Everydayness

Nighthawks (1942) - Edward Hopper
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A conversion at a Edward Hopper Exhibit:

Docent: I have seen you before. You like Edward Hopper.

Young Man: Yes. I do.

Docent: I hope you are not thinking of doing 'A Thomas Crown' on the Hopper exihibit.

Young Man: I beg you pardon?

Docent: Sorry. A bad joke.

Docent (inclining his head towards 'Nighthawks'): What do you like about it?

Young Man: By the way, I am Binx Bolling. I like to hear what you have to say first.

Docent (shaking Bolling's hand): Glad to meet you, sir. I am Soren Regeneré.

First of all, Mr. Bolling, Hopper has another name for this 1942 oil on canvas. He also called it The Wanderers.

The most authoritative voice on Hopper and his art is his wife, Josephine. Jo, for short, to the artist community. Hopper described this work as a painting of "three characters." The man behind the counter, though imprisoned in the triangle, is in fact free. He has a job, a home, he can come and go; he can look at the customers with a half-smile. It is the customers who are the nighthawks. The lost wanderers, if you will. Let me write this down. You can read more about Nighthawks and others in Sister Wendy's American Masterpieces.

Young Man: I keep coming back to this painting to look for something. That's it. The word you just said. Imprisoned. That is what escapes me.

Docent (chuckling): What you just said is ironic, whether or not you realize it. Are you a painter, Mr. Bolling? No? Then, what positives and negatives do you see in Nighthawks?

Young Man (pursing his lips): Let's see. The positives: Life, place of rest and refreshment, lots of lights. The negatives: a deserted city, dark street, empty street, isolation, loneliness, no door, no entry, tense atmosphere, to hunch one’s shoulders, not talking, characters crying to speak out but can't. What's the word for all these...?

Docent: Despair.

Young Man (nodding his head and squinting his eyes at 'Nighthawks'): Yes...

Docent: What Harper captured in Nighthawks is everydayness. His characters, with the exception of the waiter perhaps, are unaware of being in despair. Accepting and existing in everydayness is despair, Mr. Bolling. It's not living a purposeful life. Put it in another way, the everydayness is exisitng inside a sealed glass bottle; and the boat inside goes nowhere. Happiness costs little, too. In Nighthawks, it is a cup of coffee at a familiar surrounding.

No amount of light casts over these characters will jolt them out of their rut. The weary dark shadows of alienation tenaciously abide. For them, living outside of everydayness comes only when illness, disaster, or death is laid at their feet. In that transient moment, life is real and they live outside the bottle.

Young Man: I like the word everydayness. May I use it?

Docent (smiling): Life can be harsh, Mr. Bolling. It beats down and tramples the soul. Art, such as the Hopper collection, reminds you and I have one. It is God given. May I speak something off the record and personally, Mr. Bolling? Thank you.

Moreover and utmost important, God is given man a soul. Our chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever. He can free us from our imprisoned and everydayness existence. If we let Christ in, He knows where the door to our heart and soul is. Now, let's go back to Hopper.

There are three other Hopper's American Realism pieces on exihibit that tie in with Nighthawks. Go have a look at Night Shawdows, Approaching City, and Sunday.

Young Man (looking at his watch): I have a movie I want to see. I will be back to look at the other Hopper paintings. You have just given me my 2005 resolution. Happy new year, Soren. Thanks for everything.

Docent: Goodbye, Mr. Bolling. A happy new year to you also.

Behind the Oysters is the Landscape

This book review is titled: "Behind the Oysters is the Landscape"
My Amazon nom de plume is: Gussie Fink-Nottle.

This review has been posted to Amazon. The Amazon link to this book is embedded below.

My reveiw of this book is as follows:

The opening line of this book is:
"WHAT YOU NOTICE in the month of May is the tiles, like roof tiles but white, stacked by thousands at one point after another along the shore."

The last line on page 203 is:
"BENEFICIENT Oyster, good to taste, good for the stomach and the soul, grant us the blessing of your further mystery."

In between these 200 pages concerning oysters, Eleanor Clark wrote a definitive classic on the amalgamation of geography, human history, ecology, and commerce. One reads much of the mystery or the character of this mollusk at this Breton coast. It expresses itself through the human being just as it does through its own.

