Judea Pearl - A.M. Turing Award Winner
Daniel’s values of “uncompromised objectivity and integrity; insightful and unconventional perspective; tolerance and respect for people of all cultures; unshaken belief in the effectiveness of education and communication; and the love of music, humor, and friendship.”
That which the traveler in his journey experiences will eventually shape his identity. So, here are the events as they unfold ....... © copyright by firstcomet
6/22/12
6/18/12
SYMPTOMATIC RELIEF OF THE CANTABRIGIAN SYNDROME
Call me the Master Hunter.
My blood is dark green.
The viscous elixir flows through my veins,
filling my lungs, tickling my sinus,
all the way to the pituitary.
In this town of overpriced
fries and smiles,
bars are crowded
with noisy characters,
spitting out words;
words but no language.
Playing notes;
notes but no music.
No hay banda! There is no band,
yet they dance to a band;
in their horrific struggle
for a late night escape
from an Edward Hooper painting.
As that old Harvard prof once put it:
On this side of the river
you suffer from “status insecurity,
incipient mononucleosis and sexual privation”;
an epidemic of this Cantabrigian syndrome strikes me.
The clock in the bar is ticking, only to
slowly DIG my tomb.
And I can hear a bluebird crying to get out.
Here, where 20% tip is the standard price to pay
for a farewell smile,
and a sense of belonging to the tribe; I sigh!
And ask the waitress to bring me the key
to the bluebird’s cage.
She brings back the card,
One last drink, and a PEN.
A smile spreads across her face,
as the wings of a butterfly!
The bird is set free, as I write these lines
Rushing out, singing a little ♫ ♫ ♫
It drops the dark green liquor, onto my pants.
Charles smirks.
I feel wet.
I close my eyes,
and the salty breeze caresses my face.
My boat is waiting,
so are my crew,
Fellow literary souls.
Lifting the anchor
into the unknown.
The catamaran standing tall,
the Great Wall
and the Niagara Fall,
I hear them call!
It’s time to sail
where the whales dwell.
Beyond those turbulent waters,
There is Baudelaire’s orderly and beautiful
promiseland of “Luxe, Calme et Volupté”.
The bluebird guides us,
but the beasts threaten our ship
and try to start a fire.
My HARPOON fights the
Moby Dicks, Kafka’s cats,
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
The bankers, the bosses,
The bullies, the Scrooges,
Human traffickers, drug dealers,
Economic advisors to the President,
Parties of elephants and donkeys,
Fake preachers of love and peace,
Average lovers, perfect haters,
Genius killers and racist police.
Ayatollahs and Popes,
Judgmental moralist priests,
Genocidal warlords of the Middle East.
Brain-washing radio commentators,
Demagogues and hypocrites,
The Exxon Mobiles, the Shells,
The OPECS, IMFs and G-8s all the way
To G-20s.
The professors, the smart Alecks, the PIs,
Anal bureaucrats,
Grant committee members,
Greedy landlords and landladies.
Those lost infernal spirits,
I send them all down to
Dante’s circling whirlpools of Hell.
An iceberg shakes my existence,
my comrades lost in the wreckage.
(No Rachael in sight coming to rescue this orphan.)
There remains a lone floating frozen soul.
A few mirage islands on the way,
casting away, casting away …
I wake up.
Back in the bar, my Ithaca,
rests in a corner of the cage
the weary bluebird.
I am offered a PINT.
The girl next to me takes a sip of
her cranberry juice.
It’s that time of the month,
In the middle of June,
In the middle of living.
I refuse and ask for a refill
of my green liquor.
Charles smirks, again.
I am the Master Hunter,
and I want it split in two glasses!
I have it in two glasses, to slowly melt
my frozen soul and dissolve it
in the minty liquid, for others to drink.
In this tragedy of the commons, which we play,
I open my heart to the Marys, Sarahs, Evas,
Elissas, Mirandas, Manjolas, Daniellas, Rachaels,
Rosies, Ginas and Monas;
transient relieves of my incipient mononucleosis.
But they take it and they cut it into pieces,
and mix the shaken pump of my existence,
in their favorite cranberry juice.
I am the Master Hunter,
and I went to Hell and back,
just to hunt you here tonight,
and find myself in this Purgatory;
like a sinner before the gates of Heaven.
Take my hand, my green fairy Beatrice,
my bitch, my doctor, my nurse,
as we navigate through these rivers
of bodily fluids, pheromones,
phlegm, sweat, oxytocin, and blood;
come with me Beatrice to this heavenly Hell,
as we disrupt the blissful repose of nothingness,
and attach value to life.
