i don't know how many ways are there to interpret a poem or a terse forth source code or if there's anything resemblance about the writing of an poem and writing of a piece of source code.
i simply present raw data here for my readers to draw their own conclusions. Amen.
In "A note on Edward Thomas" Gordon Bottomley, the English poet, spoke of Robert Frost's influence upon Thomas, who, before Frost's visit to England, was known only as a prose, stylist, earning his living by "writing for the booksellers," and fearful of attempting to write poetry. It was Frost's example as well as his close friendship that "clarified the confusion and disharmony within him {Thomas} and precipitated a solid purpose that he could follow with a new certainty."Both Thomas and Bottomely are dead, but they testified to a quality in Frost's work which is only now being acknowledged. Frost is essentially a clarifier. He cuts through the "confusion and disharmony" of muddled theorizing; to wandering speculation he adds certainty.
Bottomley cited another feature of Frost's poems which had profound effect upon the generation. "He talked ofterner than he sang, and in the conversational aspect of his verse achieved singular, half-concealed novelties of metrical effect...When a man writes so that his skill becomes instinct and carries him beyond the domination of verse-mechanism, his own speech-tunes and phrasings in daily life will control his use of metrical patterns. The latter will become a constant, felt rather than exhibited, and the actual words will go over it like a counter-point. In the end the poet's own speaking voice and cadences will be heard through his personal vocal rhythms...The sound of poetry is part of its meaning." Sound and sense, music and meaning, are continually fused in everything Frost has written. The union is there from the very inception of the poem; it is impossible to think of Frost "designing" a poem or planning it in terms of technique. The tone and treatment go hand-in-hand, words making their own music.
"On Going Unnoticed" is one of Frost's shorter poems. It is a lyric which has seldom been quoted, yet it mingles its talking tone and singing voice as simply as it presents its unobtrusive but central philosophy.
As vain to raise a voice as a sigh In the tumult of free leaves on high. What are you in the shadow of trees Engaged up there with the light and breeze?>p> Less than the coral-root you know That is content with the daylight low, And has no leaves at all of its own; Whose spotted flowers hang meanly down.You grasp the bark by a rugged pleat, And look up small from the forest's feet. The only leaf it drops goes wide, Your name not written on either side.
You linger your little hour and are gone, And still the woods sweep leafily on, Not even missing the coral-root flower You took as a trophy of the hour.
#!/usr/bin/perl
undef $/;
<>
print "Saddam Hussein has Weapons of Mass Destruction!\n";
I believe a good interpretor is to reveal error in its true color so the error itself may be used to cure color-misrepresentation by other interpretors without causing any alientation on the first being that has its true color being interpretated as an ill state of the being.
Does that make any sense at all?
From "Against Love Poetry" by Eavan Boland
CODE - An Ode to Grace Murray Hoppe 1906-88 maker of a compiler and verifier of COBOLPoet to poet. I imagine you at the edge of language, at the start of summer in Wolfeboro, New hampshire, writing code. You have no sense of time. No sense of minutes even. They cannot reach inside your world, your gray workstation with when yet now never and once. You have missed the other seven. This is the eighth day of Creation.
The peacock has been made, the rivers stocked. The rainbow has leaned down to clothe the trout. The earth has found its pole, the moon its tides. Atoms, energies have done their work, have made the world, have finished it, have rested. And we call this Creation. And you missed it.
The line of my horizon, solid blue apears at last fifty years away from your fastidious, exact patience: The first sign that night will be day is a stir of leaves in this Dublin suburb and air and invertebrates and birds, as the earth resorts again to its explainations: Its shadows. Its reflections. Its words.
You are west of me and in the past. Dark falls. Light is somewhere else. The fireflies come out above the lake. You are compiling binaries and zeroes. The given world is what you can translate. And you divide the lesser from the greater.
Let there be language -- even if we use differently: I never made it timeless as you have I never made it numerate as you did. And yet I use it here to imagine how at your desk in the twilight legend, history and myth of course, are gathering in Wolfeboro, New Hamshire, as if to a memory. As if to a source. Maker of the future, if the past is fading from our view with the light outside your window and the single file of elements and animals, and all the facts of origin and outcome, which will never find their way to you or shelter in your syntax --
it makes no difference to us We are still human. There is still light in my suburb and you are in my mind - head bowed, old enough to be my mother - writing code before the daylight goes. I am writing at a screen as blue, as any hill, as any lake, composing this to show you how the world begins again: One word at a time. One woman to another.
Saddam Hussein has Weapons of Mass Destruction!
My in-exhaustive list of Weapons of Mass Destruction includes:
And Jesus Christ, the son of GOD was sent to us to redeem our sins. He is also WMD from our Father,the Creator of all things. The crucifixion of Christ foundamentally changed mankind about their own origin, their ultimate purpose of being outside the temporal world of their short existence on earth. Their ultimate salvation is to become one with our Creator, the Father through Christ and the Holy Spirit.
...you should just go ahead become one with your Creator, the Father through Christ and the Holy Spirit, and stop spewing drool on Advogato.
