I have become interested in recycling. It is a statuary necessity in New York state.
The recycling truck comes around twice a week, taking paper, card, bottles, cans and plastic. It's amazing how it all mounts up too. I spent a few weeks not knowing who to ring to find out what I left out when, collecting my recycling in advance. I have taken four collections to get up to date . Still next week I shall just be putting out one soda box stuffed with paper and card and one storage box of everything else. I do like putting out my cache. I feel all smug and helpful when I see just how much land I am not causing to be filled each week.
So - when I heard on Women's Hour (BBC Radio 4) , on Red Nose Day, that there was an organisation in which members offered up items to each other - free - I was thrilled. Smugocity and free things. One of my favourite combinations! Freecycling is a wonderful idea.
There are local chapters, all communicating by email (Yahoo Groups - in the case of my local group), posting items no longer needed or wanted for other members to ask for. You can offer up whatever is cluttering up your home (as long as it has useful life left in it) and members email you offlist to ask if they may have it. You simply email the person you choose (it is, after all, a gift. You choose who you gift) and arrange for them to collect it wherever suits you best. fabulous idea.
Sadly, I do not own any of the items requested on my local list. I don't have any of them, let alone spares of any of them. I shall keep looking though. I should like to hand over something which is collecting dust at home and know someone shall get pleasure out of it. Anyway. I may see something being offered which I simply can't live without. Best I go and make space ready for it.
Oh. And if you think you may own something which will just be perfect in the space I am about to create? Here's the website. www.freecycle.org
Friday, March 16, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Worth A Read
Here's an interesting thing.
I have become interested in online newspapers, specifically the blogs, or columns as I guess they would be in the hard copy version. The link below is to the News Record. A North Carolina newspaper. The Editor has an experimental blog (or Log as he prefers to call it). He holds forth, which is always interesting. Sometimes just whatever he's been thinking about. Sometimes a news item catches his eye. All readable and commentable.
Which the point, really. He has a place for reader comments. Sadly, not many seem to be taking him up on it. Why is this? A place for opinion and discussion and no one wants to play? How many people have shared an opinion with you today? How many people are capable of reading a newspaper column and not having an opinion? Why are they not sharing?
Get in there. Read the paper - it's worth a look through. Make your opinions known. Let's join in and chat with the editor. He must be terribly bored pontificating on his own. It's time to talk back!
http://blog.nrinteractive.com/staff/jrblog/index.html
Further, I happened upon an interesting trial or experiment, I suppose. Participatory journalism. It's a new idea (is it? have you seen it anywhere else?) where normal people like you and me, people with no press card or journalistic background, write the news.
Have you been caught up in something newsworthy? Have you witnessed a crime or disaster which we should all know about? Do you have first hand experience of (or, even better, pictures or video of) something the hacks should have been there for?
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/6639760/
And if you fancy a swift search of some of the media blogs available out there, the New York Times has a comprehensive list. They are also encouraging people to send in addresses of any they read and enjoy.
http://www.nytimes.com/ref/technology/blogs_101.html
*cough*
I have become interested in online newspapers, specifically the blogs, or columns as I guess they would be in the hard copy version. The link below is to the News Record. A North Carolina newspaper. The Editor has an experimental blog (or Log as he prefers to call it). He holds forth, which is always interesting. Sometimes just whatever he's been thinking about. Sometimes a news item catches his eye. All readable and commentable.
Which the point, really. He has a place for reader comments. Sadly, not many seem to be taking him up on it. Why is this? A place for opinion and discussion and no one wants to play? How many people have shared an opinion with you today? How many people are capable of reading a newspaper column and not having an opinion? Why are they not sharing?
Get in there. Read the paper - it's worth a look through. Make your opinions known. Let's join in and chat with the editor. He must be terribly bored pontificating on his own. It's time to talk back!
http://blog.nrinteractive.com/staff/jrblog/index.html
Further, I happened upon an interesting trial or experiment, I suppose. Participatory journalism. It's a new idea (is it? have you seen it anywhere else?) where normal people like you and me, people with no press card or journalistic background, write the news.
