More nonsense

Yes, you guessed it, some of these 23:59 last-minute posts were actually written after midnight, technically speaking on the following day. So sue me.

Slept very badly, woke at 4 a.m. with Föhn fever (nausea, headache, blurry vision, dizzy) which kept me up until around 6, then to bed until noon. The rest of the day was spent in my pyjamas until dressing for dinner this evening. Ah well.

Nine down, twenty-one to go.

It's that time of year again

Sneaking under the wire to post the first of this year's NaBloPoMo entries. This might be something of a lost cause as I will be in Munich for two or three days next week and may therefore fail to meet the target. We shall see.

One down, twenty-nine to go.

Finished, part three

Survived yet another NaBloPoMo with soul and senses more or less intact. As I said last time, I enjoyed the discipline of writing every day and was surprised to see how often I wished to write more than once a day. Perhaps there is some inner "Target Number of Words Daily" setting that prompts me, which falls below the often extreme length of my non-NaBloPoMo postings.

This made me laugh this morning. Perhaps I'll give Ralph one for Christmas.

The weather did change yesterday/last night, but no snow: just drizzling rain.

The Little Professor points at an article in which a Harvard Law School professor admits (a) to plagiarism and (b) that he doesn't even read the manuscripts that go into print under his name—but somehow keeps his job. Is it just me, or does anyone else find this vaguely offensive? LP raises two valid points: If the purpose of research is to discover something new, then summarizing the work of others is clearly not "research;" and: If students submitted papers written by another student, they would be reprimanded if not sent down; why then do we permit it in professors?

Today's Friday Favourite is a lovely song from a great album, ten years old already. Regular readers will have heard her voice before, she sang on one of the first Favourites, back in February.

Shabbat shalom, my dears.

Thirty down. Done the bugger!

Tired

Long day in the office, polishing up the second competition which is due on Wednesday. It's good but not great, we won't win this one but we might be in the money. I seem to have retained my grip on the conductor's baton with this project, and am regularly pushing the team into making decisions.

I spent the day swallowing "I told you so"s (how to punctuate that?) as they discovered what I had told them three weeks ago: that the strong uphill slope of the site would cause trouble, and that they must draw several sections to be sure that all parts of the building are actually above grade.

Surprise, surprise: the team didn't, and the building isn't. Heheheh.

By the way for those who asked, the first competition will be judged in mid-December.

Today's Friday Favourite is a wonderful bit of thrashing from a late, sadly missed guitarist. Crank it up and get your air-guitar going. [Updated: because that was so much fun, here's another.]

Shabbat shalom, my dears. Enjoy the weekend.

Twenty-three down, seven to go.

Late

Home from G's fiftieth birthday party, just sneaking under the wire to get something posted on the 22nd. Half-drunk, fully tired. To bed as soon as the hot chocolate is ready.

Had another late night yesterday in Second Life: the leader of Sunday's seminar asked to interview me about my identity in SL and how I experience my avatars. The interview was booked for 75-90 minutes but the conversation was so fascinating that it turned into a four-and-a-half hour marathon. Great fun, but it left me running on empty all day today, as tonight's party will do tomorrow. Ah well.

G'night all.

Twenty-two down, eight to go.

Munich in winter

... is another fine city, I do like being here. It's cold, a good 6°C colder than Stuttgart, probably due to being (a) up on the high plains, and (b) out in the plains, exposed to the howling winds, rather than huddled into a valley.

I skipped out on the conference dinner last night, just didn't feel up to the train ride there and back or the stress of conversation. Walked around the neighbourhood where my nameless partner in the database lives, and ate in a fine Indian restaurant. Walking home at 9:15, I was nearly alone in the city: the streets were empty, few cars and no pedestrians. Munich sleeps early, or at least is a homebody.

I walked up the Augustenstrasse to the square where a friend lives, debated ringing her doorbell then decided not to (the lights were off). I stayed in her apartment for three weeks in the autumn of 1992, when I was considering moving away from London but hadn't decided where to go. There is a fountain in the square which burbles all night long (though not in winter, alas); I used to like leaning out of the open window and looking out into the night-lit city, listening to the fountain.