Father told me so. stop spewing your antagonism as if you had a chance to stop me from spewing drool to places i so choose. At least, they are my drool with the most distinguished trademark of badvo. And you need me too. Believe it or not. you are always the one jump on my thread and could you explain away that we are ONE?
Right, why don't you just come over and worship Buddha.
... or kill him, as recommended.
Does a badvogato have Buddha-nature? And, what is the sound of one badvogato drooling?
GETTING TO KNOW YOU
Like the hard-on the asshole is another level of being It's me, but a me even I must negotiate with, especially when washing after shitting, as civilized life demands. For it does not allow the soapy finger in, presenting an impenetrable surface.Do not be misled. It is offering the coy resistence it would to a lover. Therefore, with a lover's singlemindedness, remain stalwart in seeking entrance, probe for a crevice until the fingertip, with a delicate wiggle, pries open the curl of muscle and slips in,
and miraculously, you will find that the whole organ relents, goes soft for the soaping, with a sappy grin.
drivels are designed into pop chips to suit dimwit's desire of coming fast to swallow viagra and thus stay dimwit for ever oh so proud of their prick of a size perfect.
In summary, some lovers are really assholes.
badvogato certainly has the badvogato nature.
the best laid plans of mice and lamda-Bulleddha often go astray
the wordshippers of void are awakening from their winter sleeps again. Spring is in the air, /dev/null in their hearts. Nought is as it seems: empty.
no sense no words no flesh no thoughts no longer ends without end
From Heinz R. Pagels "The Dreams of Reason" p231 Chapter 10 'The Man who mistook his brain for his mind':
The same problem arises for artificial intelligences. At what point do we attribute intentionality to a computer (as distinct from its designer)? To help answer this I'd like to recount a little story.In 1986 I sent a chess-playing computer to my friends Peter and Anna McClinton, who live in their compound on the banks of Blue Nile ten miles south of Juba in the South Sudan. They have been working for more than a decade to set up a number of national parks, some larger than the Serengeti, to save the last large concentrations of megafauna. Besides the incredible logistiical difficulties involved in maintaining their equipment, their work is hampered by a regional civil war. I was waiting for the news of the impact that the arrival of the first artificial intelligence in the South Sudan would have, and the other day I was rewarded by a letter from Anna. She wrote:
It is a beautiful, grey Saturday morning; temperatures are near enough 100, humidity not far behind, the generator hums, the refrigerators hiss, the dogs snore, birds chip, flies buzz, and in the comfortably far distance we hear some mortar interspersed with bursts of machine gun fire. In other words God is in Heaven (not that I expected him to be anywhere else) and all is as peaceful as it can be under the present circumstances. Peter has gone to Juba to listen to the latest rumours, which gives me a chance to write to you.
Before I go any further I want to thank you for the wonderful chess computer which arrived safely on the last charter from the UK. We have named him Kasimir, and he immediately became a valued if controversial member of the family. How did we know it was a male computer? Why, he couldn't have been anything else, with those geometrically perfect squares and the silver-black-red (for the lights) colour scheme. Female computers, as everybody knows, have round squares and are pink and white.
Kasimir is our first computer of substance. The only other one we ever had experience with was one of those little pocket calculators. It took us a little while to understand him. In fact, during the first 24 hours of Kasimir's residence there were some heated arguments in this family...Very soon I fell in love with Kasimir. I started doing crazy things like opening KRP-R4 or similar. I would sacrifice my queen, the rooks, the knights, the bishops and not even be aware of doing it. Kasimir won every single game, and I felt very good about it. Now will you please tell me one thing: why can't I be that happy to lose when my opponent is a human being? If that isn't love, I don't know what love is.
Then, one day, Peter outfoxed Kasimir. He sacrificed a piece to get a pawn through, converted it into a queen and had a mate in 3 moves. And he gloated. This made me mad. So, while Peter was not looking I changed the level to the most advanced one. Let's just see if he can beat that. He hasn't yet.
So... what?
A - mi - ta - bha.
So...what? For thousand years, people made no mistake that chicken butt could be warmer and hotter than your brain for those who mistook his brain for his mind. But now things begin to change when identical chicken butt coming out of the factory like they've never been done before. What about the eggs and cocks? Only a few eggs and cocks can afford to live outside the factory. We are talking about endangered species and the problem in turn trace back on the theories of creation and evolution.
another side note is like my local library used to have telnet program on their PCs. Now, all telnet apps have been taken out of user PCs and the librarians don't see the point of maintaining them if nobody uses the program anyway.
Oh. I thought you were on to some monumental discovery.
Just discovered today that match.com matched one of my former student, Payal, now a Ph.D Graduate research assistant at the Center for Spoken language Research, University of Colorado at Boulder with her fiance Jeremy. They are planning a Summer 2005 wedding on the sunny beaches of South Florida.
I had to say Hima could become a good friend of mine if i had time really get to know my computer lab assistants at CSE. She's in grad school at Brandeis University.
