Observations, Thoughts, Rants, Random Bits

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Yikes If Not A Guru

Yikes If Not A Guru

If I was not a guru, I would not have known that a simple operation would turn out to take two minutes. Of course, these are Guru Time minutes. In Ordinary (or mortal) time, probably six weeks or never. Simple as:


I have a 100 page Microsoft Word 2003 document that uses macros to repeat certain tasks with a quick keystroke as a guru knows how. It’s a great feature.

Oh no. One day, one of my LONG-TRUSTED macros broke. Right after Microsoft Word 2003 SERVICE PACK 3. Still easy. First (after weeks of BingingGoogle searches and basically just living with it)::::::: (for why)


Create a new Word document and copy everything (because I CHECKED to see if it was happening in OTHER files, but it was only happening in THIS one). The macros problem is gone (YEA!) but then I notice that NOT ALL of my custom Styles ambled over.

I LOVE Styles so okay! I can deal with that. My Heading1 (which I use for section titles) had gone dead. I only needed to copy it from the original file. TO THE GATES OF THE HARD_TO_FIND merry:

Templates and Add-Ins organizer. But it would not select back-and-forth between two of my user files (getting annoyed now, even on the Guru Annoyance Scale); only between Normal.dot and some-other-file. What language is my Computer written In?


apparently. Okay again. I will copy the offending Header1 text from the original document and replace it my copy that I needed to compensate for Microsoft Office SP3. THEN!!!!

All I need to DO is choose (Use DESTINATION format)

(or is it SOURCE??)

to convey me.

After that, it is a Simple Matter™

to choose the new document Styles Pane and command:



end of sequence


Tags: Tech

Watch Out For Those Essays

Oh boy. A high school boy was arrested for writing an essay. Good thing this happened in North Korea or China the United States of America. Okay, write whatever you want, the teacher says. Oops, he forgot to mention the possibility of arrest.

Once upon a time we dissed the likes of Communist Russia for this type of thing. Afraid of a piece of paper.

Seattle Times


Songs In My Head

Songs In My Head

When I was a child, I once read about a boy who heard music in his head. His parents feared something was wrong with him and took him to a doctor, who gave him pills to make the music go away. That's always stayed with me. It seems so strange and sad that parents would want to do that.

Almost every day, I wake up with a certain refrain, a line or two maybe, from some song in my head. Sometimes it's the same one a couple of days in a row, but it's usually different every day. Many do repeat over time, though and it is sort of like a barometer of my day.

From time to time, I consider writing the jingle-jangle down each day and see if over time, it adds up to some sort of revelation. Kind of like Tom Hanks and the DaVinci clues but without all the running around from statue to statue.


Insert Poet, Ruin Poetry

Recently, I heard an engaging and sympathetic poem about a homeless old man. He was run down, shabby, wandering the streets. While listening: I am there, on an avenue in a busy part of the city. I am with the old man. I see his stained corduroy coat, his gray bristled shopworn face, his dirty jeans, and his jagged fingernails. I forget that I am sitting in a chair inside a carpeted room with the heat on. The gray streets, wet with drizzle and busy with colorful streaked cars stare back at me. The old man, as he makes his way through skateboarders, off duty waiters, and bus bench businessmen is a real person with needs, wants, his own brand of pride, a reason for being there – and a reason for living.

The poem then ended with: “Instead of helping him [the old man], I went home and wrote this poem.”

Here is an example of how the poet inserted his writing persona into the piece and ruined an otherwise good poem.  A good poem is like a good story in that the reader or listener is transported to a place and situation that they might not have otherwise encountered. The reader may fill in some details from their imagination, but it is the author that puts us there in the first place and gives us a framework.

In this particular case, the ending of the poem has three flaws. We might forgive the first two, but the last one is fatal.

First, a judgment is being made. There is an implicit declaration that the author should have helped the old man, that to do nothing was somehow wrong. This is an entirely subjective attitude and by making this declaration, the author informs the reader of his or her viewpoint. Generally, this is unavoidable since an author’s writing reflects (to varying extents) their worldview, but it is possible to do so in a way that is more artful. For instance, the author could instead let us know how they feel by showing us what they do (perhaps turning their eyes away), and let the reader decide whether this action is right or wrong.

Secondly, the ending of this poem transports the reader into the past. For a few moments, we are in the urgent present with the old man, and suddenly we are thrust away, removing the urgency (I wrote… in the past). There is no more anticipation in the past. Its energy has been consumed. By thrusting the reader into the past, the author has effectively told us that we don’t need to be concerned any longer. It happened, it’s over, there’s  nothing we can do about it even if we wanted to.

Most egregiously through, the ending ruins this poem because the poet has suddenly inserted their writing persona into it, reminding us that we are just reading or listening to a poem. We are not on the street with the cigarette butts in the gutter. We are not watching the old man as he walks unsteadily on a loose shoe sole down the sidewalk. We are in a book or on a page or sitting at a poetry reading.

This doesn’t mean that a poet cannot use the first person. Far from it. I can be the old man. I can be a punk rock musician with green hair leaning on a dirty marble wall watching the old man pass. I can be a storekeeper with nothing else to do but look past my vacant aisles out the window to the street.

But when the first person of a poem is the poet himself writing about another person or situation, the reader is now twice removed from the substance of the poem. Instead of finding ourselves in a place or situation where we anticipate both the reaction of others and our own reactions, perhaps suspending our belief as we vividly encounter strange people or places, we are forcibly reminded that none of this is real. It’s only words on a page.

When the poet intrudes in this manner, the reader is cheated or perhaps even affronted. Instead of keeping the reader immersed in the story and place, when the poet jumps in to remind us (whether consciously or not) that we are simply reading (or listening to) a poem/story, we are abruptly and rudely pulled away.

A poet can show us what they see / hear / taste / smell or offer judgments, conclusions, and assertions without reminding us that it is they – the writer – who senses or declares these things.

Whether the reminder is a narcissistic attempt to draw attention to the poet as writing persona, a means to protect the reader from some sort of perceived harm, a desire to assuage the poet’s own fears, or just an unconscious blunder, to insert the poet into the poetry in this manner distances the reader from the substance of the work, and dilutes any poetic urgency that might have been present.