Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
A Translation: "Prayer" by Boris Hristov
The fog clothes the way like a greatcoat with its long sleeves hung low.
I wear the coat too, tailored just to my size,
and I pray -- do not forget anybody this night,
God, as you pass on the road in your white carriage.
Give each poor man the ease to wake with the noon sun in his hair
and money to the miser, though it will never lighten his day.
Let the dwarf find every honey barrel next to a stair,
and the actor find his next performance in an acclaimed play.
Invite the poet to dinner, fill his belly and pen,
and give his horse oats with each poem.
Sit with the lonely man in his long wait,
and sneeze for the ill as they doze.
Choose a new life for the executioner,
and crush the hungry tick who brings the girls dread.
Fasten the children's seat belts as they sleep on the plane,
and walk the tired old man to this bed.
Give the dead man a night cap and a peaceful book,
and make an oasis for the tree at the corner of the street.
And for me -- help me home this night
to wash, God, my mother's tired feet.
I wear the coat too, tailored just to my size,
and I pray -- do not forget anybody this night,
God, as you pass on the road in your white carriage.
Give each poor man the ease to wake with the noon sun in his hair
and money to the miser, though it will never lighten his day.
Let the dwarf find every honey barrel next to a stair,
and the actor find his next performance in an acclaimed play.
Invite the poet to dinner, fill his belly and pen,
and give his horse oats with each poem.
Sit with the lonely man in his long wait,
and sneeze for the ill as they doze.
Choose a new life for the executioner,
and crush the hungry tick who brings the girls dread.
Fasten the children's seat belts as they sleep on the plane,
and walk the tired old man to this bed.
Give the dead man a night cap and a peaceful book,
and make an oasis for the tree at the corner of the street.
And for me -- help me home this night
to wash, God, my mother's tired feet.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Wisconsin farmland in summer
Sometimes dust and moisture mass
over silos full of feed and red barns
A hole might form in black vapor
and one rebel beam arc godly to land
The fields are soaked fierce green
after rainfall
At night the country’s flat spread
holds up big sky
Frog songs and fire flies get up
in wet summer dark
over silos full of feed and red barns
A hole might form in black vapor
and one rebel beam arc godly to land
The fields are soaked fierce green
after rainfall
At night the country’s flat spread
holds up big sky
Frog songs and fire flies get up
in wet summer dark
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Explanation of Laughter by the Lake
He’s at the table
smoking
nothing but the girl
spelled by awake looks,
in music
waves of lips
in smoke
He moves to dance by her
His dancing is reeling
He swims for his life
between just bored couples
in helixical step —
echos
with beats of please and thank you
dancing
watched by dancing
set to music
He is a contained reef of unicellular ocean life
perspiring in torrid rooms
talking under songs
reminded to drink the next shifts in
propagating Himself in compatible mediums
slowly diffusing out the door.
Later we are walking:
the lake
the water
We move up the shore
with the other waves
smoking
nothing but the girl
spelled by awake looks,
in music
waves of lips
in smoke
He moves to dance by her
His dancing is reeling
He swims for his life
between just bored couples
in helixical step —
echos
with beats of please and thank you
dancing
watched by dancing
set to music
He is a contained reef of unicellular ocean life
perspiring in torrid rooms
talking under songs
reminded to drink the next shifts in
propagating Himself in compatible mediums
slowly diffusing out the door.
Later we are walking:
the lake
the water
We move up the shore
with the other waves
Monday, October 11, 2010
Birds After Fall
birds ellipse with snow in viscous sunrise,
drawling to the green read south so quiet and early
the birds all take perfect shape with us
when we stop this time to watch
their wobbling cone’s edge precess as our orchestration
explaining what we’d have if we thought rightly
washing the city in flattering geometry
the pinnacle of every cone
the origin of their circling
point fixed lately to my stepping foot
their nodding having waved us on,
but kindly.
Thank you feather-legged keen-eyes
for the gift
like a coin flipped,
honored.
drawling to the green read south so quiet and early
the birds all take perfect shape with us
when we stop this time to watch
their wobbling cone’s edge precess as our orchestration
explaining what we’d have if we thought rightly
washing the city in flattering geometry
the pinnacle of every cone
the origin of their circling
point fixed lately to my stepping foot
their nodding having waved us on,
but kindly.
Thank you feather-legged keen-eyes
for the gift
like a coin flipped,
honored.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
2084: Episode 1 -- Thanks to Georgy O.
It was a bright hot day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Dylan Jackson, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape meeting the gazes of a gang of begging children, slipped through the bullet proof glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a scrawny teenager from trying to enter behind him. As he headed down the hall Dylan heard one of the doormen yelling, followed by the sharp crack of what he imagined was a head hitting the reinforced glass door.
The hallway smelled of rotten meat and burnt plastic. At one end of it a large hole in the wall was patched over with wire mesh. Dylan made for the stairs. It was no use trying the elevator. Even if it was working you usually had to bribe one of the doormen to use it, and at present the electricity was cut off anyways. The flat was seven flights up, and Dylan, who was thirty-nine, and had a painful varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, a mat was laid down against the wall. The doormen usually rented them out at night in exchange for food or huffing glue. It meant that strangers were sometimes lounging around in the stairs, so you had to be careful not to be robbed on the way up. The army had recently stopped the doormen from running a full-scale whorehouse out of the first floor hallway after an operations officer had been killed on the stairs by a john, but it was simply too much work to stop them from letting people into the building to sleep in the stairway at night.
Once inside the flat Dylan carefully bolted the door and then walked across the room to open the window. Even with the window open it was hot inside. A warm wind blew in from the direction of the lake, but it didn't help much. A mile away the Ministry of Peace, Dylan's place of work, towered vast and black above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -- this was Chicago, chief city of Itipea, itself the administrative center of the central most province of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether Chicago had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of partially collapsed skyscrapers, their sides shored up with steel buttresses, their top floors removed for scrap? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and weeds slowly spread over heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger path and there had sprung up sordid colonies of dwellings made with old tin sheeting and piled stones? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux, occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of Peace was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous tower of glittering black glass, soaring up, floor after floor, 1451 feet into the air. From where Dylan stood it was not possible to see many of the missing window panes and poorly patched bomb damage. The Ministry of Peace contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about Chicago there were just three other old towers of similar appearance and size still standing. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. All four buildings were used by the army to house soldiers, and whatever supplies could be stockpiled. They were all impossible to enter except by members of the army on official business, and then only by penetrating a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up the their outer barrier were roamed by soldiers with automatic rifles. Unfortunately, these soldiers were much better at defending the streets from unarmed gangs of towns people looking for food than they were at fending off other soldiers...
Dylan turned around abruptly and crossed the room again to a table near the door. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in his flat except a hunk of dark-colored bread which had to be saved for tomorrow's breakfast. He picked a bottle of colorless liquid up off the table, opened it, and smelled the contents. It gave off a sickly, melted-tar smell. Dylan poured a little of it out onto the sleeve of his uniform, buried his nose in the wet cloth, and inhaled deeply. Instantly his face turned scarlet and water ran out of his eyes. Breathing in the fumes was like being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however, the intense headache went away and Dylan's consciousness was absorbed by a blinding white light. He stumbled back toward the center of the room, feeling his way in a sort of controlled fall, and collapsed into a dilapidated armchair facing the window.
The white light subsided and, looking out the window again, Dylan's eyes focused on several thick plumes of thick black smoke curling up into the sky far in the distance. He struggled to think -- to figure out what to do. The New Resistance Army, NRA for short, had invaded the western shanties in force only a month before and was already only thirty miles west of the central city. Right now they were in the process of burning the last army outposts before the river defences. If they managed to cross the river it would be over -- a total massacre. And, as only Dylan knew, the reports from the front were disastrous. The NRA would almost surely be outside the Ministry of Peace soon. If not next week, next month. Unfortunately, Dylan could not break the news of the recent defeats to the General without being shot. When he had been summoned to the central command office this morning to read an urgent message from the front he had flat out lied about its contents. He had turned a report of impending defeat into a prediction of an easy victory. He had to. The General hated bad news, and had already killed nearly every other officer in the Ministry of Peace who could read for reporting the content of negative communiques.
But all this was too much -- he would think later. Now, he had to relax and finally get some sleep. Dylan buried his nose in his sleeve again and breathed the last of the fumes into his lungs. His mind went blank, and he passed out into a heavy sleep. Not even the ever-present fleas biting his neck could provoke any response.
The hallway smelled of rotten meat and burnt plastic. At one end of it a large hole in the wall was patched over with wire mesh. Dylan made for the stairs. It was no use trying the elevator. Even if it was working you usually had to bribe one of the doormen to use it, and at present the electricity was cut off anyways. The flat was seven flights up, and Dylan, who was thirty-nine, and had a painful varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, a mat was laid down against the wall. The doormen usually rented them out at night in exchange for food or huffing glue. It meant that strangers were sometimes lounging around in the stairs, so you had to be careful not to be robbed on the way up. The army had recently stopped the doormen from running a full-scale whorehouse out of the first floor hallway after an operations officer had been killed on the stairs by a john, but it was simply too much work to stop them from letting people into the building to sleep in the stairway at night.
