( Part XXV , XXVII )
At the bottom of the crater, the two companions inspected the floor. All around them was the angular version of their own meditation pattern from the floor of their chapel back in the afflicted town of Toddlingham. It was eerily familiar. Above them, the heads of the people at the parapet seemed like small lollipops on truncated sticks in the distance, and everything became eerily familiar. It was like the blanket rewoven by their friend the unconscious Oracle.
"The only thing missing is the rocket/lighthouse." Mused the Man.
"And the giant swirly things in the sky." Replied his female companion, half-rhetoically.
"Look down at your feet. There they are, milady!"
"Yes. Blast. You love getting there before me, don't you?"
"It happens so rarely."
The Woman frowned. "Here we are, but what does it mean?" She narrowed her eyes, and began to think analytically. "This is a version of our Pattern, but we haven't been here before. The Patterns are unique, but this is all angular....
"Before you go all crazy, this may not have been generated the way ours is. They may have just made it from an image."
The brain wheels stopped turning for a moment. "An image... Yes, it could be, but then how did they get the image? Is this from a new source, or did that thing make it after visiting us? Why would it do that?"
"Why would we be standing here, talking like this?"
"It helps us think?"
"Well, yes, or it could be to pad out an hour while we wonder what on Earth is going on." The Man abated his flippancy and looked around. "What does this mean? I think it can mean one of three things. Bear with me, while I pretend to be insightful."
"Okay. I'll try to look rapt." She pursed her lips, and looked regally adoring.
"Oh, cut it out!" He scowled. "Look, either the similarity to our own signature is a coincidence, a signal, or it is bait."
The last implication fell from his lips leadenly.
"That would mean that is a trap." The Woman concluded calmly for him.
"Yes."
"Which would also mean we were worth trapping."
"Yes."
They were worth trapping. It was food for thought.
To be continued, but not very many more times...
Tuesday, 31 January 2017
Sunday, 29 January 2017
A Sudden Burst Of Magic
It is dark, and cold, and January continues its endless tread into obscurity. Across the Atlantic, a right wing lunatic has taken office while here a different brand of similar right wing maniacs prevail. The world continues on, and we hope that somehow the balance will shift back to something nicer. Hatred is not a motivation for good policies of good governing, nor is it an acceptable way of life.
It is dark, and wet, and life continues. Swimming practice continues too, as does cycling to students and walking just for the sheer fun of it all. Only one thing is absent: music. Music, the Achilles Heel of the Quirky Muffin. Then, suddenly, the digital radio is turned on, via the magical impulse of a whim, and something magical happens. I have never heard of Respighi before, but Venice Classic Radio is playing his (?) concerto 'all'antica' and it works magnificently. This happened once before, this sudden perfection of music, with a now lost work by Glinka. If only that title had been noted, it would have played a hundred times since then,
It is dark, and somehow magical. Classical music is back, and all is well. Orchestral music must originate from some other plane of existence, where worldly concerns no longer persist and people can close their eyes and be romantic. Concertos seem to the most beguiling of all, especially for piano or violin; panaceas for nerves long frayed or sensibilities dulled by the tensions of daily life. As long as there is no singing, classical music is the king of them all. (With singing, it becomes a hideous cacophonous racket, but that can be for another day.)
It is dark, but also somehow light. Suddenly, almost an entire post has blown by. It has been a good week, despite many cancellations and bouts of lurgy ravaging the flock of students. An enforced mini-vacation usually ends up being a good idea, in any case. Levels of numeracy seem to be appalling out there at the moment, but the violin is still going, and we can forget about it all for a little longer.
Ah, magic...
O.
