Around and around and around. The link below is to a story by a writer about a writer who has annotated and brought out a new version of Bram Stoker's Dracula. This got me to thinking about Scott Adams's Dilbert riff on degrees of separation of the work from the actual work. As in (when I'm actually working), I am a recruiter, mostly of people who design and build systems which allow people to manipulate symbols and thus plan the assignment of other people to actually go out and do something.
But that post is too long to write now, even if I come to understand what it will be trying to say; so I'd better stick with posting on my original reaction to reading the story linked to below. Now, though, I don't have a lot of time so I'm going to let you write this blog post in your own head by just asking a couple of questions.
Why must writers exhume the dead, so to speak, and write about such things?
Why can't writers let poor Dracula lie?
Can the undead never rest in peace?
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122514491757273633.html?mod=article-outset-box#articleTabs%3Darticle
Update 7:30 PM: 81 93 80 ;>)
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
It's Wednesday in Collegeville and the living is easy
It's Wednesday in Collegeville and the living is easy after two grueling days of work - four hours on Monday and almost seven hours on Tuesday. Mrs. Sully has gone off to work with barely a comment on the fact that Mr. Sully's vacation from full time employment has begun to stretch a bit long and the balance in the checkbook has shrunk to a level perilously close to short. And all morning the pair of phoebes have been treating me to the gimlet eye between rounds of industrious labor as they catch bugs to feed their second clutch of young for the year. Work, work, work, all life is work, their frantic activity proclaims. Look at that lazy bum down there they seem to say to one another when they chance to perch for a moment at the same time. The silent pressure of their disapproval is nearly unbearable. Oh the humanity.
Thankfully the hummingbird is sitting complacently on his favorite perch merely watching over his domain for fifteen and twenty minutes at a time between short fights down to his feeders for a sip or two of nectar. And this while his mates are busily brooding eggs and feeding young in the trees around, if he has any mates for I haven't seen any females at the feeders. It's true that his lazy vigil has a deadly serious purpose. He remains, as he has since early May, ever ready to spring into action and defend his little share of the world's nectar from other male hummers, to the death or to his everlasting shame if luck or deficient will or lack of skill with his sharp beak should so ordain. He's a bad influence, that humminbird. I fill the feeders for him, and he provides a bad example for me.
Meanwhile, not to brag or anything, I picked my first tomato yesterday. The earliest tomato I've ever had. And many more are in the offing.
Thankfully the hummingbird is sitting complacently on his favorite perch merely watching over his domain for fifteen and twenty minutes at a time between short fights down to his feeders for a sip or two of nectar. And this while his mates are busily brooding eggs and feeding young in the trees around, if he has any mates for I haven't seen any females at the feeders. It's true that his lazy vigil has a deadly serious purpose. He remains, as he has since early May, ever ready to spring into action and defend his little share of the world's nectar from other male hummers, to the death or to his everlasting shame if luck or deficient will or lack of skill with his sharp beak should so ordain. He's a bad influence, that humminbird. I fill the feeders for him, and he provides a bad example for me.
Meanwhile, not to brag or anything, I picked my first tomato yesterday. The earliest tomato I've ever had. And many more are in the offing.
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