I Don't Own Any i-things

But this phone case, made by BookBook, alas, for i-phones and i-things only, is almost enough to sway me toward the ranks of the ineffably smug.

 

Almost.

Being, as I am, a devoutly bookloving person, a little leather volume, like this  in my pocket, would feel just right, in worn soft brown leather.

 

Mmmmmm. I wonder if my current phone would....

Remember This Image?

BoingBoing's David Pescovitz reminds me that it was forty years ago today that this photograph was taken by Apollo 17's crew, on the last manned mission to the moon,

Five hours and six minutes travel time from Cape Canaveral, 28,000 miles from home.  The camera was a seventy millimetre Hasselblad, with an 80 mm lens.

Hardly Davidson

A slight explanation, found via a reverse image-search:  A comment by 'Michael'-

"This was initially built as "The Nine Wheel Harley Rig". It was built in the late 80′s by Kenneth Kilpatrick of Huntsville Alabama. I see from this photo It has since been modified to incorporate a second front wheel making it now ” The Ten Wheel Harley Rig “. The tractor is a modified Harley Davidson FLT. The interior of the trailer is nicely finished. Kenneth did receive license from HD to utilize their paint scheme and logo. I am told, at Harley Davidson’s expense, Kenneth has been able to show his rig in several countries around the world "

This thing beats me completely. It's a masterpiece of semiotic confusion, I admire, absolutely, the craftsmanship, the effort, the vision, that the maker put into it. But my poor brain bashes against the 'why?', like a moth crashing repeatedly against a lighted window.

I mean, if the guy's a bike freak, he's built something that's not a bike.
If he's a trike freak, well, he's built something that's not a trike.
If he's a semi-trailer freak, he's built something that's not a semi,
If he's a big rig freak, ditto, ditto, ditto.

It's like a Thai tuk-tuk on steroids.
Or a toy truck on pink sparkles.
Or the sort of inexplicable artifact that haunts my more problematic dreams. Hold on... is this real? Am I about to wake?

Surgery.

 

Monday's Muzik

Unless you live under a rock, I'll warrant you can not have avoided the rocket-like rise to global celebrity of South Korean pop star Psy.

But I'll bet few of you have heard of Berkeley, California-based Korean band Ra-On?


By the magic of the interblogs, I can remedy that.  They play Psy's hit song. But differently.

Friday's Poem.

 Eve Speaks:

Once I was in Eden and walked, blithely,
out of it.
How was I to know?
There seemed another Eden,
just next door. It looked familiar,
and I was tired of the new.
All day he strolled around with his name tags.
Glitter turned specific, but I craved
the blobbiness of things,
the inexact borders,
the possibility that this could also be

that. Of course I was an idiot. I'd run back
now, if I could, bear his painless
children, even call the girl If Only,
the boy, I Told You So.
Instead of living in this okay crowded world,
I'd make all my mistakes in Paradise.
Is that possible?
Is it?
I didn't even see the gate.
Then the gate closed.

Jan Heller Levi

Poem. Today's selection.

Let me tell you about my marvelous god, how he hides in the hexagons
of the bees, how the drought that wrings its leather hands
above the world is of his making, as well as the rain in the quiet minutes
that leave only thoughts of rain.
An atom is working and working, an atom is working in deepest
night, then bursting like the farthest star; it is far
smaller than a pinprick, far smaller than a zero and it has no
will, no will toward us.
This is why the heart has paced and paced,
will pace and pace across the field where yarrow
was and now is dust. A leaf catches
in a bone. The burrow’s shut by a tumbled clod
and the roots, upturned, are hot to the touch.
How my god is a feathered and whirling thing; you will singe your arm
when you pluck him from the air,
when you pluck him from that sky
where grieving swirls, and you will burn again
throwing him back.

Susan Stewart:- "Let me tell you about my marvelous god"

via Three Quarks Daily, where Jim Culleny posts a regular thursday poem.
Three Quarks makes interesting reading.

Whoa!

In my dreams, I skate and glide, I perform effortless curves, banking around corners, my feet just a couple of inches above the ground, I'm graceful, I could fly, and I never fall.

Which bemuses me, because I never was great at that sort of thing. Roller skates. Elizabeth Simpson had roller skates when I was about 7. And a key. And I was so impressed as she skated up the concrete driveway. Skates seemed like the ultimate liberator. As good as, no, better even than having a real bicycle. And Elizabeth, bless her generous little heart, offered to teach me, so I sat on the kitchen doorstep, and we did the skate key and straps thing, over my 'Start-Rite' sandals, and the bees of summer zigzagged by on their quest for pollen, and I stood, and my left foot went one way, and my right foot shot out, and I sat back with a crash, and banged my head on the glossy deep-red painted door. And I bit my lip and tried not to cry.

On the next try, Elizabeth clung to me carefully as I unfolded my unreliable limbs, and I gripped her in a fearsome clinch.

Now, bear in mind we were seven. Damn. If we were fifteen, that clinch would have seen steam coming out of my ears. But at seven? Nah.  So, I let go and tried a tentative step, one hand on the house wall. Yes! it works!
"You're doing it!" she cried, all excited, " just let go!"
At the end of the house, the driveway sloped.

And gravity sucked my legs.
And I accelerated, flailing arms, trying desperately to..
And I'm not sure what happened next. Maybe the skates crossed. Maybe my legs shot out, forward, backward, sideways.  Either way, the next I remember is lying in a bloody heap of pain.
Took a while to get those skates off. Sniffling but trying not to cry in front of a girl. Humiliated.  She could move on those skates as if born to them, and me? I can barely stand.
My knees were a swelling mess of blood and gravel, as were my hands, elbows and forehead.
I stoically told her I was okay, but it was time for me to go home for tea, and she accepted my excuse. "You can come back tomorrow for another go!" she yelled as I limped off up the road, to sanctuary.

But I didn't. The next day, I went to play with Barbara Wallace. She had a pedal-car.