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text:
"Maintenance costs are declining, staff costs have been held steady, and our investment programme continues apace. The debt programme continues to be prudent, well managed and fully hedged." Operating and investment activities are compared to the first six months of the preceding financial year and balance sheet positions are compared to those set out in the annual report and accounts as at 31 March 2009.
In its review of Network Rail's charges for 2009-14 the Office of Rail Regulation agreed that the company could afford a lower return on assets (4.8% compared to 6.5% for the last three years). This has allowed Network Rail to cut its charges to passenger and freight users. Charges to passenger operators have fallen by half a penny per passenger kilometre (5%) or 22p per passenger train journey. Freight costs have fallen by on average £1.16 per gross tonne mile (35%).
The decline in revenue has been partly offset by strong performance in cutting delays to passengers and better planning of improvement work, triggering out-performance bonuses from train operators and reducing the payments to train operators for disruption caused by investment work. Net income from these payments was £58m, compared to £35m in the same period last year.
Network Rail is making very good progress in its commitment to reduce the costs of running the railway, making it ever more affordable. The combined target for 2009-14 is £4.1bn and currently efficiency savings are slightly ahead of projections.
Network Rail is able to make significant cost efficiencies in its maintenance operations by adopting smarter working practices. Maintenance costs were £65m (or 8.5%) lower as a result of savings on subcontractors, agency workers and the hire of plant equipment.
Network Rail will cut costs further by implementing new techniques to replace life-expired infrastructure, such as the use of prefabricated, modular bridges and switches and crossings. This will also reduce the time needed to close sections of the railway and increase the amount of time that the network is available for trains to run. Network Rail has recently announced a planned reduction of around 1,500 posts in maintenance over the next 18 months.
Network Rail's expanding investment programme has allowed it to create 600 new jobs, combined with 500 jobs insourced as part of an efficiency drive. This has resulted in an increase in the workforce from 36,000 to 37,000 and an increase in total employee costs by £22m. The annualised average cost per employee, however, decreased by £414.
As a result of these savings, and other working capital movements, Network Rail generated cash flows of £1.638bn from its operating activities, broadly equivalent to the same period last year, despite the reduction in income. These cash flows funded 91% of the capital investment in the railway network in the period.
Investment remains at historically high levels reflecting the focus on adding capacity, increasing line-speeds and improving reliability. In London and the South East a major congestion-busting programme of platform lengthening, to allow longer trains, is well underway. The last six months has seen significant work started on other major projects, notably Thameslink, Birmingham New Street and the Airdrie to Bathgate line, near Edinburgh.
Net debt of £22.2bn remains at a sustainable level. Network Rail is confident that its debt is well managed and the company has a policy of fully hedging. The company's debt issuance programme remains attractive to the market and continues to be over-subscribed. In the last six months over £2bn has been raised including a single public placement of a £750m inflation linked bond.
The valuation of the railway network rose to £35.476bn at 30 September 2009 from £34.925bn at 31 March 2009. This is despite a reduction in the valuation of investment property from £700m to £669m reflecting the continued depressed state of the property market.
Like many companies, Network Rail has seen its pension deficit rise. The increase in deficit has been driven primarily by the way accounting rules measure the present value of future liabilities, rather than by a worsening of the underlying position of the defined benefit scheme. This is despite an increase in the valuation of scheme assets which have risen in line with gains in the equity markets in the half year.
Accounting rules require that the total projected amounts that the scheme is obliged to pay out in the future are reduced to a present day liability using highly rated (AA) corporate bond indices. Given it is cheaper to borrow now than it was six months ago the amount by which the future pension costs are discounted has fallen, causing the valuation of the liabilities to increase, and the deficit, for accounting purposes, to worsen.
Network Rail's liabilities in the Railway Pension Scheme are set at 60% with 40% borne by our employees. Network Rail's share of the pension deficit on 30 September 2009 was £998m, compared to £664m on 31 March 2009.
Mr Coucher concluded: "Network Rail has a big task ahead. It must continue to drive down costs and reduce prices to customers and at the same time build a bigger and better railway through an extensive investment programme that will bring more trains, more seats and better journeys.
"Network Rail continues to invest through the downturn; providing skilled jobs and opportunities for partners and suppliers across Great Britain. It anticipates that demand for rail will continue to grow and this vital investment will meet the needs of a recovering British economy. Looking forward Network Rail is confident that as roads and airports become more congested, the greener and safer option of rail travel makes it the best choice."
£250m to reduce passenger disruption
Passengers will reap the benefits as Network Rail continues its investment in high-tech track renewals technology. Disruption will be significantly reduced using high-output technology which can carry out track renewals quicker than conventional methods.
New record for punctuality
August saw 94.0% of Britain's trains arrive on time. The average over the past twelve months also reached new high levels with 91.1% of trains running to time - the first time in recorded history that the 91% mark has been beaten.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Q: Where is the strong name key password stored? I don't usually bother with signing my .NET assemblies, so I don't know much beyond the basic mechanics of it. For a small project I'm working on, it was necessary to sign, and I created a new key, protected with a password.
I expected to be prompted for this password at some point in time when recompiling the assembly, but I've never needed to enter it anywhere after creating the key file. This seems to defeat the purpose of password protecting the key in the first place.
I imagine the password is cached somewhere, but where? Is it in some kind of private storage? If I give someone else my entire solution directory with the key file in it, will they be prompted for the password I entered, or will they be able to sign the assembly without the password?
There are lots of articles on the internet about strong name keys and using them, but for some odd reason they all gloss over how the password is actually used by Visual Studio.
Update:
Restarting Visual Studio (and Windows) has no effect, so the caching appears to be persistent. Deleting the .suo file does not change the fact that no password is needed to sign the assembly.

A: See the documentation for the Create Strong Name Key Dialog Box.

The password information is stored in your computer's cryptographic storage database.

Other information from CLR Inside Out: Using Strong Name Signatures.

You can install the private key in a key container using restrictive access control lists (ACLs) to prevent unauthorized access to the key container. Alternatively, you can store the private key on a smart card or other separate hardware device. The sn.exe tool allows you to use a different cryptographic service provider (CSP) for signing. Take a look at the –c option in the documentation for sn.exe.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


I don't normally participate in Facebook games that make demands. I'm rebellious that way. But curiosity overpowered my sense of defiance. So I did it. I followed the fad. I had to see how I have changed.
The directive calls for comparing your first Facebook profile photo and your current one. Mine are 10 years apart, 2009 to 2019.
When I put my first and most recent photos side by side, my first thought was, "Dang, I look better now!" That made me start thinking about who I was and what I was going through back then. My life has changed so much and I'm in a better place than I was 10 years ago.
Five months after that photo was shared, I walked away from my dream job because of differing values with leaders of the parent company. I was determined to hold my head high and stand up for my beliefs. I was on the cusp of creating new ventures, seeing some successes, but also great failures.
During that time, I was battling autoimmune diseases that tore through my body and created an unstable, miserable existence. My flares and difficulties trapped me in a prison of my mind, and I was a very unhappy person.
I started dealing with who I was as my sons grew up, went away to school and had trials of their own. This, along with relationship and financial difficulties, weaved through the 10 years between photos. So, when I look at the first photo, all I see is turmoil.
In that time, I grew up. I suffered three great losses that broke me in pieces. I found a new calling, repaired my relationship, and learned to allow my children be themselves and let go enough so they could grow.
When I look at this year's photo, I feel good about how healthy I am physically, mentally and emotionally. Although I fluctuate, I am more grounded and learning to love myself more. I'm finally proud of the person I see — someone who has overcome mountains to arrive in this place — a place of happiness, peace and acceptance.
I'm not sure what I thought 50 would look and feel like, but I'm OK with the woman in the photo, because she reflects my journey. Good and bad, it's been mine.


169.This section provides that a person may be released on bail by the court following a routine bail hearing. Subsection (1) specifies that the grant of bail may be subject to such conditions as appear likely to the court to result in the appearance of the person bailed at the required time and place. The conditions may require the person to enter into a recognizance (with or without sureties) or, in Scotland, a bail bond or a security to be given either by the person bailed or on his behalf. This is in contrast to bail granted under the Immigration Act 1971, which presently requires a recognizance or (in Scotland) bail bond to be given before bail can be granted. Subsection (2) makes it clear that the court may impose a requirement under subsection (1) only if it considers that its imposition is necessary to secure compliance with any condition to which bail will be subject. Under subsections (4) and (5), the court must impose a condition requiring any released person to report either to an immigration officer at a specified time and place, or at any such other time and place as may be notified in writing by an immigration officer, or to the court dealing with an appeal under the Immigration Acts. Subsection (9) allows the court, instead of releasing a person on bail immediately, to fix the amount and conditions of bail with a view to the bail being taken subsequently.