Time to leave, I have a train to catch. More this evening, perhaps.

Twenty down, ten to go.

Third thoughts about Second Life

I attended a seminar in Second Life yesterday on "the wounded Avatar," about the meaning of bloody, scarred and otherwise "damaged" avatars in this pixel-perfect world of idealized bodies. Fascinating in a very strange way, it made me realize that I haven't yet seen an avatar in a wheelchair or on crutches or walking with a white cane and seeing-eye-dog. I arrived quite late so cannot comment meaningfully on the issue of bloody avatars, except to report that several participants reported feeling "empowered" by choosing extreme, unusual styles of display. I found it interesting that there were no furries at the seminar: there seems to be no overlap between those who play with identity by being non-human or only partly human, and those who play with identity by being differently human.

The discussion afterwards centred around the concept of "truth" or "lies" in the appearance of avatars: is this female-looking avatar a woman in real life? It's a very strange question to be asking in a world where appearance is optional and completely malleable: What gender is that mouse or this butterfly? what gender is a lime jelly with fruit and nut bits, or a chair, or a cactus? One of the participants identified as "cross-gender" and reported with wry amusement on the confusion that she causes in SL: whichever gender of avatar she wears, somebody is upset by it.

Not to mention the fact that even "truthfully" gender-correct avatars are inaccurate and unrealistic representations: much too young, tall, thin, beautiful, healthy, symmetrically proportioned—and almost all white-skinned. My short, fat, balding old man is a more realistic human body-type, but he's nothing like my physical self (except for being identifiably male).

Why exactly does it seem to matter to so greatly to certain people—mostly men—that they know the gender and sexual orientation of the person with whom they are speaking? I think part of the amusement of SL is precisely that one doesn't know that, one knows the person one is dealing with only as a more or less consistent personality revealing itself by its words and actions (not unlike the blogging experience); and part of the attraction of SL is that one may without risk speak to people (and animals and objects) whose real-life equivalents one might hesitate to approach, whether from caution, cowardice or sound common sense.

Afterwards, M2 happened to find a group for those who cannot cope with such uncertainty: "Are you sick of meeting female avatars that are really men? Our members are certified to be of the right sex, must submit real-life identification to join, bla bla bla." (My summary.) How very peculiar to be so worried about such a simple, strange thing. After all, it's not as though you were going to be having sex with this avatar—or is that perhaps the point? My, what a shallow-water, plain-vanilla, seatbelts-fastened-and-trays-stowed-upright life I lead.

In other news I am preparing to go to Munich for the (in recent times only bi-)annual Developers' Conference of the database toolkit that I use. Still feeling rather poorly, I considered not attending but decided to "just do it," as the saying goes. (The decision was helped by having arranged to meet the Münstermeister after the conference for a discussion of the state of the world.) I shall stay overnight twice in Munich and return home on Wednesday morning.

In other words, there is a fairly high probability that I shall be unable to fulfill my NaBloPoMo obligations tomorrow. Have to hope that there is wireless available where I shall be staying (surely there must be, surely nobody lives without access to the Internets in 2007). [Updated: there is, of course. Null problemo as one says in German.]

Nineteen down, eleven to go.

No rest for the innocent, either

[Interrupting myself I have a question for the LazyWeb: what is the correct abbreviation of "Number" in English: should this be Nr. or No.?

I know that I've seen it both ways, but I believe that "No." is French, and that the abbreviation in English should be "Nr."; however Langenscheidt disagrees with me. None of my English dictionaries lists anything so low-brow as an abbreviation (dignified shudder). What do you say, dear readers?

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program.]

I spent yesterday in the office cleaning up, then walked around town catching up on newly-opened art galleries and the like, then home and poodled about for several hours. It snowed lightly all day, a gentle fall of tiny flakes drifting in nearly still air, but the ground is still too warm for it to settle and accumulate.

The Münsters have a great big presentation today in Canada, of all places, so they are pressing me to continue with the translation. I worked for about three hours yesterday evening, until I found myself starting to make stupid mistakes. Now back to th' mill until 3 pm, then send them the state of play.