Have you been caught up in something newsworthy? Have you witnessed a crime or disaster which we should all know about? Do you have first hand experience of (or, even better, pictures or video of) something the hacks should have been there for?
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/6639760/
And if you fancy a swift search of some of the media blogs available out there, the New York Times has a comprehensive list. They are also encouraging people to send in addresses of any they read and enjoy.
http://www.nytimes.com/ref/technology/blogs_101.html
*cough*
Appledore
In the North of Devon there is a wild and hidden place. Sat alongside The River Torridge, it lurks between hills and moors. Appledore is a little piece of Wild Cornwall somehow separated from the Motherland and abandoned in a foreign clime. Having said that, the weather is Cornish too. Wet and wild or balmy and bright, locals and climate conspire to lull holiday makers (or Grockles, as they are correctly know this side of the border) into a false sense of security around the weight of their wallet. A marvelous place!
Now - don't you be getting confused when trying to find Appledore on the map. It's magical power extends beyond the holiday atmosphere and devil may care attitude, to hiding, Brigadoonlike, in a seemingly modern county. There are two Appledores in Devon, as I found out once when I was in charge of navigating! The other Appledore is landlocked. So, if you arrive and have nowhere to moor your boat, you've got the wrong one! Get back in the car and head towards Barnstaple, Westward Ho! (yep, it really does have punctuation!) and Bideford. Appledore is off to the right and as far as you can go, after the roundabout.
The pubs in the village (or 'town' as the local people prefer) are all 'local pubs'. But the people are friendly enough. They make their living from hosting happy holidays, why wouldn't they be friendly? However, they all have slightly different atmospheres. One is an ancient Tudor building, all nooks and crannies. Another is a low square building with a big open bar like a hotel reception. There is a pub which sits beside the river like a small seaside restaurant. And just down the road from that is a pub which appears to have grown from the land and simply 'belongs', hanging precariously over the water.
The locals fall into two basic camps - those whose family can be found in the churchyard, and incomers. The incomers, are of three camps - the artistic faction, the holiday homers and the business people. There is much room for disagreement and dislike between all these factions and one must be careful not to comment in public on something overheard or overseen. You are likely to be talking about the cousin of the next door neighbour of the grandma of the person sat at the bar behind you. Reserve judgement until you know the family lines and friendship ties of those around you! Appledorians look after their own and will not be backward in letting you know if you have offended a family member. In Appledore friends are family too.
It is worth making the effort to get to know the incumbents though, because any ticks or opinions which may unjustly raise alarm and eyebrows in the rest of the country are likely to get a simple sage nod in Appledore. People will not judge you so much on your thoughts and stances as on the way you behave, how amusing or interesting you are and how you treat people. There is a feeling of having stepped back half a century, much like crossing the Tamar into Cornwall. People don't use the same measures of each other here. People matter. Once accepted into the social life of this town, you can cease to be 'that strange woman who believes x, y and z. Stay away from her dear' and simply be 'Hers a bit maze, but ent no trouble. Whiles an hour away.'
I am introducing you to this wonderful, mistimed town for several reasons. Mostly, I should like everyone to know about Appledore and its old fashioned charms. The best time to visit is during the summer Arts Festival. A weekend of music, street fairs and art. Usually held in June, it is a fine way to lose a weekend in beer, laughter and interesting things to look at. Secondly, I should like you to understand the unusualness of Appledore because I am soon going to introduce you to some of the locals. Billy, the builder; Morgan, the feminist; and Jazz, the energetic youngster are just three of the people you shall meet.
I hope I have made it clear by now, but if not you should be aware. Appledore is a real place. A real place in real time. It is, however, one of those places where nothing is quite what it seems and where looking at life sideways is a little easier and readily accepted.
I am looking forward to meeting you there. And when you arrive? Mine's a Bud with the top off!
Now - don't you be getting confused when trying to find Appledore on the map. It's magical power extends beyond the holiday atmosphere and devil may care attitude, to hiding, Brigadoonlike, in a seemingly modern county. There are two Appledores in Devon, as I found out once when I was in charge of navigating! The other Appledore is landlocked. So, if you arrive and have nowhere to moor your boat, you've got the wrong one! Get back in the car and head towards Barnstaple, Westward Ho! (yep, it really does have punctuation!) and Bideford. Appledore is off to the right and as far as you can go, after the roundabout.
