Washington (AP) - A senior military source leaked information to the AP regarding Gen. Stanley McChrystal's resignation: "It's all a ploy." The anonymous source briefly sketched out the plan. "Stan was tied up, y'know? He was always answering emails, phone calls, giving 'updates'. Man, I don't know how he stood it. So anyhow, after that Faulkner guy got caught, Stan was moping around his HQ for a day or two, and I heard him muttering about how he could do it better. Then the Rolling Stone article comes out, now he's relieved of command, so are his top aides, all SOF spooky-types. Coincidence?"
The source would not go into further detail, but cryptically suggested that the media "watch if UH-60s wander off", and suggested that armories might "get mysteriously empty" in the next few weeks.
General David Petraeus offered only the comment that "General McChrystal's combat expertise, tenacity, and creative thinking will be sorely missed, but we have no doubt that he is still with us, fighting to win this war, no matter where he may be." When questioned on the smirk he exhibited during the remarks, Gen. Petraeus shrugged and made no further comment.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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San Diego, A.P. - An unprecedented act of aggression left San Diego county residents shocked today, as Marine Corps amphibious assault craft USS Peleliu pounced brazenly and without warning upon a Myrna Ackerman, a notorious local gossip. The unfortunate lady was enjoying a Mahi-Mahi salad at the Bali-Hai while discussing with her friends how the state should really close down the North Island base, and the ships there were so smelly and ugly, don't you know, and how the radar masts got in the way of her view and she heard they were bad for the sea lions, oh my yes, those poor creatures, they just can't stand all those ships." Her bridge partners, who escaped with only minor bruises, related the attack.
"Well, Myrna was going on in her way, don't you know, when that big boat seemed to come out of nowhere!" recounted Cheryl Potts, who usually plays West, by the Italian Blue Team rules. "Why, it came right up close to the restaurant, and we didn't pay it any mind, you know, though it was so big, and it was a bit unusual, yes, but then, why, I don't know how exactly, but it just stomped on poor Myrna, I think with its anchor. That was that. I simply couldn't finish my cantaloupe then. Looked too much like Myrna, my, yes."
The ship's crew was questioned as to why the Peleliu would have conducted herself so unbecomingly. LCDR Wallace, who was on the bridge at the time, stated "Well, I suppose it just got tired of hearing her. [The Peleliu] has very sensitive instruments, after all."
Many San Diego residents seemed troubled by the act, unheard of until now, but few were willing to talk about it. When pressed, Mr. Marvin Doyle of the Bali-Hai explained his reticence: "What if the ships are listening right now?" He left the restaurant in a hurry, stating he was "going inland".
The Navy refused comment, out of concern not to upset the Peleliu further.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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To my science and engineering-inclined friends,
This week I had the pleasure of attending a PhD student's comp defense. After that, I returned to work, where two weeks ago I overheard (and futilely attempted to correct) a discussion purporting that the Faraday-cage effect could not be well-defined, and depended on the surface resistivity of the cage. Between these experiences, I have been thinking over Feynman, the Manhattan Project, and my future research efforts. In the midst of this, I found the linked speech, given by Feynman at a CalTech commencement. It's a little wandering, and if you don't want to read the whole thing, the heart of the matter is:
"The first principle is that you must not fool yourself - and you are the easiest person to fool. So you have to be very careful about that. After you've not fooled yourself, it's easy not to fool other scientists. You just have to be honest in a conventional way after that."
Seeing Brent's literature review, hearing the professors questioning the assumptions underlying it, and, of course, the never-ending debate on man's climatological effect, really hit home today, for whatever reason. The scientist is a finder of truth. The engineer is a teller of scientific truth. To deviate from or obscure these roles is to fail in either profession.
"For a successful technology, reality must take precedence over public relations, for nature cannot be fooled." - Feynman, appendix to the Challenger Report.
Happy Hunting,
Mark
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| Perhaps I'm an oversimple engineer here, but the materialist seems to have an irreconcilable problem with Herr Boltzmann. If matter is preexistent, it has been around from time = -infinity, then we should all be in a ground state, at something like 4 Kelvin (or thereabouts). Even if you subscribe to a cyclic universe, you must have a forcing function to maintain vibration. Again, maybe I'm being too simple, and I certainly allow that those who don't want to believe in God won't, but dang it, something had to kick this whole shebang off.
