rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Oh Why Not

Srsly?

It says our (reputedly) Russian Overlords have announced an advisory board for LJ that includes brad (you might remember him—used to be some sort of LJ bigwig), and former ICANN board chairman Esther Dyson, plus Creative Commons CEO Lawrence Lessig, and social networking pundit (and LJ user) Danah Boyd, (who has none of you (or me either) on her friends list. But as far as recent high-level staff hires go... Jason... is that a fauxhawk? Srsly?



Need something to read? Brad DeLong recommends The industrial ruins of elfland, posted by Jo Walton. I approve his judgement.



Need something to chuckle at? I recommend The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks.

Gee, there's a lot of entertaining stuff at Blogger these days. But I guess when a site has upward of 30,000,000 accounts there's bound to be some interesting stuff (though, only fair to mention, there are also any number of logorrheic blatherskites there, too.) Hey, remember five years or so ago, when Blogger had fewer accounts than LJ, instead of ten times as many? Before the invite codes temporarily turned LJ into a gated community, after which fiasco it never recovered its momentum? Imagine what the faux Russian would have had to pay to buy Blogger, had it been for sale! Heh. LJ. We're just a chum bag for the entrepreneurial bottom-feeders now, I guess.



But that's not why you're here. You're here because you want to know that March has come in like a purring kitty, rubbing its furry chin against the pines, and that everything is sunshine and, if not roses just yet, at least the little purple flowers of those trees I can never remember the name of, but which are always the first to decorate the local landscape when spring, true or false, arrives. Squirrel after squirrel scampered across the lawn today, and I'm almost certain I heard a thrush or some other bird of highly musical sort singing. By night the croaking of the frogs is unmistakable.

But I've heard only a few flocks of geese or other waterfowl flying north yet this year. If most of them are lingering, I wonder what they know? Could it be that they know that winter still has a blustery storm or two in store? All the weatherman tells us right now is that sunny days and mild temperatures will continue through the week. I'm not putting away the heavy blankets yet. I'll wait for the geese to give me the word.



The verse today was, yes, just as you probably suspected, chosen in part for its long but engaging title— though it has surely been too long since I've posted anything Chinese, and there's surely nothing better suited to the season than Tu Fu.


Sunday Verse


Many People Come to Visit and Bring Wine After I Fell Off My Horse, Drunk


by Tu Fu


I, Tu Fu, the duke's elderly guest,
Finished my wine, drunkenly sang, and waved a golden halberd.
I mounted my horse and suddenly remembered my youthful days,
The flying hooves sent stones pouring down into Qutang gorge.
Baidicheng's city gates are beyond the water's clouds,
Bending over, I plunged straight down eight thousand feet.
Whitewashed battlements passed like lightning, the purple reins were loose,
Then east, I reached the level ridge, out past heaven's cliff.
River villages and country halls vied to enter my eyes,
The whip hung down, the bridle drooped, I reached the purple road.
All the ten thousand people amazed by my silver head,
I trusted to the riding and shooting skills of my rosy-cheeked youth.
How could I know that bursting its chest, hooves chasing the wind,
That racing horse, red with sweat just like spurting jade,
Would unexpectedly take a tumble and end up injuring me?
In human life, taking pleasure often leads to shame.
That's why I'm feeling sad, lying on quilts and pillows,
Being in the sunset of my life only adds to the bother.
When I knew you'd come to visit, I wanted to hide my face,
With a bramble stick I manage to rise, leaning on a servant.
Then, after we've finished talking, we open our mouths and laugh,
Giving me support, you go and sweep by the clear stream's bend.
Wine and meat are piled up like mountains once again,
The feast starts: sad strings and brave bamboo sound out.
Together, we point to the western sun, not to be granted us long,
Noise and exclamations, then I tip the cup of clear wine.
Why did you have to hurry your horses, coming to ask after me?
Don't you remember Xi Kang, who nourished life and got killed?
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