The pubs in the village (or 'town' as the local people prefer) are all 'local pubs'. But the people are friendly enough. They make their living from hosting happy holidays, why wouldn't they be friendly? However, they all have slightly different atmospheres. One is an ancient Tudor building, all nooks and crannies. Another is a low square building with a big open bar like a hotel reception. There is a pub which sits beside the river like a small seaside restaurant. And just down the road from that is a pub which appears to have grown from the land and simply 'belongs', hanging precariously over the water.
The locals fall into two basic camps - those whose family can be found in the churchyard, and incomers. The incomers, are of three camps - the artistic faction, the holiday homers and the business people. There is much room for disagreement and dislike between all these factions and one must be careful not to comment in public on something overheard or overseen. You are likely to be talking about the cousin of the next door neighbour of the grandma of the person sat at the bar behind you. Reserve judgement until you know the family lines and friendship ties of those around you! Appledorians look after their own and will not be backward in letting you know if you have offended a family member. In Appledore friends are family too.
It is worth making the effort to get to know the incumbents though, because any ticks or opinions which may unjustly raise alarm and eyebrows in the rest of the country are likely to get a simple sage nod in Appledore. People will not judge you so much on your thoughts and stances as on the way you behave, how amusing or interesting you are and how you treat people. There is a feeling of having stepped back half a century, much like crossing the Tamar into Cornwall. People don't use the same measures of each other here. People matter. Once accepted into the social life of this town, you can cease to be 'that strange woman who believes x, y and z. Stay away from her dear' and simply be 'Hers a bit maze, but ent no trouble. Whiles an hour away.'
I am introducing you to this wonderful, mistimed town for several reasons. Mostly, I should like everyone to know about Appledore and its old fashioned charms. The best time to visit is during the summer Arts Festival. A weekend of music, street fairs and art. Usually held in June, it is a fine way to lose a weekend in beer, laughter and interesting things to look at. Secondly, I should like you to understand the unusualness of Appledore because I am soon going to introduce you to some of the locals. Billy, the builder; Morgan, the feminist; and Jazz, the energetic youngster are just three of the people you shall meet.
I hope I have made it clear by now, but if not you should be aware. Appledore is a real place. A real place in real time. It is, however, one of those places where nothing is quite what it seems and where looking at life sideways is a little easier and readily accepted.
I am looking forward to meeting you there. And when you arrive? Mine's a Bud with the top off!
Friday, March 9, 2007
That Laureate Thing
So the last random question threw up an interesting puzzle for me. Just how do Poet Laureates get chosen and who are they? Being British, I was wondering about Poet Laureates of the UK, so disinterested non Brits will just have to bear with me or find something else to do while I occupy myself with this idea.
I didn't actually get as far as 'who appoints these chaps?' because the first poet I looked at turned out to be so interesting. Ted Hughes was appointed Poet Laureate in 1984 and remained so until his death in 1998, shortly after receiving The Order of Merit (a medal conferred by the Monarch for services to literature and culture, amongst other things).
His life started very beigely, up North. The youngest of three. His parents were grocers. However, his seemingly inauspicious life became something rather more typical of 'a great poet' once he hit adulthood. He was married to Sylvia Plath, the American Poet and Darling of The Feminist movement. They had known each other four months when they married in 1956. Seven years later she gassed herself. They had separated in 1962, having had two children together.
Rumours abounded in the press and amongst the followers of Plath that her death had been at Hughes hands. He never entered the discussion publicly. To make matters more sinister, Hughes lover, Assia Wevill, gassed herself and Shura, her four year old daughter by Hughes, six years later. Their relationship had deteriorated soon after Plath's death and Hughes had occupied himself with other lovers. Seemingly, not so much the tortured poet as the torture-to-be-around poet. He remarried in 1970. This marriage lasted until his death, despite continued affairs. I am wondering if this wife insisted on electrical appliances only!
