Steinblóm

Jennifer Viegas of Discover News pens an utterly delightful story on a theory that the world’s first cannibals did so merely for nutritional purposes. Can you imagine a caveman looking at a fellow caveman saying, “Hmm. I’m in dire need of bone marrow. You’ll do.”?

HT: Arts & Letters Daily.

The first thought that popped into my head after reading this article was, “Meh, heard it before.” I had to stop and re-evaluate Nicholas Negroponte’s article, however, as it is not my demographic his words will ring true for. People 40 and up love books. I’m in the class now. I’m not about to give up the textures, the binding and the smell of my books. It’s too much of a tactile pleasure for me! This is not the case for the whippersnappers, however, who are more than content to download an object for a mere utilitarian purpose. The young ones are more than happy to read the book, have access to it via a host of nice apps (iPad, Kindle, Nook, et al.), carry around what could conceivably amount to the Library of Alexandria in a hand-held gadget, and be on their merry way. Their perspective is far different from those of us who would be devastated at the loss of our collections should a fire rip through our homes and rob us of our little pleasures in mere moments. Perhaps the kids have the right idea with downloads. I handle it well with music. Books will take a bit more time to adjust to.

Our Scottish bard is at it again. It’s been too long since I’ve last posted his words onto my blog, and this entry is as majestic as his last few.

(Kopanina, Czech Republic)

Great rock that spreads among the trees
Face cloven in the display of nature
Crevices everywhere on your sheer face
Granite that speaks of the coming of new life
And old life
Where the trees stand immobile
At the base a cave stands
small crevice in the giant of rock
small place under so many tons of rocks
where a sight can be seen
in the power and the glory of the forest
rock eroded and sculpted
by the water of so many generations
signatures of th almighty
the rock stands
structure of the hills
with sides but bare and dull
presence of the ages
so old and trees grow out of its crevices
they stand finding soil in unlikely places
life about and in the mind a recess
life in its extremes
on the great big block of rock
that stands to dwarf all around
row upon row of cracks and recesses
among the great sculpted picture of nature stand
and mosses climb the cracks
dark and light green presences
among the blue of lichens
and gee and there a fern
to show that plants are active here
lesser celandine in its incarnations
that in summer will throw up yellow flowers
all speak of the flowing force of the rock
where the water flows
and so much plant life grows
and in their force one day
they will break it down
broken by the hand of nature again
as one day it will merge with the hill
to be no more such a vast place
only for now the gentle chipping away of the millennia
and now it stands
huge structure of the glory of nature
and of our Maker glorified
presence of the eternal forest

Veronique de Rugy of National Review Online points out the stupidity of some estates abusing copyright law to the detriment of those who wish to learn more about their subjects, or at least to have better access to their works.

One of my good friends, Joe Albanese, is a repository of wonderful relics one can dig through and trudge up happy memories with. Last night, be posted on I, Claudius, perhaps the greatest television series to come out of England in the 1970s. It featured the work of a young John Hurt, as well as the magnificent talents of Derek Jacobi, Siân Phillips and Brian Blessed.

For those of you who want a trip down memory lane, there are a few episodes posted at YouKu.com.

South/South posts a small but lovely reflection on José Saramago, the Portuguese writer who passed away today.

It should be no secret, dear readers, that I skew a bit to the right politically. I am fascinated by the career of William F. Buckley, Jr., in particular. John J. Miller of National Review, the magazine WFB founded, interviews author Lee Edwards on his new book, William F. Buckley Jr.: The Maker of a Movement.

Steinblóm’s bard writes for us this Memorial Day:

The Homeless

Without a home
without an address
nowhere to call their own
they stalk the streets
the forgotten armies
of those who have no name
Who march across the city
their very existence an affront
to the legions
who speak of opportunity yet
a house
an address
a place to call their own

Yet in their apathy
and in their fate
do they speak of the world
Where problems but lie
of different society
that grows up and exists in its place
so different
from that which lives in the normal world

In the midst of plenty
that stood among the wreckage
plenty that set its seal
in the places of the world
that bright the new about
still the shadowy existence of those
cast but a shadow
on the pleasure of those that are

And the soft underbelly of society
the homeless who have no place
sleeping in the shadows
in the doorways
That society does not want to see
To be brushed away
sanitized and kept away from normal view
A problem we will not admit
Is a problem that will go away

And yet it will not
It will stay to curse the rest
In their plenty so they stand
And the victims make their beds
on the pavements, in the gardens
and all of us turn our heads
and pretend they are not there

These things always seem to happen in threes, don’t they? First, the loss of Gary “Whatchyou talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” Coleman, who was right to be bitter at being robbed of his earnings and maligned for his height. Now, we lose a cultural icon in the form of Dennis Hopper. My first exposure to his coolness was from watching Apocalypse Now, then Easy Rider, and he got both weirder and cooler from that point for me. After spending years going backward in his filmography, I finally relented in seeing Rebel Without a Cause. I held off because I found James Dean to be an overrated twat, yet I had no idea that Hopper had also appeared in the film. He, and Coleman to some degree, will be missed. I only await the death of one other for the trifecta to complete itself.

The bard from Britain (and Steinblóm’s favorite poet) regales us with more of his finery:

Gemstone Life

Semi precious stones that speak our beauty
in the beauty of your colors
the stand of rose or blue
in the glory of the moment
you speak of beauty trapped
in the myriad embraces of our lives
and our lives truncated affairs that end
In death
and generations come and generations go
You the never living
also become the never dead
creations that speak of a beginning
and a lustre that spreads through the generations
never to die or to be but born
movements that change
from chemical that formed
objects that shine through the ages
gemstone jewellery that lives
long after its wearers have passed to the dust
And the semi precious stones
still speak lustre and beauty
speak across the years
and the shine and the colours never fade
kingdom of the beauty that spoke

in the colours and in the textures
the mauve beauty of the amethyst
so clear and translucent
the crystals speak
so perfect in their harmony
Or the rose quartz with its pink tint
beauty of the clear pale pink
setting its lustre across the world
or the transparent quartz
colourless as water
concealing nothing in its clear depths

Or dark black obsidian
shiny volcanic glass
that conceals all in its dark depths
all in its shiny translucent black
And the gemstones
will still shine
when we are dust