These oysters of Locmariaquer can be appreciated or thought of in two ways. How they are farmed in this northwestern Breton Coast can be thought of as being incidental. The important thing, some argues, this is a place of scenary, good oyster eating, and tourism. Or one can see with an understanding eye, as the author wants the reader to see, at the landscape. This Locmariaquer landscape, with the oysters, is repleted with the rich voice of its ancestors, myths, history, and human foibles.

Equipped with this behind the scene knowledge, the mystery of the Locmariquer mollusk is revealed. Now we can trippingly roll off our tongue why these Breton oysters are dear to the gourmet. Put on a few more dozens of these oysters on the barbie, won't you? No, not on the doll.

*Note: This book was published in 1964. In the 1970s, some if not all of the oyster varieties named in the book had been devastated by parasites. Today, the region is cultivating the hardier Japanese oyster, the Japanese naissain (the Gigas) variety, to sustain the industry and a way of life.

In Times Like These

As another year draws to a close, apropos our generation and the world events - wars, famine, and catastrophes - the following words of supplication are recalled. These words are the last two stanzas of a narrative poem 'Dear Lord and Father of Mankind'. John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) wrote these lines in 1872.

Drop Thy still dews of quietness,
Till all our strivings cease;
Take from our souls the strain and stress,
And let our ordered lives confess
The beauty of Thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire
Thy coolness and Thy balm;
Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
O still, small voice of calm.

Hey, Nonny Nonnie

I have just finished commenting on a comment on my blog. My comment was on the nature of blogging commentaries. It sounds convoluted already in my trying to explained what I wrote. Enough.

Anyway, a flash of brilliance equivalent to a 4-watt night light came to me ensuing my commentary on my commentary. I am dim-witted, please indulge me for a little while. The following is an imaginary, if not silly, blog and response.

Setting: a blogger met someone at a gathering. He left her his blog site address, with the hope she might pay a visit. In this blog, he described how she looked to him at the party. Only she would know how she looked at the party, perhaps not the same way the blogger saw her.

Blogger to his l'objet d'amour:
You seemed all brown and soft, just like a linnet,
Your errant hair had shadowed sunbeams in it,
And there shone April in your face.

Alas, in stumbled L'Envoi Budinsky to his blog. L'Evnoi can be a pain sometimes to his peers. He never let a literary moment went to naught. Very uncouth was he. With not even a forethought of apologies extended to Emily Dickinson, he submitted and signed this comment.

L'Envoi Budinsky:
Beneath the blessed moon-lapped smile
On waters hushed at nights wild
Our passions quivered full to swoon
One soul one heart our eternal tune

I will leave it to the fertile mind of the reader as to how the blogger would react to this unwelcome intrusion.

A Time and a Place

Today is the last day of my Christmas break before returning to the bowels of crime and punishment. The winter face is showing its colors, "where, outside, rain and wind combine with a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, with a hostile eye... a malice that marks each word, each sign..."* Maybe that's the reason I prefer blogging to speaking.

I was writing a new blog when Raymond, whom I met in ou sont les neiges d'antan?, brought over a Christmas gift. A surprise but not an unwelcome visit. The time and the place were right.

After Raymond's visit, a writer's block ensued. The blog on an Edward Hopper painting and the approaching new year will not be written this afternoon.


*Robert Browning - "Never the Time and the Place"

Iris dévoilée (Iris unveiled)

This Iris plants are an important in the myth, art, and cultivation in many societies. The Chinese composer, Qigang Chen (or Chen Qigang), has rendered a musical portrait of the female sex likened to the fragile and beautiful Iris flower.

This 2003 Iris dévoilée (Iris unveiled) recording is a much acclaimed piece of artistry. In his arranged marriage of the East and West musical ware, Chen has exotically woven a tapestry of sensual harmonics and vocalises (Beijing operatic and Western) depicting the eternal feminine mystique.* The musical metaphors of the female personae are intrinsically Chinese. There are five additional tracks on the CD. Each invokes an element of the five core progenitors that which gave rise to the physical world known to the Chinese.

This, however, is not the CD one wishes to complement the delicacies of the conversation, nor when solitude is desired.

