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The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence
Happy Bloomsday! I have no computer.
There are a couple of reasons that yesterday was outright awful until the evening, when![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rushthatspeaks and I went to see Jack Clayton's The Innocents (1961) at the Harvard Film Archive (it is one of the best black-and-white films I have ever seen, meaning that it could not have been made in color; and the ghosts are uncanny, but Deborah Kerr is terrifying), but one of them was the way my laptop failed to boot for over an hour in the morning and only came back, slowly and waveringly, sometime after dark. This morning, it wouldn't come back at all.
I do not really feel like recounting the details of a day spent at the Apple Store, except that at one point I textedderspatchel, "I am the only person with a book in this entire store. Everyone else around me waits staring into their phones or the air. I'm reading ethnography from 1912, but I feel like I'm conducting it a hundred years later." I had thought the problem might be that one of the fans in the computer had died, leading to overheating, but when the utilikilt-wearing employee at the Genius Bar (whose logo is a sort of stylized Bohr model of the atom; I am amused that the universally recognized sign for genius is still something to do with nuclear physics) popped the back off, it transpired that my machine only has one fan, which was not in the specs. I may have to name it either George VI or Owen Pugh. In any case, there were tests run, the hard drive appeared to be fine, it was decided that the problem was software corruption and the machine was taken off into the back room to have its operating system razed and reinstalled.
The operation was a success and the patient died: the hard drive failed during reinstallation. The good news is, a replacement is actually covered by the insurance I bought three years ago August. (For once, paranoia rewards. I cannot, cannot afford to buy a new computer. I am not sure I could have afforded a new hard drive.) The bad news is, I am unlikely to get the machine back before Monday, and until such time I have really no access to my e-mail and no ability to do my job. I guess this month is my exercise in unplugged weekends. But at least I could write about the last one without resorting to pencil and paper. I just don't write that fast by hand.
There are a couple of reasons that yesterday was outright awful until the evening, when
rushthatspeaks and I went to see Jack Clayton's The Innocents (1961) at the Harvard Film Archive (it is one of the best black-and-white films I have ever seen, meaning that it could not have been made in color; and the ghosts are uncanny, but Deborah Kerr is terrifying), but one of them was the way my laptop failed to boot for over an hour in the morning and only came back, slowly and waveringly, sometime after dark. This morning, it wouldn't come back at all.I do not really feel like recounting the details of a day spent at the Apple Store, except that at one point I texted
derspatchel, "I am the only person with a book in this entire store. Everyone else around me waits staring into their phones or the air. I'm reading ethnography from 1912, but I feel like I'm conducting it a hundred years later." I had thought the problem might be that one of the fans in the computer had died, leading to overheating, but when the utilikilt-wearing employee at the Genius Bar (whose logo is a sort of stylized Bohr model of the atom; I am amused that the universally recognized sign for genius is still something to do with nuclear physics) popped the back off, it transpired that my machine only has one fan, which was not in the specs. I may have to name it either George VI or Owen Pugh. In any case, there were tests run, the hard drive appeared to be fine, it was decided that the problem was software corruption and the machine was taken off into the back room to have its operating system razed and reinstalled.The operation was a success and the patient died: the hard drive failed during reinstallation. The good news is, a replacement is actually covered by the insurance I bought three years ago August. (For once, paranoia rewards. I cannot, cannot afford to buy a new computer. I am not sure I could have afforded a new hard drive.) The bad news is, I am unlikely to get the machine back before Monday, and until such time I have really no access to my e-mail and no ability to do my job. I guess this month is my exercise in unplugged weekends. But at least I could write about the last one without resorting to pencil and paper. I just don't write that fast by hand.
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See, at this point in the paragraph my most focussed response became eee MOAR NOW. Fortunately, there's a uni library available and a weekend approaching.
(I'm unsure how Down Under ended up without WWI poets; we normally nick all the UK ones - possibly due to the country-mentality at the time. Either that or all the poets of the time were too busy dealing with forging a national identity, which became a nigh-on obsessive theme for a good thirty years about then).
Great. Flip a coin to see who gets to be depressed enough to write it?
Heh. It does seem that way! There's the boned edges of its structure in sight, but I'd need to know more about the Tarot to cast any poem that way.
It's a set of archetypes I've been thinking about for years.
Shiny poem-territory...
(I just came back from a function at Parliament to have MPs talk to women in science. My current impression of scientific archetypes is a roomful of women of all ages from mine to elderly, dressed for their own comfort & happiness rather than anyone's gaze, talking to each other animatedly at a great rate of knots. Archetypes party hard.)
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Thanks to a sudden access of paranoia (double-checking a statement I was about to make about the availability of Jones' poems), I have discovered that since I tracked down my copy of In Parenthesis, The Anathémata has also come back into print, which really cheers me up. I see also several other titles by Jones that I hadn't known existed and will have to look into. Maybe he's finally being noticed after all.
I'm unsure how Down Under ended up without WWI poets; we normally nick all the UK ones - possibly due to the country-mentality at the time.
Wikipedia thinks there is at least one notable one, but I do not know very much about him.
My current impression of scientific archetypes is a roomful of women of all ages from mine to elderly, dressed for their own comfort & happiness rather than anyone's gaze, talking to each other animatedly at a great rate of knots. Archetypes party hard.
I like the sound of those archetypes.