with sugar water. We'll see what the difference is.

Third, bees, wasps, and ants also like sugar water. Ants especially. They can really foul the feeder up. So I had a little plastic pill container filled with water, and added it above the contraption to act like a moat, keeping ants from getting down to the feeder. It works great. You should see the frustrated ants who tried desperately to crawl down the hanging wire, and had nowhere to go except back the way they came. Ant confusion is a very satisfying sight to behold. It was no picnic for them.

The end of September

Once more, with feeling, before the month ends. And at the end of Strauss's "September" click over to the lovely final trio from "The Rosenkavalier", with Soile Isokoski, Angelica Kirchschlager and Genia Kühmeier. My alltime favorite.

The Black Ball (a short short story)

The ceiling fan rattled. It did little to alleviate the late afternoon heat in the club's library, where a half dozen of the older members sat reading or dozing in wicker armchairs. A club servant in a white uniform and green fez went around collecting empty glasses, using a rag to wipe the tabletops.

Saunders saw that the servant was barefoot, and once again this annoyed him. It had been three months since he had proposed that cheap canvas shoes be provided to the club's native staff, and two weeks since he had again brought up the matter with the secretary. Why was the committee still so dilatory about it? No answer, not a word, just an impatient dismissive shake of the head. His son-in-law had a whole crate of the shoes in his warehouse by the harbor. If nothing was done soon, mildew and pilferage would overtake the inventory before you could say Jack Robinson.

Saunders ordered another gin and tonic, closing his eyes against the glare from the harbor beyond the veranda's balustrade. The servant nodded and padded away, his bare feet whispering softly on the varnished teak floor. "Make it a good one this time," Saunders called out after him

He dozed off for a few minutes, and then someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Ballot time, old man."

It was McMartin, the membership chairman, who held out the ancient ballot box, a white cloth, and a sheet of paper.

"Who is it this time?" Saunders asked.

"Classmate of Kiernan's. Stanton by name. Just arrived in these parts a few weeks ago. Here's the application."

Saunders glanced quickly at the piece of paper. In the space for "occupation", the applicant Stanton had written "Importer". He looked up at McMartin. "What kind of importer?" he asked.

"Don't rightly know, old man. Whisky, Lancashire cotton, that sort of thing, I suppose."

Saunders opened the little drawer in the wooden ballot box that held the black and white balls. He placed the cloth in such a way that prevented McMartin from seeing his selection. "Whisky, eh?" he repeated. "God knows we have enough of that already."

McMartin said, "Wait, yes, now that I think about it, Kiernan did say something about shoes. Yes, cheap shoes. From India, actually."

Saunders glanced quickly under the white cloth, and picked up a black ball. He dropped this in the little square opening on top of the box. It fell with a thud in the felt-lined interior to register his vote.

"Shoes, you say?' Saunders muttered, handing the ballot box to McMartin, just as the servant returned with his gin and tonic on a tray. "Well, well, jolly good for him."

Our Place in the Sun

Or at least, that's what the banner on the light post proclaims . . .

Languages of Romance

How come Spanish is easier to learn than Portuguese? One reason: genderless possessive pronouns.

Leaving the Opera in the Year 2000

by Albert Robida

[1883]

The Onion

It seems the guy was trying to slice an onion. Now slicing onions is one of the most common tasks for any cook, even the rankest amateur. But to slice an onion right requires some skill and care. This guy was slicing an onion with neither care nor skill. He was not using the right kind of knife, and it was not sharp. He should have left the onion in the refrigerator for a time before slicing, so as to minimize the fumes that bring on tears. He did not do this.

He did not hold the onion correctly, which is to say, firmly, on the cutting surface, which was wet and slippery to begin with. The unsharp knife slipped a couple of times on the onion’s surface, and he used a crude sawing motion for the first couple of tries. This merely shredded a part of the onion’s skin, which should have been removed ahead of time, but had not been. The way he hacked at the onion was nerve-wracking to watch. He was not paying close attention to the task. And he performed the task with unrivaled clumsiness.

Inevitably his finger got in the way of the blade. There was much blood on the cutting surface as a result. It was first thought that a visit to the emergency room of the local hospital might be in the cards, but as it turned out no stitches were needed.

The throbbing lasted for several days, even with analgesics.

City Scenes

Chinese Hospital mural, Stockton Street, San Francisco

Sacramento Street at Stockton, San Francisco

Balcony and fire escape, Chinatown, San Francisco

Columbus Avenue at Stockton Street, North Beach, San Francisco

View of the Oakland Bay Bridge from Grant Avenue, Chinatown, San Francisco

Victorian Era Computer?

Anniversary

We will not forget

Never forget.

Never

*********************

Drain Cleaner

It does not require a fertile imagination to visualize the efficiency of the millions of tiny fibers from the ingested bran, coursing through the grease-encrusted interiors of arteries to scour their walls like a good dose of Drano in drainpipes. That's how I think of my daily bowl of oatmeal.

Library shelf

A few books in my library about film.

The Winton Train

A tribute to a 100-year-old man who saved 669 Jewish children during WWII, (Sir Nicholas Winton, the 'British Schindler', is still alive today).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winton_Train

Watched on BBC TV the arrival today of the train at Liverpool Street station in London from Prague, Czechia .

The Hummingbird

Is this the same one

clinging to

the hanging planter

preening, with

his wings at rest?

Yesterday

the same pose

the same spot

a meter away

from the

feeder sparkling

like cranberry juice

in the sun.

He waits

while a sparrow

pecks at the red

and yellow

plastic,

and finds nothing

worth her trouble.