* The nine mica panels of female attributes portraited in this tone poem are:

1. Ingenious
2. Chaste
3. Libertine
4. Sensitive
5. Tender
6. Jealous
7. Melancholic
8. Hysterical
9. Voluptuous

An Honest Thought of Christmas

A foreign student studying in England wrote unprententiously in this blog about Christmas:

What is Christmas to me? Apart from Christmas presents & Christmas sale shopping, nothing much I guess. As I don't believe in God, neither Jesus.

I do eat turkey + gravy, I love Christmas crackers the most, I collect little toys inside, I like to wear the paper crown. I never try mince pie though, maybe next year.

The last time I was ill on Christmas Day... was something like 13 years ago... I remember I did not eat any food on that day while all my relatives were around my house having a party & feast, & I was dying on the bed. This year, I am ill again, I down the whole bottle of medicine & waiting for miracle to come.

I left the following remarks on this person's journal:

With regard to Jesus and His birth, you have a trilemma. Only one of the following three alternative is true. The trilemma is this:

1. Jesus was a liar

2. Jesus was a lunatic

3. Jesus was and is God

I suppose I am not being fair by making you think when you are ill...

Epiphany

She asked.
The reply: "As long as you have memories, there will be roses in the dead of winter."

She asked again.
The reply: "As long as you have hope, tomorrow awaits you."

She asked.
The reply: "Friendship itself is of no particular value. It's of value only when your life allows it."

She whispered to her soul:"As long as I have friends, life is worth the living."
The reply: "This is the desired epiphany."

She inclined her head and smiled.

What Child is This?

He is the Word.

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.

Merry Christmas to one and all!

There is an Exit

I have on occasions frequented this existenial poet's blog. I am the only visitor thus far who has commented on the journal. The following is my response to this poet's latest blog entitled "Le Mythe de sysphe", which the author borrowed from Albert Camus, the noted French existentialist. This blogger's lament is that science explains nothing of life and the universe.

My comments are as follows. There are puns and double-entrendres regarding Camus (sorry about that).

You intrigue me.

You are not what you are at any given moment
You are what you are not
You are your future which is not yet
And your past which is no longer

I have just distilled the existentialistic you in four lines. Is this why you called yourself "Zero"?

There is no exit with Camus. Camus is dead. Existentialism is the pseudo-intellectual thief who robs you of your youth and years. It is a Sisyphean task to find the meaning of life via Camus or in any philosophical pursuit. Don't let it.

The vast heavens are telling, the smallest neutrinos are telling - there is a divine order in the universe. Cosmology can only get it down to three seconds before the Big Bang. The mathematically deduced explanation of how the universe is formed is still missing three seconds.

God is not a mathematical formula. Neither is He anything we can postulate.

You are obviously a very educated, talented, and prolific writer. Thus far, your existential prose reveals only the pessimistic ephemeral "Zero." Is there an extrovert, an exuberant, a solidly grounded side of you?

Anyway, all that philosophical stuff aside, let me be the first one to extend you the warmest of Christmas wish on this day.

Où sont les neiges d'antan?

"If we think of space as that which allows movement, then place is pause; each pause in movement makes it possible for location to be transformed into place." -- Yi-Fu Tuan, a geographer and a notable explorer of the notion of place

These United States is a land of dislocation and discontinuity. Our forefathers suffered the original form of nostaliga. A geographic disease. A literal home sickness. They would call the new land after their places of origin. Names such New York, Delhi, Richmond Hill, or New Orleans.

Our 21st century generation no longer has a sense of physical or geographic place. The important of place and distance has eroded over the years, overtaken by consciousness of time. One aireline ad suggests, we are free to "move about the country" while airborne. Even on terra firma, instead of referring traveling by car from Modesto to San Francisco the distance about 90 miles, we now say the trip takes about an hour and 45 minutes.

For us Americans, nostalgia has now shifted to a feeling of sentimentality. We yearn for the bucolic and pastoral "good ol' days." But we don't have much a clue what those days were. In our sentimentality we call our surburbs and townships "Oakdale", "Maple Ridge", or "Quail Lake" just so to assuage our rootless angst. For those of us Modestans who live in the vicinity of the "Sherwood Forest", we might feel warm and fuzzy about the subdivision and its name. The truth is, we don't live in a forest. There are houses, street lights, asphalt pavement, curbside mailboxes, a gas station, and a park named Sherwood.

