Nice!

Okay. I'm just a bit postingly challenged, but I was listening to this, so....

Emerson, Lake, and Palmer

I'm not sure just when or where this is, early seventies, I'd guess, this is the sort of gig I'd go to back then, groups generally did not have the vastly inflated egos of today's music biz folk, I'd say they were more "accessible".
The venue would be the local university's dining hall, with a small stage at one end. The band would arrive in a rusting old crewbus, and all their gear would be in a small box-van.

This is of course before these guys were playing vast auditoria, with mega-pyrotechnics, lights that could frighten other planets, and sound levels that would shake distant continents. I like to be close enough that I can see the person playing, not a speck on a stage a half-mile away.
Progressive rock, it was called, back then.
ELP were all accomplished musicians, trained in classical mode, before rock, so they often adapted other works; this one is from a longer piece, based on Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition"

The Sage:

I carry the dust of a journey
that cannot be shaken away
It lives deep within me
for I breathe it every day

You and I are yesterday's answers
the earth of the past come to flesh
Eroded by time's rivers
to the shapes we now possess

Come share of my breath and my substance
and mingle our streams and our times
In bright infinite moments
our reasons are lost -in our eyes.

On Running Out of Space in Blogger

No,I haven't, not yet, but Gary Rith has. He keeps doing that, so he's on Pottersblog NoIII
I was a bit worried that I might be running out of space in wherever my blog is kept, a shoebox on the top shelf, at the rear of one of Blogger's vast warehouse-caverns, I suspect.
How to know how much space I have left in my shoebox?

It turns out that blogger does not limit the size of the blog itself. The restriction is in the storage allotted to pictures, and pictures uploaded to blogger are held and retrieved from a Picasa web-album with a maximum size of 1024MB.
Put simply, your blog and its pictures are in separate shoe-boxes.
When you click on the "add image" icon, it opens another window. In the bottom right corner of that it tells you how much of your allotted space is in use. In my case, it says, right now "You are currently using 912MB (89%) of your 1024MB".

In my case the problem is not quite critical yet. I did a bit of searching. One method of dealing with it is to start a new blog, which was Gary's chosen route. This could be using the same template, same name even, just add a number. Or change one letter in the name. It would look the same.
Except, of course, there'd be no access back into the previous posts.
But there's another way. Just create another persona in blogger, and add that person as a contributor with full editorial rights to your existing blog. Your new persona has a completely fresh empty shoebox in the Blogger cavern, and posts added under the new persona don't impinge upon the blog's original storage.
Thus, you get another year or so of posts before needing to create persona number 3.
You can help yourself by not uploading giant images, resize them to something less than the original.
Picasa's free image organiser/viewer has easy tools to do this. I use it as my default viewer and editor, I've tried others with vast resources which I never use, and Picasa's the one I like best. And I like that word "Free". It's less good on a mac, I hear.
Blogger's preferred route, of course, is to SELL you extra storage in your original account. Pthuie!

Squeeze-Box? -Just listen.

I've seen this guy here and there on the web. As far as I can divine, He's Alexander Hrustevich (Александр Хрустевич ), and he's from the Ukraine.
I'm no expert, as I can't play any musical instrument, and my singing is best kept in the bathroom, where at least I am appreciative, but looking around the interwebnet, the real musicians out there, the classically trained folk, the orchestral folk, and the soloists, there seems to be a consensus that what this lad is doing is exceptionally talented.
When I lived in Finland, I worked with a guy who had studied the piano-accordion, in Moscow, he was pretty good, but nowhere near this.
Don't let the tacky background fool you, this is not a schoolkid type performance.



If you want to hear more, youtube has quite a few other pieces.

A Bit of Viral Advertising....

See, there's this web animation venture, with a cool idea and a slick catch-line, "If you can type, you can make movies!"
I saw one of their animations over at Nag on the Lake's place, and so of course, I had to visit the website, make a movie etc. I'm too lazy or creatively challenged to make a good one, so I'll show you one made by someone else. It's aimed at graphic designers, but anyone who sells their creative skills will recognise the dialogue. I've heard variations of this in my life as a potter, and in my other life as a plumber, builder, etc, etc, etc.