text:
All the unbuffered error messages
Is There a "Lemon Law"?
Beautiful Doom
Brilliant Move
Something's Not Right
The Cynicism is Incredible
Quds Force, Bah
Trolling Level: Iran
cafebabe on Uncommon Sense: On Republican Death-Wish
Marcus Ranum on Fake Identity
TGAP Dad on Fake Identity
Andrew Molitor on Is There a "Lemon Law"?
lorn on Is There a "Lemon Law"?
neptune8191 on Is There a "Lemon Law"?
jrkrideau on Is There a "Lemon Law"?
lochaber on Fake Identity
jrkrideau on Beautiful Doom
johnson catman on Fake Identity
Marcus J. Ranum is a computer security specialist, consultant, gamer, crafty artist, photographer, soap and cosmetic experimenter, and all-around surrealist.
Badger Forge
Dragonfly Forge (main page)
Time Travel Movies That Do Not Suck
Commenting Policy / Verbal Abuse
Official Policy on Book Recommendations
BitCloud
administrivia AI Argument Clinic art ask the strategic genius Badger Forge Capitalism is a disease CIA Climate Change cops Cops suck critters cyberwar cyberwar is bullshit Donald Trump Dragonfly Forge Elite Dangerous F-35 Fall colors fbi gaming guns Howard Zinn monday meslier North Korea NSA nuclear weapons Photography Politics Propaganda Racism religion Russian hacking spam spam spam spam spammitty spam Sunday Sermon syria tactical Terrorism things that delight me Totalitarianism trump Uncommon Sense Vendredi Voltaire War is a Racket
Seceding over Slavery
Argument Clinic
Argument Clinic: A Theory Of Verbal Abuse
On Data and Backups
A Matter of Range
Unfairness, Perpetuated
Dragonfly Forge - basic blade-forging class (trip report)
From My Cold Dead Hands - a simple proposal on gun control
Badger Forge - blade-making projects
The Electoral College, Nov 7, 2016
Testicles in Space
Meaty Beaty Watery and Bouncy » « Randomness
Ouch, Wrong Again!
Recently I wrote a piece about The AI That Will Kill Us All [stderr] and hypothesized one thing (which my entire argument hung upon) that looks pretty wrong. I hereby officially declare "I am back to the drawing board."
To summarize briefly: I felt it was unlikely that AI would be able to become dramatically superior to humans quickly. My premise was that simply pointing two AIs at eachother and saying "have at it" would not result in a system that could quickly beat a human expert, because the AI would begin by embedding human expertise in its training-sets, and would (at best) start off as a human-quality player. I felt that "innovation" is an extension of expertise and creativity and was not a guaranteed output of a feedback loop.
You all were very kind with me, I now realize, because I was basically saying "evolution won't work" (in so many words) I didn't realize I was saying that; I thought I was saying "evolution is not very efficient" or something like that. In other words, I managed to miss my own point, and yours.
The tech press has several summaries [verge]
You might not have noticed, but over the weekend a little coup took place. On Friday night, in front of a crowd of thousands, an AI bot beat a professional human player at Dota 2 – one of the world's most popular video games. The human champ, the affable Danil "Dendi" Ishutin, threw in the towel after being killed three times, saying he couldn't beat the unstoppable bot. "It feels a little bit like human," said Dendi. "But at the same time, it's something else."
So far, so good: it's a closed system, we can define "winning" and "losing" easily, and that means that an AI can try all kinds of stuff, and remember what led it toward "winning" and avoid what led it toward "losing." I would have expected that an AI playing Dota 2 would have some basic expert rules embedded in it, though.
Even more exciting, said OpenAI, was that the AI had taught itself everything it knew. It learned purely by playing successive versions of itself, amassing "lifetimes" of in-game experience over the course of just two weeks.
I guess I could print my words on cupcakes, with frosting, the better to eat them.
My thinking was that complex tasks would require a definition of "success" and some nudges in the right direction, but now I realize that my thinking was teleological: I was assuming that there's a "direction" to evolution – there's not: it's just success/non-success.
One other thing about this, which makes me realize my views were wrong: there is commentary that the AI's grasp of Dota 2 is limited, and it doesn't handle full teams, etc. [ars]
The OpenAI bot can't play the full game of Dota 2. It can play only one hero, Shadow Fiend, of the game's 113 playable characters (with two more coming later this year); it can only play against Shadow Fiend; and rather than playing in five-on-five matches, it plays a very narrow subset of the game: one-on-one solo matches.
I would expect that the AI will be much much harder to beat in five-on-five because it will coordinate perfectly among its members. When human teams play arena battles, a big piece of the action is how the different players keep each other updated on what they are doing – command and control. My assumption before was that we were looking at an AI Napoleon Bonaparte scenario – a single superior strategist – but what we might see is an opponent that has also evolved perfect command/control. Like the way I use my hand without thinking about my fingers individually. I assume that there is some coordination going on below the level of my consciousness; I assume that Napoleon Bonaparte used his maneuver elements similarly – which is probably why he was freaked out when, at Waterloo, Drouet D'Erlon's corps deployed in column, and Ney wasted the cavalry in doomed attacks on squares – I'd be just as surprised if my thumb and forefinger started doing the wrong thing while I'm trying to type, right now.
So, it took 2 weeks for the OpenAI gamer to go from zero to one on one champion with a single character; it appears that the learning curve is still there, but it's compressed (as we'd expect from something that experiences time based on its inner clock-speed not a wall clock) – the five-on-five and using different characters – that's just a matter of time. Next year, maybe?
Key phrase from the OpenAI tech's comments in the video: "We had it play lifetimes of Dota against itself."
I was so, so wrong.
Another thing that caught my attention in the video: one of the Dota 2-playing humans is asked "have you ever played against bots before?" and replies "Are you kidding? The first 2 weeks I played, it was all learning against bots!" So: the artificial intelligence human AIs learned by playing against expert systems encapsulated in bots. That's as I'd predict. I would have expected the OpenAI to train against the bots too, though it sounds like they had it evolve its playing style by itself before they had it play against the expert systems.
I just re-watched the video, pausing now and then to look at the AI's prioritization of threats and fire control. It never mis-allocates attacks. Neither does Dendi, which is why he's a world-class player. Yipe.
Around 12:40 in the video, Dendi starts varying strategies to see if he can come up with a technique that the AI doesn't respond to. I saw that, and realized that that's the same thing any other AI would do in that situation, and immediately started thinking about Niko Tinbergen and his greylag geese, [wikipedia] which I read about as an undergrad ~1982: intelligences develop fixed action patterns and will try one or more of them, and, when they run out, they just do something weird and see how it works. As a pilot friend once told me: "there's a book of all the things you are supposed to do in certain situations and – if you get into a situation that's outside of the book – try whatever makes sense to you, and if you survive you get to update the book."
Marcus Ranum
I am not familiar with the game, and especially with the commentators, but I do hope that the comment at the end of the video above is sarcasm. (Don't worry. D****d T***p will help us.)
Oh, and . . . SKYNET!!!11!
Andrew Dalke says
http://www.schlockmercenary.com/2017-08-16 – "A hive-mind's distributed processing provides numerous battlefield advantages. At the top of the list: perfect synchronization between combat units. Non-hive sophonts must instead rely upon thousands of hours of squad drills, and more than a little bit of intuition. These may be sufficient to win the day of the hive's comms are jammed."
Dondo the supamid-a!
Shiv@@#3:
OMG is the "slippery slope" taken as a boss name?
Andrew Dalke@#2:
Yes, for exactly the same reason modern armies tries to crash eachother's command and control and napoleonic armies shot at cavalry messengers
Hj Hornbeck says
Aww, I didn't see that prior post, otherwise I would have pointed you to work from two years ago where a deep learning AI could beat human beings playing Atari games given only the current score as an input. It's not the AI-vs-AI scenario of your original, but it's otherwise a great example of going from a blank slate to beating human experts. The paper is here, and it contains a link to the source code so you can try it yourself.
cvoinescu says
Many years ago, temporal difference learning, TD(λ) specifically, was used to train a fairly simple neural network to play backgammon at expert level. The net started with no prior knowledge, and played many many times against itself. Not only did it figure out all that human experts knew, it even came up with new, better moves for several rolls. The program was called TD-Gammon, and the year was 1992.
Hj Hornbeck@#6:
That is a super cool paper!! I love the way they illustrate something about the complexity of games based on the AI's learning them at human level or not.
And, oooooh, you said "blank slate"!!!
Thank you, fascinating stuff. I need to spend some time absorbing it.
cvoinescu@#7:
I'm not sure 1992 is "many years ago"!
Hm, the temporal difference learning seems like a model that's very similar to how meat AIs learn. [wikipedia] I believe that's also referred to as a "hill climbing algorithm" – as long as your altitude keeps increasing you are probably doing something close to correct.


text:
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright © 2015 by Jane Hirshfield
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, Penguin Random House companies.

www.aaknopf.com/poetry

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hirshfield, Jane, 1953–
[Poems. Selections]
The beauty : poems / Jane Hirshfield.
pages cm
"This is a Borzoi Book"—Title page verso.
Summary: "A collection of original poems by Jane Hirshfield exploring the profundities and quirks of existence"—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-385-35107-2 (hardback) — ISBN 978-0-385-35108-9 (ebook)
I. Title.
PS3558.I694A6 2015
811′.54—dc23

2014025831

Front-of-jacket image: Still Life with Peaches by Adrian Coorte. Private Collection /
Johnny Van Haeften Ltd., London / Bridgeman Images
Author photograph by Michael Lionstar
Jacket design by Stephanie Ross

v3.1

# CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

FADO

MY SKELETON

MY PROTEINS

MOSQUITO

MY EYES

MY SPECIES

MY CORKBOARD

MY MEMORY

MY WEATHER

IN MY WALLET I CARRY A CARD

MY TASK

MY SANDWICH

A WELL RUNS OUT OF THIRST

IN A ROOM WITH MANY WINDOWS

A PHOTOGRAPH OF A FACE HALF LIT, HALF IN DARKNESS

A COTTONY FATE

CELLOPHANE: AN ASSAY

QUARTZ CLOCK

MY LIFE WAS THE SIZE OF MY LIFE

PERSPECTIVE: AN ASSAY

ORDINARY RAIN. EVERY LEAF IS WET.

THINGS KEEP SORTING THEMSELVES

I WAKE EARLY

IN A KITCHEN WHERE MUSHROOMS WERE WASHED

HONEY

HAMPER

FLORISTS' ROSES

MOP WITHOUT STICK

THE PROBLEM

IN PRAISE OF BEING PERIPHERAL

A CHAIR IN SNOW

LIKE THE SMALL HOLE BY THE PATH-SIDE SOMETHING LIVES IN

WET SPRING

MANY-ROOFED BUILDING IN MOONLIGHT

ANYWHERE YOU LOOK

ANATOMY AND MAKING

I CAST MY HOOK, I DECIDE TO MAKE PEACE

A PERSON PROTESTS TO FATE

TWELVE PEBBLES:

A Hand Holds One Power

The Woman, The Tiger

Tri-Focal

I Know You Think I've Forgotten

Still Life

A man I once asked a question of has died; his son sends a letter.