It is dark, and wet, and life continues. Swimming practice continues too, as does cycling to students and walking just for the sheer fun of it all. Only one thing is absent: music. Music, the Achilles Heel of the Quirky Muffin. Then, suddenly, the digital radio is turned on, via the magical impulse of a whim, and something magical happens. I have never heard of Respighi before, but Venice Classic Radio is playing his (?) concerto 'all'antica' and it works magnificently. This happened once before, this sudden perfection of music, with a now lost work by Glinka. If only that title had been noted, it would have played a hundred times since then,
It is dark, and somehow magical. Classical music is back, and all is well. Orchestral music must originate from some other plane of existence, where worldly concerns no longer persist and people can close their eyes and be romantic. Concertos seem to the most beguiling of all, especially for piano or violin; panaceas for nerves long frayed or sensibilities dulled by the tensions of daily life. As long as there is no singing, classical music is the king of them all. (With singing, it becomes a hideous cacophonous racket, but that can be for another day.)
It is dark, but also somehow light. Suddenly, almost an entire post has blown by. It has been a good week, despite many cancellations and bouts of lurgy ravaging the flock of students. An enforced mini-vacation usually ends up being a good idea, in any case. Levels of numeracy seem to be appalling out there at the moment, but the violin is still going, and we can forget about it all for a little longer.
Ah, magic...
O.
Friday, 27 January 2017
Film: 'The Silent World' (1956)
After a two hour bicycle ride to something that didn't end up happening, you can get a bit erratic. This is liable to be a mass of eclectic and disconnected words! Or, it could become even worse, and veer into Trumpland. No, it will never get that bad... No more politics here ever, short of a constitutional disaster.
Actually, it might be a good time to break the alternating rule of Quirky Muffin posts and talk about the film seen today, 'The Silent World' from 1956. This was the breakthrough movie for pioneering oceanic explorer Jacques Cousteau. Cousteau actually co-developed the scuba system that has been used so much since its inception, and pretty much inspired underwater filming, thus making himself indirectly responsible for 'Thunderball'. Ah, 'Thunderball', a topic for another day.
'The Silent World' is equal parts fascinating and terrifying. For every beautiful underwater sequence with the fish or coral reefs, there is something at best disquieting and at worst rather revolting. Also, there is the Continental divide in terms of style and behaviour, but that's to be expected from such a French production. Louis Malle made the film, and that's a familiar name for some reason.
Why is it good? Mostly because it was a one of a kind movie that launched a whole sequence of screen productions for Cousteau (apparently a hero of the French Resistance???), and introduced the very idea of oceanic documentaries and submarine photography. It's also oddly quirky in places, and has a cute roly-poly daschund. Why is it troubling? Because the crew are very uncaring about sea-life and the damage they are inflicting, and display strong streaks of cruelty in the way they do things. Not only do they dynamite a patch of ocean in order to catalogue the (now dead) sea life in the region, but they also torment turtles and tortoises by hitching rides in their respective environments until the creatures become exhausted, and crowd a herd of sperm whales to the point they chop up a baby one with the Calypso's propellor. Then, when sharks turn up for the calf's corpse, they massacre the predators with great violence and malice just for doing what's natural. It's very strange. How frustrating it was to see the turtle struggling to reach the surface and its much needed breath while a great big oik was hanging on behind.
Despite all the downsides, it's still a beautiful film, and it does hold you for the eighty minutes. It's just a shame that it has such a cruel streak at times. They had the underwater scooters! Now, to a cycling inspired long sleep...
O.
Note: Louis Malle was the director of 'My Dinner With Andre'. Connection made!
Actually, it might be a good time to break the alternating rule of Quirky Muffin posts and talk about the film seen today, 'The Silent World' from 1956. This was the breakthrough movie for pioneering oceanic explorer Jacques Cousteau. Cousteau actually co-developed the scuba system that has been used so much since its inception, and pretty much inspired underwater filming, thus making himself indirectly responsible for 'Thunderball'. Ah, 'Thunderball', a topic for another day.
'The Silent World' is equal parts fascinating and terrifying. For every beautiful underwater sequence with the fish or coral reefs, there is something at best disquieting and at worst rather revolting. Also, there is the Continental divide in terms of style and behaviour, but that's to be expected from such a French production. Louis Malle made the film, and that's a familiar name for some reason.