Like many mobile Americans, I don't really know the space on which I now pause. The place I now sleep with a roof over my head is home. The city where my home is located I call hometown. And yet, I know very little of the Central Valley landscape upon which the city Modesto is built. As I see it, the landscape breathes life into a place. It is the voice of ancestors, the living, the myth, and history.

François Villon, in his work, "Ballade des dames du temp jadis", asks this question: "Où sont les neiges d'antan?" (Where are the snows of yesteryear?) His longing question implies that the snows have been moved somewhere else, a place one might, with luck, find. Not a tranquil thought or prospect anyway one looks at it.

Christmas is marked by a metamorphosis in space and time 2000 years or so ago. A visitation by God upon humanity forever transformed the direction of history. A minor and less seismic transformation is needed at where I now paused.

The residents in the neighborhood are mostly strangers to me. Each of us lives in a regulated existence cocooned in his comfort zone. For the past several Christmas seaons, it has been my ritual to visit others living in the nearby streets. The last several days I brought with me either poinsettias or a pasta baskets to the families nearby. Two days ago I met a new neighbor whose native tongoue is Spanish. The family keeps an immaculate house and yard. To the contiguous neighbors I rekindled the spirit of community . Today I visited two familes, one of which was the elderly widow Mrs. Hoffman. She and I spent hours regaled each others with antics. There is one more family to see tomorrow. A widower and his two late teen children.

Slowly, I am learning where on earth I stand. The snows of yesteryears I will leave with Villon.

Fools Rush in Where Angels Fear to Tread

I wrote the following text on a subject today:

'Love's function is to fabricate unknownness. That known is being wishless, but love, is all of wishing.' She wishes. He wishes.

To seperate the wheat from the chaff, the female in wish of a "good" husband could start by asking the suitors three riddles as follows:

1. What phantom dies each dawn but each night is reborn in the heart?

2. What blazes up when you think of great deeds, is hot in love, and grows cold when you die?

3. What is the ice that sets you on fire?

If there are males wanting to take on riddles such as these, then at the very least, they possess a much wished but often lacking mental faculty in a man-woman relationship. Imagination.

To love and to sustain love, it requires imagination.

Just in Time

This past October I went to Best Buy and brought some computer supplies. At the check-out counter the clerk handed me a "Scratch and Score" card. I obligingly scratched the card, and voila! I won One Million Points or $330.00 worth of store coupons. The store employees in the vicinity of my aurora were excited. Phone calls were made to the manager. Assistants (the one who wore black ties and shirtsleeves) were looking over the details of the award on the back of the card. As it turned out, there were only 80 such scratch-and-play prize cards available throughout the Best Buy chain. I had won one of them. To claim the reward I needed to mail in the card along with some personal information.

This was the biggest store promotion ever from anywhere I'd won. I didn't get too worked up over the prize though. There had to be a catch somewhere. When I got home I read the fine prints several times. No conditions. Hmm. So, I did win something without requirements afterall. For the price of a 37-cent stamp, I could receive $330.00 worth of stuff. So I stapled the winning card on a 3x5 card with my personal data and sent it to the Best Buy HQ somewhere in the U.S. That was two months ago.

I have almost forgotten about the award until a special UPS delivery early this morning. The $330.00 coupons arrived. The reward nothwitstanding, I was running out of excuses procrastinating over shopping for Christmas presents. Since I am on a long weekend holiday beginning today, I set my internal navigational system on a beeline course to the Best Buy store.

The Christmas shopping is done. There will be some happy friends and relatives this Christmas. They are a resourceful bunch, mind you. For this reason, what I bought them for this year's presents will not be disclosed on this blog.

It Was Simple, But Not Easy

On a rainy Sunday afternoon, I walked in the Immanual Christian Reformed Church with my dog-eared copy of Schirmer's Handel's "Messiah" Oratorio. I eagerly anticipated a sing-a-long with other aficionados of this beloved masterpiece. After a few Christmas of singing beside the Otto Klemperer's Handel:Messiah recording, I thought it was time to sing in a live setting. I should be able to hold my own among the lay public. Simple enough. I would have my 15 minutes of fame.

