We go to Michigan tomorrow through next Sunday to visit my daughter and son-in-law, yay! They tell me that at the moment the Gational Nuard is not occupying Materloo Wichigan. I've a new bot from Singapore, one of dozens now pinging me tens of thousands of times daily, they can mite be while LLMing me. I've screamed and harangued about crackerchristers as shitlords' storm troopers for fifty-two fucking years and been told I'm the crazy one for fifty-two fucking years. Nine out of ten of non-crackerchrister Americans are not freaking the fuck out yet, still believe there'll be free and fair (as if there ever was such a thing) elections in 2026 and after, like shitlords and their enabled crackerchristers are amassing all this power to ever give it up. I'm gonna avoid Portage Lake's locals (and their empty-cans of Monster energy drink strewn all over the course) but feel safe at the other disc golf courses I plan to play. We will wear bright orange vests when we hike. The below is old but apt and taped to the inside of my work office door
No plans to not blaag, no plans to blaag, if the weather's nice probably less, if the weather sucks probably more. Grids may be here, grids may not be here, I'm hoping not but I have no self-control. Reminder: if the power elite didn't want this we wouldn't have this. I wrote more about why then remembered I try not to explain here, just reiterate what you already know. Longtimers here will recognize the danger when I state honestly that I wrote a sentence with the words accountants, actuaries, and algorithmists. Twice now. So yes, fighting off a bleggalgaze (the reason - briefly explained, I promise - in the grid), I don't want to write it tonight and I'm not taking it to Michigan, please accept this as it and accept my apology for it. Lindsey Buckingham is 76 today, this is not only one of this blog's theme songs but my second favorite Mac song and my second favorite Buckingham song
"In case it wasn’t clear, the anti-DEI crusade has never been about merit. Zero news experience. Never been a reporter. Elevated to Editor in Chief of CBS News, one of the most storied news institutions in the nation"
➥
"CBS News will now be a megaphone for the country's most vicious crusader against free speech, and the most relentless propagandist of far-right disinformation"
"Fascists, historically, are surprisingly candid about the world they intend to create. Those they target, despite this transparency, are surprisingly obtuse about what is coming"
"They’re unpopular losers with unpopular policies and yet the nominal opposition is falling over themselves to line up behind them to co-sign this widely-detested bullshit"
"The president just gathered the highest ranking officers in the military to tell them that he may order them to kill American citizens -- and that they better follow his orders. All in response to a series of crises that have no basis in reality"
Typepad shut down. The 2nd interation of this shitty blog (this one is the third) was a typepad blog. Mentioned because Dan's *Reading Experience* was a typepad blog, he was forced to move, you can find it here now if you were a follower
Most people know Jane Goodall, the eminent primatologist who died on Wednesday at 91, for her singular, field-defining work on wild chimpanzees. She first entered the field in the early 1960s with no formal academic training, at a time when influential scientific frameworks like behaviorism often viewed animals as little more than stimulus-response machines. Unencumbered by scientific orthodoxy, Goodall helped the world see chimps as socially and cognitively sophisticated creatures. Her work opened up space for scientists to understand animals as beings with interiority (although even today, that approach is far from universally embraced).
But Goodall also devoted herself to something even more radical, and far rarer for scientists of her international stature. Goodall’s recognition of animals’ capacities was not just an abstract academic finding but a practical ethic and moral imperative that led her to advocate for veganism, meat reduction, and animal rights. She despaired at the horrors of factory farming, calling it “amongst the worst atrocities ever perpetrated by humanity,” and she vocally opposed invasive animal experimentation, particularly on primates — a commitment that sometimes put her at odds with fellow scientists who believe that experimenting on animals remains essential to scientific discovery.
I dunno man, it’s a bitch. If I had something more profound to say, I’d post it. And if I could turn it into a haiku I’d do that too. In this autumn time Of changing colors and light Rats run crazy wild
when requested, a cybercorrespondent produced an "as if by carl sandburg" sequence of words
SHE SANG BEYOND THE SEA’S JOB
The woman sang by the waterline. Black hair, wind in it. Her shoes full of sand. Her voice went over the ocean like a lantern tossed in a storm.
The sea kept shouldering in— big man, dumb brute, muscles and foam, all bellow and brag. But she didn’t flinch. She sang through it. She built over it. And the sea, for all its noise, took orders from her tune.
The gulls knew. The tide knew. Men on the docks smelled her song and looked up from their nets. It wasn’t theirs, and still they knew it. Like when you hear a factory whistle and it reminds you of your mother humming. That kind of knowing.
She was the maker. You could see it— how her body moved like a word being born. Not fancy. Not jeweled. Just strong. The kind of strength that nails beams into place. That builds a world where there wasn’t one.
What was the sea, then? Not a mask, not a god, not mystery. It was stage boards and back curtain. It was lumber and background noise. It was her world’s wall of wind.
We asked each other— Whose ghost walks in her sound? Who teaches the sky to listen? Who puts light behind the eyes of fishermen when they look out at the night and see the ocean burning in glass?
If it were only the tides talking, it’d be another summer evening— clouds shrugging their shoulders, moonlight pinned on the waves, just breathing, breathing. But her voice caught something higher, something that wanted a name and a shape, and it came out through her song— a bright, rough order scraped out of the salt noise.
Later, when we turned back to town— the nets drying, the boats swaying, the lamps hanging red and gold in the still air— I said, Ramon, look how the night is measured now. Look how the sea divides itself into pieces we can hold. Look how her singing made the dark behave.