Once inside the flat Dylan carefully bolted the door and then walked across the room to open the window. Even with the window open it was hot inside. A warm wind blew in from the direction of the lake, but it didn't help much. A mile away the Ministry of Peace, Dylan's place of work, towered vast and black above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -- this was Chicago, chief city of Itipea, itself the administrative center of the central most province of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether Chicago had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of partially collapsed skyscrapers, their sides shored up with steel buttresses, their top floors removed for scrap? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and weeds slowly spread over heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger path and there had sprung up sordid colonies of dwellings made with old tin sheeting and piled stones? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux, occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of Peace was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous tower of glittering black glass, soaring up, floor after floor, 1451 feet into the air. From where Dylan stood it was not possible to see many of the missing window panes and poorly patched bomb damage. The Ministry of Peace contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about Chicago there were just three other old towers of similar appearance and size still standing. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. All four buildings were used by the army to house soldiers, and whatever supplies could be stockpiled. They were all impossible to enter except by members of the army on official business, and then only by penetrating a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up the their outer barrier were roamed by soldiers with automatic rifles. Unfortunately, these soldiers were much better at defending the streets from unarmed gangs of towns people looking for food than they were at fending off other soldiers...
Dylan turned around abruptly and crossed the room again to a table near the door. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in his flat except a hunk of dark-colored bread which had to be saved for tomorrow's breakfast. He picked a bottle of colorless liquid up off the table, opened it, and smelled the contents. It gave off a sickly, melted-tar smell. Dylan poured a little of it out onto the sleeve of his uniform, buried his nose in the wet cloth, and inhaled deeply. Instantly his face turned scarlet and water ran out of his eyes. Breathing in the fumes was like being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however, the intense headache went away and Dylan's consciousness was absorbed by a blinding white light. He stumbled back toward the center of the room, feeling his way in a sort of controlled fall, and collapsed into a dilapidated armchair facing the window.
The white light subsided and, looking out the window again, Dylan's eyes focused on several thick plumes of thick black smoke curling up into the sky far in the distance. He struggled to think -- to figure out what to do. The New Resistance Army, NRA for short, had invaded the western shanties in force only a month before and was already only thirty miles west of the central city. Right now they were in the process of burning the last army outposts before the river defences. If they managed to cross the river it would be over -- a total massacre. And, as only Dylan knew, the reports from the front were disastrous. The NRA would almost surely be outside the Ministry of Peace soon. If not next week, next month. Unfortunately, Dylan could not break the news of the recent defeats to the General without being shot. When he had been summoned to the central command office this morning to read an urgent message from the front he had flat out lied about its contents. He had turned a report of impending defeat into a prediction of an easy victory. He had to. The General hated bad news, and had already killed nearly every other officer in the Ministry of Peace who could read for reporting the content of negative communiques.
But all this was too much -- he would think later. Now, he had to relax and finally get some sleep. Dylan buried his nose in his sleeve again and breathed the last of the fumes into his lungs. His mind went blank, and he passed out into a heavy sleep. Not even the ever-present fleas biting his neck could provoke any response.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
2084: An experiment in Community Fiction
Now that all three of us have demonstrated our interest in the blog, we are going to begin an experiment. All three of us are going to participate in writing a science fiction novel. The novel will consist of episodes, each of which will be written by one (or possibly more) of us. In addition, any reader comments will be considered for inclusion into the official story line. The end result should be a story which is not only of greater interest to more possible readers, but also more inclusive and responsive to readers' desires than traditional fiction. That is, assuming that there are any readers, and more than one writer...
The first episode will be appearing soon on a screen attached to a computer on a lap near you.
The first episode will be appearing soon on a screen attached to a computer on a lap near you.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Three Sticks, Mathematics, and "the Real World"
The point of this post is twofold: First, I want to demonstrate the surprising applicability of mathematics to the physical world. Second, I want to convince the reader that most anybody is capable of doing mathematical research. We will attempt to accomplish both goals with the aid of an extremely simple experiment requiring only three sticks (or three pieces of uncooked spaghetti, three wires, three bottles, etc.). Here is the problem:
Let's address the most obvious question first, mainly, "Why is this stick problem supposed to be interesting?". Well, exactly because it represents a type of question that humans have been tackling since the dawn of scientific thought. It is related to questions like: "This stone is a mixture of an equal number of three different types of atoms. The total mass of the stone is two kilograms. What does this tell me about the masses of the different types of atoms mixed in the stone?", or "Given the total energy of a burst of light, what can we say about the energies of each individual wavelength in the light burst?". Indeed, in the case of a question about the weight of a stone, we can translate the question into one about 3 sticks by considering the stone to be the collection of all 3 sticks laid end to end, and the three different types of atoms of the stone to be the three individual sticks. We may now simply translate all questions about the weight of the stone's atoms into questions about the length of our 3 sticks by replacing "weight" with "length" everywhere in the question. Thus, we can see that any techniques we develop for telling us about individual sticks can be used to tell us about individual types of atoms in a stone. All we must do is (i) translate the question about types of atoms in a stone to be one about sticks laid end to end, (ii) find out what we can about the length of any individual sticks, and, finally, (iii) translate the answers about the length of individual sticks back into statements about the mass of individual types of atoms. Similarly, we could use methods for finding out about the lengths of our 3 sticks to find out about the energies of 3 individual wavelengths making up a light burst when given only a single collective energy measurement. Furthermore, there is nothing really special about the number "3" in this post. There could be any number of sticks, types of atoms, or wavelengths, as the case may be, and the same ideas would still work. This is the beauty of mathematical abstraction!
Having decided that there is indeed a point to contemplating our simple 3-sticks problem, we are free to labor on without fear of wasted effort. More specifically, we are now free to consider the previously stated question: "What can we tell about the individual lengths of our 3 sticks given that their total combined length is 3 feet?". As we shall see, the answer is "Quite a bit, assuming that you ask about the right individual sticks."
Let's begin by asking how long the shortest of our three sticks can be. We can help answer this question by imagining an extreme situation. In the most extreme case the shortest stick will have length almost 0 while the other two sticks make up the entire collective 3 foot length of the three sticks laid end to end. Clearly, then, the shortest of the three sticks can be arbitrarily small!
Perhaps the most natural next question is, "How long can the shortest stick be?". This question can again be answered with the help of an example situation. Certainly it is possible that all the sticks are 1 foot long. In this case any of the sticks could be considered the shortest, so clearly the shortest stick can be as long as 1 foot. That's OK, but is it possible for the shortest stick to be more than one foot long? Well, if the shortest stick is longer than a foot, then both of the other two sticks also have to be longer than a foot. However, if all three sticks are longer than a foot then their total length when laid end to end in a straight line must be longer than three feet! This is impossible since the collective end to end length of the 3 sticks is three feet (and no longer). We are forced to the conclusion, then, that the shortest stick can not be more than one foot long because if it where, the total length of the three sticks laid end to end would have to be more than three feet.
What about the longest of the three sticks? How long can it be? Well, similar to above, we can imagine an extreme example where two of the three sticks are mere specks. In such a situation the third stick must by nearly three feet long on its own. Therefore, the longest stick can be arbitrarily close to three feet long. How short can the longest stick be? Well, here we can again use the extreme case where all sticks have the same length of 1 foot. When this happens any of the three sticks can be considered the longest. Hence, the longest stick can be as short as 1 foot. Any shorter, though, and the three sticks together would have to measure less than three feet when laid end to end. Therefore, the longest stick must be at least one foot long.
This last realization brings us to our first point: Having performed only a few thought experiments we have to come to a concrete conclusion about the real world. Any time three sticks laid end to end in straight line collectively measure 3 feet in length, at least one of three sticks (i.e., the longest) MUST be at least one foot long! There is no getting around it -- I dare the reader to try to violate this mental discovery in their kitchen with three pieces of uncooked spaghetti. You will fail! Mathematics -- and, more generally, thinking -- can tell us about "the real world"!
The second point is this: mathematics and science are largely conducted in a highly abstracted language which can be difficult to learn. However, much of the real thought behind what mathematicians and scientists do is no more complicated than what we have just been using in this post to discuss our three sticks. If you can read and understand everything written here, you can -- with enough hard work and study -- be a competent and productive scientist.
Suppose we find a flat surface, lay our three sticks end to end in a straight line, and then measure the total length spanned by the three sticks to be 3 feet. Given only this information about the total measure of the 3 sticks we want to find out everything we can about the lengths of each of the three individual sticks.