Human Measures

Immigration & Hunger

Humbling: An Assay

For Fifteen Years

A map open on one table, a guidebook on the other

Making & Passing

I WANTED ONLY A LITTLE

A COMMON COLD

THIS MORNING, I WANTED FOUR LEGS

ONCE, I

IN DAYLIGHT, I TURNED ON THE LIGHTS

HOW RARELY I HAVE STOPPED TO THANK THE STEADY EFFORT

AS A HAMMER SPEAKS TO A NAIL

I SAT IN THE SUN

OF AMPLITUDE THERE IS NO SCRAPING BOTTOM

THE ONE NOT CHOSEN

SNOW IN APRIL

FEBRUARY 29

THREE MORNINGS

AWAY FROM HOME, I THOUGHT OF THE EXILED POETS

ALL SOULS

IN SPACE

SOUVENIR

THE MUST-MICE

THE CONVERSATIONS I REMEMBER MOST

TWO LINEN HANDKERCHIEFS

WORKS & LOVES

PERSPECTIVE WITHOUT ANY POINT IN WHICH IT MIGHT VANISH

RUNNER

THE BEAUTIFUL AUSTERE ROOM

NOT ONE MOMENT OF THIS A SUBTRACTION

I PROFESS THE UNCERTAIN

ZERO PLUS ANYTHING IS A WORLD

ENTANGLEMENT

LIKE TWO NEGATIVE NUMBERS MULTIPLIED BY RAIN

Acknowledgments

A Note About the Author

Other Books by This Author

# FADO

A man reaches close

and lifts a quarter

from inside a girl's ear,

from her hands takes a dove

she didn't know was there.

Which amazes more,

you may wonder:

the quarter's serrated murmur

against the thumb

or the dove's knuckled silence?

That he found them,

or that she never had,

or that in Portugal,

this same half-stopped moment,

it's almost dawn,

and a woman in a wheelchair

is singing a fado

that puts every life in the room

on one pan of a scale,

itself on the other,

and the copper bowls balance.

# MY SKELETON

My skeleton,

who once ached

with your own growing larger,

are now,

each year

imperceptibly smaller,

lighter,

absorbed by your own

concentration.

When I danced,

you danced.

When you broke,

I.

And so it was lying down,

walking,

climbing the tiring stairs.

Your jaws. My bread.

Someday you,

what is left of you,

will be flensed of this marriage.

Angular wristbone's arthritis,

cracked harp of rib cage,

blunt of heel,

opened bowl of the skull,

twin platters of pelvis—

each of you will leave me behind,

at last serene.

What did I know of your days,

your nights,

I who held you all my life

inside my hands

and thought they were empty?

You who held me all your life

in your hands

as a new mother holds

her own unblanketed child,

not thinking at all.

# MY PROTEINS

They have discovered, they say,

the protein of itch—

natriuretic polypeptide b—

and that it travels its own distinct pathway

inside my spine.

As do pain, pleasure, and heat.

A body it seems is a highway,

a cloverleaf crossing

well built, well traversed.

Some of me going north, some going south.

Ninety percent of my cells, they have discovered,

are not my own person,

they are other beings inside me.

As ninety-six percent of my life is not my life.

Yet I, they say, am they—

my bacteria and yeasts,

my father and mother,

grandparents, lovers,

my drivers talking on cell phones,

my subways and bridges,

my thieves, my police

who chase my self night and day.

My proteins, apparently also me,

fold the shirts.

I find in this crowded metropolis

a quiet corner,

where I build of not-me Lego blocks

a bench,

pigeons, a sandwich

of rye bread, mustard, and cheese.

It is me and is not,

the hunger

that makes the sandwich good.

It is not me then is,

the sandwich—

a mystery neither of us

can fold, unfold, or consume.

# MOSQUITO

I say I

&

a small mosquito drinks from my tongue

but many say we and hear I

say you or he and

hear I

what can we do with this problem

a bowl held in both hands

cannot be filled by its holder

x, says the blue whale

x, say the krill

solve for y, says the ocean, then multiply by existence

the feet of an ant make their own sound on the earth

ice is astonished by water

a person misreads

delirium as delphinium

and falls into

a blueness sleepy as beauty when sneezing

the pronoun dozes

# MY EYES

An hour is not a house,

a life is not a house,

you do not go through them as if

they were doors to another.

Yet an hour can have shape and proportion,

four walls, a ceiling.

An hour can be dropped like a glass.

Some want quiet as others want bread.

Some want sleep.

My eyes went

to the window, as a cat or dog left alone does.

# MY SPECIES

even

a small purple artichoke

boiled

in its own bittered

and darkening

waters

grows tender,

grows tender and sweet

patience, I think,

my species

keep testing the spiny leaves

the spiny heart

# MY CORKBOARD

However many holes are in you,

always there's room for another.

However much you carry,

you can hold more.

Like a saint making a joke,

imperfection of surface

suits you.

Your seams

remind of quiet tectonic plates.

Chthonic corkboard,

always beneath

even when hung on your vertical side,

your waiting thumbtacks

seem to me

a glittering affection,

the mi casa, su casa

of a door standing open in every weather

of invitation.

I apologize to you, corkboard—

I, who would like

to be more like you in spirit,

cover you over

with maps, plans, bills.

Even these words that praise you

further disguise you.

# MY MEMORY

Like the small soaps and shampoos

a traveler brings home

then won't use,

you, memory,

almost weightless

this morning inside me.

# MY WEATHER

Wakeful, sleepy, hungry, anxious,

restless, stunned, relieved.

Does a tree also?

A mountain?

A cup holds

sugar, flour, three large rabbit-breaths of air.

I hold these.

# IN MY WALLET I CARRY A CARD

In my wallet I carry a card

which declares I have the power to marry.

In my wallet I carry a card

which declares I may drive.

In my wallet I carry a card

that says to a merchant I may be trusted to pay her.

In my wallet I carry a card

that states I can borrow a book in the town where I live.

In my hand I carry a card.

Its lines declare I am cardless, carless,

stateless, and have no money.

It is buoyant and edgeless.

It names me one of the Order of All Who Will Die.

# MY TASK

An idea appears.

It catches

against the edge of the bedside table.

Coffee on the wall.

Coffee on the marble tabletop.

Coffee on the sheets.

The idea has flown everywhere with it.

Aplysia, marine snail of memory,

someone may someday find in your 20,000 neurons

this thought I have lost.

My task to find your less studied sister,

the erasing

and soapy sea sponge.

# MY SANDWICH

So many things

you'd not have thought of

until they were given.

Even the simple—

a cottage cheese sandwich,

a heron's contractible neck.

You eat. You look.

Then you look back and it's over.

This life. This flood—

unbargained for as lasting love was—

of lasting oddness.

# A WELL RUNS OUT OF THIRST

A well runs out of thirst

the way time runs out of a week,

the way a country runs out of its alphabet

or a tree runs out of its height.

The way a brown pelican

runs out of anchovy-glitter at darkfall.

A strange collusion,

the way a year runs out of its days

but turns into another,

the way a cotton towel's compact

with pot and plate seems to run out of dryness

but in a few minutes finds more.

A person comes into the kitchen

to dry the hands, the face,

to stand on the lip of a question.

Around the face, the hands,

behind the shoulders,

yeasts, mountains, mosses multiply answers.

There are questions that never run out of questions,

answers that don't exhaust answer.

Take this question the person stands asking:

a gate rusting open.

Yes stands on its left, no on its right,

two big planets of unpainted silence.

# IN A ROOM WITH MANY WINDOWS

In a room with many windows

some thoughts slide past uncatchable, ghostly.

Three silent bicyclists. Slowly, a woman on crutches.

It is like the night you slept out on the sandy edge of a creek bank,

feeling the step of some light, clawed thing on your palm,

crossing to drink. You were nothing to it.

Hummock. Earth clump. Root knob wild in the dark.

Like that thirsty creature, to you.

You could guess it, but you can't name it.

# A PHOTOGRAPH OF A FACE HALF LIT, HALF IN DARKNESS

Even 3 + 2 is like this.

A photograph of a face half lit, half in darkness.

A train station where one train is stopped

and another passes behind it,

heard, but not seen.

A person proud of five good senses

lives without echolocation.

Dogs pity our noses

as we pity the bee that blunders the glass.

Take out every other word of the world,

what is left?

A half half darkness.

A station one is and passes.

We live our lives in one place

and look in every moment into another.

As on a child's map,

where X

marks both riddle and treasure.

It is near, but not here.

# A COTTONY FATE

Long ago, someone

told me: avoid or.

It troubles the mind

as a held-out piece of meat disturbs a dog.

Now I too am sixty.

There was no other life.

# CELLOPHANE: AN ASSAY

There are kinds of transparence.

Yours was invented

sometime between

tempered glass and Saran Wrap.

I have at times wanted to be you:

something looked through and past.

You were born noble: a tree.

Caustics and acids changed you

to what you now are,

protective, stiff, almost weightless.

Both captive and guard,

your desire is to be frivolous, self-destructive,

undone and opened.

Your bright red necklace announces:

"Tear here."

Inside you, tobacco.

Inside you, peppermints, gingersnaps, gum.

You would not be found

wrapping a mattress or gun.

You were dictated into the world

by the muse of "it could be."

You were unlikely but useful,

so kept.

Your art is audible, immodest:

to preserve against time.

In this, you are like a small metal flute

whose throat knows no aging

or a few words

from the second century,

stumbled on once in translation—

"I come from the river, husband,

its brushy bank left these scratches."

Made to be seen through, for pleasure.

# QUARTZ CLOCK

The ideas of a physicist

can be turned into useful objects:

a rocket, a quartz clock,

a microwave oven for cooking.

The ideas of poets turn into only themselves,

as the hands of the clock do,

or the face of a person.

It changes, but only more into the person.

# MY LIFE WAS THE SIZE OF MY LIFE

My life was the size of my life.

Its rooms were room-sized,

its soul was the size of a soul.

In its background, mitochondria hummed,

above it sun, clouds, snow,

the transit of stars and planets.

It rode elevators, bullet trains,

various airplanes, a donkey.

It wore socks, shirts, its own ears and nose.

It ate, it slept, it opened

and closed its hands, its windows.

Others, I know, had lives larger.

Others, I know, had lives shorter.

The depth of lives, too, is different.

There were times my life and I made jokes together.

There were times we made bread.

Once, I grew moody and distant.

I told my life I would like some time,

I would like to try seeing others.

In a week, my empty suitcase and I returned.

I was hungry, then, and my life,

my life, too, was hungry, we could not keep

our hands off our clothes on

our tongues from

# PERSPECTIVE: AN ASSAY

Makes one wall darker than the other,

leaving a corner.

Makes one leaf more red than another, leaving a tree.

Blocks with an earthquake, an illness, a phone call,

what once seemed important.

Holds one perfume close, indelible, while others fade.