With the pleasantries dispensed, I was directed to the tenor section toward the front of the church. Immediately I knew something had gone amiss on the stage. Excepting the four chairs for the soloists set facing the audience, no standing platforms for the choir were erected behind the chairs. Then it hit me. We, the ones with music in hand up front, were the choir. Oops.

The local oratorio society has had a long history of inviting the public to Handel's Messiah Sing-A-Long. Each Christmas season its invitation beckoned my spirit and set my soul adrift. By thought I embraced every invitation. On this one Sunday, I heeded the call. With wings of mind I sallied forth. I had a rendezvous with a "must sing." Tripping the light fantastic I went.

A small taste of arts had led to over confidence in one's talent. Once the Overture began, the die was cast. From the opening tenor recitative "Comfort Ye My People" to the final chorus "Worthy is the Lamb That Was Slain!", all went by in a blur. When the concert concluded, I left the church drenched in perspiration.

It was not an easy excercise for me to sing "The Messiah." I was blessed nonetheless. Because worthy is He.

In song and praise, on that very special day I beheld "the Lamb of God who came to take away the sin of the world" (John 1:29)

The Lord is My Shepherd

I sent "Irish" a copy of George Thalben-Ball and the Temple Church Choir's recording and text of the hynm "The Lord is My Shepherd". This is my favorite hymn of all time. It is Psalm 23 put to music by Jessie Seymoure Irvine in 1872.

My prayer is that Irish will find Christ in his heart this Christmas, and that the green leaves of hope and joy will blossom for him this day onward.

The 23rd Psalm (King James Version)

1 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Regression Analysis

Regression analysis is one many quantitative applications I use in my work. It and a host of statistical tools fall in the category known as forecasting methodologies. Well, a skill I possess is a in state of disgrace. I don't need regression analysis to extrapolate a prediction. This skill of my is trending toward the abyss. There is no positive correlation between expectation and outcome in this case. No amount of tweaking can nudge it back up the chasm toward the positive direction of the trendline. It has regressed beyond redemption. I am talking about my handwriting skills.

I had penmanship classes in junior high school. Writing continues-stroke style in a manner akin to chancery cursive was taugh to every student. I was very good at cursive writing. Throughout high school my handwriting was better than decent. For a while it was an esoteric pursuit in which I'd indulged. Perhaps I'd wanted to emulate the hand of my grandfather.

One of the things I remember well of my deceased maternal grandfather was he had a very beautiful cursive hand. His handwriting was very similar to the style I was taught. To this day, I regreted I did not ask how a Lance Corporal in the US Marine Corps could write cursive letters like he.

The wonder years became the university and the professional years. The once proudly possessed artful hand has given way to expediency. Fast scribbles of trade acronyms, notes, and symbolisms have become my communicative norms. If there were anything substantive to be written, it is done on the utilitarian wordprocesor. Utility has won over art.

I could no longer write connectively and flowingly the way I once did. It took me over an hour this morning to write six Christmas cards. Including the salutation, the body, and closing, the total word count of each card was about 20. It was not the Christmas message which hindered me. I was struggling with who I was and who I have become. I didn't want to just scrawl a Christmas greeting, and yet, the cursive letters could not be written the way they should. That was the rub.

The Persian poet, Omar Khayyam, in his classic poem, The Rubaiyat, writes: "The moving finger writes; and having writ moves on. Nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it."

So it was and so it shall be. The insidious transformation from Jekyll to Hyde is complete. Goodbye, cursive handwriting. I knew thee well.

The Prometheus of Music

There are about 48 miniutes left on this man's birthday.

He is the Thor - the Thunderer. He is power, passion, and pride. He is Ludwig van Beethoven. He is an immortal in classical music.

Total Recall

This morning I returned the borrowed iPAQ to Denisse, our Oracle/UNIX systems guru, with the accompanied remark, "Your iPAQ doesn't switch on for some season."

She gave me this "oh well" look, and accepted the PDA. She turned it over a couple times, poked it here and there, and nonchalantly laid it down on the desk. Denisse is like that. She is very good at what she does. When it comes to computers and electronic gismos, she just dosen't get excited about them.