More later.

Over the hump at last: sixteen down, fourteen to go.

Don Juan in Hell

Reading from one entry to the next in the Wikipedia, as one does, I land on Don Juan and am intrigued by the summary of the legend:

Don Juan either raped or seduced a young woman of noble family, and killed her father. Later, he encountered a statue of her father in a cemetery and impiously invited it home to dine with him, an invitation the statue gladly accepted. The ghost of the father arrived for dinner, as the harbinger of Don Juan's death. The statue asked to shake Don Juan's hand, and when he extended his arm, the statue dragged him away to Hell.

So far, so good: this the story as we know it. However, in the Wikipedia's version, the legend has a second act:

In Hell, the Devil meets Don Juan. The Devil tells him that everyone in Hell is cast in a role, and then presents him with a Jester's suit, telling him, "You'll make an excellent fool." Don Juan is insulted by this, protesting that no other man was his equal, "I am the man who made a thousand conquests!" Intrigued by that claim, the Devil tells him that if he can correctly name one conquest, he would not have to wear the suit. Thus began the parade of women. Not one could Don Juan name correctly. Finally, a woman stands before him, tears on her face. "Yes," the Devil says, "this is the one woman who truly loved you". Helpless, Don Juan looks into her eyes, then turns to the Devil and says, "Give me the suit".

Wonderful. (Assuming, of course, as I do, that he means "Yes, you're right, I concede that I was a fool.")

One of the things I like best about Mozart's (which actually means Lorenzo da Ponte's) Don Giovanni is that he remains true to himself and the way he has lived, even in the moment of his death. He knows perfectly well that the ghost of the Commendatore has come to end his life, and that to refuse to repent consigns him to Hell, and goes consciously, willingly, unrepentantly to his doom:

Statue of the Commendatore: To supper you invited me, you know a host's obligation. So answer: will you in turn come and sup with me?
Leporello: For God's sake, no! He is not free, excuse him.
Giovanni: Never will I be accused of cowardice.
Commendatore: Make your decision.
Giovanni: I am decided.
Commendatore: You'll come?
Leporello: Tell him "no"!
Giovanni: My heart is firm within me, I know no fear. I'll come.

I have always found the Christian tradition of a deathbed repentance washing away all sins to be repugnant: One may be the worst bastard on earth, breaking commandments and rules and hearts, spreading misery and despair in all directions—but just whisper a "yes" to the priest and shed a tear or two and your soul goes to Heaven? Bah. What an insult, what a slap in the face to the rest of us, to the miserable victims of this bastard, that he should be permitted to repent. Hooray for Giovanni, a man with the courage of his convictions.

Fifteen down, fifteen to go.

Finished

Just barely got everything done in time, G drove off to the courier's offices at 7:15 (we were far too late for a pickup). I haven't heard whether he got there in time, but I'm pretty sure that I would have heard if he hadn't done. The last nearly-an-hour of increasing nervousness was my fault: a combination of overtiredness and my natural know-it-all arrogance lead to a bad (foolish, stupid, irresponsible) decision, with the result that I had to print off a five-page form and fill it in by hand with G and U breathing down my neck.

I think it is a good project, but after spending seven hours in Excel calculating room sizes and the building volume I realize that we ended up pretty far from the brief in a few significant places. Meaning: we'll either land among the prizewinners or be sent home in the first round.

To bed.

But first, a cup of hot chocolate and my first (short!) visit to Second Life in about a week three days. Time is relative.

Fourteen down, sixteen to go.

In which I succumb to a certain, previously-resisted temptation

Work.

[Updated at 2:44 a.m. Not an all-nighter, as you see, just a seventeen-hour working day. Fortunately the post-office will ensure that tomorrow will be at longest a ten-hour working day.

The competition looks good, by the way. We only left out two rooms, and only cheated on the required floor area of another ten or so.]

Thirteen down, seventeen to go.

