litlog 2014++

Tzara said:

I come from a family of engineers. My father, two uncles, my brother, my father-in-law, and a brother-in-law are/were all engineers. My degree is in experimental psychology, but my career was spent essentially as a software engineer.

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Nice to hear it. My mother (a chemist) and my family on my mother's side were engineers (farm equipment). My father had engineering talent too (in two senses of the word "too"), had some engineering successes.

Are engineers "smarter" than theoreticians? Of course not. I grew up wanting to be a theoretical physicist, but my math wasn't good enough.

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I was born a mathematician--poor or not but that's what I am. However, since 1977 I worked for industry (I am not active anymore, too bad). When a friend of mine, a talented mathematician, talked to engineers, he would speak to them their engineering language. When I talked to engineers I was forcing them to translate everything into mathematics. His way was smoother . Well, he was smoother. Most anybody is.

On the other hand, are theoreticians "smarter" than engineers? I'd just point at the Roman baths in Bath, UK and how the water flow is still within tolerance 2000 years later. Effing amazing.

Thinking and building are different functions, both of which are necessary to civilization.

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Tzara, you are addressing a serious question. I will join you. But my post was just anecdote and a small puzzle. I have meant only the very limited scope of the condiment puzzle.

Now about the BIG comparison. Poor "mathematicians" are as bad as poor engineers. Good engineers in the best companies are smarter than poor mathematicians. These engineers, say in Silicon Valley, often have Ph.D., and others there are about as good too. The concentration of strong mathematicians (or theoretical physicists), especially on top universities, make a great impression. The very top mathematicians are still another story. However, occasionally, there were elite mathematicians who used to be engineers first or worked as engineers or at least as superb engineer applied researchers. I could provide you with outstanding examples. Certainly, the great Archimedes was a superb engineer. It is known that Newton as a youngster was making very advanced engineering toys. Einstein worked in a Swiss patent office. On this occasion, he also made a few patents for himself. Etc. And of course, many mathematicians can program algorithms very well. They were inventing algorithms before computers too.

On the other hand Nikola Tesla, the greatest inventor ever was on a level of the best physicists.

Thus the picture is complex. Overall, it's natural that people tend to be good in what they are good--mathematicians in mathematics, and inventors in making inventions. Intellectually mathematics is on the top because this is what this is about--by definition: mathematics is the art of thinking. And philosophers are near the bottom (way below poets).

todski28 said:

worked 36 hours straight with no sleep, a temperature of 39 degrees C on two courses of antibiotics and two different pain killers,
and I think I still have all my fingers......

Damn Sinus Infection!!!

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Todsky, I am curious but not nosy--don't say anything which would make you uneasy.

What is your work which makes you overcome 39C body temperature over 36h?

I used to do such things (which in my case was simply stupid). The worst was when after three days and two nights straight I wanted to go home but my car was towed away. Thus I had ti find someone to drive me to the place, far away, to recover my car, and finally drove back home--soon to go back to work.

Another time (but not that bad ), after a looong session I was ready to adjourn home. I left an instruction with my colleague: when you interact with the computer, please, do not type ahead. And I went home, to bed. Soon he phones me, wakes me up, he did type ahead, and now I have to fix it. I got back, and it was a miracle that I was able to recover from the damage. It was first half of 1985. Computers were like this, while I had too much to do to write another auxiliary program to avoid any mishap like that one. My coworker told VP what happened (it was a small start-up), and VP was just smiling. He heard me earlier saying: don't type ahead. It'd be a challenge to write a poem about that incident since today hardly anybody knows what this was about. It'd take some explanations. But poetry hates explanations. Even prose. Remember, poetry hates explanations, all those: he did it to make her happy; or he gave her his jacket so she will not get cold; etc. Thus a poem about (not) typing ahead would be a challenge.

Little Richard

Quote:
see (click on) Little Richard (wikipedia). The historic day was 1957-10-04.

In those days in Poland, in addition to the government near monopoly on most anything, there were tough private enterprise saleswomen who would provide outdoors vegetables, fruits, etc. And it was just after the very first satellite which was just nothing but a sphere of diameter 58cm or, what is the same, 23 inches. It was twelve (12) years later before people (Americans, not Russians) landed on the Moon. Nevertheless, right away the following joke became universally popular in Poland: two simple saleswomen had this conversation:

Senna Jawa said:

Todsky, I am curious but not nosy--don't say anything which would make you uneasy.