Why is it good? Mostly because it was a one of a kind movie that launched a whole sequence of screen productions for Cousteau (apparently a hero of the French Resistance???), and introduced the very idea of oceanic documentaries and submarine photography. It's also oddly quirky in places, and has a cute roly-poly daschund. Why is it troubling? Because the crew are very uncaring about sea-life and the damage they are inflicting, and display strong streaks of cruelty in the way they do things. Not only do they dynamite a patch of ocean in order to catalogue the (now dead) sea life in the region, but they also torment turtles and tortoises by hitching rides in their respective environments until the creatures become exhausted, and crowd a herd of sperm whales to the point they chop up a baby one with the Calypso's propellor. Then, when sharks turn up for the calf's corpse, they massacre the predators with great violence and malice just for doing what's natural. It's very strange. How frustrating it was to see the turtle struggling to reach the surface and its much needed breath while a great big oik was hanging on behind.
Despite all the downsides, it's still a beautiful film, and it does hold you for the eighty minutes. It's just a shame that it has such a cruel streak at times. They had the underwater scooters! Now, to a cycling inspired long sleep...
O.
Note: Louis Malle was the director of 'My Dinner With Andre'. Connection made!
Wednesday, 25 January 2017
Book: 'Personal Recollections Of Joan Of Arc' by Mark Twain (1895-1896)
It was Twain's last completed novel, and one of his least known. Having worked through the other two of his historical romances, 'The Prince And The Pauper' and 'A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court', I was expecting this to be more of the same despite some anonymous endorsement having sustained itself in my mind over the last few years. Actually, 'Joan' is the best of the three and the least satirical. It's a mini-masterpiece of storytelling, to tell this story with its well known and very unhappy ending, and not have it be a ridiculously overbearing tragedy. Somehow, up until the very end, you do bear some hope, even when said hope is dashed repeatedly and viciously by Joan's enemies in the latter stages. Apparently, the story of Joan of Arc wasn't all that well known outside of France at the time. Fascinating...
In the spirit of full disclosure, it did take several sessions, over more than a year to finish 'Joan Of Arc'. While it is certainly the best of the three romances, I could never quite shake the ominous dread of Joan's fate, despite the excellence of Twain's prose. As a fictional recreation of a historical story, researched while he was in France, it is very entertaining. Is it accurate? Well, we'll never know, but it has the ring of authenticity. The personal recollections of the title refer to the narrator of the story, which is told from his point of view as one of Joan's childhood friends and constant companions in this fictional universe. It's a clever conceit, which allows some distance from the story while providing some emotional context.
It's still difficult to believe that a young lady of seventeen years of age could have risen to command the defeated armies of France and reversed the near total dominion of the English, in the year of 1430 AD. 1430! How on Earth is it possible that it was allowed by the Powers That Be of the time? How? In the long term, it wasn't allowed, of course. Twain makes it credible, as one of the best writers of his age. Imagine Mark Twain, Arthur Conan Doyle, Jules Verne and even more all being active writers at the same time! It's unimaginable in this day and age! Unimaginable! How marvelous it must have been to read those stories as they were coming out, how fascinating and illuminating. It's still hard to believe that there was such a golden age, such a fountain, of humorous and inventive literature. Do we have anyone writing with such style now? (If so, please make a recommendation below.)
'Joan of Arc' may be be one of the longer Twain works, but it's also one of his most mature and least cynical. I wish he could have used such a light and unbarbed touch on 'The Prince And The Pauper' or 'A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court'. Is it recommendable? That's the hard question to answer. It's a high quality work, excellently written, but I did read it in four blocks over more than a year, successfully putting it down in the pile over and over again. Was that the book's fault, my own distractions taking over, or was it beyond all control? Perhaps the final clue is that I am glad to have read it, unlike '1984', 'A Brave New World' and 'The Glass Bead Game', which admitted don't exist in the same category. This is a proper classic, and those are just doom-laden heartbreakers in a different sphere.
Yes, it is recommended.
O.