Oh, this is what we do, brother: we rage for order, we hammer and shout, we carve meaning into water with voices that learned from storms. And if the gods don’t understand, that’s fine— they never worked a day with their hands in the sea.
a different machine, given the sandburgian text as input, produced the following as "a sonnet in the style of robert frost" - i tweaked it just a bit
She sang beyond the reason of the tide, Her hair a tangle, shoes with sand inside.
The sea, a brute of muscle and of shove, Would brag of strength and bellow from its core. It found its match, and had to yield above To what the lone voice built against its roar.
The men who heard upon the dock looked up, As if a whistle called them in to sup Not at their table, but a known, good place. And gulls and tide acknowledged it was so. You saw the making in her form and face, As strong as any beam a house could know.
What was the sea but lumber for her song, A wind-wall she could build her world upon? We asked what ghost was walking in that sound, What light it gave the fishermen to see The ocean burning on the ground.
This is our rage for order in the deep, To carve in water, meanings that we keep. The gods may not get word of what we meant— They never worked a day with their backs bent.
Most people know Jane Goodall, the eminent primatologist who died on Wednesday at 91, for her singular, field-defining work on wild chimpanzees. She first entered the field in the early 1960s with no formal academic training, at a time when influential scientific frameworks like behaviorism often viewed animals as little more than stimulus-response machines. Unencumbered by scientific orthodoxy, Goodall helped the world see chimps as socially and cognitively sophisticated creatures. Her work opened up space for scientists to understand animals as beings with interiority (although even today, that approach is far from universally embraced).
ReplyDeleteBut Goodall also devoted herself to something even more radical, and far rarer for scientists of her international stature. Goodall’s recognition of animals’ capacities was not just an abstract academic finding but a practical ethic and moral imperative that led her to advocate for veganism, meat reduction, and animal rights. She despaired at the horrors of factory farming, calling it “amongst the worst atrocities ever perpetrated by humanity,” and she vocally opposed invasive animal experimentation, particularly on primates — a commitment that sometimes put her at odds with fellow scientists who believe that experimenting on animals remains essential to scientific discovery.
https://www.vox.com/future-perfect/463524/jane-goodall-animal-rights-experimentation-veganism-factory-farming
I dunno man, it’s a bitch.
ReplyDeleteIf I had something more profound to say, I’d post it.
And if I could turn it into a haiku I’d do that too.
In this autumn time
Of changing colors and light
Rats run crazy wild
one of my cybercorrespondents suggests:
DeleteChatGPT said:
I dunno, man — rough.
If I had wisdom, I’d post.
Haiku won’t come, though.
when requested, a cybercorrespondent produced an "as if by carl sandburg" sequence of words
ReplyDeleteSHE SANG BEYOND THE SEA’S JOB
The woman sang by the waterline.
Black hair, wind in it.
Her shoes full of sand.
Her voice went over the ocean like a lantern tossed in a storm.
The sea kept shouldering in—
big man, dumb brute, muscles and foam,
all bellow and brag.
But she didn’t flinch.
She sang through it. She built over it.
And the sea, for all its noise, took orders from her tune.
The gulls knew.
The tide knew.
Men on the docks smelled her song and looked up from their nets.
It wasn’t theirs, and still they knew it.
Like when you hear a factory whistle and it reminds you of your mother humming.
That kind of knowing.
She was the maker.
You could see it—
how her body moved like a word being born.
Not fancy.
Not jeweled.
Just strong.
The kind of strength that nails beams into place.
That builds a world where there wasn’t one.
What was the sea, then?
Not a mask, not a god, not mystery.
It was stage boards and back curtain.
It was lumber and background noise.
It was her world’s wall of wind.
We asked each other—
Whose ghost walks in her sound?
Who teaches the sky to listen?
Who puts light behind the eyes of fishermen
when they look out at the night and see the ocean burning in glass?
If it were only the tides talking,
it’d be another summer evening—
clouds shrugging their shoulders,
moonlight pinned on the waves,
just breathing, breathing.
But her voice caught something higher,
something that wanted a name and a shape,
and it came out through her song—
a bright, rough order scraped out of the salt noise.
Later, when we turned back to town—
the nets drying, the boats swaying,
the lamps hanging red and gold in the still air—
I said, Ramon, look how the night is measured now.
Look how the sea divides itself into pieces we can hold.
Look how her singing made the dark behave.
Oh, this is what we do, brother:
we rage for order,
we hammer and shout,
we carve meaning into water
with voices that learned from storms.
And if the gods don’t understand,
that’s fine—
they never worked a day with their hands in the sea.
a different machine, given the sandburgian text as input, produced the following as "a sonnet in the style of robert frost" - i tweaked it just a bit
ReplyDeleteShe sang beyond the reason of the tide,
Her hair a tangle, shoes with sand inside.
The sea, a brute of muscle and of shove,
Would brag of strength and bellow from its core.
It found its match, and had to yield above
To what the lone voice built against its roar.
The men who heard upon the dock looked up,
As if a whistle called them in to sup
Not at their table, but a known, good place.
And gulls and tide acknowledged it was so.
You saw the making in her form and face,
As strong as any beam a house could know.
What was the sea but lumber for her song,
A wind-wall she could build her world upon?
We asked what ghost was walking in that sound,
What light it gave the fishermen to see
The ocean burning on the ground.
This is our rage for order in the deep,
To carve in water, meanings that we keep.
The gods may not get word of what we meant—
They never worked a day with their backs bent.