Categories
Critters Political

You need to thin the forests to find the trees

Japanese whale researchers recently discovered a new species of baleen whale, which they have named Balaenoptera omurai. It’s not unusual to discover new species of animals, but not ones this large – about 12 meters long. Big as a bus, in other words.

This is going to impact on whale hunting, as it should. What may have been a larger population of one whale could end up being small populations of several different kinds of whale. What delicious irony that the whales killed for Japanese research could eventually lead to the end of whales killed for Japanese commerce.

Rumor has it that George Bush heralded the news of this large discovery with relief. Sources close to the President reported him as saying, “See? It took scientists two hundred years to find this whale, and its as big as a bus. A bus! And if the Japanese hadn’t been allowed to kill all those whales, we’d never have known this species exists.”

“Now you know why we haven’t found any WMD. We need to kill more Iraqi.”

Categories
Just Shelley

Wanna chocolate?

Many thanks for the kind words about my birthday.

My roommate took me out for an Italian dinner that would violate every aspect of an Atkins diet. We had bruschetta for an appetizer, home made garlic breadsticks with the dinner, which happened to be chicken, artichoke, sun dried tomato, and shitake mushroom sauteed in garlic and virgin olive oil, served with smoked cheese, and tossed with pasta. It was beyond good.

For dessert? Godiva chocolates, baby. First class, all the way.

Following Loren’s good advice in comments yesterday, I went for a vigorous four mile walk today, burning off some of the goodies. I can’t believe how much better I feel lately. I feel like a new woman, rested and healthy and ready for trouble. Tomorrow we’re expecting 75 degree weather, this weekend snow, so you can imagine what I’ll be doing tomorrow.

(If you guessed working on the computer and writing to this weblog, you’re ill. Get help.)

Speaking of weblogging, I managed to get the Practical RDF weblog up and running, Mirror Self is running with about half of the photo weblogs, but the For Poets sites are just not importing well. Two imported, one failed during import, and one is generating build errors when I try to rebuild the pages. Normally when I move a Movable Type weblog, I’ll do a dump of the SQL and copy the files. However, with the weblog split, I wanted to start clean. I have things to do, though, so I’m not going to screw with it much longer. Luckily none of the sites is big and I can just copy the posts, though I’ll lose the comments.

Friday I finish moving the rest of the sites: LorenMichael, and Malcolm. Good. Once we’re moved, all tucked in with our favorite blankies and hot cocoa, we can return to telling each other our favorite bedtime stories.

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Categories
RDF

PostCon – generating RDF/XML files

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Now that the Burningbird Network sites are getting back into the groove, time to bring this weblog back online.

I’ve incorporated bits and pieces of the PostCon throughout this system. However, none of the implementations are a blinding flash or a deafening roar. And I’m not picking a fight with anyone about it, so I imagine rolling out this technology won’t generate a lot of conversation.

The first implementation of PostCon for my system was to create the RDF files containing information about individual weblog posts for Burningbird. These files were created automatically using a Movable Type template, and you can see an example of one of the files here. It should be valid RDF/XML, and features the PostCon vocabulary. Information recorded includes:

  • Weblog posting author and creation date
  • URL of current location, as well as articles that link this posting, and other articles that are linked by this posting – its location within a hierarchy of links
  • The resources the posting is dependent on. By this I mean, what format is the file, what style sheets are required by it, and any logos.
  • The status of the posting (valid, active, relevant)
  • Title and abstract and history of the page – including a historical entry representing the fact that the resource was renamed with a reorganization of the web sites

The template used to generate these files can be seen in this exercise is to demonstrate that it does not require huge investments in time or energy in order to record intelligent metadata about a resource in a machine-accessible standard format. One argument against the semantic web, generally, and RDF specifically is that both add to the complexity of a process and are beyond the average person. Well, with PostCon and Movable Type, all the average person needs do is spend about a half an hour understanding the vocabulary, and about another half an hour to modify the template file to output what they want their files to show.

The second component is a PHP-based page that processes this information into human readable form, which is then attacked to a ‘meta’ link within each page. I’ll demonstrate this in the next posting.