Is cubic from every direction, except when rounded.

Sneezes at ardor, boredom, despair.

Cannot in general be found, yet is everywhere local.

Likes magic, for which it is frequently useful.

Likes dice.

Likes everything just as it is, then just as it is, then just as it is.

Enjoys folding anything—

card hands, laundry, letters, elbows and knees.

Hums softly in Giotto, loudly in Tintoretto.

Likes mirrors, windows, old portraits, taking the long view—

This Chinese scroll, for instance, unrolling as if without limit

its small boat, downrushing river, and strolling deep-sleeved officials

in oddly shaped caps,

the curious horse looking out

from behind the long-needled pine it's been momentarily tied to forever.

# ORDINARY RAIN. EVERY LEAF IS WET.

The landscape by Dürer

of a dandelion amid grasses

its flowers

done with the first opening

not yet gone into the second

these too will finally bend toward the earth

exiles

writing letters

sent over the mountains by friendly horses and donkeys

# THINGS KEEP SORTING THEMSELVES

Does the butterfat know it is butterfat,

milk know it's milk?

No.

Something just goes and something remains.

Like a boardinghouse table:

men on one side, women on the other.

Nobody planned it.

Plaid shirts next to one another,

talking in accents from the Midwest.

Nobody plans to be a ghost.

Later on, the young people sit in the kitchen.

Soon enough, they'll be the ones

to stumble Excuse me and quickly withdraw.

But they don't know that.

No one can ever know that.

# I WAKE EARLY

I wake early,

make two cups of coffee,

drink one,

think, go back to sleep,

wake again, think,

drink the other.

To start a day over

is a card game played for no money,

a ripe tomato,

a swimming cat.

Time here:

lukewarm,

with milk and sugar,

big and unset as a table.

I wake twice.

Twice the window

unbroken, transparent.

Twice the cat's nose and ears above water.

Twice the war (my war)

is distant,

its children's children are distant.

# IN A KITCHEN WHERE MUSHROOMS WERE WASHED

In a kitchen where mushrooms were washed,

the mushroom scent lingers.

As the sea must keep for a long time the scent of the whale.

As a person who's once loved completely,

a country once conquered,

does not release that stunned knowledge.

They must want to be found, those strange-shaped, rising morels,

clownish puffballs.

Lichens have served as a lamp-wick.

Clean-burning coconuts, olives.

Dried salmon, sheep fat, a carcass of petrel set blazing:

light that is fume and abradement.

Unburnable mushrooms are other.

They darken the air they come into.

Theirs the scent of having been traveled, been taken.

# HONEY

Music comes with instructions:

pianissimo, forte.

In Nō plays the actors wear masks,

so their souls can be seen:

wild-haired old woman, callow young priest.

Each morning I wake in strange country,

my bed made of strange wood.

Time arrives clockless.

Rain poses hieroglyphic, with bent knees,

shoulders askew, arms lifting

from out of the future

the future—

a box labeled neither

"Requests" nor "Suggestions."

What is, what will be,

is honey.

Touched, it sticks to the fingers.

Andromeda overhead, silent.

Below, ears, eyes,

an aching elbow,

Chekhov, the laboring bees.

# HAMPER

As sunlight or darkness fits itself

around lamp, table, or mountain,

silence stitches itself

around hopes, thoughts, and words.

Some hear it

the sound of their own speech

coming back from where they are dead.

Some find it summer-cool pillow,

winter wool coat.

Some tack their names

on its door and step inside.

And if in that room there is happiness

so without measure

you cannot keep your eyes open to see it,

and if in that room sorrow bends

like late nettles in sleet,

the silence will be there also to greet them,

setting each in its wicker hamper

on a plaid blanket, two sleepy puppies.

# FLORISTS' ROSES

color of a library wall

in Venice

bred

to stay on the stem

hands of an old woman

on an old chicken

pull them off

"for the petals"

she says

while remembering

the sudden mercilessness

between lovers

# MOP WITHOUT STICK

I am on my knees again,

mop without stick,

over old fir trees turned into flooring.

A thought stood once in the middle,

near the cookstove, left heel and right heel.

Left hand and right hand, I wash around it.

Thought without handle,

thought without hands, without lemons or Serengeti.

One breath, another,

one corner of cotton in water wets the whole cloth.

# THE PROBLEM

You are trying to solve a problem.

You're almost certainly halfway done,

maybe more.

You take some salt, some alum,

and put it into the problem.

Its color goes from yellow to royal blue.

You tie a knot of royal blue into the problem,

as into a Peruvian quipu of colored string.

You enter the problem's bodegas,

its flea markets, souks.

Amid the alleys of sponges and sweets,

of jewelry, spices, and hair combs,

you ponder which stall, which pumpkin or perfume, is yours.

You go inside the problem's piano.

You choose three keys.

One surely must open the door of the problem,

if only you knew only this:

is the quandary edible or medical,

a problem of reason or grief?

It is looking back at you now

with the quizzical eyes of a young, bright dog.

Her whole body pitched for the fetch,

the dog wants to please.

If only she could ascertain which direction,

what object, which scent of riddle,

and if the problem is round or elliptical in its orbit,

and if it is measured in foot-pounds, memory, or meat.

# IN PRAISE OF BEING PERIPHERAL

Without philosophy,

tragedy,

history,

a gray squirrel

looks

very busy.

Light as a soul

released

from a painting by Bosch,

its greens

and vermilions stripped off it.

He climbs a tree

that is equally ahistoric.

His heart works harder.

# A CHAIR IN SNOW

A chair in snow

should be

like any other object whited

& rounded

and yet a chair in snow is always sad

more than a bed

more than a hat or house

a chair is shaped for just one thing

to hold

a soul its quick and few bendable

hours

perhaps a king

not to hold snow

not to hold flowers

# LIKE THE SMALL HOLE BY THE PATH-SIDE SOMETHING LIVES IN

Like the small hole by the path-side something lives in,

in me are lives I do not know the names of,

nor the fates of,

nor the hungers of or what they eat.

They eat of me.

Of small and blemished apples in low fields of me

whose rocky streams and droughts I do not drink.

And in my streets—the narrow ones,

unlabeled on the self-map—

they follow stairs down music ears can't follow,

and in my tongue borrowed by darkness,

in hours uncounted by the self-clock,

they speak in restless syllables of other losses, other loves.

There too have been the hard extinctions,

missing birds once feasted on and feasting.

There too must be machines

like loud ideas with tungsten bits that grind the day.

A few escape. A mercy.

They leave behind

small holes that something unweighed by the self-scale lives in.

# WET SPRING

The practical castle is cold.

All around it the world is a stream bed.

A few well-placed openings

under the windows

let rain weep back outward.

The rain is string

for wrapping a package no one knows

the inside of, they just keep trying to mail it.

Perhaps it is licorice. Perhaps it is kindness.

The package so large even wetness becomes an umbrella.

# MANY-ROOFED BUILDING IN MOONLIGHT

I found myself

suddenly voluminous,

three-dimensioned,

a many-roofed building in moonlight.

Thought traversed

me as simply as moths might.

Feelings traversed me as fish.

I heard myself thinking,

It isn't the piano, it isn't the ears.

Then heard, too soon, the ordinary furnace,

the usual footsteps above me.

Washed my face again with hot water,

as I did when I was a child.

# ANYWHERE YOU LOOK

in the corner of a high rain gutter

under the roof tiles

new grasses' delicate seed heads

what war, they say

# ANATOMY AND MAKING

In Chinese painting, there are flowers with bones,

flowers that are boneless.

Also in trees, men, mountains, horses, and houses.

A calcium not subject

but angle

the brush is held by, minerals into.

Fox hairs are soft,

yet fox bones and fox teeth are in them.

Dragon veins, the space between mountains is called.

Lu Ch'ai wrote, "When painting a rock, paint all three of its faces."

I think of the two Greek masks, one laughing, one weeping,

and then of the third he would have found missing—

mask-face of wonder? of anger? of rigor?

a child's look before sleep?

Lu wrote,

"There is only one thing to be said here: rocks painted fully are living."

And then, of painting people,

"Hands slipped into sleeves are warm, no feeling of coldness."

# I CAST MY HOOK, I DECIDE TO MAKE PEACE

The bee does not speak to me.

The whale does not speak to me.

The horse is silent.

History does not speak to me.

Arachne is only a spider.

Nothing says "you" if I offer "I,"

"I" if I proffer "you."

I would go

to the Counter of Complaining—

there was one,

a hut of new pine wood

at the base of the Yellow Mountains in China,

the door was open, a woman sat in the chair—

but nothing says "counter,"

nothing says "yellow" or "mountain."

Erased dust of the chalkboard, barnacle,

less sleep than bed—

what can I do, faceless, with no one to kiss or shout at?

I cast my hook, my vote against it,

I decide to make peace.

I declare this intention but nothing answers.

And so I put peace in a warm place, towel-covered, to proof,

then into an oven. I wait.

Peace is patient and undemanding, it surpasseth.

And the bulldozers move

from the palace of breaking to the places of building.

And the students return to their classes.

Tuna swim freely.

The sky hoists the flag of the sky.

All this in the space of a half-page, a little ink,

a small bite of hubris

sweetened with raisins and honey.

I begin to consider what I will make of tomorrow's speechless.

# A PERSON PROTESTS TO FATE

A person protests to fate:

"The things you have caused

me most to want

are those that furthest elude me."

Fate nods.

Fate is sympathetic.

To tie the shoes, button a shirt,

are triumphs

for only the very young,

the very old.

During the long middle:

conjugating a rivet

mastering tango

training the cat to stay off the table

preserving a single moment longer than this one

continuing to wake whatever has happened the day before

and the penmanships love practices inside the body.

# TWELVE PEBBLES

A Hand Holds One Power

A hand holds one power,

whose exercise requires the hand be empty.

The Woman, The Tiger

The woman, the tiger, the door, the man, the choice.

Riddles are soulless.

In them, it is never raining.

Tri-Focal

the cat sleeping

paw prints of bear in the road-sand

a day moth confusedly walking the glass between them

I Know You Think I've Forgotten

but today

in rain

without coat without hat

Still Life

Loyalty of a book

to its place on the shelf

in a still life.

Like that,

the old loves continue.

A man I once asked a question of has died; his son sends a letter.