Let's address the most obvious question first, mainly, "Why is this stick problem supposed to be interesting?". Well, exactly because it represents a type of question that humans have been tackling since the dawn of scientific thought. It is related to questions like: "This stone is a mixture of an equal number of three different types of atoms. The total mass of the stone is two kilograms. What does this tell me about the masses of the different types of atoms mixed in the stone?", or "Given the total energy of a burst of light, what can we say about the energies of each individual wavelength in the light burst?". Indeed, in the case of a question about the weight of a stone, we can translate the question into one about 3 sticks by considering the stone to be the collection of all 3 sticks laid end to end, and the three different types of atoms of the stone to be the three individual sticks. We may now simply translate all questions about the weight of the stone's atoms into questions about the length of our 3 sticks by replacing "weight" with "length" everywhere in the question. Thus, we can see that any techniques we develop for telling us about individual sticks can be used to tell us about individual types of atoms in a stone. All we must do is (i) translate the question about types of atoms in a stone to be one about sticks laid end to end, (ii) find out what we can about the length of any individual sticks, and, finally, (iii) translate the answers about the length of individual sticks back into statements about the mass of individual types of atoms. Similarly, we could use methods for finding out about the lengths of our 3 sticks to find out about the energies of 3 individual wavelengths making up a light burst when given only a single collective energy measurement. Furthermore, there is nothing really special about the number "3" in this post. There could be any number of sticks, types of atoms, or wavelengths, as the case may be, and the same ideas would still work. This is the beauty of mathematical abstraction!
Having decided that there is indeed a point to contemplating our simple 3-sticks problem, we are free to labor on without fear of wasted effort. More specifically, we are now free to consider the previously stated question: "What can we tell about the individual lengths of our 3 sticks given that their total combined length is 3 feet?". As we shall see, the answer is "Quite a bit, assuming that you ask about the right individual sticks."
Let's begin by asking how long the shortest of our three sticks can be. We can help answer this question by imagining an extreme situation. In the most extreme case the shortest stick will have length almost 0 while the other two sticks make up the entire collective 3 foot length of the three sticks laid end to end. Clearly, then, the shortest of the three sticks can be arbitrarily small!
Perhaps the most natural next question is, "How long can the shortest stick be?". This question can again be answered with the help of an example situation. Certainly it is possible that all the sticks are 1 foot long. In this case any of the sticks could be considered the shortest, so clearly the shortest stick can be as long as 1 foot. That's OK, but is it possible for the shortest stick to be more than one foot long? Well, if the shortest stick is longer than a foot, then both of the other two sticks also have to be longer than a foot. However, if all three sticks are longer than a foot then their total length when laid end to end in a straight line must be longer than three feet! This is impossible since the collective end to end length of the 3 sticks is three feet (and no longer). We are forced to the conclusion, then, that the shortest stick can not be more than one foot long because if it where, the total length of the three sticks laid end to end would have to be more than three feet.
What about the longest of the three sticks? How long can it be? Well, similar to above, we can imagine an extreme example where two of the three sticks are mere specks. In such a situation the third stick must by nearly three feet long on its own. Therefore, the longest stick can be arbitrarily close to three feet long. How short can the longest stick be? Well, here we can again use the extreme case where all sticks have the same length of 1 foot. When this happens any of the three sticks can be considered the longest. Hence, the longest stick can be as short as 1 foot. Any shorter, though, and the three sticks together would have to measure less than three feet when laid end to end. Therefore, the longest stick must be at least one foot long.
This last realization brings us to our first point: Having performed only a few thought experiments we have to come to a concrete conclusion about the real world. Any time three sticks laid end to end in straight line collectively measure 3 feet in length, at least one of three sticks (i.e., the longest) MUST be at least one foot long! There is no getting around it -- I dare the reader to try to violate this mental discovery in their kitchen with three pieces of uncooked spaghetti. You will fail! Mathematics -- and, more generally, thinking -- can tell us about "the real world"!
The second point is this: mathematics and science are largely conducted in a highly abstracted language which can be difficult to learn. However, much of the real thought behind what mathematicians and scientists do is no more complicated than what we have just been using in this post to discuss our three sticks. If you can read and understand everything written here, you can -- with enough hard work and study -- be a competent and productive scientist.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Snippets from a Dead Relation's Diary
She was paralyzed by polio as a young girl. She had to wear leg braces and use either crutches or a walker to walk from that point forward. As I heard in a fairytale version of her illness, she was playing near a stagnant pond when it happened: She became very tired while wading in the water to catch a frog, fell asleep on the pond's edge, and could no longer walk when she woke up. From that point on she rarely left the house. She did, however, occasionally go on small errands without help. One of my earliest memories is of visiting her with my father. When we arrived at her house she was in the front yard picking dandelion leaves for a salad.
Of course, her low state of mobility left her unfit for marriage. She eventually lived alone and supported herself by sewing, stitching, and embroidery work. With no children to take it, I ended up with her diary after her death in the 1990's.
Quoting from the diary:
________________________________________
1928
Jan. 1: A man, our first company
that’s good luck. G. St. Fair cold windy
Jan. 6. Finished the 13 hand’kys. send
them. Was glad I finished.
Jan. 11. The 13 unlucky hand’kys came
back today, because I had a small
written slip in it. Will keep them
to get my moneys worth but .I
feel lighter now that I need not
do any more eye straining
work on more hand’kys.
Not enough cash in that work.
Jan. 12. Still melting but windy.
Took the Xmas tree down yes-
terday. The same work to do
always.
Jan. 13 – I baked my first cake in
this year. “Devilsfood.” cloudy &
a little colder. Finished my 3th
butterfly today. G. H. here this morning
on business. cake turned good
Got a letter from the girls.
Baked 3 rye breads. Churned
________________________________________
Jan. 14. Washed my hair. Dusted &
sweep. Fogy & muddy. Pa. got two
pigs. Wish my hair would
always stay like after they
are washed.
Jan 15 – Sun. passes like always
never a change. I crochet in
the afternoon & read in the eve-
ning. Mr. Mrs B. were here
in evening. I am trying to
play the harmoica but it
takes long to learn. Hope I
will be able to put some
tune in it soon. cloudy & colder.
Jan 16. A little snow last
night. cloudy. A card fromet.
crocheted.
Jan.17. cold windy & the sun is
shining. Washed today. Invited to
suprise stripping party on J.
S. Got Sears new Sring & Summer
________________________________________
CLIPPING INSERTED HERE:
A PRAYER
FOR
COURAGE
by Grace Noll Crowell
God make me brave for Life–
Oh, braver than this!
Let me straighten after pain
As a tree straightens after the rain
Shining and lovely again.
God make me brave for Life–
Oh, braver than this!
As the blown grass lifts, let me rise
From sorrow, with quiet eyes,
Knowing Thy way is wise.
God make me brave – Life brings
Such blinding things.
Help me to keep my sight,
Help me to see aright
That out of the dark – comes Light.
________________________________________
FLIP SIDE OF INSERT:
but David was first, after all. It
of triumph. “I’ve – won – Edda”
he village, Harriet? There’s that blue
l we’re short of, and Aunt Clare’s
hday coming ever so soon. I shan’t be
inute – really!”
urely the sunlight had lent her courage.
had never asked such a thing before.
seus – in the shape of nature – was
ely breaking Andromeda’s chains.
Harriet’s deep-drawn sigh shivered the
like glass. “Oh, well!-- Yes, I sup-
e so! And bring in a paper, Edda – a
ure paper! It’s years since I saw any
________________________________________
catalogue of all the nice things.
Wonder what new things I’ll
get? I baked the cake for the party
Jan. 18. Sun is shining & seems
like spring. Party was large
last night. Eatables were
hardly touched. I ironed clothes
this forenoon and mended them
this p.m. Made my bed just now.
The story “Blazing Horizon” ended
yesterday & the new story “Canary Murder”
started today.
Jan. 19 – It looked so beautiful
when it started to snow this
morning just covered the ground
and then stopped it is still cloudy
and windy. It is slowly melting.
I wonder if the dream I dreamt
last night will come true it
be good if it partly would, and
better still “all.” We got “Wards
catalogue. good styles and
many other things in it
________________________________________
that would be nice to have.
but are out of reach. Ma & Pa
are still working in the woods.
I am baking wheat & rye bread
today. I did not sweep the
floor this morning yet but
will in a short while. I
think I will call you “D”
I started to read “The Keeper
of the Bees” last night.
a cold bitter wind started
this afternoon. drifted a lot.
Jan. 20 – If was so cold all
day nearly zero. We got a letter
from the girls today. Sis still
on her place. Sun was shining:
I finished my fourth butterfly
motif & washed the linen to
the blue prints but now I have
the best part to do.
Jan. 21 – Sun is shining &
still so cold. Did the
________________________________________
same house cleaning. I am
keeping a record of some of my
dreams to see if they will come
true. “The Keeper of the Bees”
is very interesting but “Little
Women” is still more interesting.
Jan 22. The sun was shining
but it was a little warmer.
I got the linen ready to hem -
stitch. We had no company
today
Jan 23: Weather same as yesterday
A. K was here and nearly talked
till dinner. Started hemstitch-
ing
Jan 24 – Snowed some. Colder.
Jan 25 – Cold but sunny. Pa went
to the mill. The stories “Silver Slippers”
& Garden Oats” are good, they run
in the good Housekeeping now.