Following the command staff meeting this afternoon, I decided it was time to put this turkey to rest. After consulting the user's manual on the truth and consequences of doing a hard reset, I flatlined the iPAQ with out fanfare. Then with great expectations I resurrected the unit.

The iPAQ is now returned to the original factory settings. I WLAN linked the unit at home this evening. The total recall did nothing. Nada. Zilch. Goose egg. No Internet.

There are no more usual suspects to round up. The bad boy has to be the router.

The 66_2/3 % Solution

I finally got my hand on the second of three HP-iPAQ 5500 in existence within our department. The other user was very gracious when she lent it to me this afteroon. I needed a second wireless iPAQ to isolate where my home based WLAN is having the problem.

The Problem Restated: My iPAQ has abruptly stopped its wireless access feature to the Internet, nothwithstanding the access point/router is recognized and connected. The router works fine with two other desktop computers. To add it twist to this problem, the iPAQ connects fine to the Internet when an outside access point was used.

The Test: Determine if the failure of my iPAQ to connect to the home based WLAN internet was caused by a corrupted file. This hypothetical file or files could reside in either the Linksys router or inside the iPAQ itself. A second iPAQ with no known WLAN faults would be the candidate to determine which of the two stated suspects is to blame.

My hope to do this test was dashed this evening. The borrowed iPAQ after receving a full recharge, failed to turn on. The on-off button did nothing. So much for the 66.66% solution.

I might resort to do a hard reset on the iPAQ back to the factory defaults. The reset should restore the PDA back to its out-of-the-box condition. This means I should be able to the test as stated. I was hoping I didn't have to come to this step.

I have not decided if a total recall is to be performed on the "faulty" iPAQ.

A Road Not Taken

While doing some on-line research, I read a blog that got me shaking my head.

This person of twentysomething has a college degree in Criminal Justice. For whatever reason, he is doing sales work at a clothing store and snowbroading in his free time. He, however, wants to move to southern California in the next few years.

I had to say something to him about getting a grip on reality and not to squander time and life. I also gave him some further career possibilities in CJ, if he would apply himself.

Gift Paper and Ribbons Not Required

There was just too much to pen with regard to this evening's Christmas gathering. I provide the setting, the reader, if he does not mind, supplies the imagination of sight, sound, and smell.

Weather: Cool, 50s F, Clear Night

Location: Modesto, California. A quite neighborhood ornated with Christmas lights and decorations.

Cast: 40+ adults.

Scene and Activity Inside House #1: Warm Christmas motif interior, snacks, soups, hot cider and cranberry drink. Christmas music, getting to know who's who, and who brought what to go with the soup. A warm and appreciative time were had by all.

Time Spent in House #1: ~ 2 hours.

Fade Out house #1.

Desserts in hand, all walked and sang carols on way to House #2 next street over.

Scene and Activity Inside House #2: Warm Christmas motif interior, lots of desserts, coffee and refreshments. More warm moments of Christmas hearts shared and friendships woven.

Time Spent in House #2: ~1 hour.

Fade Out House #2.

God bless one and all. Goodnight.

~ * ~
Surely, tonight in this little corner of God's creation, His gift of Christmas has replenished the fire of hospitality with the genial flame of giving not wrapped in gift paper and ribbons.
~ * ~

KDFC

Once upon a time there were two FM classical radio stations in the San Francisco Bay Area. KKHI was the predominant larger San Franciscio station, whose broadcasts I'd listend to the most. On the hand, KDFC was the Palo Alto - Stanford (south of San Francisco) station. Its classical selections, as I recall, had always been more obscured and eclectic. Whenever I tuned in, it either played Renaissance or Baroque period music. Boring.

There are no classical music stations in Modesto to this day. Before Comcast cable acquired our local cable company,there was a short-lived attempt for an AM station to broadcast some Boston Pops-like light classical music. That didn't work because the station also aired major leagues sports.

The residents had two choices to reliablity receive classical music broadcasts. One was to listen to KKHI on the radio band of the TV cable signal piped in to the house. This required the splitting of the TV cable into two. One connected the television and the other (if one knew how) connected to a radio or radio amplifier. The other choice was to listen to 3-hour segments of NPR classical music aired from the University of the Pacific (the alma mater of Dave Brubeck) Monday through Friday.