A thirsty mouse turns a river.

A stone turns a river.

Bodiless words turn us.

Human Measures

a woman in a distant language sings with great feeling

the composer's penciled-in instructions to sing with great feeling.

Immigration & Hunger

I misread the journalist's sentence:

"In this human drama, the police ate the supporting actors."

Humbling: An Assay

Have teeth.

For Fifteen Years

A woman says to her daughter,

for fifteen years,

"For the first time now,

I am feeling my age, for the first time."

A blessed life.

Each day's yesterday was joyous.

Each year completed was good.

A map open on one table, a guidebook on the other

"I am here.

I want to be nowhere but here,"

says the still hanging apricot,

growing rounder

like a page from Lewis Carroll.

Making & Passing

New new new new new

bluster the young birds in spring.

An old branch holds them.

Generation.

Strange word: both making and passing.

# I WANTED ONLY A LITTLE

I wanted, I thought, only a little,

two teaspoons of silence—

one for sugar,

one for stirring the wetness.

No.

I wanted a Cairo of silence,

a Kyoto.

In every hanging garden

mosses and waters.

The directions of silence:

north, west, south, past, future.

It comes through any window

one inch open,

like rain driven sideways.

Grief shifts,

as a grazing horse does,

one leg to the other.

But a horse sleeping

sleeps with all legs locked.

# A COMMON COLD

A common cold, we say—

common, though it has encircled the globe

seven times now handed traveler to traveler

though it has seen the Wild Goose Pagoda in Xi'an

seen Piero della Francesca's Madonna del Parto in Monterchi

seen the emptied synagogues of Krasnogruda

seen the since-burned souk of Aleppo

A common cold, we say—

common, though it is infinite and surely immortal

common because it will almost never kill us

and because it is shared among any who agree to or do not agree to

and because it is unaristocratic

reducing to redness both profiled and front-viewed noses

reducing to coughing the once-articulate larynx

reducing to unhappy sleepless turning the pillows of down,

of wool, of straw, of foam, of kapok

A common cold, we say—

common because it is cloudy and changing and dulling

because there are summer colds, winter colds, fall colds,

colds of the spring

because these are always called colds, however they differ

beginning sore-throated

beginning sniffling

beginning a little tired or under the weather

beginning with one single innocuous untitled sneeze

because it is bane of usually eight days' duration

and two or three boxes of tissues at most

The common cold, we say—

and wonder, when did it join us

when did it saunter into the Darwinian corridors of the human

do manatees catch them do parrots I do not think so

and who named it first, first described it, Imhotep, Asclepius, Zhongjing

and did they wonder, is it happy sharing our lives

as generously as inexhaustibly as it shares its own

virus dividing and changing while Piero's girl gazes still downward

five centuries still waiting still pondering still undivided

while in front of her someone hunts through her opening pockets for tissues for more than one reason at once

# THIS MORNING, I WANTED FOUR LEGS

Nothing on two legs weighs much,

or can.

An elephant, a donkey, even a cookstove—

those legs, a person could stand on.

Two legs pitch you forward.

Two legs tire.

They look for another two legs to be with,

to move one set forward to music

while letting the other move back.

They want to carve into a tree trunk:

2gether 4ever.

Nothing on two legs can bark,

can whinny or chuff.

Tonight, though, everything's different.

Tonight I want wheels.

# ONCE, I

Once, I

was seven Spanish bullocks in a high meadow,

sleepy and nameless.

As-ifness strange to myself, but complete.

Light on the neck-nape

of time

as two wings of one starling,

or lovers so happy

neither needs think of the other.

# IN DAYLIGHT, I TURNED ON THE LIGHTS

In daylight, I turned on the lights,

in darkness, I pulled closed the curtains.

And the god of More,

whom nothing surprises, softly agreed—

each day, year after year,

the dead were dead one day more completely.

In the places where morels were found,

I looked for morels.

In the houses where love was found,

I looked for love.

If she is vanished, what then was different?

If he is alive, what now is changed?

The pot offers the metal closest to fire for burning.

The water leaves.

# HOW RARELY I HAVE STOPPED TO THANK THE STEADY EFFORT

A person speaking

pauses, lets in

a little silence-portion with the words.

It is like an hour.

Any hour. This one.

Something happens, much does not.

Or as always, everything happens:

the standing walls keep

standing with their whole attention.

A noisy crow call lowers and lifts its branch,

the crow scent enters the leaves, enters the bark,

like stirred-in honey gone into the tea.

How rarely I have stopped to thank

the steady effort of the world to stay the world.

To thank the furnish of green

and abandon of yellow. The ancient Sumerians

called the beloved "Honey," as we do.

Said also, "Borrowed bread is not returned."

Like them, we pay love's tax to bees,

we go on arranging the old notes in different orders.

Desire inside A C A G G A T.

Forgiveness in G T A C T T.

In a world of space and time, arrangement matters.

An hour has no front or back,

except to those whose eyes face forward,

whose tears blur thought and stars.

Five genes, in a certain arrangement,

will spend this life unrooted, grazing.

It has to do with how the animal body comes into being,

the same whether ant or camel.

What then does such unfolded code understand,

if it finds in its mouth the word important—

the thing that can be carried, or the thing that cannot,

or the way they keep trading places,

grief and gladness, the comic, the glum, the dead, the living.

Last night, the big Sumerian moon

clambered into the house empty-handed

and left empty-handed,

not thief, not lover, not tortoise, just looking around,

shuffling its soft, blind slippers over the floor.

This felt, to me, important, and so I looked back with both hands

open, palms unblinking.

What caused the fire, we ask, meaning, lightning, wiring, matches.

How precisely and unbidden

oxygen slips itself into, between those thick words.

# AS A HAMMER SPEAKS TO A NAIL

When all else fails,

fail boldly,

fail with conviction,

as a hammer speaks to a nail,

or a lamp left on in daylight.

Say one.

If two does not follow,

say three, if that fails, say life,

say future.

Lacking future,

try bucket,

lacking iron, try shadow.

If shadow too fails,

if your voice falls and falls and keeps falling,

meets only air and silence,

say one again,

but say it with greater conviction,

as a nail speaks to a picture,

as a hammer left on in daylight.

# I SAT IN THE SUN

I moved my chair into sun

I sat in the sun

the way hunger is moved when called fasting.

# OF AMPLITUDE THERE IS NO SCRAPING BOTTOM

In certain styles of Chinese painting,

three diagonal brushstrokes balance a mountain.

Like that, the word for happiness

keeps inside it the word for chance. For haplessness, also.

You wanted to be ignorant, unknowing, thunderstruck, gobsmacked.

Wanted to be brought to your knees

by the scent of mushrooms you couldn't know whether to pick.

When the violent, brilliant goshawk,

excessive and unforgiving, drove you from her nesting,

she battered your head with its own blunt weight of animal being.

The big, deaf bear in both lanes of the dark

was a grandmother's fake pearl necklace suddenly real.

You ate the stories of others

because your own were already inside you and you were still hungry.

You wanted to sleep in a house you could walk the outside of,

windowed and simple, and find on it one day a door—

green-peeling, padlocked—you'd never guessed at.

You found the house, you entered, ate there, slept.

But however you rummaged and plundered the inside,

that door, that blind-hinged door, kept opening elsewhere.

# THE ONE NOT CHOSEN

Third sister,

aunt one forgets to send a card to.

Boy on a bench, second smallest,

not quick, not precise, not cunning.

Culled chick, branch-bruised peach,

chair wobbly, unused, set in a corner.

For some, almost good, almost lucky

not to be chosen,

though equally accidental—

the thirty-year-buried land mine

chooses the leg of another.

(How the mouth struggles

to say it: lucky, good.)

Most are not chosen, most mostly watch.

So it must be.

The watched

(not escaping pride, not truly minding)

bemoan their responsibilities,

so many anxieties, demands, complications.

And still: any rabbit the center

of its own rabbit world,

its universe axis a nest of tamped-down grasses.

It looks out its ground-level eyes,

is warm, is curious, hungry,

its heart beats faster or slower

with its own rabbit fate.

A rabbit's soul cannot help

but choose its own ears, its own paws,

its own startlement, sleepiness, longings,

it has a rabbit allegiance,

and the pink nose, which

could have been drawn in charcoal

by Dürer's sister, but wasn't,

takes in its own warmth and fur-scent,

glints pinkly,

pinkly alters the distant star's light

in its own cuniculan corner

among vast and unanswerable worlds,

without even knowing it does so.

# SNOW IN APRIL

"There, there," the awkward uncle

comforts

the crying infant.

"There, there," he repeats,

agreeing:

Here, here is the only possible problem.

Soon now, there and here

will both move along,

a lullaby about snow falling in a snowy pasture.

# FEBRUARY 29

An extra day—

Like the painting's fifth cow,

who looks out directly,

straight toward you,

from inside her black and white spots.

An extra day—

Accidental, surely:

the made calendar stumbling over the real

as a drunk trips over a threshold

too low to see.

An extra day—

With a second cup of black coffee.

A friendly but businesslike phone call.

A mailed-back package.

Some extra work, but not too much—

just one day's worth, exactly.

An extra day—

Not unlike the space

between a door and its frame

when one room is lit and another is not,

and one changes into the other

as a woman exchanges a scarf.

An extra day—

Extraordinarily like any other.

And still

there is some generosity to it,

like a letter re-readable after its writer has died.

# THREE MORNINGS

In Istanbul, my ears

three mornings heard the early call to prayer.

At fuller light, heard birds then,

waterbirds and tree birds, birds of migration.

Like three knowledges,

I heard them: incomprehension,

sweetened distance, longing.

When the body dies, where will they go,

those migrant birds and prayer calls,

as heat from sheets when taken from a dryer?

With voices of the ones I loved,

great loves and small loves, train wheels,

crickets, clock-ticks, thunder—where will they,

when in fragrant, tumbled heat they also leave?

# AWAY FROM HOME, I THOUGHT OF THE EXILED POETS

Away from home,

I read the exiled poets—

Ovid, Brecht.

Then set my books that night

near the foot of the bed.

All night pretended they were the cat.

Not once

did I wake her.

# ALL SOULS

In Italy, on the day of the dead,

they ring bells,

from every church and village in every direction.