Hughes poems, themselves, are very interesting, especially given the society and culture in which he was writing. His early poetry is rooted in nature - especially the savage nature of animals. Later, he relied heavily on the bardic tradition and mythic subjects. Largely Celtic, almost Native North American, his work was not conventional C of E material!
There are many website dedicated to Ted Hughes, showcasing some of his poetry or discussing the man. The following site has a small selection of his poetry and some very interesting discussion. http://ann.skea.com/THHome.htm
If this prattle has provoked you into wanting the details about Hughes, Poet Laureates, medals, monarches or anything really, I recommend Wikipedia.org, an excellent resource for any subject or topic.
I didn't actually get as far as 'who appoints these chaps?' because the first poet I looked at turned out to be so interesting. Ted Hughes was appointed Poet Laureate in 1984 and remained so until his death in 1998, shortly after receiving The Order of Merit (a medal conferred by the Monarch for services to literature and culture, amongst other things).
His life started very beigely, up North. The youngest of three. His parents were grocers. However, his seemingly inauspicious life became something rather more typical of 'a great poet' once he hit adulthood. He was married to Sylvia Plath, the American Poet and Darling of The Feminist movement. They had known each other four months when they married in 1956. Seven years later she gassed herself. They had separated in 1962, having had two children together.
Rumours abounded in the press and amongst the followers of Plath that her death had been at Hughes hands. He never entered the discussion publicly. To make matters more sinister, Hughes lover, Assia Wevill, gassed herself and Shura, her four year old daughter by Hughes, six years later. Their relationship had deteriorated soon after Plath's death and Hughes had occupied himself with other lovers. Seemingly, not so much the tortured poet as the torture-to-be-around poet. He remarried in 1970. This marriage lasted until his death, despite continued affairs. I am wondering if this wife insisted on electrical appliances only!
Hughes poems, themselves, are very interesting, especially given the society and culture in which he was writing. His early poetry is rooted in nature - especially the savage nature of animals. Later, he relied heavily on the bardic tradition and mythic subjects. Largely Celtic, almost Native North American, his work was not conventional C of E material!
There are many website dedicated to Ted Hughes, showcasing some of his poetry or discussing the man. The following site has a small selection of his poetry and some very interesting discussion. http://ann.skea.com/THHome.htm
If this prattle has provoked you into wanting the details about Hughes, Poet Laureates, medals, monarches or anything really, I recommend Wikipedia.org, an excellent resource for any subject or topic.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Bardic Weaponry
Your bow is not broken but you have run out of arrows. How will you fake being a bard?
A bard, as I am sure you will know, is a musician. A poet of the ancient Celtic culture. A writer and performer of epic tales. A storyteller, entertainer and singer of tales - both tall and newsworthy. Bards are poets of national importance. Like the Poet Laureate, I am thinking. I am struggling to work bows and arrows into their role.
What you may not know, and something which took me by surprise (never lovely in the middle of thinking) is that a bard is also a padded saddle. Arabic or French. Equine amour. Now this brings us closer to our perfect bow and missing arrows. Although, if I were to be honest, I am still not certain how I would pretend to be protective tack. I shouldn't like the idea of wearing lumpy, unflattering (although almost certainly flattening) coverings. I am certainly not enthusiastic about the prospect of some lumpen cavalry person sat on my back. This is not even close to any hobby I have tried and enjoyed. I am hoping this is not the reference being made in the question.
Now if I were pretending to be THE Bard I should have fewer problems with this question, possibly. I could simply use clever rhymes and dramatic moments. An empty quiver would be a redundant problem. In fact, to be quite frank, the bow and accessories would be noises off.
The conundrum continues. I wonder if some minion, while minning, has simply misspelled 'bardee'. As you know, this is a grub, native to Australia, which the genuinely local people consider foodstuff. Having an accelerate for absent weaponry would not be an impediment to faking grubishness. I should hide myself in the bark of a tree (or even the bow itself, possibly) and hope like mad that no Aboriginal person with a taste for tradition culinary happens by. I shall be quiet (not an easy task) and still. I shan't be faking it long.