(Speaking of RDF programming, I noticed a new review of the book out at Amazon. The problem with book reviews of this nature is that someone can put up a review that says the book is outdated because it covers the previous version of Jena, when Jena coverage is only one aspect of the book, and I spent time updating the examples for Jena 2.0 here in this site. This review also doesn’t take into account rewriting the book four times over two years keeping it in synch with the RDF specs. Grr.)

Categories
Just Shelley

A song on my 49th birthday

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I turned 49 today. Or, more precisely, I turned 49 this morning at 7:02am. I’ve reached the age where I’ve lived too long to die and leave a beautiful corpse. The the only other option open to me now is to live long enough to become a burden on society.

In one more year I’ll reach the age of 50, and then all the rules will have changed. I’m heading into a time when chest pain is cause for concern rather than a move to loosen my bra. Gone are the years where I was asked if I had any kids – now the questions drift more towards grandkids then not. I never thought I would miss the good old days when I’d have to to fend off issues of choosing not to have children (“Well, you still have time to change your mind”).

The middle years of twixt and tween, of being over 50 but before being old – dying before now is a tragedy but after is a blessing. If I were to die now, I would just die, with nothing much more than: “Well, it’s sad, true, but we all have to go sometime.”

And where is the taut, smooth flesh of yesteryear? Who snuck in and left this old, well, older woman?

I turned 49 today and in exactly one year I’ll turn 50. I will kill the first person to give me a black balloon and consider the time spent in prison worth it.

I woke up with visions of black clouds vaguely resembling balloons and I didn’t _quite_ kick the cat, and I didn’t _quite_ slit my wrists. In fact, my coffee tasted remarkably good this morning as I looked out at the clouds lightening to that silver grey, thinking how lovely they are. I’m not one to look on the down side for long, a trait that I seem to grow into more each year. Yes in a year I’ll turn 50, but what can happen in that year?

I’ll write a million or so words and from these a few will come together that I’ll read again and again and I’ll feel that deep satisfaction a writer gets when they know, regardless of what anyone says, they’re good.

I’ll have more chances to take the kind of photographs that when I look at them later, I break into a smile and I holler out loud regardless of who is around: Look! Look what I have created!

I will have another year to try foods that I’ve turned my nose up at in the past. It may even be raw octopus with suckers still fresh enough to grip the insides of my cheeks. I may not like it – I may absolutely hate it – but I’ll have tried it. There won’t be a moment before the end when I’ll think to myself, “I wish I had tried raw octopus.”

In the next 12 months, I may meet one or two people who will end up being a close friend for the rest of my life – or I may realize that I’ve already met the person and have just not experienced the epiphany of the act. We may be sharing a coffee or a beer and I’ll look at the person and think how lucky I am, how much richer my life is because I had a chance to get to know them.

Within these 52 weeks, I may meet someone who I become fond of, or even fall in love with. We could be sharing a laugh, and I’ll know at the moment when my mouth widens into a smile why the other is laughing, and this knowledge becomes an act of immense sensuality. Or perhaps we’ll be on a couch together, me in his arms, or him in mine, or even just sitting beside each other, watching an old movie and the very air will crack with eroticism more intense than anything generated from a strip tease or edible panties.

Or maybe I’ll watch that movie alone and still feel the sensuality of the moment; and experience the arousal that a good film, or book, or song, can generate when it touches you.

In 365 days, I can redefine who I am in 365 ways.

In 8760 hours, a lot can happen. And if in all those hours and days and weeks and months my dreams have not been met, and I’m lucky to reach 50, then I know I’ll continue to have time to meet them, or to dream new dreams.

Categories
Diversity

Neighborhoods

Last night a massive late fall storm hit our area, causing flooding and even generating funnel clouds not far from where we live. Today the trees are stripped bare for the most part, leaves littering the ground like summer’s last soldiers felled honorably on the field of battle.