We got it yesterday. I have been
useing Epsom salts to was my
face in the evening for about a
week and it seems to help. “It
must because I want to look
my best now and not wait
________________________________________
because I don’t want to wait.
If other girls can have their
beauty when they are young
I do to.
Jan 26 Today I and Winnie start-
ed to take yeast Foam it’s also
to help clear our complexion.
“O”D.” I am hoping with all
my might that it will.
Jan. 27. Pa paid taxes today at
jergensen. D. today I didn’t do
no hemstitching I made a pond
Lily but it did not turn out
right.
Jan 28. Today is cleaning day
again the week gos so fast.
This morning it was 10o below
zero. I finished “The Keeper of the
Bees” this evening. It was real
good at the end.
Jan 29. It was again so cold &
the sun shone to. I gave my feet
a bath yesterday too. Did quiet
a little hemstitching today.
________________________________________
Jan 30 – Still so cold. I finished
hemstitching my table center today
now to put the butterflies on the
corners. Ma is making a rag
rug she as not been feeling
well for a few days. Baked
a fruit cake to-day.
Jan 31: cold and cloudy. I sewed
the butterflies on ready to button
hole them on & did some of that to.
I have not been able to write
anything very nice this month
D but hope in the fallowing one
I will do better and be able
to write better things.
Feb. 1. Sunny cold. drifting.
Baking rye bread. Pa was to
school met G. H. on the way and
made a day of it. We washed.
Feb. 2 = cloudy. Ma went but to
work again stayed in doors
so long. Pa to the mill. I
hope to finish buttonholeing
________________________________________
…
LAST 2 PAGES ARE HERE UNDER
________________________________________
Winifred also was there 2 months
1932
Mar 5. O**nele Albert died today
May 20 Pa, I, Winnie & Earl drove
to Columbus in our buick .
Our car broke down going to
Madison. Winie & Earl went home
Sunday. Pa, I & Aunt Lizzie
Wednesday. Stayed four days to long
1933
Jan. Shirley has been in Evenston
since to first of Sept.
Feb. 3 Grandpa Died.
Feb. 6. His funeral was today.
Mar. 22. Sister Adelia had
prematured twins.
April 9. I stayed at Adelia’s
two weeks.
May. Winnifred is engaged to
Darenee J.
June 13 – 24. Uncle Gus, Aunt
Hattie & Ralph, Mr & Mrs Harman
Born & daughter were here from N. D.
________________________________________
Sept 14 – Winifred was married.
Sept 27 – 30 – Earl was to see Worlds fair.
June 29 – 1934
Adelia & Fred have a baby girl.
Oct 14 – Carl & Pa went to North Dak.
for a week. Cousin Emma’s funeral.
1938
June 9. One year ago Pa, Shirley,
myself and cousin Martha Fass
left for North Dak.
Of course, her low state of mobility left her unfit for marriage. She eventually lived alone and supported herself by sewing, stitching, and embroidery work. With no children to take it, I ended up with her diary after her death in the 1990's.
Quoting from the diary:
________________________________________
1928
Jan. 1: A man, our first company
that’s good luck. G. St. Fair cold windy
Jan. 6. Finished the 13 hand’kys. send
them. Was glad I finished.
Jan. 11. The 13 unlucky hand’kys came
back today, because I had a small
written slip in it. Will keep them
to get my moneys worth but .I
feel lighter now that I need not
do any more eye straining
work on more hand’kys.
Not enough cash in that work.
Jan. 12. Still melting but windy.
Took the Xmas tree down yes-
terday. The same work to do
always.
Jan. 13 – I baked my first cake in
this year. “Devilsfood.” cloudy &
a little colder. Finished my 3th
butterfly today. G. H. here this morning
on business. cake turned good
Got a letter from the girls.
Baked 3 rye breads. Churned
________________________________________
Jan. 14. Washed my hair. Dusted &
sweep. Fogy & muddy. Pa. got two
pigs. Wish my hair would
always stay like after they
are washed.
Jan 15 – Sun. passes like always
never a change. I crochet in
the afternoon & read in the eve-
ning. Mr. Mrs B. were here
in evening. I am trying to
play the harmoica but it
takes long to learn. Hope I
will be able to put some
tune in it soon. cloudy & colder.
Jan 16. A little snow last
night. cloudy. A card fromet.
crocheted.
Jan.17. cold windy & the sun is
shining. Washed today. Invited to
suprise stripping party on J.
S. Got Sears new Sring & Summer
________________________________________
CLIPPING INSERTED HERE:
A PRAYER
FOR
COURAGE
by Grace Noll Crowell
God make me brave for Life–
Oh, braver than this!
Let me straighten after pain
As a tree straightens after the rain
Shining and lovely again.
God make me brave for Life–
Oh, braver than this!
As the blown grass lifts, let me rise
From sorrow, with quiet eyes,
Knowing Thy way is wise.
God make me brave – Life brings
Such blinding things.
Help me to keep my sight,
Help me to see aright
That out of the dark – comes Light.
________________________________________
FLIP SIDE OF INSERT:
but David was first, after all. It
of triumph. “I’ve – won – Edda”
he village, Harriet? There’s that blue
l we’re short of, and Aunt Clare’s
hday coming ever so soon. I shan’t be
inute – really!”
urely the sunlight had lent her courage.
had never asked such a thing before.
seus – in the shape of nature – was
ely breaking Andromeda’s chains.
Harriet’s deep-drawn sigh shivered the
like glass. “Oh, well!-- Yes, I sup-
e so! And bring in a paper, Edda – a
ure paper! It’s years since I saw any
________________________________________
catalogue of all the nice things.
Wonder what new things I’ll
get? I baked the cake for the party
Jan. 18. Sun is shining & seems
like spring. Party was large
last night. Eatables were
hardly touched. I ironed clothes
this forenoon and mended them
this p.m. Made my bed just now.
The story “Blazing Horizon” ended
yesterday & the new story “Canary Murder”
started today.
Jan. 19 – It looked so beautiful
when it started to snow this
morning just covered the ground
and then stopped it is still cloudy
and windy. It is slowly melting.
I wonder if the dream I dreamt
last night will come true it
be good if it partly would, and
better still “all.” We got “Wards
catalogue. good styles and
many other things in it
________________________________________
that would be nice to have.
but are out of reach. Ma & Pa
are still working in the woods.
I am baking wheat & rye bread
today. I did not sweep the
floor this morning yet but
will in a short while. I
think I will call you “D”
I started to read “The Keeper
of the Bees” last night.
a cold bitter wind started
this afternoon. drifted a lot.
Jan. 20 – If was so cold all
day nearly zero. We got a letter
from the girls today. Sis still
on her place. Sun was shining:
I finished my fourth butterfly
motif & washed the linen to
the blue prints but now I have
the best part to do.
Jan. 21 – Sun is shining &
still so cold. Did the
________________________________________
same house cleaning. I am
keeping a record of some of my
dreams to see if they will come
true. “The Keeper of the Bees”
is very interesting but “Little
Women” is still more interesting.
Jan 22. The sun was shining
but it was a little warmer.
I got the linen ready to hem -
stitch. We had no company
today
Jan 23: Weather same as yesterday
A. K was here and nearly talked
till dinner. Started hemstitch-
ing
Jan 24 – Snowed some. Colder.
Jan 25 – Cold but sunny. Pa went
to the mill. The stories “Silver Slippers”
& Garden Oats” are good, they run
in the good Housekeeping now.
We got it yesterday. I have been
useing Epsom salts to was my
face in the evening for about a
week and it seems to help. “It
must because I want to look
my best now and not wait
________________________________________
because I don’t want to wait.
If other girls can have their
beauty when they are young
I do to.
Jan 26 Today I and Winnie start-
ed to take yeast Foam it’s also
to help clear our complexion.
“O”D.” I am hoping with all
my might that it will.
Jan. 27. Pa paid taxes today at
jergensen. D. today I didn’t do
no hemstitching I made a pond
Lily but it did not turn out
right.
Jan 28. Today is cleaning day
again the week gos so fast.
This morning it was 10o below
zero. I finished “The Keeper of the
Bees” this evening. It was real
good at the end.
Jan 29. It was again so cold &
the sun shone to. I gave my feet
a bath yesterday too. Did quiet
a little hemstitching today.
________________________________________
Jan 30 – Still so cold. I finished
hemstitching my table center today
now to put the butterflies on the
corners. Ma is making a rag
rug she as not been feeling
well for a few days. Baked
a fruit cake to-day.
Jan 31: cold and cloudy. I sewed
the butterflies on ready to button
hole them on & did some of that to.
I have not been able to write
anything very nice this month
D but hope in the fallowing one
I will do better and be able
to write better things.
Feb. 1. Sunny cold. drifting.
Baking rye bread. Pa was to
school met G. H. on the way and
made a day of it. We washed.
Feb. 2 = cloudy. Ma went but to
work again stayed in doors
so long. Pa to the mill. I
hope to finish buttonholeing
________________________________________
…
LAST 2 PAGES ARE HERE UNDER
________________________________________
Winifred also was there 2 months
1932
Mar 5. O**nele Albert died today
May 20 Pa, I, Winnie & Earl drove
to Columbus in our buick .