In the spirit of full disclosure, it did take several sessions, over more than a year to finish 'Joan Of Arc'. While it is certainly the best of the three romances, I could never quite shake the ominous dread of Joan's fate, despite the excellence of Twain's prose. As a fictional recreation of a historical story, researched while he was in France, it is very entertaining. Is it accurate? Well, we'll never know, but it has the ring of authenticity. The personal recollections of the title refer to the narrator of the story, which is told from his point of view as one of Joan's childhood friends and constant companions in this fictional universe. It's a clever conceit, which allows some distance from the story while providing some emotional context.
It's still difficult to believe that a young lady of seventeen years of age could have risen to command the defeated armies of France and reversed the near total dominion of the English, in the year of 1430 AD. 1430! How on Earth is it possible that it was allowed by the Powers That Be of the time? How? In the long term, it wasn't allowed, of course. Twain makes it credible, as one of the best writers of his age. Imagine Mark Twain, Arthur Conan Doyle, Jules Verne and even more all being active writers at the same time! It's unimaginable in this day and age! Unimaginable! How marvelous it must have been to read those stories as they were coming out, how fascinating and illuminating. It's still hard to believe that there was such a golden age, such a fountain, of humorous and inventive literature. Do we have anyone writing with such style now? (If so, please make a recommendation below.)
'Joan of Arc' may be be one of the longer Twain works, but it's also one of his most mature and least cynical. I wish he could have used such a light and unbarbed touch on 'The Prince And The Pauper' or 'A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court'. Is it recommendable? That's the hard question to answer. It's a high quality work, excellently written, but I did read it in four blocks over more than a year, successfully putting it down in the pile over and over again. Was that the book's fault, my own distractions taking over, or was it beyond all control? Perhaps the final clue is that I am glad to have read it, unlike '1984', 'A Brave New World' and 'The Glass Bead Game', which admitted don't exist in the same category. This is a proper classic, and those are just doom-laden heartbreakers in a different sphere.
Yes, it is recommended.
O.
Monday, 23 January 2017
Bibliographies, New Students, and Mark Twain
It's that time again, time to drag the keyboard out of its academic pursuits and return to the land of the self-aware and those not struggling with bibliographies in LibreOffice. It doesn't seem to work consistently at all... Maybe if I gave the computer a nice hat, and asked it very politely? No, you're probably right, that wouldn't make much difference. I'll keep that strategy in reserve, along with throwing socks at the monitor. There have been studies that -- But, we are digressing! Who really wants to know about fictional studies into the efficacy of sock hurling as a bibliography remedial measure. No-one, of course!
In a spate of activity, the student roster has filled up to a little beyond the safety limit, so there may be some Quirky Muffin interruptions coming, although they will be minimised as much as possible. The accession of new students is infinitely more time-consuming than maintenance of existing ones, as you get up to speed with each person and prepare their lessons and overall plans, often with exams looming on the horizon... Oh, exams...
Finally having finished Mark Twain's 'Joan of Arc', it feels a bit funny to not have that old copy Twain's Historical Romances sitting on the book pile. It had become an old friend, unfortunately water damaged on a trip to Nottingham, serving its time between readings, propping up the other books, and introducing new surprises from time to time. It's not clear what will take its place with such great longevity. Perhaps nothing should. 'Joan Of Arc' should have been finished a long time ago, and not been held up by the fear of the known ending of doom. Is it incredibly difficult to read stories when you know the ending is going to be a death? It certainly is here. 'The Glass Bead Game' (Hermann Hesse) was such a trauma, that nothing similar will be repeated. Someone somewhere has decided that 'great novels' have to cause a nervous breakdown. Let's try to change that. 'Joan Of Arc' is not traumatic, which is a miracle when you consider whose story it is, and so must be a great novel.
Now, back to fighting with the bibliography. It may end up as a manual job, which would be stinky but at least accurate. Something is deeply wrong with the automatic version, and I throw mild curses at the Open University for not allowing LaTeX. References are horrific in everything but LaTeX.
O.
In a spate of activity, the student roster has filled up to a little beyond the safety limit, so there may be some Quirky Muffin interruptions coming, although they will be minimised as much as possible. The accession of new students is infinitely more time-consuming than maintenance of existing ones, as you get up to speed with each person and prepare their lessons and overall plans, often with exams looming on the horizon... Oh, exams...
