In Albion Today

I phoned my company and they agreed i could do the two visits on the same day , hence tomorrow i shall going to Hastings and Brighton for the day, which makes more sense.

So today was another day of relaxing,listening to the radio or some music and then some reading.

I have also noticed that the black cat is no longer around and after an inquiry with a member of staff that this lost cat was retrieved by its owner. I shall miss that lovely little kitty.

One of the programs on the radio today ,"Word of Mouth" investigator the naming of countries.
Michael Rosen and Dr Laura Wright find out how countries - including this one - got their names, and what they mean. Why isn't Greenland green? How is Venezuela like a Little Venice? And what's the only state in the world named after a woman?

The old Roman and Indo- European languages gave us these for the British Isles, Britannia is one, Hibernia for Ireland , Caledonia for Scotland and Cambria for Wales.I also like Albion for a mythical England or how about Avalon? The land of Britain use to be called Albion bu the Romans -this came from the scholar Pliny ,on which albas means white and the dawn in Latin - the light of the sun. William Blake liked Albion as a foil against his "dark satanic mils".

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b08mb1g2


Fascinating.

Tuesday Music Selection

More jazzy grooves -

Gary Bartz Ntu Troop - Celestial Blues

( More jazzy grooves here )

Enjoy.

Book 25 - Julian Barnes "Something to Declare"

Julian Barnes "Something to Declare" (Picador)





When i picked this up i thought it was a novel but to my surprise it is a collection of essays on France from an avid francophile.

This book of essays covers many of the topics that are recognised as French territory: filmmaker Truffaut and the New Wave, the Tour de France, the singers of the 50's-60's who moaned on finding out that they were sharing their mistresses with others. And then there are the nine, yes nine, chapters on Barnes' favourite writer, Flaubert.

The writing is engaging from the beginning as Barnes describes his family vacations around France year after year, and his growing sense of comfort with the French culture. I especially appreciated his chapter on those singers such as Jacques Brel and Georges Brassens (though I can't understand why my favourite, Serge Gainsborg wasn't included) and the one on author Georges Simenon was full of decadent scandal and therefore wonderful.


A very enjoyable book that is well-written and fun to read.

Book 26 - Stephen S. Lundsburg "The Big Questions"

Stephen S. Lundsburg "The Big Questions" (Free Press)



Steven E. Landsburg’s The Big Questions is an intriguing foray into the use of non-typical sciences to look at macroscopic philosophical questions. The questions in questions range from why is there something rather than nothing, is there a God, is logical disagreement a sign of inherent meaninglessness, can we really know everything, and so on. These are indeed interesting and challenging questions. Looking into philosophy using physics and economics is kind of fun and gets one thinking laterally and not directly, which on the whole is a good skill to have.


Landsburg’s tackling of these questions is in many ways logical and rich. There are indeed mathematical bases for following both morality and human perception of color (as well as other things in the universe). His main premise is that once you have math, everything else follows. One of the very mind-boggling assertions me makes is that almost no one is deeply religious because crimes are committed on a fairly regular basis and acts of martyrdom are not. That part makes for fun reading. And for the most part, Landsburg’s theories are engaging, flow well, and get you to think a little more critically about the larger picture.

Poems Of The Week

The French Girl

BY ANN LAUTERBACH


1.

Someone plays
& the breaking mounts.
Raw material for worthy forthcoming;
indecipherable, discrete.
Plays
rhapsodies as the air cools
and vanquishes: nothing sits still, yet.
The land is a result of its use, I explained.
Everything else rested while the kids made a girdle
removed from classical syntax. Shed, and

something breaks, mounting
the small hill to its vista: I saw
a rope of trees in another country.
I could not say I am lost in the proper way.
The season is huge.
This house is haunted: I planted it.
Where? In the shed, and

spoiled by attention. You see?
Every bit counts, when the morning displays
the serious ratio of the given stars.
What made us tear the hours into lines?
So things became a burden to shed, and

astute as a hungry pilgrim
but not brave, not expert.
It is impolite to stare. Is unwise
to plunder the easily forgotten,
easily shed, and


2.

They drummed and drummed, attached to a vestigial
clamor. The heat splayed; sparklers
ravished the fog.

Morning tore the dead back to shore;
enemy ships floundered and were forgotten.
Still, nothing was appeased:
the living silhouette drifted into view
like an ephemeral sail promoting ease
between wreckages.
Not speaking a word of English
she animated the landscape
with abundance, a chosen self
lively translated into the color of her eyes.
Awkward and luminous, a stilted charm
separating figure from ground, and solving it.
What pushed up toward the abysmal
with such new appraisals, such sure interest?
The mute girl had seen glories
but what had she come to know?
A finite figure in a rainy field.
A naked figure in a pool.
A skipping figure across a bridge.
A lost figure on a city street.
A moaning figure on a huge bed.
A smiling face in a photograph.
All summer, I circled the garden for her sake.


The Inkspots


BY GERALD STERN


The thing about the dove was how he cried in
my pocket and stuck his nose out just enough to
breathe some air and get some snow in his eye and
he would have snuggled in but I was afraid
and brought him into the house so he could shit on
the New York Times, still I had to kiss him
after a minute, I put my lips to his beak
and he knew what he was doing, he stretched his neck
and touched me with his open mouth, lifting
his wings a little and readjusting his legs,
loving his own prettiness, and I just
sang from one of my stupid songs from one of my
vile decades, the way I do, I have to
admit it was something from trains. I knew he’d like that,
resting in the coal car, slightly dusted with
mountain snow, somewhere near Altoona,
the horseshoe curve he knew so well, his own
moan matching the train’s, a radio
playing the Inkspots, the engineer roaring.

Just Wondering

Describe one moment from your youth that is impenetrably seared into your memory.


Would you be upset if a long-term partner confessed that s/he'd committed a serious crime before you met? How do you think it would affect your relationship?

Good Night

Time for bed.