Our car broke down going to
Madison. Winie & Earl went home
Sunday. Pa, I & Aunt Lizzie
Wednesday. Stayed four days to long
1933
Jan. Shirley has been in Evenston
since to first of Sept.
Feb. 3 Grandpa Died.
Feb. 6. His funeral was today.
Mar. 22. Sister Adelia had
prematured twins.
April 9. I stayed at Adelia’s
two weeks.
May. Winnifred is engaged to
Darenee J.
June 13 – 24. Uncle Gus, Aunt
Hattie & Ralph, Mr & Mrs Harman
Born & daughter were here from N. D.
________________________________________
Sept 14 – Winifred was married.
Sept 27 – 30 – Earl was to see Worlds fair.
June 29 – 1934
Adelia & Fred have a baby girl.
Oct 14 – Carl & Pa went to North Dak.
for a week. Cousin Emma’s funeral.
1938
June 9. One year ago Pa, Shirley,
myself and cousin Martha Fass
left for North Dak.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
An Aborted Letter to a Relative in Trouble (Circa 2008)
I am writing to you now not as my niece, but as a young girl who reminds me of my aging and what I think I learned in the process. Now, sitting here in my basement apartment, I acknowledge that I am only 30 (or 31 – can’t remember at the moment) and hopefully am far from mature. But perhaps all the better – I left your age not so long ago. And, despite my twenties with their ridiculous half aborted love affairs and job worries, my early teenage years – the years you are fitfully exiting now – leave the greatest impression in my mind. I made decisions then I’ve been coasting on ever since. Decisions made in relative ignorance that were, frankly, more a product of luck and blind rebellion than foresight. I would like you to make your decisions with better information.
I certainly want to impart you with any wisdom I may have to give. But this is also a blatant attempt to convince you that you are loved. I have difficulty understanding intellectually that being loved should make a difference, but I understand, personally, that it does. I have experienced deep and persistent belief in the impossibility of my worth. And, despite the fact that this should not matter – that I firmly believe we have a responsibility to be productive and useful no matter what our emotional state – I acknowledge that attempting to work in loveless circumstances is crushing and often futile. But you now have physical evidence that you are loved – this letter is written for you out of love.
When you were a baby I often stayed with you so your mother could sleep. You had fits and cried often, but I was usually able to comfort you until she woke up. You were my first experience with a new, demanding life. Thank you.
THE PERSONAL
I want to write to you now about your mother. And I point out that I am qualified. I also know her as a mother – I am as much your brother as your uncle. Until the age of 6 or 7 she lived with me as a second mother. And although she wasn’t really my mother, it was pretended and believed. I recall your uncle D. and I being her children in countryside bars. She was joking, but me, D., and the bartenders believed her well enough. At home it was the same. Whenever your grandmother was busy your mother would fill in.
Because she was my mother too I understand your interest in her. When you were younger you would ask us about her, curious about everything. It reminded me of my own childhood. On many occasions I recall hiding near the entrance of our house waiting for her to get back from her many dates. She was beautiful and always out.
I would climb
I certainly want to impart you with any wisdom I may have to give. But this is also a blatant attempt to convince you that you are loved. I have difficulty understanding intellectually that being loved should make a difference, but I understand, personally, that it does. I have experienced deep and persistent belief in the impossibility of my worth. And, despite the fact that this should not matter – that I firmly believe we have a responsibility to be productive and useful no matter what our emotional state – I acknowledge that attempting to work in loveless circumstances is crushing and often futile. But you now have physical evidence that you are loved – this letter is written for you out of love.
When you were a baby I often stayed with you so your mother could sleep. You had fits and cried often, but I was usually able to comfort you until she woke up. You were my first experience with a new, demanding life. Thank you.
THE PERSONAL
I want to write to you now about your mother. And I point out that I am qualified. I also know her as a mother – I am as much your brother as your uncle. Until the age of 6 or 7 she lived with me as a second mother. And although she wasn’t really my mother, it was pretended and believed. I recall your uncle D. and I being her children in countryside bars. She was joking, but me, D., and the bartenders believed her well enough. At home it was the same. Whenever your grandmother was busy your mother would fill in.
Because she was my mother too I understand your interest in her. When you were younger you would ask us about her, curious about everything. It reminded me of my own childhood. On many occasions I recall hiding near the entrance of our house waiting for her to get back from her many dates. She was beautiful and always out.
I would climb
Friday, July 2, 2010
LOT Polish Airlines: An Object Lesson in Efficiency and Customer Service
On June 5, 2010 LOT flight 007 from New York's JFK airport to Warsaw was scheduled to begin boarding at 5:30 pm. Around the scheduled boarding time an announcement was made that the flight would be delayed. At 6:00 pm the status was updated – passengers were to expect additional information on the flight status in another 30 minutes. There was no announcement at 6:30 pm, but around 7:00 pm we were told that there was a technical difficulty with the airplane, and that we would be updated in an additional hour. These once-hourly delays continued for about 3 more hours during which time we were not offered any water, food, telephone calls, e-mails, or reliable information. Finally, at about 10 pm, a new and more concrete announcement was made letting us know that the flight would leave at 11:55 pm.
As my wife and I now had about two hours before departure and had not had anything to eat or drink since lunch, we decided we would go buy something for dinner after the 10 pm status update. We weren't away from the gate for more than 40 minutes. However, upon returning to the gate we found it empty. There had been no announcements! Furthermore, there was no information about our flight at either the gate or at the common departures board. Fortunately, while attempting to find out what happened to our flight we passed by a group of familiar faces (from the previous 4 and a half hours of shared waiting). The other passengers for our Warsaw flight were waiting at a new gate (Gate 23). Again, if we had not happened to recognize some of the other passengers by chance, we would have never found this out since no announcements were ever made!
Things only got worse. As it turned out, Gate 23 had no loud speakers (or so we were told at least – a flight to Spain at the gate right next to ours was making announcements in the usual manner). Thus, the LOT staff proceeded to make additional announcements by having what appeared to be their youngest and most inexperienced staff member stand in the middle of the roughly 200 flight 007 passengers and attempt to talk over the crowd. The young staffer didn't speak nearly loudly enough, nor did she or any of her coworkers make any attempt to stand on a chair, find a megaphone, or do anything else to establish any aspect of authority and visibility. Worst of all, some of the announcements were only made in Polish! Friendly passengers had to translate for everyone else. Understandably, some passengers -- many of whom were traveling with babies and small children -- began to get frustrated. The entire LOT staff, except for one young gentleman, seemed like they had no experience whatsoever in handling a situation like this. They were incapable of restoring order within the increasingly irritable passengers and generally appeared both flustered and confused about how to handle the situation.
During this entire period of time (from 5:30 pm until almost midnight) nothing was offered to the passengers, not even water. There was a 16 year old girl traveling by herself who had diabetes and was on an insulin pump. Her cell phone had run out of batteries and she could not make a call to her parents to let them know her situation. I lent her my cell phone, but what if she had not asked me? The very least the LOT staff could have done would be to give people a way to call loved ones, friends, coworkers, etc.
Due to the staff's mismanagement of the crowd and the inability of most travelers to hear what small amounts of information the staff did attempt to give out, a few passengers became restless and began to yell at the employees. Instead of taking charge of the situation and giving clear and concrete details about the flight status, anticipated delay times, etc., around midnight the LOT staff instead began to take passengers' boarding passes and then send them down an escalator into another group of (the previously mentioned) passengers boarding a flight to Spain. It was very crowded and somewhat difficult to exit the escalator without being dumped on top of other passengers already waiting below. This all seemed extremely unsafe – thankfully no accidents occurred.
After getting downstairs we noticed that there was not only still no water, but also no restrooms there. The LOT 007 passengers were held in this condition for an additional hour. Eventually it became clear that we had been sent down to this pre-boarding area more as a means to keep the increasingly angry passengers out of the main terminal than to actually get them onto the airplane. Again, no announcements were given until a single employee told us we should come back up to the main terminal again (now without valid boarding passes). The next day we learned that some of the passengers were even boarded on a bus to the plane only to be turned back after having to wait in the bus for about an hour.
Upon returning to Gate 23 in the terminal once again, we were told we would be given hotel rooms because the flight was officially canceled and rescheduled for the next day at 2 pm (the time was now after midnight). No alternative flights or refunds were offered! No phone calls, e-mail access, or other communication methods were offered either. I had no way of informing my coworkers in Europe that I was now surly going to miss the first day of the conference I was traveling to attend.
The passengers wanting a hotel were asked to let the staff know. The hotel request process was done by a single staff member who answered the phone and checked peoples' names from a printed out list while four of her LOT coworkers stood behind the counter and looked confused. Of course, no order was maintained and people crowded in front the counter to try to hear and register. This terribly organized process went on for about half an hour. At approximately 12:30 AM, June 6, we were told to go back out through security to catch a bus to a hotel. Upstairs, however we had to go through an almost identical hotel request process over again with one of five employees distributing people to hotel rooms (while the other four employed talked, joked, and played with their cell phones nearby).
