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]

Popolo di Pekino

National Geographic - Sunday August 9

There will be a television program on the National Geographic channel this Sunday evening, August 9, that promises to be very entertaining. Here's the link to the website.

http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/episode/drain-the-ocean-3639/Overview?source=banner_stngc_108

Is it August already?

Can't believe it's already the 6th of August.

Sixty-four years ago, the "Enola Gay" dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, and changed history forever.

Compositions

The Coke Truck

Composition in blue, black, gold, and red

Commentary

On this beautiful day in late July in the great and financially burdened State of California, a guy on the radio made a comment that blogging can be narcissistic. I suppose it is possible sometimes to agree with such an assertion for some blogs. But I would venture to say that The Occasional Muse does not fall within the purview of this judgment. Instead for the record let us simply say this : introspective, perhaps, but narcissistic, hardly.

Disposal

He felt it was high time someone did something about it. It had been sitting there for several days, and no one had bothered to touch it, much less move it. The fungus had not yet penetrated the outer skin, but he knew it would not take long for the bloom to spread across its glossy surface, which had remained largely intact except for some irregular purple striations across the top. Once that happened, things would get out of hand very quickly.

He did not want to use a respirator, but he had to have gloves, the heavy duty ones. A shovel and a garden wheelbarrow would have been useful, but he knew he would not be able to find them, or for that matter, anyone else to lend a hand.

The thing was heavier than he expected, and it could not be rolled. He picked it up and lifted it to his shoulders, feeling it vibrate gently as it emitted little hisses through the twin vents at the crown. What had once been eyes had long since withdrawn within the folds of its carapace, and the vestigial feelers were no longer functional. One antenna was already withered.

He had many steps to climb before he reached the disposal area. Once at the top, he uttered the usual incantations and then, with a great heave, he flung the quivering object into the seething cauldron below.

(fragment from an unpublished science-fiction story)

1993 as seen from 1893

What the Future looked like in 1893. Click on the link.

feb-16-judge-magazine-.jpg

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Corfiot scenes

Weathered walls and windows

Bread & broad

Corfiot lady and tourists

Shoe and boot repair

Neighborly laundry

Lady walking past Georgios Theotokis statue

Bikes in a courtyard

Roof stack and antennas

Fleming - Strauss - 'September'

Here's the link to Wikipedia's entry for Richard Strauss's "Four Last Songs" of which "September" is one.

Four_Last_Songs

The plaintive horn solo at the end is enough to bring a person to tears.
Renee, as always, is lovely.

Monologue

One never really knows, eh?

I mean, how can you really, really know?

I mean, some things you just gotta, like, take on faith.

You know what I mean?

Yeah, a bit lower.

Yeah, like that.

Yeah, yeah, right there.
Right there.

Ennui

It wasn't as though he was looking at anything in particular, sitting there on the bench in the sun. On his head was the old fedora he had picked up at the Goodwill many years ago when wearing hats was still in fashion. There was a hole in the crown just above the headband.

Several pigeons strutted around his feet, pecking at the crumbs that had fallen from his pastrami-and-rye sandwich. It was four-fifteen of a winter afternoon, and there were few people out on the street.

At the bank across the street, a young man was hunched over by the ATM, perhaps wondering how come his bank card was not working. He wore an orange sweater and hiking boots.

So that's how it goes, the old man thought, reaching in his jacket pocket for another Lifesaver.




(to be continued)

All Over Coffee

This is the Madonna whose works I enjoy.

Paul Madonna

***

Tre Sbirri Una Carrozza

After a Shower

This might have been posted before -- I'm not sure. But I thought the chiaroscuro effect was kinda neat.

Tool

No, this isn't a kid's Transformer toy (minus the steroids). It's a Leatherman Wave tool that my son gave me some years ago for Father's Day. American-made, it has more finely-machined stainless steel parts than your average Swiss Army knife. There's a top-grain leather case that came with it. I haven't used it much. Except to accidentally cut myself a couple of times, when trying to push all the sharp parts back into their storage positions.

.

For the Bulwer-Lytton Contest?

He was at that time trying to learn enough Uruguayan Portuguese or Brazilian Spanish for his trip to South America. There his family had a cattle ranch near the border that needed attention, having fallen on hard times due to mismanagement

It was a difficult enough task to find a teacher who was a native speaker, but to find one who knew Flemish was almost impossible. After a lengthy search and a series of classified ads in the Brussels newspapers, he found a young woman with a degree in comparative linguistics who had recently graduated from the University of Ghent. She accepted his offer of a job to accompany him and to act as interpreter.