What is your work which makes you overcome 39C body temperature over 36h?

I used to do such things (which in my case was simply stupid). The worst was when after three days and two nights straight I wanted to go home but my car was towed away. Thus I had ti find someone to drive me to the place, far away, to recover my car, and finally drove back home--soon to go back to work.

Another time (but not that bad ), after a looong session I was ready to adjourn home. I left an instruction with my colleague: when you interact with the computer, please, do not type ahead. And I went home, to bed. Soon he phones me, wakes me up, he did type ahead, and now I have to fix it. I got back, and it was a miracle that I was able to recover from the damage. It was first half of 1985. Computers were like this, while I had too much to do to write another auxiliary program to avoid any mishap like that one. My coworker told VP what happened (it was a small start-up), and VP was just smiling. He heard me earlier saying: don't type ahead. It'd be a challenge to write a poem about that incident since today hardly anybody knows what this was about. It'd take some explanations. But poetry hates explanations. Even prose. Remember, poetry hates explanations, all those: he did it to make her happy; or he gave her his jacket so she will not get cold; etc. Thus a poem about (not) typing ahead would be a challenge.

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I own a small business that is in the process of becoming a company, I made some promises to some developers that were part of a very large sum of money contract, due to the internal structure of the business I had to finance the materials for the job so there was little money left in the business to hire the additional labour needed to complete the contract on time so it falls to the man with the big mouth and the vision that signed the contract to "swallow some concrete, harden up" and get it sorted. I find all poetry a challenge, maybe large simple men should stick to lifting heavy things and leave the heavy thinking to those better suited for it

todski28 said:

I own a small business that is in the process of becoming a company, I made some promises to some developers that were part of a very large sum of money contract, due to the internal structure of the business I had to finance the materials for the job so there was little money left in the business to hire the additional labour needed to complete the contract on time so it falls to the man with the big mouth and the vision that signed the contract to "swallow some concrete, harden up" and get it sorted. I find all poetry a challenge, maybe large simple men should stick to lifting heavy things and leave the heavy thinking to those better suited for it

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the poetry is as part of you as your big mouth, big man - you don't get a say in that.
i'd like to add, here, that your poetry is sharper, more intuitive, way more touching - more real, than the writings of some others who might consider themselves the ''heavy thinkers''.

Another night -- wh,1987/03/15

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Another night​

The night was basically over. The "Club" was already closed, it was after 2am. Music Puppet stayed at the edge of the parking lot and made a huge gesture with her arm and entire body to call attention of the cops. She whistled too, like she had spent her life breeding pigeons. The cops came. They matched her cheerful mood, they looked at her car, but they wouldn't jump-start it. The rules prohibit to use police cars to jump-start other cars. Hence we used mine. I know nothing about the cars but I had suggested that we go home together, just in case of more trouble. The Music Puppet didn't worry, so I went my way, straight home, and she and Moody went their way.

I don't even know why on that particular night I was in the bar. The times when I was a regular patron were over. It was still nice to go there from time to time. May be I did it quite often. On one occasion Music Puppet called me to bring her to work a piece of garment which she forgot. I drove to the bar and, and thru a waitress, I passed to her the requested underwear with the note:


Some time later her car would give up completely, a nice sporty VW, and for months I would end up giving her rides or my car itself.