Upon arriving at the designated bus pickup sight, we waited an additional 2 hours for a bus. Finally, at approximately 2:30 am, two buses arrived to take us to a Holiday Inn. The buses did not have enough room for all the passengers, so many of us had to stand in the isles between the seats (these were not city buses – there was nothing to hang onto). At approximately 3 am, after one of the buses attempted to leave passengers at the wrong hotel, everyone had finally arrived at the designated Holiday Inn somewhere in Brooklyn. It took an additional hour for us to actually get into our room.
My wife and I were placed in a room with the previously mentioned 16 year old girl who was traveling alone – quite scared and extremely exhausted, and another man who was also traveling alone. We decided to split the beds up by gender, so I slept with the solo male traveler while my wife slept next to the 16 year old girl (after calling her father – with our own phone – to explain the situation). Needless to say, this situation was highly uncomfortable, and both my wife and I slept in our clothing. The legal ramifications of leaving a minor alone in a room with several strange adults aside, I would like to emphasize the general point that leaving minors in hotel rooms with total strangers is unacceptable.
The next morning we awoke from our highly uncomfortable slumber to learn that buses had been scheduled to pick us up at the hotel and take us back to the airport at 11:00 am. At 11:15 am two buses arrived at the hotel. Unfortunately, as the night before, the two buses were too small to hold all the passengers. However, this time the bus drivers refused to break the law by letting us pack an extra 30 people into the isles. Instead, these 30 individuals – including my wife and myself – were left behind after extracting a promise from one of the bus drivers that he would come back for us. He never came back. More than an hour and a half later we were still waiting at the hotel. It took a polish speaking passenger repeatedly calling LOT to have anther bus scheduled to come pick us up. In the mean time, scared of missing the 2 pm flight, about 10 passengers used their own money to take cabs to the airport. Around 2 pm the last 'bus' finally arrived to take the remaining 17 passengers to the airport. Unfortunately, it was not a bus at all, but a large van which could seat 10. Thankfully, however, the driver allowed all 17 of us to squeeze in. My wife and I shared the front passenger seat. At one point my wife had to bend down and hide herself as we drove past a police officer on the freeway. However, we were simply thankful to have a chance to possibly catch the flight.
When we arrived at the airport about 2:30 pm we were chastised by a LOT employee for holding up the flight! Rushed through security, we finally arrived at our plane nearly a day after the originally scheduled boarding time. Of course, in true LOT style, we did not leave immediately thereafter. Instead we spent another nearly 3 hours on the runway waiting for the plane to be filled up with gas before taking off. Why the flight had not been filled up with gas before the new 2 pm departure time is beyond me. During this entire period of waiting for the bus, getting to the airport, and waiting for refueling we were offered no food, water, phone calls, or anything else. In fact, my wife had to argue with a LOT staff member to get the poor 16 year old girl with diabetes given some water and a snack!
I would like to conclude by telling you that this letter was written during a delay of our return flight to the US (LOT flight 003 from Warsaw to Chicago). The delay was ultimately 3.5 hours long, causing us to miss our connecting flight in Chicago. We had to stay over night again...
As my wife and I now had about two hours before departure and had not had anything to eat or drink since lunch, we decided we would go buy something for dinner after the 10 pm status update. We weren't away from the gate for more than 40 minutes. However, upon returning to the gate we found it empty. There had been no announcements! Furthermore, there was no information about our flight at either the gate or at the common departures board. Fortunately, while attempting to find out what happened to our flight we passed by a group of familiar faces (from the previous 4 and a half hours of shared waiting). The other passengers for our Warsaw flight were waiting at a new gate (Gate 23). Again, if we had not happened to recognize some of the other passengers by chance, we would have never found this out since no announcements were ever made!
Things only got worse. As it turned out, Gate 23 had no loud speakers (or so we were told at least – a flight to Spain at the gate right next to ours was making announcements in the usual manner). Thus, the LOT staff proceeded to make additional announcements by having what appeared to be their youngest and most inexperienced staff member stand in the middle of the roughly 200 flight 007 passengers and attempt to talk over the crowd. The young staffer didn't speak nearly loudly enough, nor did she or any of her coworkers make any attempt to stand on a chair, find a megaphone, or do anything else to establish any aspect of authority and visibility. Worst of all, some of the announcements were only made in Polish! Friendly passengers had to translate for everyone else. Understandably, some passengers -- many of whom were traveling with babies and small children -- began to get frustrated. The entire LOT staff, except for one young gentleman, seemed like they had no experience whatsoever in handling a situation like this. They were incapable of restoring order within the increasingly irritable passengers and generally appeared both flustered and confused about how to handle the situation.
During this entire period of time (from 5:30 pm until almost midnight) nothing was offered to the passengers, not even water. There was a 16 year old girl traveling by herself who had diabetes and was on an insulin pump. Her cell phone had run out of batteries and she could not make a call to her parents to let them know her situation. I lent her my cell phone, but what if she had not asked me? The very least the LOT staff could have done would be to give people a way to call loved ones, friends, coworkers, etc.
Due to the staff's mismanagement of the crowd and the inability of most travelers to hear what small amounts of information the staff did attempt to give out, a few passengers became restless and began to yell at the employees. Instead of taking charge of the situation and giving clear and concrete details about the flight status, anticipated delay times, etc., around midnight the LOT staff instead began to take passengers' boarding passes and then send them down an escalator into another group of (the previously mentioned) passengers boarding a flight to Spain. It was very crowded and somewhat difficult to exit the escalator without being dumped on top of other passengers already waiting below. This all seemed extremely unsafe – thankfully no accidents occurred.
After getting downstairs we noticed that there was not only still no water, but also no restrooms there. The LOT 007 passengers were held in this condition for an additional hour. Eventually it became clear that we had been sent down to this pre-boarding area more as a means to keep the increasingly angry passengers out of the main terminal than to actually get them onto the airplane. Again, no announcements were given until a single employee told us we should come back up to the main terminal again (now without valid boarding passes). The next day we learned that some of the passengers were even boarded on a bus to the plane only to be turned back after having to wait in the bus for about an hour.
Upon returning to Gate 23 in the terminal once again, we were told we would be given hotel rooms because the flight was officially canceled and rescheduled for the next day at 2 pm (the time was now after midnight). No alternative flights or refunds were offered! No phone calls, e-mail access, or other communication methods were offered either. I had no way of informing my coworkers in Europe that I was now surly going to miss the first day of the conference I was traveling to attend.
The passengers wanting a hotel were asked to let the staff know. The hotel request process was done by a single staff member who answered the phone and checked peoples' names from a printed out list while four of her LOT coworkers stood behind the counter and looked confused. Of course, no order was maintained and people crowded in front the counter to try to hear and register. This terribly organized process went on for about half an hour. At approximately 12:30 AM, June 6, we were told to go back out through security to catch a bus to a hotel. Upstairs, however we had to go through an almost identical hotel request process over again with one of five employees distributing people to hotel rooms (while the other four employed talked, joked, and played with their cell phones nearby).
Upon arriving at the designated bus pickup sight, we waited an additional 2 hours for a bus. Finally, at approximately 2:30 am, two buses arrived to take us to a Holiday Inn. The buses did not have enough room for all the passengers, so many of us had to stand in the isles between the seats (these were not city buses – there was nothing to hang onto). At approximately 3 am, after one of the buses attempted to leave passengers at the wrong hotel, everyone had finally arrived at the designated Holiday Inn somewhere in Brooklyn. It took an additional hour for us to actually get into our room.
My wife and I were placed in a room with the previously mentioned 16 year old girl who was traveling alone – quite scared and extremely exhausted, and another man who was also traveling alone. We decided to split the beds up by gender, so I slept with the solo male traveler while my wife slept next to the 16 year old girl (after calling her father – with our own phone – to explain the situation). Needless to say, this situation was highly uncomfortable, and both my wife and I slept in our clothing. The legal ramifications of leaving a minor alone in a room with several strange adults aside, I would like to emphasize the general point that leaving minors in hotel rooms with total strangers is unacceptable.
The next morning we awoke from our highly uncomfortable slumber to learn that buses had been scheduled to pick us up at the hotel and take us back to the airport at 11:00 am. At 11:15 am two buses arrived at the hotel. Unfortunately, as the night before, the two buses were too small to hold all the passengers. However, this time the bus drivers refused to break the law by letting us pack an extra 30 people into the isles. Instead, these 30 individuals – including my wife and myself – were left behind after extracting a promise from one of the bus drivers that he would come back for us. He never came back. More than an hour and a half later we were still waiting at the hotel. It took a polish speaking passenger repeatedly calling LOT to have anther bus scheduled to come pick us up. In the mean time, scared of missing the 2 pm flight, about 10 passengers used their own money to take cabs to the airport. Around 2 pm the last 'bus' finally arrived to take the remaining 17 passengers to the airport. Unfortunately, it was not a bus at all, but a large van which could seat 10. Thankfully, however, the driver allowed all 17 of us to squeeze in. My wife and I shared the front passenger seat. At one point my wife had to bend down and hide herself as we drove past a police officer on the freeway. However, we were simply thankful to have a chance to possibly catch the flight.