I'd like you to design this...... Here's how I want what you design to end up....

Usually, however, we bite our lip, and refrain from telling the client what we think about his "suggestions".

Hallow e'en.

Halloween, the eve of All Hallows.

When I was a kid, we carved lanterns. Not so often from pumpkins, they're an american import. Traditionally, they'd be carved in england from root crops, like turnips. And by strange coincidence, as country-living kids, we'd get turnips. or swedes. And we'd stick a candle inside, and tie a string handle, and go out, fearfully, into the dark. We'd have been primed with stories of witches flying on their broomsticks, with their black-cat familiars, we knew this was the night when the souls of the damned roamed abroad.

You could blacken your face with soot, and go sing at neighbour's doors. For on this night it was unwise to turn a stranger away without a gift to appease what might be an angry spirit. Country people used to make "soul-cake", and kids would get gifts of cake, and a drink.

A soul cake, a soul cake,
Please, good missus, a soul cake,
An apple, a pear, a plum or a cherry,
Any good thing to make us all merry.
A soul cake, a soul cake,
Please, good missus, a soul cake,
One for Peter, two for Paul,
And three for Him that made us all.
God bless the master of this house
And the mistress also,
And all the little children
That round your table grow;
The cattle in your stable,
The dogs at your front door,
And all that dwell within your gates
We’ll wish you ten times more.
A soul cake, a soul cake…
Go down into the cellar
And see what you can find;
If the barrels are not empty
We’ll hope that you’ll be kind;
We’ll hope that you’ll be kind
With your apple and your pear,
And we’ll come no more a-soulin’
Till all-soul's time next year.
A soul cake, a soul cake…
The streets are very dirty,
Me shoes are very thin,
I have a little pocket
To put a penny in;
If you haven’t got a penny
A ha’penny will do;
If you haven’t got a ha’penny
God bless you.
A soul cake, a soul cake…

Tomorrow would be All Saints Day, All Hallows, but this day, All Hallows Eve, was also known as all souls. The restless souls, freed from the dark enclosure of the grave, would roam, seeking home and hearth.

The origin of all this? the pagan festival of Samhain.
The end of warm days and light, the onset of the dark, and the cold claws of winter.
Our ancestors built bonfires this night, sought to appease the spirits, pray for survival through the winter. Burnt offerings. And perhaps the forgiveness of the spirits of slaughtered adversaries. That turnip lantern, that grinning pumpkin, is a nod to the days when the lanterns were skulls.
Hallow e'en lanters were not always friendly cheerful toys, they were once somewhat more sinister.

In America, (originating in central america, not the U.S.), was the pumpkin. Easier to carve, a friendly orange colour, it became the skull of choice, and here in Britain, it's also taken over.
As has commercialisation. We carved our own, and had dripping wax and stubby candles. Now you can get a nice clean plastic pumpkin, with battery operated lighting, and a push-button for a sound-chip to make it cackle or moan.
Our kids get ready-to-wear costumes. All the characters of horror movies from the Mummy to Dracula will be out and about. They're not staring fearfully into the shadows beyond their lantern's light, as we were, no, they're toting their loot-buckets, and effectively, begging, door-to door.
I loathe trick-or-treat. It's a relatively recent import, heavily promoted by retailers.
Kids know nothing of Samhain. They don't think of how pervasive the dark used to be, how can they? Their world has streetlights everywhere.
Nor of the real fears our ancestors had of the spirit world.

Happy Samhain.

All Souls’ Night

William Butler Yeats

Epilogue to “A Vision’

Midnight has come, and the great Christ Church Bell
And may a lesser bell sound through the room;
And it is All Souls’ Night,
And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel
Bubble upon the table.  A ghost may come;
For it is a ghost’s right,
His element is so fine
Being sharpened by his death,
To drink from the wine-breath
While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.