On this particular night I didn't get much sleep. Soon the phone rang, I got up, put my clothes on, and went back, not to the useless VW, but straight to Season's, where Music Puppet and Moody were waiting for their breakfast. They were sitting across one table, and I assumed a nearly horizontal position across the aisle, at another table. My feet were in the straight line between my nose and their table. I took my glasses off. I was sleepy, didn't care to order anything. The breakfast took as much time as it is supposed to take, not more, not less, no rush, and we were ready to go. But Music Puppet was not quite thru yet. She delayed, not much. Soon her sharp, missing nothing eye had spotted two of her friends. All men in the radius of a hundred miles, who don't spent each night, from 8pm to 8am, in the bed with their wives or under supervision of their parents, are her friends. Well, may be only ninety percent of them. Soon a young Arab and a young WASP joined the girls. Arab with Music Puppet and WASP with Moody, dark with the dark, and fair with the fair. Arab's picture could decorate the covers of the girlish magazines, the WASP was even taller, also well built, a good all American boy, very average, nice. Some fleeting association about the time at the moment and the time for going to my solid work-place later in the morning, passed my sleepy mind without making much of an impression. The guys were eating, the girls were chatting and flirting. Waves of sleepiness and chilliness would travel thru me. Then I would get a glimpse of the conversation. The Music Puppet, I heard her saying, used to be intimidated by the Arab, like a school girl. Even in my sleepy state I was surprised. The girls started to feel the guys under the table, and exchanged loud cheerful comments about the effects they were getting. In the mean time two youngsters came, the first two were men, but you could still call, these two, boys. They were tall, taller than the men, and slimmer. One of them was the Arab's brother. By the way, the name of the older brother was Nick, and the name of the WASP was Ted. The youngsters left after a few minutes. Girls had shown their interest in these boys. Moody was mostly kidding, she didn't care one way or another, but Music Puppet was serious. She liked the younger Arab. You want'im ? Nick offered. She nodded yes.

The time was passing, there was some talk about having a party, the girls would disappear a few times under the table, Nick looked at me at one moment with a coy smile, I didn't think that he spilled his goodies, then girls would reappear, I didn't care to look at the wristwatch, it's not that different whether you sleep in your bed or half-sleep on a bench and get some entertainment instead of your own stupid dreams, they couldn't agree on that party, they finished their main meals, the youngsters came again.

Will you take her? Nick asked his younger brother.

Music Puppet is strong and graceful. It's easier to be graceful when you are strong. She was an exceptional rock dancer, but her real talent, wasted talent, was acting. She didn't know it. If she had not Italian but Jewish parents then not only she but the entire world would know.

She was strong but the night was long, the full shift in the bar and this extending breakfast. Her makeup could not cover the tiredness showing on her face. But that was a moment ago. Now she looked up at the young Arab, and she traveled on the Season's carpet into a Thousand and One Night. Now is the time for you to say all these things, they will apply, her face was happily beautiful, suddenly it had strong full colors, her large dark eyes were glowing, shitty as it sounds but it was true, I was fully awake and under the spell. The colors were dense in this image, but at the same time subtle, subtle... the expectation, the willingness and the shyness and.... Find yourself a better writer to describe it.

The youngster was cool. He said "Sure". He said it a few times. Music Puppet's eyes were fixed on him. The time between those "sure-s" was filled somehow. Perhaps Nick said this or that, may be Moody offered some jokes,.... Finally the intensity of Puppet's staring decreased, she said "I don't want to be easy". Her words, not the meaning (whatever it would be), surprised me for the second time that night.

The youngsters left. The four at the table didn't seem to have such a good time any more. At one moment Nick said something about not liking games, that girls were playing games. What games? In my semi-sleep I was surprised for the third time.

They all got up. Ted came to me and introduced himself. I got up and we shook hands. He had class. Nick followed Ted's example. The girls got into my car. It was not necessary to switch the lights on, who needs them in the broad daylight. Ten minutes later we were in the apartment. It would make a nice story if I told you that within two hours I was at work showered, shaven, fresh, like on any other day. I don't even know about the other days, but I am not that crazy. On this particular day I showed up at work way after the lunch time.

Weeks later I would mention to Music Puppet that she was masturbating Nick under the table. "I was pulling his leg" was her instant comment.

You may wonder why Music Puppet didn't introduce me to the guys herself. Moody would. She was a much less complicated person, much more straight. Puppet had her firm policy. I saw her at one time dancing in a topless bar. Later I went there especially to see her. Thus I became her regular (customer). Once a customer always a customer. You never graduate. You will be told that you're a friend, and she, or whoever the bum is, will tell you that she is your friend, but it will not matter. To get away with as much as possible and more, she has to keep you as low as possible. Thus she was making her world of bums to appear greater than life, and all her acquaintances were old and great and proven friendships ... Not bad. Painfully few people know about friendship, but bums, businessmen and politicians make big claims. In an inverse proportion to the content. Further down the road, about two years later, I became to Music Puppet one of her non-customer friends, almost, and perhaps she was my friend as much as she was able to be a friend. She was always angry at this my friendship bullshit.


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