So - frankly - the whole question is more than slightly off centre. I prefer to question the clarity of the querrant and the general state of mind which they were in when they wondered this. Do we think this is a chemically induced musing? Could our asker be seeing parallel worlds and fairy dust? Have we fallen foul of some mischievous, Loki like, Confuser of Minds?
So I tell you what. I am all done with this poser. I have a kettle which needs boiling and a teabag which needs soaking. I may write a poem about this experience, but it won't be epic and I shan't be holding people at the point of a pointy thing to hear it through.
Let me know if you should work out the answer.
A bard, as I am sure you will know, is a musician. A poet of the ancient Celtic culture. A writer and performer of epic tales. A storyteller, entertainer and singer of tales - both tall and newsworthy. Bards are poets of national importance. Like the Poet Laureate, I am thinking. I am struggling to work bows and arrows into their role.
What you may not know, and something which took me by surprise (never lovely in the middle of thinking) is that a bard is also a padded saddle. Arabic or French. Equine amour. Now this brings us closer to our perfect bow and missing arrows. Although, if I were to be honest, I am still not certain how I would pretend to be protective tack. I shouldn't like the idea of wearing lumpy, unflattering (although almost certainly flattening) coverings. I am certainly not enthusiastic about the prospect of some lumpen cavalry person sat on my back. This is not even close to any hobby I have tried and enjoyed. I am hoping this is not the reference being made in the question.
Now if I were pretending to be THE Bard I should have fewer problems with this question, possibly. I could simply use clever rhymes and dramatic moments. An empty quiver would be a redundant problem. In fact, to be quite frank, the bow and accessories would be noises off.
The conundrum continues. I wonder if some minion, while minning, has simply misspelled 'bardee'. As you know, this is a grub, native to Australia, which the genuinely local people consider foodstuff. Having an accelerate for absent weaponry would not be an impediment to faking grubishness. I should hide myself in the bark of a tree (or even the bow itself, possibly) and hope like mad that no Aboriginal person with a taste for tradition culinary happens by. I shall be quiet (not an easy task) and still. I shan't be faking it long.
So - frankly - the whole question is more than slightly off centre. I prefer to question the clarity of the querrant and the general state of mind which they were in when they wondered this. Do we think this is a chemically induced musing? Could our asker be seeing parallel worlds and fairy dust? Have we fallen foul of some mischievous, Loki like, Confuser of Minds?
So I tell you what. I am all done with this poser. I have a kettle which needs boiling and a teabag which needs soaking. I may write a poem about this experience, but it won't be epic and I shan't be holding people at the point of a pointy thing to hear it through.
Let me know if you should work out the answer.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Teknikal Bunkum
So there I am, very pleased with myself, surfing around the site. I have worked out how to post, how to edit (that was a minor impossibility, let me tell you!!), even how to spell correctly (and with my typo-rate, that's another Herculean feat). Anyway - there I am, slightly smug, but not unattractively so, obviously!
I am used to being mildly concussed when trying to understand other people's lingo. Technical bods using gatekeeping language, the young shutting the previous generation out with recycled words, the fashionable and chic making their superiority clear with one sentence. I can cope with that. What's bothersome is when I am pretty sure I know what's going on and stumble conceitedly into the unknown.
So, I am looking at the edit options and I wonder what it is I am seeing. Moderate Comments. It's a tab, something to look at or do. I read it as moderate - 'not very one thing or the other, not at an extreme'. I imagine there is a little pool of comments, made about one's blog, which are pleasant and won't cause offence or heartbreak. How lovely. Google have put them all together for me to look at. An electronic ego stroke.
No. Not moderate - 'terribly Englishly bland'. ModerATE - 'put boundaries on comments and prevent nasties getting through'. Well - how would you ever find out what people think if you're not prepared to hear the bad and the good? I wonder, are we so protected in out little worlds that we cannot allow others to see things differently to us? Is that why we seem to have factions and ghettos within our societies (and don't think it's just one society, I've lived in several countries and people's people, basically).
So - I have no idea what buttons and wonders I have pressed. I have no idea what I have allowed and what I have blocked. Its all a bit grown up and importanty for me. But I do know I have allowed comments from anybody. And if you have something positive or negative to say - say it. If it's useful to me I shall be pleased. And if it's just mean spirited and unpleasant - I shall write about you or ignore you, depending on my mood!
