A Sea Change??

They do happen in the oddest of ways, the oddest of places, and for the oddest of reasons.  I feel one coming over me even now.  And…

you know…

The sea…

…is like a woman….  &c.

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Idiots with Loud Voices | Inner Organs

An answer here to an unasked question in the very thoughtful post which links below:

I enjoyed this post quite a bit, young sir.  I enjoy a well-reasoned essay, even if on an emotionally charged subject.  Yours is a very well reasoned point of view.  “But wait!” as Ron Popeil says, “There’s more.”

In these matters, our problem, in a very general sense–and by “our” I mean virtually all of us excepting those few who have received a proper education–and I do not number among them, although I wish I did.  Virtually all of us do not know how to research a topic properly; and by research I mean “study,” because, as a scientist, I consider research to consist of experiments and theories one investigates and tests oneself, first-hand.  Still, not splitting that particular hair, whether one calls it research or study, one must know where to look.  When one hears that Microsoft, or Apple, or Monsanto, or Greenpeace are the Devil incarnate, one must, in general (if one knows how) make a valiant attempt to see if this theory can be DISproven, not proven.  Scientists disprove theories, and when they cannot do so using any and all proper methodologies, then they begin to think that perhaps the theory–at least for lack of a better one–might be correct.  Because of my background, I often do both that “research” which I deem “study” and that which I perform and devise first-hand.

The fact that almost all of us do not know how to do this, is not our fault (until we well and truly become aware of how and why this is the case and choose not to self-correct this mal-education, only then do any of us share some blame.) 150 years, or thereabouts, of marxist and proto-marxist education theory is responsible for this as well as many other deficits in all aspects of our ability to think.

If one investigates these “hotbutton” issues using the proper portals and even using both research and study, if possible, one often finds–and I must even go so far as to here state that one usually finds–that the lemmings are running toward or away from the cliff for no reason at all; or more accurately, that quite often one finds (as in the actual case of the lemmings themselves) that some version of Uncle Walt was up there on top of the cliff with a bin full of lemmings and a snow shovel.

So the first thing we have to do, is have a look on top of the cliff and see if he’s still up there with an empty bin, leaning on his shovel, having a smoke break, so to speak.  And barring that, we see if we find lots of tiny scrabbling footprints, as one might expect to find, or a few large bootprints, some tire-tracks, and a half-dozen cigarette butts.

via Idiots with Loud Voices | Inner Organs.

Aang can save the world | wordcoaster

In response to this:

The airbender avatar Aang,
Teamed up with the rest of his gang
To bring life and rebirth
And save the whole earth
And if that ain’t enough, well then dang!

While a bit of an Anime noob,
I watched the whole thing on the tube
All in one afternoon
(Hope you mean the cartoon,
And not this Sha-lam-a-lon boob.)

Aang can save the world | wordcoaster.

Sonnet: Favourites

I set myself this task and then I’m free
To fly abroad to anywhere I choose;
With confidence, assisting in my prime
Companions’ search with nothing I might lose.

They might or mightn’t choose to let me be;
Though never doth their circumstance confuse
My only wish as yearns to take this time,
That this, a burden is, to disabuse.

And clearly, doth my love, to this degree,
Encompass all their lives, and to suffuse
Complex, with all its mystery, this crime
With eager resolution. Know I whose

Bleak life shall see enrichment that ensues?
‘Tis mine, so lifted, by this double muse.

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Sonnet: In Her Prime

Doth, sylphidine, my poet walk the night.
Her nature, sybaritic; every wish
As spritely, and as sensuous a whim,
That, sibilant, depriveth of her sight;

The magic of her grace, her subtle flight.
Of flowery gifts, she writeth, she hath won;
Of sunsets, singeth she, luxuriant, warm;
And downy-cool, her mountaintops of white.

We shall, as loveth she, so never love;
Nor built we paradise, as hath she done.
Doth sleep our kingdom not upon the clouds,
Nor fortress, on such billows, dream above.
So vanquished she, as many, though but one;
She triumphed clear; yet had we only shrouds.

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