Anyhow, the unconsidered life is not worth living, so think some today. Ask if your worldview is consistent and can account for observed phenomena and can withstand scrutiny. If there's a flaw, may I suggest that you believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, then rework the problem.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| By Mark Miner
I saw a trail writ in the dust of tiny feet and scraping wing I followed it, I felt I must pursue this crippled, hobbled thing
It led me out beyond my path along the road it bent the grass I wished I had a little lath as here I saw a bloodspot pass
I deeply yearned to know this bird to bind its wing and hear its song an hour had passed without a word the crippled thing had hobbled long
At last I spied it on a bough so low to earth that it could reach, and here it sang, I know not how, its lilting sonnet clear as speech
It sang a song of broken hope It sang a song of pleasures lost The sky for which it could but grope The cruel earth where it was tossed
It told of soaring flight above It told of perches ere on high It told of fellow birds in love To all of which it bade goodbye
The song was done, the heart was rent I cautiously approached my friend It looked at me, its strength was spent Its sable eyes told of its end
"Oh bird!" I cried, with passion soft, "Do not consent to fade away! "With mended wing and helped aloft, "You may regain the sky one day!"
The birdie preened its prideful breast, And looked upon its broken wing, Let out a sigh with grief impressed, And fell to earth, a lifeless thing.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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By Mark Miner
The sun rode low on the horizon, highlighting all the dirt on the windshield, inside and out. A glance in the mirror showed a ruddy radiant cloud of dust belatedly heralding their passage. Roger stretched back in his seat, gazing out at the plains of sage rolling up to the low brown mountains. Mark glimpsed out his window a peak with a tinge of snow still on it. The truck hummed along the road at a good clip, restrained, considering the eighteen-year-old at the wheel. It had been a fine trip. Fine like Hemingway's fine. Fine like a well-built cabin, like a good rifle, fine like a friendship between equals who have nothing to prove. A gentle bend around to the right and there was a ranch house down in the valley. It was a few miles off, but the air was made of cut crystal, and the sun shone on its roof like copper fire. The cool wind flowed through the windows of the cab, bringing the best smell in the world, recent rain on a desert. Nevada was God's country, and in God's country there is very little to say. School was past, and jobs were past, glowing clouds in the east were massed, down in the valley's sage-strewn floor a stream would run forevermore, what would it take us driving here for? running our truck on a western moor? There is little that can be said in God's country. It is best left silent. In the waning daylight a small form appeared beside the road. Roger sat up and pointed. Mark nodded and braked quickly. Pulses pounded as pistols were produced. A buck jackrabbit, and they were open to revised dinner plans. Roger motioned to Mark to lead off. Mark leveled the forty-five, sighted carefully, and fired. The jack leaped up, bloodied, and headed for the bush. The boys dashed after it, muzzles up, into the low sage. The jack hadn't made it far, the bullet had shattered one rear leg. Roger found it in a bunch of sage, and Mark finished it with a round to the head. Thrilled, the boys returned to the truck. Dressing wasn't overly difficult or messy, and the jack peeled beautifully. A quick washdown of the jack, their hands, and the knives, and the rabbit went into the cooler until dinnertime. God's country became quiet again, but for the humming of the motor. Nevada slipped into darkness, and the truck lumbered on, headlights gazing fixedly ahead. Back onto pavement now, and northward. Another hour and they would camp. Blue and desolate roads met them, hauntingly empty for miles. The headlights only startled birds roosting on the road, and were shut off for a time to enjoy the cool night, like slipping into an unlit pool in the late summer, when the air has an overtone of cool. The truck swam through the desert darkness, the ribbon road unrolling ahead, never ending, it seemed, until it was swallowed by the hills. Those hills rose up in the moonscape, mounting above the truck as it wound along a dirt road through the mountains. The valley sprawled on the other side of the pass, filling a vast basin with low grasses. A few lights glinted down by the dry lake. The truck coasted down the grade, sliding into the valley , easy, like a worn saddle. The road led past the town, and out into the grassy plain, with the sage creeping down the edges of the valley rim. A ghostly pale road drifted up out of the valley floor and between two hills. The boys turned, heading for the mountains to camp. Barbwire gates and a cattleguard further, the boys were in the small canyon, hidden from the moon. Ten minutes of wood gathering later, a small fire cheered the canyon. Roger strung wire through the rabbit carcass, and propped it over the fire on an A-frame. The boys set to their camp, spreading tarps and sleeping bags. Roger swore. Mark looked back to find the rabbit collapsed into the fire. He shook his head. The grub box was found, and two cans of soup and a can of peaches served as sustenance. The rabbit sizzled in the fire. Mark sighed. It had been a good shot, too. They scoured the dishes with sand, rinsed them, and stowed all the food. A few stars winked at their misfortune as they bedded down for the night. Day broke over the canyon wall, and the boys rolled out. They broke camp, and only then looking up at the walls of the canyon. Silvered trees, barkless, lined the canyon as far as they could see. The trees were perfectly formed, with branches intact, preserved as silver statues by the fire that killed them. It was breathtaking. The boys loaded the truck and drove back to the main road, northbound through Nevada.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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By Mark Miner
Isn't it funny to think that the man who cut you off in traffic has friends? probably a few good friends? and maybe a wife, who dresses up in lingerie for him? Just him. On special occasions. And they drink wine.