Together they traveled by train to Friedrichshafen, where they had booked a flight on the "Graf Zeppelin" on her maiden voyage to Rio de Janeiro. Except for an electrical storm off the West African coast that provided some excitement, the flight was pleasant and uneventful.

From Rio, they went south by train to the railhead at São Brás da Fonseca, and then by car and by oxcart, arriving at their destination, the small village of Pedras Negras, in a drenching tropical rain. The land portion of the trip had taken as long as the Zeppelin flight across the Atlantic.

Over the course of six months, under the manager's care and the young interpreter's skill, the cattle ranch showed clear signs of improvement. Better quality cattle feed was imported from Argentina, new wells were dug, and the spring crop of calves exceeded in number the total from the three prior years'.

(To be continued)

Euro Dime

This is a Euro ten-cent coin. How it appeared among my spare change I have no idea.

It happens to be a Spanish Euro coin, as the obverse shows the word "España" and an image of Cervantes, along with the year 1999. What initially interested me about this coin is the depiction of the different countries of the EC at that time. Their shapes are separated by spaces, in a sort of exploded view, but are readily identifiable as to what they represent, even down to the Mediterranean islands of Crete, Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, and one of the Balearic Islands. (I suppose the other Balearic Islands, and the state of Malta are too small to be shown.)

Also interesting is the inclusion of the Hebrides west of Scotland in the British Isles, the Danish Islands of Zealand and Fyn (but not the tinier ones, of course), and the Swedish island of Bornholm in the Baltic Sea. The shape of Germany is what it is today after reunification. The two large pieces at the top represent Sweden and Finland, but Norway, not being in the EC, is not represented here.

The separation of the Iberian countries of Spain and Portugal is also worthy of note, for it reminds me of José Saramago's novel "The Raft" where the Iberian peninsula is detached at the Pyrenees, and floats away from the rest of Europe out into the Atlantic.

The coin is about 2 centimetres or ¾ inch in diameter, larger than a U.S. dime but roughly the same as our copper penny. Like our own coins, its intrinsic value in terms of its metal composition is probably higher than its stated face value.

The coin's designer has discreetly placed his or her initials LL to the right of the figure 10.
.

California Landscape

View from on a hill overlooking Tice Valley

'Io Son L'Umile Ancella' - Mirella Freni

Took an out-of-focus picture of a lovely bride and handsome groom, changed things around a bit with Photoshop, enhancing colors and saturation, shadows and highlights, made it even more blurry and added a frosted glass effect, and this is the result.

Problem is, you can spend a lot of time doing this sort of thing, and then you wonder whether the final product is worth the effort.
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Pão, pão, queijo, queijo

This is the name of a café-restaurant in Lisbon, not far from the Jerónimos abbey in Belém. Literally translated, it says "bread, bread, cheese, cheese". It is reputed to have some of the best baguettes in Lisbon, which is a city with bakeries in almost every block, and you can smell freshly-baked bread in the mornings when you wander the streets.

The name, however, is also from a Portuguese expression, meaning simply, down-to-earth, no-nonsense, practicality.
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Midsummer

Gosh darn it, I missed it again yesterday. Had all these plans to wait up for it and just carry on like those guys do at Stonehenge, had the robes and wand all ready, the incantations, dance steps, all that stuff. Now I will have to wait another six months for the next one, the shorter one. Well, silly me for not looking at the calendar.
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House No.5

Doorway No. 5

Here is the entrance to a larger house in Viseu, Portugal, than the one posted a couple of days ago. (I'm going through my old photographs of our trips, to pick out interesting ones which may tell a story, or else fire the imagination well enough to suggest a story.)

The house is in an older residential section of Viseu, and was probably built in the nineteenth century for an affluent merchant. At any rate, it was obviously constructed in the days before the advent of electricity, as evident from the bands of outside wiring strung above the door.

The house itself is sturdily built, stone being the chief material of its construction, and it does not appear to be in any dire need of major maintenance, at least not yet. The paint on the walls has begun to fade and peel, and the balcony and its supports could probably do with a good scrubbing, as can the intricately-designed and curved wrought iron railing on the balcony. But these are minor matters that do not need immediate attention, though a small investment in time or money would do wonders for the appearance of this façade.

The doorframe and the small balcony base are of dressed stone, as is the pilaster on the left. The stylized fleur-de-lys carving over the door would suggest that this house originally belonged to someone of the merchant class, rather than a member of the minor aristocracy, who would as likely as not have required the builder to place an armorial crest there. There are several little touches of the stonemason's art in the doorframe, such as the shapely curved headpiece and wings, and the small projections on either side. The painted numeral 5, in white on blue, required by the municipal authorities to make the postman's job easier, does detract a little from the elegance of the doorway.

