booooooom

So now it's off to minneapolis for a week and then mexico on the 25th.

on the 26th I join the crew of the Robert C. Seamans and sail to Tahiti.

be back in mid january.

have fun knitting

as nyline says-
stay out of work. stay out of trouble. stay out of jail.

t minus...oh god.

it is 2054. in 13 hours I will be turning in my final draft of my research proposal and shortly after that I'll be on a bus to boston and after that on a plane to minneapolis and after that (on the 25th) I will be on a plane to puerto vallarta in preparation for sailing to tahiti.

eeeeep.

looking forward to bumming around boston for awhile with siv before I have to fly out.

had an amusing interlude today in nautical science:
our captain said "yeah, so not so long before we sail out on next sunday, huh?"
us: "...saturday...?"
captain: "...nnnope, sunday."
class: "uh...saturday the 25th is when we were told to be on the dock..."
captain: "...huh. that's interesting. we never leave on saturday."

so SEA is working on getting our whole boat lodging for the night, either on board or somewhere. aaah, excitement.

I managed to knit 5 hats and teach 7 people to knit. the red hats are slowly taking over. muahahaha.

well.

so I guess, dear blog, that this is goodbye until mid-january, unless I get ambitious over the interim week before I get on the boat.

once again I'm playing the "why doth technology hate me" game at the MBL WHOI library.

arg.

it'll be working, and then sometimes the pregnant pause between when I click "scan again" and when the happy green light sweeps across the page leeeennnggthhheeennnnns and then it decides it's no longer connected to the computer.

and I found a great article but it's in a volume that's checked out. who lets people check out journals? whaaaat? sigh.

ah well.

home friday night! on boat friday after that! AAACK!

notes to self.

sooo...yeah. notes to self.

#1. self, if you're knitting with handspun thick-and-thin bamboo yarn... do not (repeat; NOT) try to kitchener stitch the ends together. your yarn will fray and dehisce; indeed, it will dissolve before your very eyes, causing them to weep tears of frustrated agony. you will rip 3 rows to finally, on the third try, make it all the way through the ends without fraying.

#2. self, do not try to kitchener while sitting in the common living room where people will ask you questions constantly about things both related and unrelated to knitting.

#3. self, after wiping the tears and sweat from your face and brow, do not NOT NOT think to yourself "I should block this." you shouldn't. you're working with bamboo. go ahead. submerge it in water and just try to squeeze the water out. yeah. that's right. instant gross fuzziness. now you've got a sopping wet blob that you want to block, but it'll be mildewy before it's dry.

#4. self, invent a time machine. go back. hit me over the head when I contemplate doing numbers 1-3.


oh, and hey, have you heard? the solution to global climate change isn't in cleaner energy and more efficient use of resources- it's in putting a giant mesh screen around the earth to reflect solar energy. or about moving the earth out of orbit using H bombs. or about shooting sulfur particles into the atmosphere.

I'm serious. people have published papers on this. nobel prize winners have published papers on this.

be afraid. be very afraid.

rockin' the MBL WHOI library

and once again I have ensconced myself in the MBL WHOI (pronounced mumblewhoee! but standing for Marine Biological Laboratory Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute)

and once again, I have spent several productive hours doing nothing but going oooo...articles...and oooo...I can access them, because I have the power! (in the form of a little happy swipy card. mm. swipey card.)

supposed to be writing my revised introduction and a materials and methods to my paper, though. I'll get there eventually. playing with the fount of knowledge is more fun, though.

started knitting a scarfy thing out of some more of michelle's fab yarn. can't take more Zissou hats just yet. need more boring public policy classes before I can manage that. I think I'm going to cheat and kitchener the ends together in a pseudo-moebius scarf. I'd attempt a real moebius but that, I think, would kill my brain.

two weeks left until I go home. three weeks left until I get on the boat. eek.

ROP!

ok, ok, so the nautical science's prediliction for three letter acronyms is getting to me. today is the first installment of Random act Of Poetry; acronym so chosen because "rap" means burp in norwegian but "rop" means call/cheer and I'd rather think of having a cheer of poetry than a burp of it. and "roap" looks like a frog with indigestion.

so. without further ado: TS Eliot's "The Hollow Men" (1925)

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

I love this one. I think I remember using this as a contrast basis for my paideia paper on Ellison's Invisible Man freshman year of college.