I remember the year when i met the ruin of a life time was 1998? There wasn't any match.com of the sort yet. But i was plugging in IP numbers in my browser, hope that i can get back to my webmail page with a defunct DNS server at my ISP. So i came across this guy's page unexpectedly in the IP blocks of my webmail provider. I sent him an email, hoping that he'll be able to straight out the DNS problems i had with my dial-up connection. And the rest is history, not too pleasant for young girls becoming young women at CSE, i'd imagine. Yet i survived so far so good. Thank God i was young one time and am old yet have no envy of being young. Rather i am worried that their happiness are all too old and they have no fear for the future or the past.
hi, PJ
PT claims that if Charles Walton or Brian Reid have work for him, he'd be glad to take a break from his cruising and work on their projects. Charles is his old boss and Brian Reid is a guy i happened to discover on Society of Archbishop Justus colleague site and mentioned to Eugene at one time and he told me that Brian knows about him.
I seriously doubt if PT didn't come up with a new idea and implement it somehow without reliance on others, how internet established power can benefit from his drifting alone on unproven grounds out of his own determination, like they haven't pissed off at him before.
What's interesting for me is to find out that Brian Reid is now Director of Operations at Google. Google is undoubtably the new pivot of power on the net. But i believe it is possible to build a counter-force of google's technology with loosely coupled personalities on advogato.org and all machinery AI advogato memebers have under their controls. Maybe that is a new direction badvogato ought to concentrate his b.a.d.ness in.
What y'all think? Your Windoze and your mice idle time is too precious to waste vs. your undetermined idle re-re-re-searching towards the ultimate salvation of mankind is too precious to waste?
Yours truly. Amen.
PT.
i don't know how many ways are there to interpret a poem or a terse forth source code or if there's anything resemblance about the writing of an poem and writing of a piece of source code.
both require creative ability - the creative ability to listen to the universe, the word of god, the will of god, and to express it.
in a very real and very direct sense, we are tools for god's creation to... to express. we are expressions of god's creative intelligence.
whether writing code or writing poetry, we are able to make a difference in the world - to communicate.
there is such beauty in the world.
except when it comes to perlmonks.org, which is just... awlk.
i love writing code that looks beautiful. if it doesn't look good either from a distance or close up with the colours vi embues upon it, then to my mind, it must have fundamental design flaws.
poetry, however, is slightly different: most of the words just flow, in fragments - not necessarily in order, and the gaps are self-defining through the metre and rhyming of the fragments i ... [receive?] ... write.
this is how god works through me. how does god work through you?
lkcl wrote:
i love writing code that looks beautiful. if it doesn't look good either from a distance or close up with the colours vi embues upon it, then to my mind, it must have fundamental design flaws.This reminds me of Hardy's aphorism: "there is no permanent place in the world for ugly mathematics". Good question to ask yourself about poetry: what sort of things can be expressed in poetry that cannot easily be expressed in prose? I recommend Empson's "7 types of ambiguity" and "The structure of complex words" for answers to this question, answers that seem to be along the lines that lkcl is tracing.
Quote msclicker "I think for many, Forth in its radical form presents a discomforting disturbance to their world view, for them it should not exist, it must be buried from sight." When a child says "i want to devote my life to poetry", most parents from Commoners origin immediately start worrying about how the child can ever make ends meet for his livelihood. And they will try to bury the child's devotion with their own good rationality. For society at large, each of us have this duty not to let devotional voices fall into oblivion; each of us must also resist the temptation to conform a young devotion into a mature vocation as we know it.
The discussion here reminds me of Shelly's "A Defense of Poetry or Remarks Suggested by an Essay Entitled 'The Four Ages of Poetry'".
In the first (and only) issue of Ollier's Literary Miscellany (1820), a periodical published by Charles Ollier, Shelley's friend Thomas Love Peacock published a half-serious essay entitled "The Four Ages of Poetry". Peacock argued that poetry passed through repeated four-stage cycles: first, an iron age, in which literature was crude and simple (the period of court bards, forlk ballads, and romances, both primitive and medieval); an age of gold, in which genius develops the great epic and tragic forms (from Homer to Euripides and from Dante to Milton); a silver age of polished and civilized, but derivative, poetry governed by fixed rules (the Augustan age in Rome and the English Augustan age from Dryden to Pope); and, finally, the age of brass, in which the narrow vein of polished social poetry and satire having been exhausted, poets seek novelty in pseudo-simplicity. This is the age Peacock saw in the England of his own time:"Mr. Scott digs up the poachers and cattle-stealers of the ancient border. Lord Byron cruizes for thieves and Mrs. Wordsworth picks up village legends from old women and sextons; and Mr. Coleridge, to the valuable information acquired from similar sources, superadds the dreams of crazy theologians and the mysticisms of German metaphysics..."I doubt if father raph shall be pleased at my attempt to turn his advocacy more in the line of 'in the defense of trusted networking..' to pranksters' forum entitled 'in the defense of mistrusted networking'. All i can say is that i can't help it, it's in my nature. Amen.Peacock, who had failed as a poet and had recently begun work at the East India Company, urged intelligent men to stop wasting their time writing poetry and apply themselves to the new sciences, including economics and political theory, which would improve the world."
Shelley wrote his answer in Feb. and March 1921...
New Kinds of Sciences, rather. (Hint, hint.)
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