The carved wooden door itself, although showing the effects of weathering, is stout and elegant, most noticeably in the middle where the two sides meet perfectly, even down to the machine-turned decorative baluster between the rectangular panels at the base. The inset key-hole is understated, and does not detract from the artistic integrity of the door, nor do the two little brass downward pointing hands that form double knockers above it.
The ovoid carvings, set within the magisterial I-shaped panels, offer attractive focal points to balance the twin knockers.

The brass mail slot is partially agape from the mail that has recently been stuffed there by a hurried postman, with the red corner of a piece of advertising material peeping out just enough to give the picture a tiny fillip of bright color.

As for the balcony above, its use, as always in architectural details of this type, is (like lip gloss) more decorative than functional, for one is unlikely ever to see an occupant there, unless it was to witness, for example, a Holy Week procession. The white-painted double door of the balcony, however, is interesting, in that it provides an impression of wide-eyed innocence behind the lacy veil of the balcony railing.
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Christmas Eve 2007, Guimarães, Portugal.

In the main square of the town, early in the morning and cold, the menfolk are gathered to smoke and talk. Not sure whether this is a gathering that takes place every day, or this day is special because it is the Monday before Christmas Day, and thus a holiday. Maybe the women are all at Mass, or maybe they are at home preparing the consoada, the traditional Portuguese meal on Christmas Eve. In any case, the early light gives fine shadows and a pleasant composition. Note the British-style public telephone box on the right. The British have really left their mark in the port wine region of Portugal.
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A house in Viseu

This humble old house is in a narrow cobblestoned street in a poorer neighborhood in the central Portuguese city of Viseu. Like many others of its type, the building is of stone and brick, and has a red tile roof. There are three levels, of which the lowest was probably once a cellar or store-room, or more likely a stable for domestic animals. It now has a door with a lock and a mail slot, so it was probably converted into a separate flat by the owner. The two upper floors form the original living quarters of the house, the front door of which is reached by ten stone steps flanked by rickety iron railings. One of them has lost an upright, making it unreliable, certainly for an older tenant. The doors, and especially the windows of the building are weathered and in serious need of new paint, as the large areas of bare wood testify. However, the cream-colored plaster of the wall appears to be in reasonable shape, and has perhaps recently been given a coat of paint, which is more than can be said for the houses on either side. The house on the right has a brick pillar from which most of the plaster or stucco has fallen away.

On the clothesline hang a pair of men's dark trousers, a pair of light blue men's pyjama trousers with a matching top, which has what appears to be a monogram or decoration above the right breast, a dish cloth and a kitchen towel. Perhaps we may surmise from these articles that the occupant of the upper flat is a single petit bourgeois male who, despite being in reduced circumstances, leads a simple, quiet and possibly solitary life, and who has succeeded in keeping his living quarters (rented, no doubt) in orderly fashion. It is likely that he walks to his place of employment, which may be close enough to be reached on foot, and that he carries his lunch with him. Is it possible that he has a lady friend who visits him from time to time, say, to mend the tear in the pocket of his trousers? It would not be surprising to me if in fact he does. The telltale signs are the colorful clothespins fastened here and there on the clothesline. These could only have been purchased by a woman.
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Chicken soup and other things

Tonight I made chicken and vegetable soup for dinner. Used a pressure cooker, for speed. Actually wanted to make an all-veggie soup, but my wife wanted to add some chicken we had in the freezer. No, I haven't yet had a chance to see "Food, Inc." the movie. But from all the reviews I've been reading, it sure sounds like a stomach-turner. Especially the segment on chicken-farming. Maybe I'll just wait till the movie comes out on DVD. That way, I will be able to fast-forward past the really unnerving parts of the movie.

* * *

Lovely mild day today. Went down to the repair shop to pick up my ancient Rainbow vacuum cleaner, still good after 37 years. The only things that it needed were a new cord, a good cleaning and lube, plus new motor-brushes, and now it runs perfectly again. The thing I really like about it is that the dust is collected in a water tank instead of a messy bag.

* * *

Have resumed my daily walks, and feel more energized as a result. Now, if I could just get rid of the pounds I took on over the past couple of weeks. Maybe skipping lunch might help.

