Cody Clark blogs his wife’s pie:

“In the land of the Suburbanites, in the tribe of Clark, there was a High Priestess named Heidi who served God and ruled justly, slow to wrath and abounding in kindness. And in her reign the people were happy, for the land flowed with home cooking and every domestic goodness.

It was on the feast day of Saint Patrick that the Lord came to his priestess Heidi and said unto her: �Heidi, my good and faithful servant, you are chosen this day to do my work.� Heidi, though she was shaken with astonishment, replied, �Whatever you will, my Lord, I shall do.�

And the Lord spake unto her: �You shall bring forth a pie such as none in this land has seen, that my name be praised. There shall be a homemade crust, not store-bought as the law does permit, but made by your hand from scratch so that all may taste and my name be praised. And in the crust shall be fresh cream and bananas and coconut and all manner of rich fare. And on this pie shall be real whipped cream, not from a container, as the law does permit, but fresh cream whipped by your hand, that all may wonder at the glory of their God. Sprinkle atop the pie crushed macadamia nuts and toasted coconut that it may be pleasing to the eye and increasing in flavor. Divide the pie into wedges and serve it with coffee, that the people may rejoice and praise their God.� And then the Lord left her to prepare His offering.

The Priestess Heidi did prepare the Pie of the Lord and did show it to the people, who grew wide-eyed and wondered, �What manner of dessert is this that it is prepared by hand and not with shortcuts made common by permit of the law? What love brought forth this labor?� But when the pie was served, all speaking ceased, and the people paid homage, partaking of the pie with reverence. When the pie was eaten all went forth holding their stomachs, moaning praises to God.

And so it was that the Pie of the Lord was brought to the tribe of Clark in the land of the Suburbanites. And His glory was increased.

Poetry by Derek Walcott

The latest little project — a collection of poetry by Derek Walcott.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Guardian Unlimited Sport | Special reports | India v New Zealand

Seems to be nothing out of the ordinary here. A typical world cup match blog report on the Guardian, except that it starts with this screed:

It’s really simple: India are already through, New Zealand have to win.

Meanwhile, have you ever thought WHAT SORT OF LIFE IS THIS AND WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING BOARDING A TRAIN FOR MOORGATE AT 6.30 IN THE MORNING AND THEN STANDING AROUND FOR AGES WAITING FOR A TUBE WHILE STARING AT A SIGN TELLING YOU THAT IF YOU WAIT FOR FOUR MINUTES YOU CAN BOARD A TRAIN TO UXBRIDGE I’D RATHER WAIT FOUR HOURS FOR A JOURNEY WITH THE GRIM REAPER QUITE FRANKLY AND THEN YOU GET TO WORK AND THEN THERE’S THIS AND I KNOW THE CRICKET’S GOOD AND ALL THAT BUT I’VE GOT OUT OF THE WRONG SIDE OF BED THIS MORNING AND IN ANY CASE IT’S NOT AS IF I’LL WRITE A CRACKING MATCH REPORT AND THEN GET REWARDED BY BEING SENT ON A WONDERFUL ASSIGNMENT AROUND THE WORLD BECAUSE I’LL BE VERY SURPRISED IF ANY OF MY BOSSES WILL READ ANY OF THIS LET’S BE HONEST THEY WON’T ALTHOUGH ON THE OTHER HAND THAT’S PROBABLY JUST AS WELL HEY I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO GET AWAY WITH TYPING THINGS LIKE THIS KIqL!UYS^%$DFLI ZSDSAFC SFE4O92 )(^(*^o”$ bBLKU E875O3 96*&^%o*”$ogb LOOK I’M SORRY THIS ISN’T EXACTLY THE SORT OF QUALITY EDITORIAL COPY YOU EXPECT FROM THE GUARDIAN BUT LOOK AT THE FACTS I’M ADRIFT IN THE MIDDLE OF ONE OF THE WORST CITIES IN THE WORLD SITTING IN FRONT OF THE SAME COMPUTER SCREEN I FACE DAY AFTER INTERMINABLE DAY HELL I COULD BE WAKING UP IN SAY THE MALDIVES OR SYDNEY OR COPENHAGEN OR A CROFTER’S COTTAGE IN SKYE AND GOING FOR A WALK IN THE CRISP MORNING AIR?

No? Only me then. Good.

For there on in, the commentary wanders from the match to the writer’s lot in life. It’s brilliant:

3rd over: New Zealand 19-2

A good over for New Zealand, and certainly not as sensational for Zaheer as his first. Three for Styris with a lovely drive which would have been a boundary had it not been for a spectacular drive by the man at extra cover. Then a four for Fleming with a crisp clack through mid wicket. Leonard Skynard (no, really) writes in to say he’s “feeling even worse” than I am and that “he’s mad as hell and not going to take it any more”. Leonard has clearly been watching Network too often.