When KKHI went off the air several years ago, the local ATT cable company piped in KDFC in its stead. When Comcast bought out ATT, it substituted canned music programs. No more live connection to any radio stations. And the university station went to all talk shows to compete with the likes of Rush Limbaugh. It didn't last.

Enough of history.

KDFC has a makeover. Less stuffy and more varieties. NPR now also has KXPR from out of Sacramento State University (80 miles north of Modesto) as its 24-hour classical station.

Now the really good news: Since the first week of December 2004, both radio stations are streaming audio contents on the Internet.

My station of choice is KDFC.

Reading E.M. Forster

Today I started to read my Palm version of "A Room with a View." I have several books I am alreading reading. (I use a PDA database to keep track of the books I have read, days spent on reading a book, rating, and comments.)

One of these open-ended books is "The Oysters of Locmariaquer" by Eleanor Clark. It's been over two years since I started the book, and I am only half way through it. I'd like to finish this book and write a review before the new year arrives.

As far as my reading plan for "A Room" goes, that is another story.

The Messiah's Invitation To The People

Over the internet today, I shared this thought with a person of Irish ancestry. At the young age of 24, vicissitude has etched much pain and disappointment on the soul and spirit of this person.

"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." (Matthew 11:28-30 KJV)

These words of Christ are sung as a soprano Air (No. 20 aria 2) from Handel's "Messiah." It is not only beautiful music, but it's true in its message. If you have not heard it, listen to this Handel oratorio, if you can, this Christmas season.

From the cockles of my heart, I am sharing this thought with the hope and prayer that you (and ___) will find Jesus in your heart this Christmas. :)

As the Irish would say: "Rath Dé ort" (The grace of God be with you.)

Let the Rest of the World Go By

I got into my first Christmas shopping traffic jam after work today. Modesto is the shopping mecca for those who live within 30 miles radius of it. The Vintage Faire Mall and acres of other shops and eats like Best Buy, Target, Applebees are built parallel to the state route. The off ramp to the shopping area is also where I exit.

Like many others commuters and shoppers, I had to inch along toward the Beckwith exit on State Route 99 South. It took me about half an hour crawling along the highway shoulder before I could get on the off ramp. It tested the patience for all who shared the same fate. Especially for someone such as I who drove a stick-shift truck. Cluctch-and-go, Clutch-and-stop. Amazingly, everyone in the queue seemed to accept or resign to the madess. Far from the maddening crowd we weren't.

While lurching along the road, my mind was disjointed and out of frame with the rousing Saint-Saen's Second Symphony spiriting from the classical music airwave. I was humming an old 1919 tune - "Let the Rest of the World Go By." It assuaged the stress of being stuck in traffic on an already darken sky.

I like this song. I hope you will too. Redford and Streep danced to this tune in the 1985 film "Out of Africa." Here are the words and the MIDI I've prepared for your singing and listening pleasure. J. Keirn Brennan and Ernest R. Ball wrote the words and music to this old standard.

Click on the song title link below to play or download the music.

Let The Rest of the World Go By

With someone like you, a pal good and true
I'd like to leave it all behind and go and find
Some place that's known to God alone
Just a spot to call our own
We'll find perfect peace, where joys never cease
Out there beneath a kindly sky
We'll build a sweet little nest somewhere in the west
And let the rest of the world go by

With someone like you, a pal good and true
I'd like to leave it all behind and go and find
Some place that's known to God alone
Just a spot to call our own
We'll find perfect peace, where joys never cease
Out there beneath a kindly sky
We'll build a sweet little nest somewhere in the west
And let the rest of the world go by

The Perimeter Is Mocha Secured (Maybe)

The kitty ultrasonic repellent is now in operation. It's battery operated with an IR detection range of 20 feet. The protection range is 330 square feet. This niffty gizmo is positioned in the Alysum flower bed, pointing towards Mocha's lair next door.

An invisble line is drawn in the grass. The next move is up to Mocha. Ha Ha.

What's plan B you ask?

There is no plan B per se. Cats do as they well please.