The sallow-faced kid at the checkout who dropped the lettuce, but bagged it anyway, he has a mother. She is probably proud that he has a job. Maybe they need the money. Maybe it's for college. YOU went to college. Why not him?
That waitress who smiles at the catcalls you know she does that because she's a good waitress, right? Not because she likes it. And if her boyfriend heard, he might punch those guys but maybe he's real tender to her. And that's why she's smiling because she has Valentine's Day off. And they're going out to dance.
The dead-eyed office worker two cubes over? Yeah, he's writing poetry on company time because he's bored and maybe he'll make it as a poet. or maybe he'll just make it out of here. You know you wish you could, too.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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A Short Story by Mark Miner
Golden light spilled out of the cracked-open door. A dark blotch appeared in the ray, and demanded an answer. The slinking form outside the door muttered something, but thunder obscured the reply. Down the street a light bobbed up and down on the sidewalk. A car rounded the bend, it's headlights dimmed by the lashing of the cold rain.
Inside was warmth, and smells of food and home. The worried wife asked what was the trouble, and could she get him anything? The man holding the doorknob tightly told her to hush and stay there. He eyed the bent form outside. There was blood on his trousers. The stain was wet with rain, but looked fresh. Yes, another drop fell as he surveyed it. The huddled figure implored the man for entry. It was not quite killingly cold, but the night was young and the creature was soaked through. He huddled in his shabby overcoat, both arms clutched around his abdomen as though he were protecting an unborn child.
Dinner was getting cold. They had plenty and to spare, that wasn't it. The man in the lighted entry frowned and examined the bottom of his beard. He relaxed his grip on the doorknob and pulled the door open a sliver. He paused, and doused the light in the entryway, then opened the door wider. He gestured quickly to the man to enter, and the ragpile darted in. The door closed, the light was clicked back on, and the bearded man looked down at what he had done.
The creature had slumped to the floor, evidently in pain. The man quietly asked his wife for the gauze and iodine, and some tape, hurry. The children stared through the dining room archway into the hall. The mouth of the littlest one hung open at the edge. Their father told them to hurry finish, and off to bed. Stay quiet, and be good little ones. They melted away noiselessly to their rooms. The man helped the creature into the kitchen and sat him on a chair. Once confident of his guest's stability, he darted back to the entryway with a towel. No blood on the wood, that was good.
Back in the kitchen, the man began to unwrap the ragpile. First the overcoat, then a suit coat, and there was the wound. A bloody perforation on the left side of the man's (it was a man, wasn't it? Yes) abdomen. That had leaked onto his trousers as he hunched over. It did not look like a bullet wound, and the skin below it was scratched badly. The shirt was torn there, too, and there was a nick out of the top of his belt in line with this. The ragpile ruffled through the overcoat and extracted a sheaf of papers, wincing. The iodine arrived, and soon the patient winced in pain as the wound was cleaned and dressed. The man told his wife to fetch dry clothes from his closet, shoes and socks too, and hurry. The ragpile shortly looked very much like the bearded man, and the wet clothes and shoes were jammed with the poker up into a crevice inside the chimney. They would take care of themselves, and no odor should be noticed on a rainy night like this.
The bearded man returned to the kitchen to obtain some answers from his guest, but a rap at the door interrupted him. The man instead found himself telling his guest exactly where to secrete himself upstairs in a closet, now, hurry, and his wife to start clearing the table and say nothing. He opened the door, the same crack as before, and saw a pair of uniforms with men inside. They had some questions. He had no answers. They came inside. His wife smiled blandly and she gathered flatware. They looked around the dining room, hallway, and kitchen. No water anywhere, no, why would there be? Did the officers have a problem? Alas, no, he had not seen a thing tonight, so rainy and dark. Why go outside when it is warm and dry in here? The fire crackled to punctuate him. He thought he glimpsed a shoelace float towards a log, but it was consumed rapidly. The officers thanked him, tipped their hats to his wife, and departed. He helped his wife clean up until he was sure they had gone.