At the usual times, the regular bells of the hour—

eleven strokes, twelve. Oar strokes

laid over and into the bottomless water and air.

But the others? Tuneless, keyless,

rhythm of wings at the door of the hive

when the entrance is suddenly shuttered

and the bees, returned heavy, see

that the world of flowering and pollen is over.

There can be no instruction

to make this. Undimensioned

the tongues of the bells,

the ropes of the bells, their big iron bodies unholy.

Barred from form, barred from bars,

from relation. The beauty—unspeakable—

was beauty. I drank it and thirsted,

I stopped. I ran. Wanted closer in every direction.

Each bell stroke released without memory

or judgment, unviolent, untender. Uncaring.

And yet: existent. Something trembling.

I—who have not known bombardment—

have never heard so naked a claim

of the dead on the living, to know them.

# IN SPACE

In space

(the experiment

suggested by two fifth graders),

a Canadian astronaut

wrings water out of a towel.

It stays by the towel,

horizontal

transparent isinglass,

a hyaline column.

Then begins to cover his hands,

his wrists,

stays on them

until he passes it to another towel.

On earth

some who watch this

recognize the wrung, irrational soul.

How it does not leave

but stays close,

outside the cleaning twist-fate but close—

fear desire anger

joy irritation

mourning

wet stuff

that is shining, that cannot go from us,

having nowhere other to fall.

# SOUVENIR

I would like

to take something with me

but even one chair

is too awkward

too heavy

peeling paint

falls off in a suitcase

hinge sounds betray a theft

cheeses won't keep

the clothespin

without its surroundings

would be mediocre

the big thunder rolled elsewhere

the umbrella is for sale

but in a desert what you want is a soaking

the do not disturb sign is tattered

I have many times taken

some café's small packets of sugar

so that in Turkey

I might sweeten my coffee with China,

and in Italy remember a Lithuanian pastry

but where is the coffee

hands left and right useless

knees clattery

heart finally calm

as some hero at the end of a movie

squinting silently into the sun

you can't hold an umbrella there anyhow

and what would he hang from the clothespin

# THE MUST-MICE

Any hour is grain bin,

fragrant, many.

Soon the must-mice come.

Each takes

its one-mouse mouthful,

and is filled.

The bin empties

to its wooden sides and floor.

Hunger that

comes and goes

turns time into memory.

Mouthful

by mouse-sized mouthful,

houseful

by vanishing houseful.

# THE CONVERSATIONS I REMEMBER MOST

The way a sweet cake wants

a little salt in it,

or blackness a little gray nearby to be seen,

or a pot unused stays good for boiling water,

the conversations I remember most

are the ones that were interrupted.

Wait, you say, running after them,

I forgot to ask—

Night rain, they answer.

Silver on the fire-thorn's red berries.

# TWO LINEN HANDKERCHIEFS

How can you have been dead twelve years

and these still

# WORKS & LOVES

1.

Rain fell as a glass

breaks,

something suddenly everywhere at the same time.

2.

To live like a painting

looked into from more than one angle at once—

eye to eye with the doorway

down at the hair

up at your own dusty feet.

3.

"This is your house,"

said my bird heart to my heart of the cricket,

and I entered.

4.

The happy see only happiness,

the living see only life,

the young see only the young.

As lovers believe

they wake always beside one also in love.

5.

However often I turned its pages,

I kept ending up

as the same two sentences of the book:

The being of some is: to be. Of others: to be without.

Then I fell back asleep, in Swedish.

6.

A sheep grazing is unimpressed by the mountain

but not by its flies.

7.

The grief

of what hasn't yet happened—

a door closed from inside

the weight of the grass

dividing

an ant's five-legged contemplations

walking through it.

8.

What is the towel, what is the water,

changes,

though of we three,

only the towel can be held upside down in the sun.

9.

"I was once."

Said not in self-pity or praise.

This dignity we allow barn owl,

ego, oyster.

# PERSPECTIVE WITHOUT ANY POINT IN WHICH IT MIGHT VANISH

The way the green or blue or yellow in a painting

is simply green and yellow and blue,

and tree is, boat is, sky is

in them also—

There are worlds

in which nothing is adjective, everything noun.

This among them.

Even today—this falling day—

it might be so.

Footstep, footstep, footstep intimate on it.

# RUNNER

It is hard to unlatch a day

from noun and story.

Breath pours

like water

from a small bowl into a large.

One says,

Quicker.

Another,

Listen, runner—

underwater things are fragrant to a fish.

# THE BEAUTIFUL AUSTERE ROOM

This beautiful austere room—

(room in which you are dying,

room in which a – a

will still = a,

world – world = world)

I bring it flowers.

They hold themselves

up from the water with effort,

an aging woman

walking up Eighty-Sixth Street,

slowly,

in painful pink shoes and pink gloves.

# NOT ONE MOMENT OF THIS A SUBTRACTION

all day the daylight coming over the sill

like a wagon

drawn by invisible big-hooved horses working hard

soon now your breathing will climb inside it, go with it away

all your mountains and rivers

your cities and memories

doing their silent handsprings inside it

# I PROFESS THE UNCERTAIN

I profess the uncertain

with gratitude

a man with large hands

and large feet

first looks at a pencil

then brings it close to his ear

he listens

the day lives briefly

unscented

shaken with worn-heel glimpses

becomes a shambling palace

with walking fishes

a yellow-roofed kindness

the almost untenable premise

that between counting one and two

nothing is lost

# ZERO PLUS ANYTHING IS A WORLD

Four less one is three.

Three less two is one.

One less three

is what, is who,

remains.

The first cell that learned to divide

learned to subtract.

Recipe:

add salt to hunger.

Recipe:

add time to trees.

Zero plus anything

is a world.

This one

and no other,

unhidden,

by each breath changed.

Recipe:

add death to life.

Recipe:

love without swerve what this will bring.

Sister, father, mother, husband, daughter.

Like a cello

forgiving one note as it goes,

then another.

# ENTANGLEMENT

A librarian in Calcutta and an entomologist in Prague

sign their moon-faced illicit emails,

"ton entanglée."

No one can explain it.

The strange charm between border collie and sheep,

leaf and wind, the two distant electrons.

There is, too, the matter of a horse race.

Each person shouts for his own horse louder,

confident in the rising din

past whip, past mud,

the horse will hear his own name in his own quickened ear.

Desire is different:

desire is the moment before the race is run.

Has an electron never refused

the invitation to change direction,

sent in no knowable envelope, with no knowable ring?

A story told often: after the lecture, the widow

insisting the universe rests on the back of a turtle.

And what, the physicist

asks, does the turtle rest on?

Very clever, young man, she replies, very clever,

but it's turtles all the way down.

And so a woman in Beijing buys for her love,

who practices turtle geometry in Boston, a metal trinket

from a night-market street stall.

On the back of a turtle, at rest on its shell,

a turtle.

Inside that green-painted shell, another, still smaller.

This continues for many turtles,

until finally, too small to see

or to lift up by its curious, preacherly head,

a single un-green electron

waits the width of a world for some weightless message

sent into the din of existence for it alone.

Murmur of all that is claspable, clabberable, clamberable,

against all that is not:

You are there. I am here. I remember.

# LIKE TWO NEGATIVE NUMBERS MULTIPLIED BY RAIN

Lie down, you are horizontal.

Stand up, you are not.

I wanted my fate to be human.

Like a perfume

that does not choose the direction it travels,

that cannot be straight or crooked, kept out or kept.

Yes, No, Or

—a day, a life, slips through them,

taking off the third skin,

taking off the fourth.

The logic of shoes becomes at last simple,

an animal question, scuffing.

Old shoes, old roads—

the questions keep being new ones.

Like two negative numbers multiplied by rain

into oranges and olives.

# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author is grateful to Civitella Ranieri, the MacDowell Colony, and Yaddo, under whose generous hospitality many of these poems were written. Also to the journals in which some of these poems first appeared, sometimes in different versions.

The American Poetry Review: "Cellophane: An Assay," "Florists' Roses," "I Cast My Hook, I Decide to Make Peace," "I Wake Early," "Two Linen Handkerchiefs"

ARTS: "Perspective Without Any Point in Which It Might Vanish"

The Atlantic: "Perspective: An Assay"

The Cortland Review: "Honey," "I Profess the Uncertain"

Discover: "Entanglement"

Five Points: "A Well Runs Out of Thirst," "In Praise of Being Peripheral," "My Sandwich" (as "A Cottage Cheese Sandwich") (U.S., reprint), "Ordinary Rain. Every Leaf Is Wet.," "Still Life" (as "Old Love")

Great River Review: "A Hand Holds One Power," "A man I once asked a question of has died; his son sends a letter," "A map open on one table, a guidebook on the other," "Anywhere You Look," "The Beautiful Austere Room," "Human Measures," "Humbling: An Assay," "I Know You Think I've Forgotten," "Immigration & Hunger," "Making & Passing," "Still Life," "Tri-focal"

Harper's: "A Cottony Fate" (reprint)

The Harvard Divinity School Bulletin: "Runner," "Three Mornings"

The Irish Times (Ireland): "February 29"

The Kenyon Review: "Mosquito" (as "My Pronoun"), "Of Amplitude There Is No Scraping Bottom"

Mission at Tenth: "Quartz Clock"

The New Republic: "Anatomy and Making"

The New Yorker: "In Daylight, I Turned on the Lights," "I Wanted Only a Little," "My Corkboard," "My Life Was the Size of My Life," "My Proteins," "This Morning, I Wanted Four Legs"

The New York Times: "How Rarely I Have Stopped to Thank the Steady Effort"

Orion: "Not One Moment of This a Subtraction"

The Paris Review: "A Cottony Fate"

Ploughshares: "Hamper," "In a Kitchen Where Mushrooms Were Washed," "Mop Without Stick"

Plume: "As a Hammer Speaks to a Nail," "The Conversations I Remember Most," "In a Room with Many Windows," "Zero Plus Anything Is a World" (U.S., reprint)

Poetry: "A Chair in Snow," "Fado," "I Sat in the Sun," "Like the Small Hole by the Path-Side Something Lives In," "Like Two Negative Numbers Multiplied by Rain," "My Eyes" (as "An Hour Is Not a House"), "My Species," "My Weather," "Once, I," "The Problem," "Souvenir," "Things Keep Sorting Themselves," "Works & Loves"