His turn comes

as she flies away.

Futura v. Verdana

Here's what's been happening with Ikea's logo, and what a storm it's whipped up.

http://technologyexpert.blogspot.com/2009/08/ikeas-font-change-prompt-backlash.html

Little Elephant

Just watched a Planet Earth episode. Animals heading for the Okavango swamp from the desert. Baby elephant gets separated from the herd. Long shot taken from a helicopter. Flat bleak landscape as far as the eye can see. No water in sight. The little guy is dutifully following its mother's footprints, but in the wrong direction. Breaks your heart.

The Fall of Icarus

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

-- William Carlos Williams

Time to Reflect

The man who told me this story is no longer in the land of the free. He is in a prison in a tropical country that for reasons of international relations and domestic politics shall remain nameless. It would not be indiscreet, however, to describe the country as being located in the narrow waist between the Americas, that the language of the majority of its inhabitants is a form of Spanish, and that its principal exports are unripe fruits and the less advantaged of its citizens.

Our protagonist, an American in his mid-fifties, was once a person of influence in the capital city of that country. Living there for decades, and enjoying the status and privileges of a well-to-do expatriate, he moved easily within the circles of the ruling class, which typically was made up of military men trained in the U.S. From within this oligarchy, through coups that might deniably have been directed from Washington, came the country's presidents. Once in a while, the country's leadership might comprise a junta of several officers who made a great show of sharing power, until the strongest among them gained enough control of the armed forces to send his erstwhile partners into exile in Miami.

In such a climate, rampant corruption kept pace with inflation, and the country's meager natural resources were exploited, converted, and then diverted into secret offshore bank accounts for the benefit of the oligarchs and their families. Our protagonist was then well placed to facilitate the process, and in so doing, he ensured that he also became a beneficiary. So lucrative was his enterprise that in time he became a prominent citizen of the country, acquiring a fine house in a guarded colonia, a beautiful wife, and several mistresses

All went well for a dozen years, until a new revolution brought to power a young colonel of peasant stock, a campesino who was legendary for his bravery and incorruptibility. That he was also a Marxist added to his luster in the eyes of the common people. This new leader and his devoted followers did what they could to clean out the Stygian stables of the impoverished country. Our protagonist was arrested, tried, and convicted of a number of crimes against the people, and sentenced to fourteen years' hard labor.

(End of story, until I can think of a better denouement.)

Barge Family

Like so many of Cartier-Bresson's pictures, this one captures a telling moment in the life of his subjects, in this case that of a barge family, probably in rural France. The vertical composition is dominated by the figure of a young man in the foreground, dark-haired and bare-armed, clad in dungarees, no shirt. He faces away from the camera, and is looking towards the entryway of a barge moored alongside a dock or canal embankment where he stands, and where a pair of sturdy bollards glint in the morning sun. Being closest to the camera, the man is slightly out of focus, particularly where his left elbow points straight at the camera lens.

The center of attention, the point of sharpest focus of the whole composition, is the figure of a baby, plump and naked in the clasping hands of its pretty mother, who stands with one bare foot on the threshold of the barge entry. Also framed in the door are an older woman, likely the child's grandmother, wearing a checked dress and a cap or kerchief, and between the two women, a dog. A second dog has already hopped ashore and is looking up expectantly at the young man, his master.

What can be seen of the barge's superstructure appears to be the living quarters and the raised wheelhouse, whose windows are partly obscured by the man's head. The pane of one window has a crack in it, and the simple roof over the door is of tarpaper held in place by wood battens. In the upper left of the picture can be seen the far bank of the canal, parts of buildings, trees, and walls, and the sparkle of water through the cracked window pane.

What is the story behind this picture? This is what I make of it.

The barge has just arrived and the young man comes ashore to moor it. His mother, the woman in the checked dress, has been busy in the small kitchen, preparing a breakfast of omelets, home-made bread, and coffee. Her daughter-in-law, after giving the baby its bath, smilingly carries it out to see its father. Grandma joins them at the doorway, and so do the two dogs. The young man, hands on hips, whistles to his child, as one dog jumps onto the sunlit landing.

The Paperclip - A Vignette

He stood there in the doorway of my office, squinting against the morning sunlight coming in through the window behind me. I was trying to get my presentation ready. It was Thursday and the Executive Committee was meeting that afternoon. All the bigwigs on the seventh floor would be there, there would be tons of questions, and it was my job to make sure that my boss was prepared with his answers, the very answers that I was making up while anticipating the questions. The numbers on the budget looked screwy to me, but there wasn't enough time to double-check them all. We'd just have to go with what we had.

He stood there with one hand on the doorframe. His other hand held a bent paperclip that he was using to clean his ear. 'Where you goin' for lunch?' he asked.

Without looking up, I said, 'Nowhere' and did not try to hide the irritation in my voice. It was eight-forty in the morning, and here he was asking me what my lunch plans were, when I didn't even have time for a coffee break.

'How's Moira?' he asked. He had straightened the paperclip and was now using it to pick his teeth.

'Fine, just fine,' I said. I wanted to tell him where he could go, but I held my tongue.

'And the baby?'

'She's fine. Everyone's fine.'

'Not in a talkative mood today, are you?' he said, wiping the paperclip on a paper napkin he must have picked up at the cafeteria. He leaned casually against the doorframe. 'Didja watch Seinfeld last night?'

Without looking up, I heaved a sigh. Not even a remote chance he would get the hint. He continued, 'That new Thai place on Sutter. We could try that.'

I could take no more. I don't explode easily as a rule, but this time I simply had to.

[more to come]

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