Enjoy!
I am used to being mildly concussed when trying to understand other people's lingo. Technical bods using gatekeeping language, the young shutting the previous generation out with recycled words, the fashionable and chic making their superiority clear with one sentence. I can cope with that. What's bothersome is when I am pretty sure I know what's going on and stumble conceitedly into the unknown.
So, I am looking at the edit options and I wonder what it is I am seeing. Moderate Comments. It's a tab, something to look at or do. I read it as moderate - 'not very one thing or the other, not at an extreme'. I imagine there is a little pool of comments, made about one's blog, which are pleasant and won't cause offence or heartbreak. How lovely. Google have put them all together for me to look at. An electronic ego stroke.
No. Not moderate - 'terribly Englishly bland'. ModerATE - 'put boundaries on comments and prevent nasties getting through'. Well - how would you ever find out what people think if you're not prepared to hear the bad and the good? I wonder, are we so protected in out little worlds that we cannot allow others to see things differently to us? Is that why we seem to have factions and ghettos within our societies (and don't think it's just one society, I've lived in several countries and people's people, basically).
So - I have no idea what buttons and wonders I have pressed. I have no idea what I have allowed and what I have blocked. Its all a bit grown up and importanty for me. But I do know I have allowed comments from anybody. And if you have something positive or negative to say - say it. If it's useful to me I shall be pleased. And if it's just mean spirited and unpleasant - I shall write about you or ignore you, depending on my mood!
Enjoy!
A well. A goat. A slinky. And me
It sounds like I should recognise the title as a poem from English Literature many years ago. Thats an exam taken and forgotten, I can tell you!
Anyway - my random question rudely confined me to 400 thingumywhatsits. So I shall answer here.
What would I do if stuck down a well with a goat and a slinky?
The well, I am assuming, is dry. I am am unhurt. How lucky!! The goat, we shall decide, is a Nanny goat, happy to be milked. I am claiming dibs on sunny weather. Cool, like an English summer's day.
To the escape.
I shall bask awhile, and drink the milk I have in the new, clean bucket which luckily fell down with me. As soon as I am bored of basking and playing with my slinky, I shall scream - Lady Penelope style - and I shall keep screaming until someone comes to help. And, frankly, I can scream for hours - boredom does that to me! Should I tire I shall pinch the goat (it's for her own good. Don't look at me like that!) and she shall scream for help too.I shall keep pinching her (very very gently, of course) until someone comes to rescue her. We shall leave together. We have, after all, survived a desperate situation and are now comrades!
I intend to only fall down wells close to animal rescue groups - they will be out in any weathers to rescue a goat in distress. Once on dry land, the goat and I shall bathe, seperately, and I shall go home and write about my exciting day out in my blog. I shall visit my new found friend weekly, bearing armfuls of good, green grass.
Will that do?
Anyway - my random question rudely confined me to 400 thingumywhatsits. So I shall answer here.
What would I do if stuck down a well with a goat and a slinky?
The well, I am assuming, is dry. I am am unhurt. How lucky!! The goat, we shall decide, is a Nanny goat, happy to be milked. I am claiming dibs on sunny weather. Cool, like an English summer's day.
To the escape.
I shall bask awhile, and drink the milk I have in the new, clean bucket which luckily fell down with me. As soon as I am bored of basking and playing with my slinky, I shall scream - Lady Penelope style - and I shall keep screaming until someone comes to help. And, frankly, I can scream for hours - boredom does that to me! Should I tire I shall pinch the goat (it's for her own good. Don't look at me like that!) and she shall scream for help too.I shall keep pinching her (very very gently, of course) until someone comes to rescue her. We shall leave together. We have, after all, survived a desperate situation and are now comrades!
I intend to only fall down wells close to animal rescue groups - they will be out in any weathers to rescue a goat in distress. Once on dry land, the goat and I shall bathe, seperately, and I shall go home and write about my exciting day out in my blog. I shall visit my new found friend weekly, bearing armfuls of good, green grass.
Will that do?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)