When we arrived at the airport about 2:30 pm we were chastised by a LOT employee for holding up the flight! Rushed through security, we finally arrived at our plane nearly a day after the originally scheduled boarding time. Of course, in true LOT style, we did not leave immediately thereafter. Instead we spent another nearly 3 hours on the runway waiting for the plane to be filled up with gas before taking off. Why the flight had not been filled up with gas before the new 2 pm departure time is beyond me. During this entire period of waiting for the bus, getting to the airport, and waiting for refueling we were offered no food, water, phone calls, or anything else. In fact, my wife had to argue with a LOT staff member to get the poor 16 year old girl with diabetes given some water and a snack!
I would like to conclude by telling you that this letter was written during a delay of our return flight to the US (LOT flight 003 from Warsaw to Chicago). The delay was ultimately 3.5 hours long, causing us to miss our connecting flight in Chicago. We had to stay over night again...
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Life Imitating Art
A photo recently taken through a rain covered window by a Greek acquaintance, V.M., in Minneapolis. It reminds me of an impressionistic landscape painting.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Jabberwocky chortled...
I have recently been traveling which, as any veteran traveler knows, necessitates the reading of at least one good book on the various trains, planes, and buses which move one about the landscape. During my reading on this particular trip I discovered that one of my favorite English words -- chortle -- was invented by Lewis Carroll in his nonsense poem "JABBERWOCKY" written sometime before 1871. Some thoughts and questions follow. However, for ease of reading, I will first reproduce the poem here along with some interesting comments taken from Martin Gardner (a well known logician, philosopher, and educator). Quoting from "The Annotated Alice":
I found Jabberwocky particularly interesting on this trip for two reasons. First, I am in the process of very slowly learning a second language at a somewhat advanced age (by language learning standards, at least). Reading Jabberwocky reminded me of trying to understand conversation in my too-be second language. That is, attempting to decipher a series of mysterious sounds linked together by a few known words, gestures, and contextual evidence about what was probably being discussed. Many of the words in Jabberwocky -- including chortle -- have essentially been defined by analyzing the poem in a fashion similar to my attempting to understand a funny story in my future-tongue. If my memory serves me correctly, this experience is also similar to learning to read for the first time. Learning new words during reading is, it seems to me, a inductive science based on the evidence of the general story arc together with the immediately surrounding known words. Given Carroll's interest in children, is it possible he was consciously attempting to reproduce the experience of a child reading through his nonsense verse?
Secondly, I find the nonsense verse interesting for the same reasons alluded to by the last three paragraphs of the preceding quotation. I have known math instructors who tried to break students' confusion over the use of variables in algebra by using smiley faces, Greek letters, or even small pictures in place of the standard unknown variable name 'x'. The point: A '2' by any other name still smells as '1 + 1'. What we call the numerical quantities in equations does not matter in the least as long as our naming convention is consistent. The concept of temporarily using arbitrary names for unknown objects about which we currently only have clues seems to be the real (and possibly only!) difficulty students have in learning algebra. And science?
Possibly students, deep down, do not like algebra due to the fact that it implies their own language is entirely arbitrary. Or, possibly students do not like algebra because they would rather watch TV than do their homework.
JABBERWOCKY
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicher-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgabe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is an obvious similarity between nonsense verse of this sort and an abstract painting. The realistic artist is forced to copy nature, imposing on the copy as much as he can in the way of pleasing forms and colors; but the abstract artist is free to romp with the paint as much as he pleases. In similar fashion the nonsense poet does not have to search for ingenious ways of combining pattern and sense; he simply ... takes care of the sounds and allows the sense to take care of itself. The words he uses may suggest vague meanings, like an eye here and a foot there in a Picasso abstraction, or they may have no meaning at all -- just a play of pleasant sounds like the play of non-objectives colors on a canvas.
Carroll was not, of course, the first to use this technique of double-talk in humorous verse. Has was preceded by Edward Lear ... Since the time of Lear and Carroll there have been attempts to produce a more serious poetry of this sort -- poems by the Dadaists, the Italian futurists, and Gertrude Stein, for example -- but somehow when the technique is taken too seriously the results seem tiresome...
Jabberwocky was a favorite of the British astronomer Arthur Stanley Eddington and is alluded to several times in his writings. In New Pathways in Science he likens the abstract syntactical structure of the poem to that modern branch of mathematics known as group theory. In The Nature of the Physical World he points out that the physicist's description of an elementary particle is really a kind of Jabberwocky; words applied to "something unknown" that is "doing we don't know what." Because the description contains numbers, science is able to impose a certain amount of order on the phenomena and to make successful predictions about them.
"By contemplating eight circulating electrons in one atom and seven circulating electrons in another," Eddington writes, "we begin to realize the difference between oxygen and nitrogen. Eight slithy toves gyre and gimble in the oxygen wabe; seven in nitrogen. By admitting a few numbers even "Jabberwocky" may become scientific. We can now venture on a prediction; if one of its toves escapes, oxygen will be masquerading in a garb properly belonging to nitrogen. In the stars and nebulae we do find such wolves in sheep's clothing which might otherwise have startled us. It would be a bad reminder of the essential unknownness of the fundamental entities of physics to translate it into "Jabberwocky"; provided all numbers -- all metrical attributes -- are unchanged, it does not suffer in the least."
Jabberwock has been translated skillfully into several languages...
I found Jabberwocky particularly interesting on this trip for two reasons. First, I am in the process of very slowly learning a second language at a somewhat advanced age (by language learning standards, at least). Reading Jabberwocky reminded me of trying to understand conversation in my too-be second language. That is, attempting to decipher a series of mysterious sounds linked together by a few known words, gestures, and contextual evidence about what was probably being discussed. Many of the words in Jabberwocky -- including chortle -- have essentially been defined by analyzing the poem in a fashion similar to my attempting to understand a funny story in my future-tongue. If my memory serves me correctly, this experience is also similar to learning to read for the first time. Learning new words during reading is, it seems to me, a inductive science based on the evidence of the general story arc together with the immediately surrounding known words. Given Carroll's interest in children, is it possible he was consciously attempting to reproduce the experience of a child reading through his nonsense verse?
Secondly, I find the nonsense verse interesting for the same reasons alluded to by the last three paragraphs of the preceding quotation. I have known math instructors who tried to break students' confusion over the use of variables in algebra by using smiley faces, Greek letters, or even small pictures in place of the standard unknown variable name 'x'. The point: A '2' by any other name still smells as '1 + 1'. What we call the numerical quantities in equations does not matter in the least as long as our naming convention is consistent. The concept of temporarily using arbitrary names for unknown objects about which we currently only have clues seems to be the real (and possibly only!) difficulty students have in learning algebra. And science?
Possibly students, deep down, do not like algebra due to the fact that it implies their own language is entirely arbitrary. Or, possibly students do not like algebra because they would rather watch TV than do their homework.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
My Blog Oath
I feel like a complete hypocrite blogging. Previously, whenever blogging has come up in a conversation, I have likened it to daytime talk shows, where people, feeling magnified into minor gods by mass media, behave like sloppy, self-important, public drunks. I usually also bring up the fact that, since long before the internet existed, acquisition librarians the world over have been employed full time to winnow through mountains of publications, trying to determine what is actually worth saving for posterity. The sheer volume of voices online has made any such equivalent internet endeavor utterly pointless. Aside from controlled access professional databases, the internet’s use as a reliable reference tool is clearly limited.
I realize that the visibility of potentially valuable open access material is now almost entirely up to the collective whim of unqualified end users. As we’ve been told countless times, it’s a bottom-up system, an inductive, even democratic, one. This is inevitably frustrating for anyone trying to use it as a source of definitive, trustworthy information, but I ultimately concede that heterodoxy is evolutionarily superior to orthodoxy, just as biodiversity is undeniably healthier than monoculture. Here’s my single contention regarding placing the onus of estimation upon the end user: I don’t think anyone can truly know how to process and evaluate all the noise unless she has first learned how to sit in silence and have serious, honest, thoughtful conversations with herself.
So, why have I decided to add yet another voice to the cacophony? Because I was asked to. That’s it. I would prefer not to, but I find it less painful to share an occasional thought with complete strangers than to disappoint one of my brothers, one of the “three thinking.” I don’t generally eat meat either, but if I am a guest in another’s home I eat what is offered. I can cook whatever I want in my own home. If, however, my host is interested in knowing what I think of the meal, I will respectfully share my thoughts with him.
To the point: I promise to blog only if I feel I have something useful to share, and I promise to be as brief as my conscience allows. I will try not to be too noisy. I will treat the internet as if it were another’s home in which I am a guest, as if, in fact, it were everyone’s home.
