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by Jim Harrison in The Shape of the Journey

    I went to Tucson and it gave
    me a headache. I don’t know how.
    Everyone’s a cousin in this world.
    I drove down a road of enormous houses
    that encompass many toilets. Down hallways,
    leaping left or right, you can crap at will.
    A mile away a dead Mexican child slept
    out in the desert on the wrong side of a mattress.

Jim Harrison is sometimes a satisfying source of insight. He has some clever quips that show he’s trying to avoid resting on the surface of things…

So I was fiddling around with some of the new online home valuation services, like Zillow, and found them disappointingly superficial. Who thinks up these algorithms? Can they be a real reflection of our society? For example, I noticed I could just keep adding bathrooms to increase an estimate of a home’s value. It does not matter how many bedrooms, kitchens etc. are in the house; configure a single-story 1 bedroom, 5 bathroom house and it is worth far more than a two-story 3 bedroom, 3 bathroom house.

Clearly, the more toilets, the better off you are.

Kitchen Villanelle

Ode Less Travelled

This extract of a poem by Stephen Fry, in his new book The Ode Less Travelled, seems especially fitting for information security practitioners:

    How rare it is when things go right
    When days go by without a slip
    And don’t go wrong, as well they might.

    The smallest triumphs cause delight –
    The kitchen’s clean, the taps don’t drip,
    How rare it is when things go right.

    Your ice cream freezes overnight,
    Your jellies set, your pancakes flip
    And don’t go wrong, as well they might …

The Barn

by Seamus Heaney

Threshed corn lay piled like grit of ivory
Or solid as cement in two-lugged sacks.
The musty dark hoarded an armoury
Of farmyard implements, harness, plough-socks.

The floor was mouse-grey, smooth, chilly concrete.
There were no windows, just two narrow shafts
Of gilded motes, crossing, from air-holes slit
High in each gable. The one door meant no draughts

All summer when the zinc burned like an oven.
A scythe’s edge, a clean spade, a pitch-fork’s prongs:
Slowly bright objects formed when you went in.
Then you felt cobwebs clogging up your lungs

And scuttled fast into the sunlit yard –
And into nights when bats were on the wing
Over the rafters of sleep, where bright eyes stared
From piles of grain in corners, fierce, unblinking.

The dark gulfed like a roof-space. I was chaff
To be pecked up when birds shot through the air-slits.
I lay face-down to shun the fear above.
The two-lugged sacks moved in like great blind rats.

Sonnets. I’m not a huge fan in general, but this one has grown on me. Naturally Sonnet Central has a plethora…