Upstairs, he opened the closet to see his shoes peeking out from behind a stack of towels. He told them to get out, and start talking. There had been a misunderstanding at the embassy. The shoes had an Austrian accent. They had not done anything wrong, but some papers had come into their possession, and they wished to return them. The bearded man asked what the return fee had been. The Austrian accent paused, and said that it had been purely a gratuitous transaction, he wished to assist the chief of station with his affairs, but the chief of station had not been greatly impressed with his offer. The guards had been called. The accent was forced to flee on foot. He had not quite made it as cleanly over the fence as he might have hoped. The briefcase had slowed him down. No, he did not have it now, he had removed the critical items and the case should be in the river. The Austrian accent said he greatly hoped he had not inconvenienced them, and he would be on his way, if they pleased. The bearded man was pleased by that suggestion, and made it known. They proceeded downstairs. The Austrian accent was hungry, and so he ate. The rain had lessened, but clouds still covered the moon, and fog rolled in the streets. It was a good time not to be seen. The Austrian accent stuffed the papers under his borrowed shirt, tucked it back in, and disappeared into the night.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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The following is a discussion of http://thechickensarecoming.blogspot.com/2010/03/beautiful-and-sublime.html (Vicki Blake's blog)
***
The beautiful is easy (or easier, anyway). A very wide swath of the population likes, admires, and can copy beauty in some degree or other. Some sing, some paint, some write, some carve wood, and the list can go on, and it is largely a list of skills, talents, or natural phenomena which are pretty, pursued and/or polished. This is good. This is part of what we are supposed to do with the talents God has given us. Natural beauty is to be appreciated. But these things can be pursued in a vacuum, practically. Lots of people keep gardens, few reflect on the rain falling on the just and the unjust.. I think of Emily Dickinson, cloistered with her poetry. I think of monasticism, which often honed skills (brewing beer, for instance) but shut out the outside world. Beauty can exist without reference. Gems which are buried are still gems.
The sublime requires one to reckon. Having not read Kant (just about him), I can't speak to what he thought you had to reckon with, but it seems like it might have been the categorical imperative or something. For me, and in reality, for everyone, it is God. What struck me about the items Vick listed from Kant is that they require one to reckon with God the Creator, God the Omnipresent, and God the Judge. It seems to me that the sublime forces man to confront the God who is obviously there. There are a variety of reactions to this encounter (see also: The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis).
1) Shut your eyes. Pretend it's not happening, and there's no confrontation. By the time you open your eyelids, the terror may have passed, and you can turn again to your shoes. Honestly, I think this is the only way the godless stay sane.
2) Condescend to appreciate. Say that it's very-nice-to-meet-you, what a positively lovely wasteland/tundra/ocean/hell/universe you have here, and it really is fantastic, and I think I may have to come and see it again someday, Good-bye! I think this class comprises most humanist intellectuals. But you have to leave your meeting place with God before you actually must answer Him. What would you say, honestly? He's such a bigot, you know, and He wouldn't appreciate this vista the way you do.
3) Fight. I think this may be what Nietzsche did. He ended up insane. This is what Satan does. He will end in the lake of fire.
4) Bow your head, kiss the rod, put your hand on your lips, and say "My God, how great Thou art!" Understand that God has brought you to this meeting for a reason. Perhaps you should confront your sin. Perhaps you need pride crushed. Perhaps God just wanted to show you something He made that's really awesome. I think He does that. I was hunting last fall, sitting on a ridge in an Arizona mountain range, looking on a black valley with a purple-gray sky above. It was 4:45am or so, and cold. The tail end of the Taurids meteor shower shot a few stars down through the atmosphere, and I was just awed at the God who made me, made the heavens, and even thought it worth His time to redeem me at countless cost.
For the Christian, there should not be a great chasm between the beautiful and the sublime. We can reckon right with God though His son Jesus, and we can turn our energy and talents to doing beautiful work for His glory. What else is there?
MJM
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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By Mark Miner
As a finger in the water leaves a ripple quickly gone So my life in all its order may alight as night at dawn Thus I do not cling too tightly to the baubles all about And I thank my Maker nightly for dissolving any doubt that my days fly like a shadow, and they wither as the grass, and the reddest of my battles will grow cold and it will pass If I look upon the heavens, see the stars all whirling round, If I lay my face to earth and smell the growth within the ground, I give praise to God who made them, who laid their pillars down, who founded them and staid them, made them glories of His crown, and I know that I will perish, and am nothing in their sight, but upon the ground I cherish, and beneath the jeweled night I will live my life for glory (not to us, O Lord, to thee), I will spin it out, a story, 'til the end of it and me.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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