I need some mind that, if the cannon sound
From every quarter of the world, can stay
Wound in mind’s pondering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound;
Because I have a marvellous thing to say,
A certain marvellous thing
None but the living mock,
Though not for sober ear;
It may be all that hear
Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

Horton’s the first I call.  He loved strange thought
And knew that sweet extremity of pride
That’s called platonic love,
And that to such a pitch of passion wrought
Nothing could bring him, when his lady died,
Anodyne for his love.
Words were but wasted breath;
One dear hope had he:
The inclemency
Of that or the next winter would be death.

Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell
Whether of her or God he thought the most,
But think that his mind’s eye,
When upward turned, on one sole image fell;
And that a slight companionable ghost,
Wild with divinity,
Had so lit up the whole
Immense miraculous house
The Bible promised us,
It seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl.

On Florence Emery I call the next,
Who finding the first wrinkles on a face
Admired and beautiful,
And knowing that the future would be vexed
With ‘minished beauty, multiplied commonplace,
preferred to teach a school
Away from neighbour or friend,
Among dark skins, and there
permit foul years to wear
Hidden from eyesight to the unnoticed end.

Before that end much had she ravelled out
From a discourse in figurative speech
By some learned Indian
On the soul’s journey.  How it is whirled about,
Wherever the orbit of the moon can reach,
Until it plunge into the sun;
And there, free and yet fast,
Being both Chance and Choice,
Forget its broken toys
And sink into its own delight at last.

And I call up MacGregor from the grave,
For in my first hard springtime we were friends.
Although of late estranged.
I thought him half a lunatic, half knave,
And told him so, but friendship never ends;
And what if mind seem changed,
And it seem changed with the mind,
When thoughts rise up unbid
On generous things that he did
And I grow half contented to be blind!

He had much industry at setting out,
Much boisterous courage, before loneliness
Had driven him crazed;
For meditations upon unknown thought
Make human intercourse grow less and less;
They are neither paid nor praised.
but he d object to the host,
The glass because my glass;
A ghost-lover he was
And may have grown more arrogant being a ghost.

But names are nothing.  What matter who it be,
So that his elements have grown so fine
The fume of muscatel
Can give his sharpened palate ecstasy
No living man can drink from the whole wine.
I have mummy truths to tell
Whereat the living mock,
Though not for sober ear,
For maybe all that hear
Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

Such thought—such thought have I that hold it tight
Till meditation master all its parts,
Nothing can stay my glance
Until that glance run in the world’s despite
To where the damned have howled away their hearts,
And where the blessed dance;
Such thought, that in it bound
I need no other thing,
Wound in mind’s wandering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound.

             Oxford, Autumn 1920

OCD Zoo-Keeper.

via Miss Cellania.

Tin Snail

I found this today, whilst searching for a replacement for my Land-Rover Discovery, which has reached the point of uneconomic repair.

(No, I'm not in the market for a tiny tin box, but the same place had a Discovery listed as "stunning" "meticulously maintained, truly the flagship of the Discovery range, first to see will buy, any inspection invited". First to see did not buy. I crawled under it in the rain and sank my thumb through the crunchy structural body side sill. Then through the rear floor. From underneath, I could see some not very good welding had been done elsewhere. The "immaculate" interior was worn and scruffy. Now, my car has been abused more than most, and had this one been worn by use, I wouldn't have run away. But it was being advertised as something it very definitely wasn't. It was a mess, and showed signs of bodged maintenance. When I can stick my thumb through structural metal, on a vehicle which has allegedly just passed its annual inspection, I walk away.)

This is a Nissan S-Cargo. A pun, for those without any french, on the french word "escargot", "snail". Also on "S" for "small", and Cargo, as it's a van.
They were built in Japan, for the domestic Japanese market, between 1989 and 1994. Only about 12,000 were produced.

I went into my archives, to my London Design Museum pictures, because seeing this funny little van both brought a smile to me, and a vague memory....

I can't remember who designed this, but it was 1930-ish, or before in time. French, I'm pretty sure, no indication of how the mechanical parts were to be laid out, rear engined, it would have to be. But it was never made, just this wooden mock-up.

Or this, the French Citroen 2CV van.