Finally having finished Mark Twain's 'Joan of Arc', it feels a bit funny to not have that old copy Twain's Historical Romances sitting on the book pile. It had become an old friend, unfortunately water damaged on a trip to Nottingham, serving its time between readings, propping up the other books, and introducing new surprises from time to time. It's not clear what will take its place with such great longevity. Perhaps nothing should. 'Joan Of Arc' should have been finished a long time ago, and not been held up by the fear of the known ending of doom. Is it incredibly difficult to read stories when you know the ending is going to be a death? It certainly is here. 'The Glass Bead Game' (Hermann Hesse) was such a trauma, that nothing similar will be repeated. Someone somewhere has decided that 'great novels' have to cause a nervous breakdown. Let's try to change that. 'Joan Of Arc' is not traumatic, which is a miracle when you consider whose story it is, and so must be a great novel.
Now, back to fighting with the bibliography. It may end up as a manual job, which would be stinky but at least accurate. Something is deeply wrong with the automatic version, and I throw mild curses at the Open University for not allowing LaTeX. References are horrific in everything but LaTeX.
O.
Saturday, 21 January 2017
Story: The Ninja of Health, XXV
( Part XXIV , XXVI )
One week later, a funicular railway creaked as its carriage was hauled up its hill. It had just left its base station and the counterweight carriage was far in the distance. Standing at the front, watching the counterweight become imperceptibly larger, stood the two protagonists of our story. It had been a long journey, that car ride across the country, with several stops at various hotels and campsites. Now they stood, ready to make sense of their prophetic tablecloth or move on to yet another set of cliffs.
"Is it supposed to be gurgling like that?" Wondered the man of the odd noises from the funicular.
"You're imagining it, dopey," replied his partner, ever exasperated at her companion's sense of wimsey. "I'm going to change your name to Brother Wimsey if we ever get out of this miss."
"I don't think Sayers would have liked you taking her sleuth's name in vain. You don't see me talking of changing your name to Sister Vane, do you?"
"Oh, hush. I'm sensing."
"Hushing is in progress." He looked absently around as she silenced herself, not too intently for care of disturbing her tranquil state. Then, he looked more interested when she pulled the tablecloth of the seers from her satchel and held it, while the other passengers looked puzzled. He mouthed "psychic" at them and they looked more amused than scornful. Then he looked at her face and worried. He only got to worry when she wasn't paying attention to him, for she would otherwise just laugh and stroke away the frown.
The opposite carriage passed them with a mild clatter and he realised that they would soon reach the cliffside. The Sun didn't look particularly swirly at this early hour, nor were there forests of pinwheels in the surrounding fields. This wasn't encouraging, especially when the appearance of a large crater would have made the news in some way. No doubt they would have to move on again, to a third candidate site.
"Something is here." Said the woman, just before he touched her shoulder to warn her that the ride was coming to an end. She opened her eyes. "Something new." They disembarked from the carriage, once the other passengers had stomped on up the steps, and then moved out on to the cliffside of St Pierre. They didn't get far, as their companions were all stood inexplicably around the exit to the station in a throng, the first people to make the journey that morning.
Pushing through the crowd, the two ninjas of health were astonished to find a massive crater where the camera obscura was supposed to be. The floor of the crater was criss-crossed with very familiar grooves; It was a triangulated version of their own personal Pattern.
More? Yes, there shall be more...
One week later, a funicular railway creaked as its carriage was hauled up its hill. It had just left its base station and the counterweight carriage was far in the distance. Standing at the front, watching the counterweight become imperceptibly larger, stood the two protagonists of our story. It had been a long journey, that car ride across the country, with several stops at various hotels and campsites. Now they stood, ready to make sense of their prophetic tablecloth or move on to yet another set of cliffs.
"Is it supposed to be gurgling like that?" Wondered the man of the odd noises from the funicular.
"You're imagining it, dopey," replied his partner, ever exasperated at her companion's sense of wimsey. "I'm going to change your name to Brother Wimsey if we ever get out of this miss."