4th over: New Zealand 21-2

Two highlights from this over: brilliant running from Fleming to plunder a single off the last ball of the over; Guardian Unlimited’s Sally Bolton making me a cup of tea. More from Leonard: to prove his pique, he’s been banging his fists on his keyboard. “asdsadf ;lk;lk;lk,” he writes. You should move your fists about, Leonard, your letter distribution is predictable.

5th over: New Zealand 32-2

Fleming is setting about Zaheer here. Here hare here. He smashes a four through the onside and then nicks another with a fine edge. A good recovery from the Black Caps this. “Is ‘KIqL!UYS^%$DFLI ZSDSAFC SFE4O92 )(^(*^o”$ bBLKU E875O3 96*&^%o*”$ogb’ some sort of code?” asks Richard Perkins. “And if so, can anyone crack it?”

6th over: New Zealand 35-2

A minor singles-fest. Meanwhile, a few of you are trying to make me feel better about my sorry lot in life. “Don’t know what you are whinging about, I live in Reading, which has to be worse than London,” writes a not-wrong Anton Lawrence. “At least you have more to do. And the coffee is better. And you get to watch cricket all day.” “Trust me,” adds Neil Broderick, “there are loads of jobs out there which are worse than being a Guardian reporter. You should try lecturing first-year electronics students whose lack of knowledge is only exceed by their apathy.” And Amber Jones emails in to say: “Come watch my video, it’s very stimulati…” Eh, actually, that’s a bit of junk mail. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

[ Thanks to boing boing ]

Present Attention

After five years of blogging, alamut becomes an Ourobouros, and begins consuming itself again from the beginning:

“Five years have now passed (and four anniversaries where I’ve reflected on what this project means) and at this point I think I’ve recorded enough of my attention and identified enough of the themes that interest me to support a second round of inquiry. So here is my new plan: I propose, for the next five years, in addition to recording my current attention, to read and elaborate upon the entries of the last five years on a day by day basis.

If it’s worthwhile doing once it’s worthwhile doing again.

What’s the point of keeping a record if one doesn’t pay attention to it?”

Good question. Having read Paul Perry’s blog for a while I have no doubt that it should be an interesting answer. Happy anniversary, Paul.

By the way, if you aren’t familiar with alamut yet, check it out. Paul Perry is a fascinating character. On his site you will find an interview he did with NEXT! magazine, in which he says this:

“In general I find that ‘engaged’ artists, trying to play the conscience of society (concerned with human relations) or the conscience of the earth (concerned with the environment) produce propaganda rather than art. The trouble is that most ‘engaged’ artists get their information about the world from the media rather than from their own observations and we all know how the media love to spin the issues in order to capture our attention and entertain us. Thus ‘engaged’ artists tend to build their work on false assumptions obtained from the media. It ends up being nothing more than a carrier of someone else’s ‘false’ message.

The Aurora Borealis on Jupiter

Two descriptions of the relationship between Jupiter and the Aurora:

From Science @ Nasa:

“Jupiter has Northern Lights just as Earth does, although on Jupiter they are hundreds to thousands of times more powerful,” says West. Auroras happen when electrons and ions rain down on the polar atmosphere and cause the air to glow where they hit. Here on Earth, auroras are usually sparked by solar wind gusts. The solar wind can also trigger auroras on Jupiter, but it’s not necessary: On Jupiter, the planet itself energizes Northern Lights. “Jupiter’s magnetic field is a huge reservoir of charged particles,” explains West. “These particles are accelerated poleward by the 11-hour rotation of Jupiter and its magnetic field. Thus, auroras on Jupiter are almost always active.”

From Bullfinch’s Mythology:

“Memnon was the son of Aurora and Tithonus. He was king of the AEthiopians, and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of Ocean. He came with his warriors to assist the kindred of his father in the war of Troy. King Priam received him with great honours, and listened with admiration to his narrative of the wonders of the ocean shore.

The very day after his arrival, Memnon, impatient of repose, led his troops to the field. Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor, fell by his hand, and the Greeks were put to flight, when Achilles appeared and restored the battle. A long and doubtful contest ensued between him and the son of Aurora; at length victory declared for Achilles, Memnon fell, and the Trojans fled in dismay.

Aurora, who from her station in the sky had viewed with apprehension the danger of her son, when she saw him fall, directed his brothers, the Winds, to convey his body to the banks of the river Esepus in Paphlagonia. In the evening Aurora came, accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, and wept and lamented over her son. Night, in sympathy with her grief, spread the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of the Dawn. The AEthiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream in the grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and cinders of his funeral pile to be turned into birds, which, dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell into the flames. Every year at the anniversary of his death they return and celebrate his obsequies in like manner. Aurora remains inconsolable for the loss of her son. Her tears still flow, and may be seen at early morning in the form of dew-drops on the grass.”