Poetry Daily (poems.com): "A Common Cold" (reprint)

Poetry London (UK): "In My Wallet I Carry a Card," "My Sandwich" (as "A Cottage Cheese Sandwich"), "Zero Plus Anything Is A World"

Poets.org Poem-A-Day: "Many-Roofed Building in Moonlight," "My Skeleton," "A Person Protests to Fate"

Spillway: "Snow in April"

Spiritus: "In Space"

The Stony Thursday Book (Ireland): "All Souls," "How Rarely I Have Stopped to Thank the Steady Effort," "In Space" (all reprints)

The Telegraph (Calcutta, India): "In Daylight, I Turned on the Lights" (reprint)

The Threepenny Review: "A Common Cold"

Tin House: "The One Not Chosen"

West Marin Review: "Many-Roofed Building in Moonlight" (reprint)

Certain poems first appeared in the following anthologies:

The Alhambra Poetry Calendar: "In Daylight, I Turned on the Lights"; The Best American Poetry 2015: "A Common Cold," The Best American Poetry 2012: "In a Kitchen Where Mushrooms Were Washed"; The Best Spiritual Writing 2012: "In Daylight, I Turned on the Lights"; The Bloomsbury Anthology of Contemporary Jewish American Poetry: "In a Kitchen Where Mushrooms Were Washed"; The Plume Anthology 2012: "All Souls," "Immigration & Hunger," "The Woman, The Tiger"; The Plume Anthology 2014: "A Photograph of a Face Half Lit, Half in Darkness"; The Pushcart Prize Anthology XXXVII: "In a Kitchen Where Mushrooms Were Washed"

A number of the poems in this collection also appeared in a limited-edition letterpress chapbook, Minus/My-ness, published by Missing Links Press, and in letterpress broadsides by printer Jerry Reddan, in his Tangram series.

# A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jane Hirshfield is the author of eight books of poetry, including The Beauty; Come, Thief; After; and Given Sugar, Given Salt. She has edited and co-translated four books presenting the work of poets from the past and is the author of two major collections of essays, Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry and Ten Windows: How Great Poems Transform the World. Her books have been finalists for the National Book Critics Circle Award and England's T. S. Eliot Prize; they have been named best books of the year by The Washington Post, San Francisco Chronicle, Amazon, and England's Financial Times; and they have won the California Book Award, the Poetry Center Book Award, and the Donald Hall–Jane Kenyon Prize in American Poetry. Hirshfield has received fellowships from the Guggenheim and Rockefeller foundations, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Academy of American Poets. Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, The Times Literary Supplement, The Washington Post, The New York Times, Harper's, Poetry, Orion, Discover, The American Poetry Review, McSweeney's, The Pushcart Prize anthology, and seven editions of The Best American Poetry. A resident of Northern California since 1974, she presents her poems in universities, literary centers, and festivals throughout the United States and abroad. She is a current chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.

# Also by Jane Hirshfield

POETRY

Come, Thief

After

Given Sugar, Given Salt

The Lives of the Heart

The October Palace

Of Gravity & Angels

Alaya

ESSAYS

Ten Windows: How Great Poems Transform the World

Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry

TRANSLATIONS

The Heart of Haiku (with Mariko Aratani)

Mirabai: Ecstatic Poems (with Robert Bly)

The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Ono no Komachi and
Izumi Shikibu, Women of the Ancient Court of Japan
(with Mariko Aratani)

ANTHOLOGY

Women in Praise of the Sacred:
43 Centuries of Spiritual Poetry by Women

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook


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text:
Global Investigative Journalism Network (https://gijn.org/tag/pandemic/)
Saving Journalism, Part Two: In Africa, A Dearth of Support Amid the Pandemic
By Theodora Dame Adjin-Tettey | 17 hours ago
In this second excerpt from a report on the state of sustainability of journalism, the author discusses the African press, how the coronavirus pandemic impacted reporting in the region, and the proposals to ensure the media not only survives, but thrives, in the future.
Data Journalism Top 10: Pandora Papers, Data Podcasts, and COVID-19 in Scottish Care Homes
By Peter Georgiev and Connected Action | October 8, 2021
Tracking the most popular data journalism stories on Twitter from September 27 to October 3, we found a series of articles based on discoveries from the Pandora Papers offshore leak. In this edition, we also feature reporting on the damage caused by the eruption of the volcano on La Palma, data journalism podcasts, and a roundup of the German election results.
By Peter Georgiev and Connected Action | September 3, 2021
Data Journalism Top 10: Pegasus, Silencing Reporters, Europe Flooding, Diversity Mapping, K-pop
By Peter Georgiev and Connected Action | July 23, 2021
Our NodeXL mapping from July 12 to 18, which tracks the most popular data journalism stories on Twitter each week, found a series of articles resulting from the collaborative project that analyzed an unprecedented leak of more than 50,000 phone numbers selected for surveillance. In this edition, we also feature an insight into Facebook's data wars by The New York Times, an interactive piece by Al Jazeera on how the holy city of Mecca has expanded, and a colorful project by the Washington Post on the rise of K-pop.
Data Journalism Top 10: Hot Dogs, Ransomware, Earth's Hottest Places, Miami Building Collapse, Bezos Empire
By Peter Georgiev and Connected Action | July 9, 2021
High vaccination rates in some parts of the world are helping to curb the spread of COVID-19 and allowing communities to resume normal life. But vaccinations can also give a false sense of security, with new variants threatening to prolong the pandemic. Our NodeXL mapping from June 28 to July 4, found Portuguese newspaper Público creating a tool to help readers find out what activities they can do after getting the vaccine at minimal risk. In this edition, we also take a look at a piece examining forest fires in Mexico, an analysis of the worst cyberattacks by Bloomberg, and a lively data-driven essay on same-gender lyrics by The Pudding.
Data Journalism Top 10: Chinese Propaganda, Social Media Abuse, Herd Immunity, Florida Condo Collapse, Pandemic Plastic
With less than a month until the start of the Olympic Games, host country Japan's slow vaccination campaign is causing concern. Our NodeXL mapping from June 21 to 27 found a piece by The New York Times looking at Japan's efforts to combat the pandemic in the run-up to a global sporting event. In this edition, we also feature a joint investigation by ProPublica and The New York Times into Chinese propaganda on the internet, a herd immunity calculator by German newspaper Zeit, and revelations from the Guardian about abusive posts on social media targeting English soccer players.
Data Journalism Top 10: Deadly Russian Births, Pacific Mining Plunder, Toxic Dams, Cool Rocks, Extreme Rainfall, Analyzing Chess
By Peter Georgiev and Connected Action | June 11, 2021
Our NodeXL #ddj mapping from May 31 to June 6, which tracks the most popular data journalism stories on Twitter each week, found a project by the Guardian explaining who profits from the mass extraction of the region's natural resources. In this edition, we also feature an investigation by IStories into maternal and infant mortality in Russia, a look into the toxic threat caused by aging dams in the US by Undark Magazine, and an analysis of wildlife trade in Southeast Asia by GIJN member Oxpeckers.
Data Journalism Top 10: COVID's Psychic Numbing, Disappearing Glaciers, Chemical Weapons, Homeschooling Fatigue, Basketball's Three-Pointers
By Peter Georgiev and Connected Action | May 7, 2021
Homeschooling has presented many challenges to parents and legal guardians of children around the world, with many dissatisfied with the online learning experience. Our NodeXL #ddj mapping from April 26 to May 2 found a piece by Voxeurop highlighting that most people in Europe aren't keen on their kids continuing to study remotely even if provided with the necessary materials and support. In this edition, we also feature an interactive project by the Guardian exploring disappearing glaciers, a look at Stephen Curry's remarkable basketball records by The Washington Post, and an archive of publications using data sonification to tell stories.
How We Built the Data Visualization That Brought Brazil's COVID Deaths Close to Home
By Rodrigo Menegat, Tiago Maranhão, and Vinicius Sueiro | April 6, 2021
When the COVID-19 pandemic first hit Brazil, a team of data journalists set out to illustrate what the death toll looked like by creating a data visualization that presented something beyond the numbers. The team considered various ways of displaying the story. Here's a behind-the-scenes look at how they created At the Epicenter.
Data Journalism Top 10: Beauty Biz Bias, Suez Blockage, Facebook Fail, Migrants at the Border, Europe's Theaters
By Peter Georgiev and Connected Action | April 2, 2021
For nearly a week, a giant container ship stranded in the Suez Canal blocked one of the busiest trade routes in the world. The Ever Given, a Rotterdam-bound vessel, was finally freed from the shoreline on Monday, and international media have closely followed the story and the consequences of the blockage. Our NodeXL #ddj mapping from March 22 to 28, which tracks the most popular data journalism stories on Twitter, found a visual story by the Reuters Graphics team that illustrated how the incident affected global trade. In this edition, we also feature an examination of bias in the beauty industry by The Pudding, a look into how the pandemic changed society by Al Jazeera, and a guide to drawing data visualizations by DataJournalism.com.
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"...He took her hand and pulled her to himself without asking anything, discovering her shoulder...…"
Life in theatricality is making fun of our end.
The Cantine Catena's objectives also include the valorization of the territory through the promotion of culture and local specialties. To enhance the natural combination of art and wine-tradition, Cantine Catena has brought to the theatre "Catena", a one act theatrical performance by Antonella Gensale.
The "Panta Rei" Cultural Association has promoted the show played by the "Clan H" Theatre Company (directed by Salvatore Mazza, live music by "Vanni & Troupe") The show has been performed on 29th November 2014 at the Gesualdo Theatre.
All receipts have been donated to "Myotonic Diseases Foundation" to support the research trough the art.
Cantine Catena is planning other initiatives that link art, culture and solidarity.
In the end, wine is participation, passion. Almost all of our senses, from smell until the taste, except for the hearing, are involved in the taste of a glass of wine. Cantine Catena tried to expand this sensory experience.


Do search engines think that your website is spam?
About three weeks ago, Microsoft was granted a new patent with the name Web Spam Classification Using Query Dependent Data. Although this patent application was filed by Microsoft, all major search engines probably use similar methods to classify web pages.