--The Master Hunter
My blood is dark green.
The viscous elixir flows through my veins,
filling my lungs, tickling my sinus,
all the way to the pituitary.
In this town of overpriced
fries and smiles,
bars are crowded
with noisy characters,
spitting out words;
words but no language.
Playing notes;
notes but no music.
No hay banda! There is no band,
yet they dance to a band;
in their horrific struggle
for a late night escape
from an Edward Hooper painting.
As that old Harvard prof once put it:
On this side of the river
you suffer from “status insecurity,
incipient mononucleosis and sexual privation”;
an epidemic of this Cantabrigian syndrome strikes me.
The clock in the bar is ticking, only to
slowly DIG my tomb.
And I can hear a bluebird crying to get out.
Here, where 20% tip is the standard price to pay
for a farewell smile,
and a sense of belonging to the tribe; I sigh!
And ask the waitress to bring me the key
to the bluebird’s cage.
She brings back the card,
One last drink, and a PEN.
A smile spreads across her face,
as the wings of a butterfly!
The bird is set free, as I write these lines
Rushing out, singing a little ♫ ♫ ♫
It drops the dark green liquor, onto my pants.
Charles smirks.
I feel wet.
I close my eyes,
and the salty breeze caresses my face.
My boat is waiting,
so are my crew,
Fellow literary souls.
Lifting the anchor
into the unknown.
The catamaran standing tall,
the Great Wall
and the Niagara Fall,
I hear them call!
It’s time to sail
where the whales dwell.
Beyond those turbulent waters,
There is Baudelaire’s orderly and beautiful
promiseland of “Luxe, Calme et Volupté”.
The bluebird guides us,
but the beasts threaten our ship
and try to start a fire.
My HARPOON fights the
Moby Dicks, Kafka’s cats,
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
The bankers, the bosses,
The bullies, the Scrooges,
Human traffickers, drug dealers,
Economic advisors to the President,
Parties of elephants and donkeys,
Fake preachers of love and peace,
Average lovers, perfect haters,
Genius killers and racist police.
Ayatollahs and Popes,
Judgmental moralist priests,
Genocidal warlords of the Middle East.
Brain-washing radio commentators,
Demagogues and hypocrites,
The Exxon Mobiles, the Shells,
The OPECS, IMFs and G-8s all the way
To G-20s.
The professors, the smart Alecks, the PIs,
Anal bureaucrats,
Grant committee members,
Greedy landlords and landladies.
Those lost infernal spirits,
I send them all down to
Dante’s circling whirlpools of Hell.
An iceberg shakes my existence,
my comrades lost in the wreckage.
(No Rachael in sight coming to rescue this orphan.)
There remains a lone floating frozen soul.
A few mirage islands on the way,
casting away, casting away …
I wake up.
Back in the bar, my Ithaca,
rests in a corner of the cage
the weary bluebird.
I am offered a PINT.
The girl next to me takes a sip of
her cranberry juice.
It’s that time of the month,
In the middle of June,
In the middle of living.
I refuse and ask for a refill
of my green liquor.
Charles smirks, again.
I am the Master Hunter,
and I want it split in two glasses!
I have it in two glasses, to slowly melt
my frozen soul and dissolve it
in the minty liquid, for others to drink.
In this tragedy of the commons, which we play,
I open my heart to the Marys, Sarahs, Evas,
Elissas, Mirandas, Manjolas, Daniellas, Rachaels,
Rosies, Ginas and Monas;
transient relieves of my incipient mononucleosis.
But they take it and they cut it into pieces,
and mix the shaken pump of my existence,
in their favorite cranberry juice.
I am the Master Hunter,
and I went to Hell and back,
just to hunt you here tonight,
and find myself in this Purgatory;
like a sinner before the gates of Heaven.
Take my hand, my green fairy Beatrice,
my bitch, my doctor, my nurse,
as we navigate through these rivers
of bodily fluids, pheromones,
phlegm, sweat, oxytocin, and blood;
come with me Beatrice to this heavenly Hell,
as we disrupt the blissful repose of nothingness,
and attach value to life.
--The Master Hunter
Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935 Lisbon, Portugal)
Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935 Lisbon, Portugal) Follow your destiny, Water your plants, Love your roses. The rest is shadow Of unknown trees. Reality is always More or less Than what we want. Only we are always Equal to ourselves. It’s good to live alone, And noble and great Always to live simply. Leave pain on the altar As an offering to the gods. See life from a distance. Never question it. There’s nothing it can Tell you. The answer Lies beyond the Gods. But quietly imitate Olympus in your heart. The gods are gods Because they don’t think About what they are.
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