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Thursday
March 8, 2001
"Einstein
repeatedly argued that there must be simplified explanations of nature,
because God is not capricious or arbitrary.
No
such faith comforts the software engineer. Much of the complexity he
must master is arbitrary complexity, forced without rhyme or reason
by the many human institutions and systems to which his interfaces must
conform. These differ from interface to interface, and from time to
time, not because of necessity but only because they were designed by
different people, not God."
Frederick
P. Brooks, Jr., The Mythical Man-Month
somehow the light delighted me...
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quality of light
Some days it seems
depression is easy to come by. There are ample reasons for it; there are
many things fast escaping one's grasp, one's understanding; one is not
able to make sane decisions in the maelstrom and, even if sane courses
appeared, one is unable to take the necessary colleagues along on the
journey. Soon, one is making too much of one's paltry existence and one's
ability to make a difference.
Work found me present
but not at my best. Nearly deaf with congestion, voice there but laboring,
head bursting late in the day. In this state, I'm trying to change the
world. To find solid, true courses and truths where probably none exist.
And build morale. Yeah, right.
After work I stop
off at the parents' house so they can see I'm alive and breathing (even
if it's labored breathing). They have some minor roof leaks. Mom is working
on her loom. They are happy and seem healthy enough.
The Wagner Ring
tapes I'm listening to on the way home cheer me some. But something else
really does it. Cheers me up. Makes me take another view, look at life
another way.
It's the quality
of the light on the way home. It's the clouds and the declining sunshine
bouncing off the sky in the east and off the train stopped by Mopac. As
I inch my way in slow, slow traffic I point the camera at the elusive
light that has changed my attitude and open the lens. It transforms me
somehow.
I wrote
this in New York. It's an end of winter tale, in a way. (Spring is EVERYWHERE
here. Whoa!)
<warning...bad poetry here><\warning>
<poem>
Lost
in the City
A
pair of black wool gloves.
Neatly aligned under a table.
At the deli we've adopted.
I don't mention it.
The occupants gone,
maybe to return.
For the gloves.
A burly policeman waits for 'WALK'.
His boot near a lonely man's glove.
Leather or Synthetic,
in the street.
A woman's glove.
Leather.
On the dirty snow.
Contorted like a claw.
On the Upper East Side.
A baby at leisure in its stroller,
with fat round cheeks blushed with cold.
Insists on holding, not wearing,
pink mittens, one in each hand.
Her mother fusses, afraid they will be
lost.
But does not take them away.
<\poem>
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