In-between

I decclared myself to be in need of fresh air and movement, so went for a walk that happened to take me past a supermarket, so I did some shopping and came home. Blogging now briefly in case I'm not back before midnight to post a legitimate "November 10th" entry.

We appear to have decided on the shape and arrangement, and have quite possibly fitted in all necessary rooms in more or less the right arrangement. The rest is just a hard slog but without much more thinking, so it should go well and quickly enough.

Gotta go. More later, possibly; else Sunday morning.

[Updated well after midnight: I forgot to mention: this morning, walking uphill to the Bauernmarkthalle I noticed that the rain that had been falling by my house had become snow. The air and ground were too warm for it to accumulate, but still: it was the first snowfall of the winter. Hooray.]

Ten down, twenty to go.

Bah.

Another long and tiring day working on the competition. This time all three of us (G, U and I) were in the office together, and as last time we were all present for more than a few hours I had to retreat behind my headphones to escape the bitching and nagging and petty scoring of points. (On both sides, be it noted.) Bah. Life's just too short for this crap.

The competition approaches fruition by a circuitous and stony path. I am dismayed to say that we have returned to the previous long, thin form! Inconceivable. I have quite given up having an opinion on this project, I shall just keep my eyes down and my nose clean and do the damned drawings. Bah.

Today's Friday Favourite is going to be a challenge, shall we say, to some of you. Try not to judge or interpret it, just let the music wash over you—and then judge how you feel once it's over. [Updated for clarity: it's neither loud nor brash nor full of rude words nor discordant; on the contrary, the music is very smooth and lovely, to the point where fans of loud & brash will start twitching from withdrawal.]

Shabbat shalom. Enjoy the weekend, my dears.

Nine down, twenty-one to go.

Tempus fugit

Third in a continuing series of blog titles that require, but don't necessarily receive, translation.

Taking a break from translating to drink tea, eat chocolate and poodle about in the Internets. Listening to the CD from which tomorrow's Friday Favourite will be taken (wait for it). Dear gods, it's already Thursday again. Exactly seven days until we hand in the competition, and it's still all very wobbly.

I think that some of the happiness in hard and serious work that I wrote about yesterday comes from having been in Flow for much of the day. The ability to concentrate, to work without being interrupted, is an essential pre-requisite for getting into the flow state; it's easily available at home (since I'm doing the translating on my PC which has no Internet connection and nothing remotely gamelike installed) but harder to obtain in the office. Most of the time I'm alone there, since G is busy being a new father and the two new hires also work mostly off-site.

Work on the translation is slowing down as I get further on with it. At the beginning, I could just plough ahead translating words at the drop of a whim, but now the spectre of consistency raises its head. I spend a small but steadily increasing proportion of my time looking back through what I've previously translated to ensure that I always use the same English word for a particular German one. This is of course a Good Thing and the right way to go about it, but it does slow down the work considerably.

Right, that's enough. Back to work. More later, perhaps.

Eight down, twenty-two to go.

Sans titre

From a recent (outgoing) e-mail:

The translation is on hold for a week, as the competition creeps towards the submission date.

Re database: I can't complain, the translation is saving my bacon this year. The truth is that my own database is a failed product, if it weren't the child of five years effort I'd close it down and move on.

Not sure how feel about having written that.

Cf. Ecclesiastes 2:11.

In more cheerful news there's a fresh meme going around: the first three commenters to sign up for the meme here and post the same promise on their blogs will receive a smallish present-thingy from me at some point during the next 366 (leap year!) days. Note that this will require informing me of your real-world identity and address, so those intent on secrecy and anonymity should probably refrain from joining in. [Updated: there have already been three volunteers, but hey: if you really really want to play, go ahead and sign up anyway.]

Seven down, twenty-three to go.

Blah, Tuesday edition

Blogging while waiting for the bathroom to warm up, so that I can shower and shave before heading out to the office for another day of meetings and work. I shall take my headphones and a selection of music with me, to hide behind if and when the discussion becomes futile.

Grey day, cold and windy.