Except for one tree. One tree on the corner stands out for its stubborness and refusal to change, only just now starting to show rust among its leaves. I have a perfect view of it, framed within my office/bedroom window, and I watch it through the seasons, as it is the last to change for fall and the first to sprout new growth in the spring. I call it my Bird Tree because every bird in the neighborhood eventually spends time there. The predator birds seem to know this and many a time I’ve watched a hawk, perched on the roof nearest it, eyeing it intently, but too big to crawl within the tree’s dense growth. During these times the tree, normally a cacophony of sound, is blazingly quiet, as the other birds become aware of the intruder in their midst.

She who dares sings now does not live to pass her exuberance and spirit on to her offsping, and each new generation becomes more silent in the face of adversity.

Another storm also brewed in the dark of night, as I was catching up my reading over at St Louis Bloggers. Arch Pundit referenced an email he received from Earl P Holt III, a past school board member and current local radio personality. In this email, Holt wrote:

Some day, You sanctimonious n****-lovers will either have to live amongst them (“nothing cures an enthusiasm for integration like a good dose of n***s”) or else defend yourselves against them. My guess is that you are such a cowardly and pusillanimous lot of girly-boys, they will kill fuck, kill and eat you just as they do young White males in every prison system in the U.S. That’s right: When defending this savage and brutish lot, you must also consider their natural ( or should I say UN-natural) enthusiasm for buggery!

I was emailing back and forth with Joe Duemer regarding his weblog move and mentioned this letter, which he had heard about. I talked how I’m glad to be living where I am, where change is most needed, rather than in cities like San Francisco. Joe mentioned (and I hope he doesn’t mind me paraphrasing him here) about increased diversity in bigger cities as compared to smaller communities, because groups have to, perforce, learn how to work and live together because of the more dense environment.

I understand what Joe is saying about cities like Boston and San Francisco and New York – no matter how insular you want to keep your life, you will be exposed to diversity. However, I also believe that though there are commonly shared areas reflecting diversity, city dweller do not necessarily encourage this within those areas closest to home. In fact, cities tend to compartmentalize people into neighborhoods of likeness, from which there is little crossing of implicit barriers.

In Boston, a traditionally liberal city, one can traverse it’s three miles, and cross neighborhoods that encapsulate people based on economics, religion, and race. Run the Boston Marathon and you’ll see much of what I speak.

For instance, sections of Brighton where I lived were exclusive enclaves of the very well to do and rarely is there any color but white spotted among them. Other sections of Brighton are known for large populations of Russian born Jews. My section was split between both, and included funky Harvard students and the upwardly mobile. (Boy, weren’t those the days.)

When I was learning to drive, my black driving instructor tended to take me to a neighborhood he was most comfortable with: Mattapan. If I were an Irish Catholic, I would have been most comfortable in Quincy; as an Italian, in the North End.

True, there are no lines drawn around these areas, and there exists buffers, DMZ if you will, between each where all are welcome. You only have to walk through the Commons to see the rich ethnic diversity of Boston. Still, though, there is that like to like, and suspicion of difference.

(You would think that the online world is different in this regard because we are color blind to each other unless we choose to expose that aspect of ourselves. However, one only has to remember all the fuss and focus on Oliver Willis, the lone black at Bloggercon to realize that hidden from view does not equate to solution arrived at and time to break out the bubbly and congrat ourselves on achieving diversity.)

St. Louis is actually split about equally between black and white and I would have expected to see more diversity among the neighborhoods, but I don’t. In my current neighborhood there are some blacks, but not many. In other parts of the city that I’ve gone to walk, near the Mississippi river, I’ve been the only white among the blacks. I stopped these walks, though, not because I didn’t like the areas or because I felt threatened. On the contrary, I stopped because I felt I was intruding, a danger to the neighborhoods of the worst kind – a lone white woman walking about in a largely black neighborhood. The feel of people trying to be extraordinarily careful around me was oppressive.

Of course, when you read the email sent to the Arch Pundit from a good citizen of the community, or read my story about the confederate flag being proudly flown, we can see why the blacks reacted as they did to my presence – I was in effect, one of the hawks.

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