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A quiet spell, and peanut butter

After many days, the Muse is back in circulation. Our overseas visitors have left for home, the countless dinner parties and dances and get-togethers are now no more than pleasant memories. The large platters of feijoada, diabo, boeuf bourgignon, capela, curries, the offerings of chilicotes, samosas, shrimp toast, flan, bebinca de leite, coqueiras, and other sweetmeats, not to mention the succession of restaurant meals, have added to our avoirdupois and pumped up our blood sugar levels, while the dancing and singing and laughter of the past week and a half, added to the long drives to the far corners of the Bay Area, have left us in a breathless state close to exhaustion.

This reunion was akin to an alignment of the planets, as these longtime friends came from several continents to join together for the same reason as they had in years past – simply to celebrate their long friendships and chat and laugh about old times. And so, the ten days went by in a blaze of picture-taking and videotaping for the benefit of those who were not able to be here to participate.

And now we are, to the best of our ability, once again ready to resume our lives in the manner to which we are accustomed. At our age, you really can't keep up the hectic pace of daily parties for long, even though dancing is good exercise (or so I'm told).

***

My wife bought this jar of peanut butter. Peanut butter comes in plastic jars these days, not glass ones as in the past. I sort of miss the glass jars – somehow plastic does not seem right for peanut butter.

The jar has a label which says "Made with U.S.Grown Peanuts" and that the product is "organic", which appears to be an adjective that's highly valued by manufacturers of foodstuff these days. Now, I ask myself, are U.S.-grown peanuts superior to those coming from other countries, say, in West Africa, for example? Does this label contain an implicit message that this is the case, and that, as patriotic Americans, we should buy this brand (which, by the way, is the brand of one of those "big box" warehouse stores)? The label sure has a faint tinge of xenophobia to it, IMHO.

Is "organic" more desirable than non-organic? And what's the difference, anyhow?

In today's newspaper there's a story about a new movie that's coming out tomorrow, a documentary called "Food, Inc."

Food, Inc.

I intend to see it, if only to satisfy my curiosity.
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Error Message

Yep. It's finally happened. It came on quite suddenly. One minute the digital camera was working just fine, and the next ... well, this is what happened.

On the LCD screen - E 91:01, flashing away. Tried to do the reset with a pencil tip in the little hole. Went through the whole initialization process, date and time, personal preferences, language, exposure, backlight, zebra pattern, the works. Got all that done. But the flashing didn't go away.

Browsed the internet to see if other people had run into this problem, and, would you believe it, there were literally hundreds of owners of cameras, as well as of many other electronic gadgets, all clamoring for help with the E 91:01 message. And most of the responses were for the owners to send the damn thing to the manufacturer for repair. In my case, with it being a Sony, we're talking a basic charge of a couple hundred bucks, and that does not even include the cost of any parts the repair might need.

So what to do? It's a big heavy camera, not a pocket point-and-shoot. Everything else is working fine. Takes excellent photos. Great lens. But I can't flog it on eBay unless the problem is fixed. I decided to keep it with the flashing E 91:01, and use an external flash when needed. Tested that, works fine. Not the best solution, seeing as there's going to be added weight with the flash. But then I use it mostly outdoors, without the flash. Besides, I can rationalize that the on-camera pop-up flash is practically useless anyhow in most situations except for flash fill.

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Visual Illusions

StumbledUpon! this site, which has some very intriguing stuff.

Illusions
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More Photoshop

Hubert Bogarth III

Photoshop Fun

From a couple of images of Che Guevara smoking a cigar, I used Photoshop Elements to give the old revolucionario a different look.

Facebook

Been spending time on Facebook and not very much on this blog. Posting images here requires about the same amount of time as for Facebook, but putting words together for the blog takes a bit more effort, especially when, as now, the Muse deserts. But, not to worry, she will return.
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Shanghai Public Market

Scenes in a Shanghai market

Rice, beans, and nuts

See the hanging preserved goose?

Pretty noodle maker with fabulous hair

Gizzards and thighs and feet, oh, my!

Sugar cane, pineapples, bananas, and melons. And California oranges.

Fish of all varieties

The cautious egg, rice, and bean guy eyeing a customer.

Sweet baked stuff

Apologies to E.F. and O.K.

A bowl of oatmeal with milk of cow

A piece of toast, a bit of jam, and thou

Beside me at this breakfast table

Ah! Breakfast were Paradise enow!

California landscape

This is a quiet response to a friend who recently moved to Oregon. Oregon?

Oh, Whistle and I'll Come to You, My Lad.

This M.R.James story, which I read when I was oh, just a little tyke, still has the power to give me the creeps. For creepy stories, Montague Rhodes James is tough to beat.

Oh, Whistle and I'll Come to You, My Lad

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The Golden Gate

This was taken on a slightly hazy day in 2002. Came across it as I was
going through my photo files. Always a pretty sight.