On my calendar
Three boats, 24 houses and 22 ducks.
Why doesn't it hang straight? (It doesn't)
On my calendar
Three boats, 24 houses and 22 ducks.
Why doesn't it hang straight? (It doesn't)
Bumblebee you said it was Spring.
I didn't listen.
Until today.
I'm endlessly fascinated by the relationship between brain function and our sense of self.
Many people who survive a stroke experience apathy. This is usually associated with depression, common amongst stroke survivors. But a minority may have suffered front brain damage that has affected emotional response. The loss may be severe.
In its most profound form, what would this apathy be like? Would it be loss of energy, motivation and interest in everyday life? Would it mean insensitivity to pleasure or pain? The word apathy was made up in the 18th century from the Greek for suffering and meant at first "without suffering", rather than lethargy, which is the way the word is often interpreted today.
It could be closer to the original 18th century sense. Perhaps it is far more than demotivation or joylessness.
Maybe you'd know about emotions intellectually, and even display them, but you'd be acting. Inside there would no emotional experience at all. Not even a gap; just nothing.
Snail, how can I save you in this dark?
Conscience draws me back to help.
Prosper on the other side.
Birdsong makes us happy. Why?
What form an upper and lower mountain range?
What can carry a house up a mountain?
Stop! Go back
Listen again to the running stream.
Aren't you glad to hear it?
A camera is like a human eye.
The basic plan
light from world --> focus --> image falls on sensors
But photography can work without any focusing. If we put refractors -- glass, resin, minerals and so on -- directly on film and expose it briefly to light, something will be recorded. In that case refractors have replaced the lens and it's them we are photographing.
So, literally, the medium is the message.
This can produce striking results. Visit the website of Alan Jaras for example.
This reminds me of an experiment I tried many years ago. Photographic plates preceded the film which came before digital cameras.
If you are not familiar with plates, they are just like film but on glass not plastic. Plates were the staple of photography until films came along and spoiled it.
Just as (and rightly) some still prefer film to digital, back then plates were still around, because some people preferred them.
What was the experiment? We put a couple of plates up on the roof, in a a plastic bag, and left them there a couple of months. Later, when we remembered, we fetched them down and developed them. In hope of what?
Cosmic rays. Some energetic particle that may have set off from a supernova billions of light years away and billions of years ago, could have arrived on our roof and created a record on our plates.
And one had.
No lens needed. The universe is on your rooftop.
Roman Frister died recently.
He was a concentration camp survivor (then aged 15), later journalist, book author, and founder of a university school of journalism.
Frister's frank and harrowing tale of being in the camp describes a horrible moral dilemma.
Camp inmates had to wear the regulation cap for morning roll call. Anyone bareheaded was instantly shot. One night Frister's cap was stolen.
In the dark of the hut he found a cap that belonged to someone else. Next day he heard that person shot.
Frister lived with this and a half-century on wrote a memoir, whose title The Cap was taken from the incident.
I read the book, some years ago now, but it still haunts me.
From its rock a cormorant
Watched the fishermen.
Thieves, thieves.
what is/are Poets
Can they die and emerge again
like Dinosaurians
?
So have you seen
Bullet marks on a wall?
And did it make you flinch?
Do you remember in Greece,
we had that wobbly table,
and the waiter brought a melon rind?
Not a poem, or even a riddle.
What came first, the brain or the senses?
The smell of new rain.
A time for reflection.
And no umbrellas please.
Raindrops in the stream.
I'm with my father again
Trying to see a fish.
Hands clasped behind me
I thought: a poem
Is a kind of snapshot.
In this gale!
Who's that crawling across the road?
A plastic bag.
I walked home
Surrounded by the clamour of owls.
Always the same question.
It's warm in my house.
A butterfly woke up.
How to save it?
Mr Lion, good news.
You got 99% of the popular vote. What more do you want?
The species of the others.
The rooster doesn't want
To wake you. He's just singing
With the other birds.
Getting up in the night.
That loose floorboard.
Groans like a ghost.
What a daily grind!
Getting the sun out of bed.
All together birds.
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