Updated at 21:30 Well, that was a worthwhile meeting for once. Our frequent collaborator Famous Landscape Architect is full of clever and witty suggestions for improving the new proposal. I feel quite optimistic about the general shape of things, and in particular the treatment of the adjoining park and entry areas; but the basic problem of fitting 250 square metres of necessary rooms into a space measuring 148 square metres remains. We shall see.

I should really do some work on the translation, but I'm too tired to bother. Good night, sleep well.

Six down, twenty-four to go.

Getting closer

Finally made a decision on the competition this evening, as the culmination of a three-hour meeting. Could have been worse: we have had six-hour meetings that did not reach a decision. We won't be doing the long, thin version that I blogged about some time back: it remains the best proposal in terms of spaces in the city and use of the park, but is a very weak building internally. We (I) just couldn't resolve the constraints that the shape imposed.

I am amused by the way that (certain, possibly most) architects work, by the astonishing quantity of optimism and wishfulness that they bring to the task. G sees my drawings, on which a particular set of rooms is 3 centimetres long and two centimetres wide, and sets about to re-plan the building. He draws a rectangle two centimetres long and one centimetre wide, and says with a straight face "We'll put [that same set of rooms] in here." I am just staggered—but it's rather the rule than the exception. B2 would sketch so-called double beds that were 150 by 110 centimetres and plan a room layout around them, and then be angry with me when the room no longer worked with realistic furniture.

They are equally amused by the way that I work: with calculator, scratch pad and measuring tape, constantly rising from my desk to check the size of things against my own body and real-world examples. It would never occur to me to draw a hallway of an unusual width X, without having marked out on the floor how big that is and walked back and forth along it a few times. "How quaint."

Five down, twenty-five to go.

Politics, Sunday edition

Woken at six by a pounding headache, right on the cusp of being a migraine. I ignored it for an hour, then slept again until 10:30 by which time it was reduced to a continuous dull roar in the background.

Reading about Bush's keen desire to start yet another war—because the first is going so very well, you see—in Iran this time. One must assume that he and Cheney are clinically insane and/or suicidal. Presumably they think that we will all the good people will be ascending to Heaven any day now, so what they do in the meantime doesn't matter a fart. International law? nothing against God's Perfect Will as revealed exclusively to us. National laws? how dare you suggest that a politician be bound by such trivia. The populace? fuck 'em; the right-thinking (i.e. not thinking) ones will forgive all when they meet us in Heaven, and who cares what the others think.

And in case you're not yet steaming mad, read Naomi Klein on the privatisation of formerly public services. Funny how some names just keep on recurring: the same companies getting fat at your expense on no-competition, no-oversight, no-accountability government contracts in Iraq are the ones profiting from government cutbacks in the public sector. What a strange coincidence!

Bah.

Impeach the bastards now, while you still have the right to do so.

And because it's not all corruption and dishonour this week's PostSecret collection includes this photo, captioned "We are poor. And our kids don't know it." A reader commented

Once I was driving up Pacific Coast Highway on my way to work on a movie set at a mansion on the beach in Malibu. It was a nice day and there was a clunker of a car driving next to me with all the windows open. It was a 'poor' Mexican family. They were all smiling and singing. The father looked kind. The kids looked happy. I saw them and hoped that someday I would have a rich life like that.

Indeed.

Four down, twenty-six to go.

In which I heroically resist the temptation to do a one-word post.

Tired, headache, sore throat. Walked around town, shopped, drank cappuccino; met Sunday Painter and talked about age and the fading of hopes over a glass of wine. Then to the office for five hours' indecisive work on the competition. Bah.

Treated myself to a smoked-salmon and cream cheese sandwich for dinner. (What? as if you don't have smoked salmon in your fridge.) I shall now read blogs for a half-hour or so before bed, with a cup of hot chocolate.

But before I go, let me bring to your notice a recent Savage Chicken.

Three down, twenty-seven to go.

Tired

Awake since 5:15, I lay in bed and hoped to fall sleep again until about 6:30. I've read and answered e-mail, had some coffee, realized that I am still exhausted, and am now heading back to bed.

More later, perhaps.

Two down, twenty-eight to go.