"I don't think Sayers would have liked you taking her sleuth's name in vain. You don't see me talking of changing your name to Sister Vane, do you?"
"Oh, hush. I'm sensing."
"Hushing is in progress." He looked absently around as she silenced herself, not too intently for care of disturbing her tranquil state. Then, he looked more interested when she pulled the tablecloth of the seers from her satchel and held it, while the other passengers looked puzzled. He mouthed "psychic" at them and they looked more amused than scornful. Then he looked at her face and worried. He only got to worry when she wasn't paying attention to him, for she would otherwise just laugh and stroke away the frown.
The opposite carriage passed them with a mild clatter and he realised that they would soon reach the cliffside. The Sun didn't look particularly swirly at this early hour, nor were there forests of pinwheels in the surrounding fields. This wasn't encouraging, especially when the appearance of a large crater would have made the news in some way. No doubt they would have to move on again, to a third candidate site.
"Something is here." Said the woman, just before he touched her shoulder to warn her that the ride was coming to an end. She opened her eyes. "Something new." They disembarked from the carriage, once the other passengers had stomped on up the steps, and then moved out on to the cliffside of St Pierre. They didn't get far, as their companions were all stood inexplicably around the exit to the station in a throng, the first people to make the journey that morning.
Pushing through the crowd, the two ninjas of health were astonished to find a massive crater where the camera obscura was supposed to be. The floor of the crater was criss-crossed with very familiar grooves; It was a triangulated version of their own personal Pattern.
More? Yes, there shall be more...
Thursday, 19 January 2017
Results Day
It is finally here. The results day for my first bunch of GCSE students has been and gone, and they did pretty well. Congratulations, examinees! The only annoying part is that the Maths Numeracy paper scuppered practically every single one, garnering grades one rank lower than the mainline Mathematics paper. It's supposed to be the other way, if there's a difference at all... In any case, it seems highly suspicious, and I'm sure a huge load of re-marking is even now being requested of the exam board, whose name shall not be mentioned. However, we all know who they are...
It was a good results day overall, apart from that institutional snafu, with everyone hitting their targets in Mathematics proper. The tension is over for another few weeks now, before the next exam season kicks in. And then the next. It's a maddening system! Oh, why so many exams, exam board who will not be mentioned? Four exam sessions doesn't seem excessive at all?
Back in the old days, when I had to actually sit the exams instead of prepare other people to sit them, it was never a particularly tense day. At school, you would turn up and get handed a very unattractively shaded piece of paper with some titles and grades on it, and then you would just go back to your usual day. At university, you had to sign in and look at a badly designed web page. It was never very interesting or nervous, from the point of view of a confirmed idiot savant. It is only now that results day actually provokes nerves.
Well, that's not entirely true. There was one results day which was nerve-inducing, one examination process that couldn't be predicted. You have to feel nervous for your doctoral viva voce exam. It's impossible to not be so! That was a nervous day indeed, and not just because I had to go to London and do it there because of freakish scheduling!
In any case, it was results day, everyone made it through. Let's all be happy.
O.
It was a good results day overall, apart from that institutional snafu, with everyone hitting their targets in Mathematics proper. The tension is over for another few weeks now, before the next exam season kicks in. And then the next. It's a maddening system! Oh, why so many exams, exam board who will not be mentioned? Four exam sessions doesn't seem excessive at all?
Back in the old days, when I had to actually sit the exams instead of prepare other people to sit them, it was never a particularly tense day. At school, you would turn up and get handed a very unattractively shaded piece of paper with some titles and grades on it, and then you would just go back to your usual day. At university, you had to sign in and look at a badly designed web page. It was never very interesting or nervous, from the point of view of a confirmed idiot savant. It is only now that results day actually provokes nerves.
Well, that's not entirely true. There was one results day which was nerve-inducing, one examination process that couldn't be predicted. You have to feel nervous for your doctoral viva voce exam. It's impossible to not be so! That was a nervous day indeed, and not just because I had to go to London and do it there because of freakish scheduling!
In any case, it was results day, everyone made it through. Let's all be happy.
O.
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