Here at Adrian M. Simm, DDS, we have many amazing options to help you quickly and permanently restore a healthy smile. So what can you do to get started? We encourage you review this comparison of the most popular tooth replacement options and decide which one seems best for your needs, goals, and budget..
What Are The Most Common Tooth Replacement Options?
After a long history of serving patients in the Delcambre and Lafayette, LA areas and beyond, we believe that the three most popular tooth replacement options are dental implants, dentures, and bridges. Here are some additional details about each option.
For most patients, dentures are the quickest and easiest option with the most reasonable price. This tooth replacement option consists of a whole arch of replacement teeth that are anchored in a gum-colored plastic base. Dentures can be created and fitted in a couple of weeks and patients are able to eat, chew, smile normally once more.
When they are compared to other options, dentures are often considered to be the least comfortable treatment option. Many patients also complain that dentures look much less natural than bridges or dental implants. Additionally, dentures do not stop the process of jawbone deterioration that can occur when patients have missing teeth over many years. If they are not replaced, this can result in a sunken facial appearance, loss of jaw muscle tone, and premature wrinkles in the mouth area. Patients sometimes have trouble speaking clearly and enjoying their favorite foods with dentures. Replacement of this option is usually needed every ten years or so.
Bridges are a tooth replacement option that is typically used to replace one or more missing teeth. After the teeth and mouth are measured, Dr. Simm will craft the replacement tooth to match your real teeth. Then, the teeth next to the missing ones will be filed down to provide space for your bridge.
Most patients are relieved to discover that bridges are less invasive (no surgery was required), less expensive, and can be finished quicker than dental implants. Bridges also present less risk and greater convenience since parts can be replaced quickly and painlessly. After placement, patients can once again chew, smile, and speak without problems.
Once your natural teeth are filed down for anchors to the bridge piece, they will never be the same again. When this occurs, the structure of the tooth is compromised and the risk of decay or root canal treatment rises. Additionally, special products and cleaners are often necessary to clean beneath the bridge and keep the teeth around it free from debris . Replacement for this option is usually required every 5 to 10 years.
The primary reason that patients choose dental implants is that they look and feel just like real teeth. Further reasons include easy maintenance, exceptional functionality, and improved oral health. Additionally, dental implants are the only tooth replacement option that can prevent or reverse dangerous jawbone deterioration. Dental implants are also the longest lasting tooth replacement option and can last decades longer than dentures if cared for properly.
One of the biggest drawbacks of dental implants is that they are not usually paid for by dental insurance. The placement process can also take longer than the other options that are done in weeks. Moreover, dental implants require several office visits over the course of three to six months and possible supplementary procedures like tissue augmentation could be necessary. If you would like to know more about which supplementary procedures we offer, please feel free to read through our Supplemental Procedures page or call us for more details.
At Adrian M. Simm, DDS, we take great pride in helping our patients restore amazing smiles with functional and beautiful dental implants. With decades of experience, we proudly serve the Delcambre and Lafayette, LA communities with well-priced products and superior services. If you would like to know more, please read through the rest of our specially created website or call us today to get started.


These Argentine Spinach Empanadas are a variation from the traditional Argentine empanada. My mom made them a few times when I was growing up. I have always loved spinach so of course I loved them. If you like empanadas, then you need to try these.
The secret to a flaky crust is to roll the dough thin. Then after you assemble the empanadas, you place them in the freezer for at least 30 minutes.
The eggs and flour in the recipe help bind the filling. So if you seal the empanadas well, you won't have any problems with the filling spilling out during the cooking process.
You are not going to be disappointed with these Argentine Spinach Empanadas! Between the flaky crust and the creamy spinach cheese filling, you really can't go wrong. If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen eating my empanadas.
2. Mix the flour, salt, and paprika in a large mixing bowl and make a well in the center of the flour.
1. In a medium sized bowl, mix the ricotta cheese, mozzarella cheese, parmesan cheese, red chili pepper, and egg together.
2. Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and onions into the skillet and saute until tender and translucent. Add the spinach to the skillet and cook until the spinach wilts. Toss in the flour to coat.
3. Stir the spinach into the cheese mixture.
to see the step by step tutorial on how to assemble the empanadas click here.
1. Once you assemble the empanadas, place them on a greased baking sheet 1 inch apart. Place the baking sheet in the freezer for 30 minutes.
2. While the empanadas are in the freezer, pre-heat your oven to 375 degree. Place the baking sheet in the oven and bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until the empanadas are a light golden brown.
3. Allow to cool for 5 minutes before eating.
This recipe is adapted from Spinach Cheese Empanadas by Use Real Butter.
I cant wait to try this. How many empanadas will this recipe make?
It makes about 18 to 24 empanadas.
Spinach empanadas is a variation that is common in Argentina. Trust me, they are delicious! I can't wait for you to try them.


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Discussion in 'C, C++, C#' started by junter, Apr 28, 2013.
What the title says... looking to build such scraper in C#. Is there a source available freely online that someone is aware of?
API is pretty restricted. I managed to build a scraper for it and trying to optimize it now.
I agree the API is not really useful when doing things on a large scale, it is best to code things from scratch.
hey there,There is a Google api available in c# that will be able to do everything that you basically ask, however implanting this api is kinda difficult to apply to your c# application. if you need any help then feel free to pm me. Anyway you can use Google ad-word in a c# application; just search for Google api and you will be just fine.
Are you talking about the official google API?
yes of course this api has been around for a long time now... Many people just don't realize that! if you go to the google developer center you will be able to grab it! There are also some tutorials on the net just search for it.


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Scientific name: Vermivora chrysoptera
Cover photo credit: Brian E. Small
"Special Concern" means the species lives in the wild in Ontario, is not endangered or threatened, but may become threatened or endangered due to a combination of biological characteristics and identified threats.
Date added to the Species at Risk in Ontario List
The Golden-winged Warbler was already assessed as a species of special concern when the Endangered Species Act took effect in 2008.
What it looks like
The Golden-winged Warbler is a small grey songbird – about 11 centimetres long – with white undersides and distinctive yellow wing patches and forehead. Males have a black throat and black patch behind their eyes; females have the same markings in grey.
Golden-winged Warblers usually breed when a year old and can continue to do so until they are nine. Pairs build their nests on the ground, where the female lays two to six eggs.
During the breeding season, these warblers eat insects only, primarily caterpillars, moths, other winged insects, and spiders. Similar feeding habits are seen in regions where the warblers spend the winter.
Where it lives
Golden-winged Warblers prefer to nest in areas with young shrubs surrounded by mature forest – locations that have recently been disturbed, such as field edges, hydro or utility right-of-ways, or logged areas.
Where it's been found in Ontario
The Golden-winged Warbler is found in southern Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec, as well as the north-eastern United States. In Ontario, these birds breed in central-eastern Ontario, as far south as Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence River, and as far north as the northern edge of Georgian Bay. Golden-winged Warblers have also been found in the Lake of the Woods area near the Manitoba border, and around Long Point on Lake Erie.
Golden-winged Warblers spend the winter in Central America, some Caribbean islands, and the northern part of South America.
View a Larger version of this map (PDF)
What threatens it
Loss of habitat in eastern North America is one threat to the Golden-winged Warbler. These warblers will mate with Blue-winged Warblers, producing hybrids with characteristics from both species. This hybridization is another threat to Golden-winged Warbler populations. Over generations the Golden-winged Warblers are replaced by the Blue-winged Warblers. In addition to hybridization, "nest parasitism" by Brown-headed Cowbirds is a threat. The cowbirds lay their eggs in other species' nests, and the young cowbirds are fed by the host parents at the expense of their own young.
Action we are taking
Special concern species do not receive species or habitat protection.
Report a sighting of an endangered animal or plant to the Natural Heritage Information Centre. Photographs with specific locations or mapping coordinates are always helpful.
Bird Studies Canada is working to advance the understanding, appreciation and conservation of wild birds and their habitat in Ontario and elsewhere. For more information on how you can help, visit: www.bsc-eoc.org.
Volunteer with your local nature club or provincial park to participate in surveys or stewardship work focused on species at risk.
Be a good steward
Private land owners have a very important role to play in species recovery. You may be eligible for stewardship programs that support the protection and recovery of species at risk and their habitats.
Report any illegal activity related to plants and wildlife to 1-877-TIPSMNR (8477667).
Golden-winged Warblers tend to nest in loose groups or "colonies" that contain up to ten pairs of breeding birds.
These warblers leave Ontario for the tropics in late August and early September, returning around mid-May.
Golden-winged Warblers often return to the same areas to nest year after year. Both males and females have been identified at the same breeding territory for seven years.
The Golden-winged Warbler resembles the Black-capped Chickadee, and it is sometimes easy to confuse these species, both of which feed head down at the ends of branches.
How species at risk are protected
Species at risk in Ontario List
How to comment on protecting species at risk
How to get an Endangered Species Act permit or authorization
Conserving biodiversity
Ministry of the Environment, Conservation and Parks
The Ministry of the Environment, Conservation and Parks works to protect and sustain the quality of Ontario's air, land, and water. We also coordinate Ontario's actions on climate change in the name of healthier communities, ecological protection and economic prosperity.
There are many ways to contact the Government of Ontario.
© King's Printer for Ontario, 2012–to23


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Main Stage Shows
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Lady Day at Emerson's Bar and Grill
LADY DAY AT EMERSON'S BAR & GRILL
August 28-September 6
$25 preview on August 27
By Lanie Robertson
The Depot's season closes on a big note with LADY DAY AT EMERSON'S BAR & GRILL from August 28 – September 6 with a preview on August 27. This "play with music" recounts the heartbreaking, beautiful, and haunting story of Billie Holiday's life through the songs that made her one of the most famous icons of the era, including "What A Little Moonlight Can Do," "God Bless The Child," and "Strange Fruit."
RATED: PG-13 (Content includes adult themes and language, including issues of race, substance abuse, and abusive relationships.)
PRODUCTION SPONSOR: Mountain Lake PBS
Remembering Shirley Bacot ShamelJanuary 14, 2020 - 1:41 pm
The Depot Theatre receives funding from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.
With special thanks to the following for their support of the Depot's ongoing strategic objectives: Alfred Z. Solomon Charitable Trust, Cloudsplitter Foundation, J.M. McDonald Foundation, Inc., Glenn and Carol Pearsall Adirondack Foundation, Charles R. Wood Foundation
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