One of Three
I realize that the visibility of potentially valuable open access material is now almost entirely up to the collective whim of unqualified end users. As we’ve been told countless times, it’s a bottom-up system, an inductive, even democratic, one. This is inevitably frustrating for anyone trying to use it as a source of definitive, trustworthy information, but I ultimately concede that heterodoxy is evolutionarily superior to orthodoxy, just as biodiversity is undeniably healthier than monoculture. Here’s my single contention regarding placing the onus of estimation upon the end user: I don’t think anyone can truly know how to process and evaluate all the noise unless she has first learned how to sit in silence and have serious, honest, thoughtful conversations with herself.
So, why have I decided to add yet another voice to the cacophony? Because I was asked to. That’s it. I would prefer not to, but I find it less painful to share an occasional thought with complete strangers than to disappoint one of my brothers, one of the “three thinking.” I don’t generally eat meat either, but if I am a guest in another’s home I eat what is offered. I can cook whatever I want in my own home. If, however, my host is interested in knowing what I think of the meal, I will respectfully share my thoughts with him.
To the point: I promise to blog only if I feel I have something useful to share, and I promise to be as brief as my conscience allows. I will try not to be too noisy. I will treat the internet as if it were another’s home in which I am a guest, as if, in fact, it were everyone’s home.
One of Three
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
An unanswered e-mail to Dan Savage
Hello,
Before I begin I would like to say I am a fan. I enjoy reading your column and, at least most of the time, find your advice spot on.
I am writing on behalf of my brother -- with his disinterested permission -- who is a homosexual with a good professional job living in a small Midwestern city. My main motivation for writing is that my brother is lonely, having trouble finding a long term partner, and that I'm both sick of hearing him complain and would also like him to be happy.
Here is the problem: He is fairly conservative in that he is interested in, essentially, being the equivalent of some other gay guy's 50s housewife. He would like monogamy, stability, romance, and intellectual stimulation -- or at least what passes closely enough to these in the real world -- with another man. And, he claims that it is basically impossible to find a gay man who is interested in these things. According to him, gay men are, on average, even more prone to infidelity, instability, and shallow character traits than the average straight guy (especially the sort of outdoorsy hippy-type straight guys he has a tendency to form highly unrewarding crushes on).
I have two questions: First, is he correct about gay culture generally promoting greater levels of infidelity, etc.? Thinking back to some of the straight locker and bar room conversations concerning women I have listened to over the years, I find the idea that gay guys are even more likely to cheat, etc., than straight guys a bit hard to believe. Second, and more importantly, what, short of moving away from his career to a bigger coastal city, can my brother do to find a wholesome homosexual life partner? The bar and internet dating scenes are apparently not too helpful in this regard...
Thanks,
Brother Whiny, But Nice
Before I begin I would like to say I am a fan. I enjoy reading your column and, at least most of the time, find your advice spot on.
I am writing on behalf of my brother -- with his disinterested permission -- who is a homosexual with a good professional job living in a small Midwestern city. My main motivation for writing is that my brother is lonely, having trouble finding a long term partner, and that I'm both sick of hearing him complain and would also like him to be happy.
Here is the problem: He is fairly conservative in that he is interested in, essentially, being the equivalent of some other gay guy's 50s housewife. He would like monogamy, stability, romance, and intellectual stimulation -- or at least what passes closely enough to these in the real world -- with another man. And, he claims that it is basically impossible to find a gay man who is interested in these things. According to him, gay men are, on average, even more prone to infidelity, instability, and shallow character traits than the average straight guy (especially the sort of outdoorsy hippy-type straight guys he has a tendency to form highly unrewarding crushes on).
I have two questions: First, is he correct about gay culture generally promoting greater levels of infidelity, etc.? Thinking back to some of the straight locker and bar room conversations concerning women I have listened to over the years, I find the idea that gay guys are even more likely to cheat, etc., than straight guys a bit hard to believe. Second, and more importantly, what, short of moving away from his career to a bigger coastal city, can my brother do to find a wholesome homosexual life partner? The bar and internet dating scenes are apparently not too helpful in this regard...
Thanks,
Brother Whiny, But Nice
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Graffiti Number 1: "#movie titles for shitting"
An old-fashioned collaborative project on a public bathroom wall. Note that nothing has been crossed out or written over. Unlike the standard political and sexual commentaries, shit humor seems to be more universally acceptable. After all, excreting waste is perhaps the only activity common to all members of the animal kingdom. Democrats, republicans, homos, homophobes, Nobel laureates, worms, fish, rabbits, and more. Even those who reproduce by budding must shit. Some favorites:
"Too fast, Too Furious"
"Indian in the cupboard"
"GLITTER"
"There Will Be Blood"
"48 DAYS"
"REVENGE OF THE FALLEN"
"Blow"
"Remember The Titans"
Graffiti has long served as reliable means of entertainment. Hopefully the rise of smart phones and other gadgetry won't cripple the tradition. Put down your iPhone and write something vulgar!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Pinocchio: Dreamed Friday May 21, 2010
I and the rest of my family are gathered at my paternal grandparents' farmhouse. My grandparents are both dead -- there is no reason to be here. Everyone is sitting ringing the otherwise empty living room. Everyone looks very bored, except for my sister who is sweating profusely. Her purple shirt is soaking wet and she is breathing heavily. I am afraid she might be having a heart attack. She will not respond to questions about her health, or speak at all.
My father nonchalantly tells me that I should go upstairs to the bedroom closet and talk to a wooden doll who has been living there for the last 40 years. I comply and climb the stairs. All of the rooms are empty. I go into the bedroom and open the closet door. There is indeed a wooden doll -- about 2 feet tall -- in the shape of a boy slumped against the wall in the closet. It's very dusty. A couple other toys are inside with him. He looks at me, somewhat disinterestedly, and then crawls over to play with a metal toy truck also in the small closet, taking advantage of the light I've let in.
I begin to gently ask him questions that he either does not understand, or does not care enough about to answer. He either can not or will not tell me where he came from or what his first memory is. I tell him I came from my mother. I tell him about some of my first memories, but he won't speak to me. He does not seem to understand that I am giving him the type of information about myself that I want him to tell me about himself. I don't trust him and begin to feel uncomfortable about his intentions. I decide he must have been a green splinter that my grandmother got in her abdomen somehow. A splinter that kept on growing and eventually worked its way out through her vagina -- some type of tree-based Guinea worm she was ashamed to get and did not know what to do with.
I ask him if he is happy living there in the closet, and he finally begins to talk a little in an innocent voice. He says its OK. I ask him if he wants to leave and live outside for awhile. I begin to strategize about how this might actually work -- But I don't want him living with me. I still don't trust him. I can't decide if he is really innocent, or if he is sullen and dissipated. His expression is always the same.
Anyway, he would never be safe outside. People would completely flip out if he was ever seen. He would probably end up being burned or imprisoned and exploited. Maybe if I held a press conference and told everyone up front of his existence, and asserted my ownership of him, he might be OK. People might allow him enough space for peace if I -- a regular person -- owned and vouched for him. But then he would have to live with me. I imagine him sneaking out from the closet where he would stay at night and stabbing me while I slept, or giving me a green splinter. Anyway, he seems totally disinterested in my ideas. I leave him up there.
My father nonchalantly tells me that I should go upstairs to the bedroom closet and talk to a wooden doll who has been living there for the last 40 years. I comply and climb the stairs. All of the rooms are empty. I go into the bedroom and open the closet door. There is indeed a wooden doll -- about 2 feet tall -- in the shape of a boy slumped against the wall in the closet. It's very dusty. A couple other toys are inside with him. He looks at me, somewhat disinterestedly, and then crawls over to play with a metal toy truck also in the small closet, taking advantage of the light I've let in.
I begin to gently ask him questions that he either does not understand, or does not care enough about to answer. He either can not or will not tell me where he came from or what his first memory is. I tell him I came from my mother. I tell him about some of my first memories, but he won't speak to me. He does not seem to understand that I am giving him the type of information about myself that I want him to tell me about himself. I don't trust him and begin to feel uncomfortable about his intentions. I decide he must have been a green splinter that my grandmother got in her abdomen somehow. A splinter that kept on growing and eventually worked its way out through her vagina -- some type of tree-based Guinea worm she was ashamed to get and did not know what to do with.
I ask him if he is happy living there in the closet, and he finally begins to talk a little in an innocent voice. He says its OK. I ask him if he wants to leave and live outside for awhile. I begin to strategize about how this might actually work -- But I don't want him living with me. I still don't trust him. I can't decide if he is really innocent, or if he is sullen and dissipated. His expression is always the same.
Anyway, he would never be safe outside. People would completely flip out if he was ever seen. He would probably end up being burned or imprisoned and exploited. Maybe if I held a press conference and told everyone up front of his existence, and asserted my ownership of him, he might be OK. People might allow him enough space for peace if I -- a regular person -- owned and vouched for him. But then he would have to live with me. I imagine him sneaking out from the closet where he would stay at night and stabbing me while I slept, or giving me a green splinter. Anyway, he seems totally disinterested in my ideas. I leave him up there.
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