Though there aren't many stories available, I found this one to be particularly interesting:
Stan has traveled 29.3 kilometers from his home in Toronto to the home of his friend in a Mississauga high-rise. Before he gets out of his car, Stan puts on a surgical mask, leather gloves, and sunglasses.
Stan wears the mask because he is worried about Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, a disease which has a global case fatality rate of between seven and fifteen percent -- estimates vary. He is also worried about Ebola haemorrhagic fever, which has a global case fatality rate of about 90%. Two nearly-recovered patients with SARS are presently 47.2 kilometers away from Stan in Toronto General Hospital. The nearest Ebola patients are in Africa, 12,580 kilometers from Stan.
Stan is not worried about Mrs. Imelda Foster, who is cleaning a penthouse apartment. If Stan even knew about Mrs. Foster, he would appreciate her enthusiasm for bleach as a disinfectant. Mrs. Foster's eyesight is not what it used to be, and she compensates by going over the same surface repeatedly.
Stan wears gloves because he is worried about spider bites. The only venomous spider in Ontario is the northern widow, Latrodectus various, which produces venom fifteen times as toxic as the venom of a prairie rattlesnake. Although the spider injects much less venom than a snake with each bite, nearly one-percent of L. various bites are fatal. Fatalities are concentrated in the very young and the very sick. Stan is thirty-seven years old and in good physical condition. Still, he does not put his hand where he cannot see, and he wears gloves just in case.
Stan is not worried about Tanya Scott, the four-year-old girl who lives in the penthouse apartment where Mrs. Imelda Foster is cleaning. If Stan knew of little Tanya's existence, he would appreciate Mrs. Foster's diligence with the vacuum cleaner everywhere in the apartment, even on the balcony. There are zero spider webs in the penthouse apartment.
Stan wears sunglasses. The sun is expected to radiate peacefully for another 5 billion years, but in the course of that time its luminosity will double to a brilliance that Stan finds alarming.
Stan does not worry about a glass swan figurine weighing 457 grams. Yesterday Tanya Scott moved the swan from its place on the coffee table to the balcony railing where she could see it in the sunlight. Tanya left the swan on the railing. Mrs. Foster does not see the swan when she brings the vacuum cleaner out to tidy up the balcony. She knocks the swan from the railing with the vacuum cleaner wand.
At the moment that the swan begins its descent, Stan is 38 meters from a point directly below the falling swan. He is proceeding toward that point in a straight line and at a steady pace of 3.2 kilometers per hour. A falling object accelerates at the rate of approximately 10 meters/second/second. The railing is 112 meters above the sidewalk.
Question: Is Stan worrying about the right things?
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
A story- The Dead Boy at Your Window
In a distant country where the towns had improbable names, a woman looked upon the unmoving form of her newborn baby and refused to see what the midwife saw. This was her son. She had brought him forth in agony, and now he must suck. She pressed his lips to her breast.
“But he is dead!” said the midwife.
“No,” his mother lied. “I felt him suck just now.” Her lie was as milk to the baby, who really was dead but who now opened his dead eyes and began to kick his dead legs. “There, do you see?” And she made the midwife call the father in to know his son.
The dead boy never did suck at his mother's breast. He sipped no water, never took food of any kind, so of course he never grew. But his father, who was handy with all things mechanical, built a rack for stretching him so that, year by year, he could be as tall as the other children.
When he had seen six winters, his parents sent him to school. Though he was as tall as the other students, the dead boy was strange to look upon. His bald head was almost the right size, but the rest of him was thin as a piece of leather and dry as a stick. He tried to make up for his ugliness with diligence, and every night he was up late practicing his letters and numbers.
His voice was like the rasping of dry leaves. Because it was so hard to hear him, the teacher made all the other students hold their breaths when he gave an answer. She called on him often, and he was always right.
Naturally, the other children despised him. The bullies sometimes waited for him after school, but beating him, even with sticks, did him no harm. He wouldn't even cry out.
One windy day, the bullies stole a ball of twine from their teacher's desk, and after school, they held the dead boy on the ground with his arms out so that he took the shape of a cross. They ran a stick in through his left shirt sleeve and out through the right. They stretched his shirt tails down to his ankles, tied everything in place, fastened the ball of twine to a buttonhole, and launched him. To their delight, the dead boy made an excellent kite. It only added to their pleasure to see that owing to the weight of his head, he flew upside down.
When they were bored with watching the dead boy fly, they let go of the string. The dead boy did not drift back to earth, as any ordinary kite would do. He glided. He could steer a little, though he was mostly at the mercy of the winds. And he could not come down. Indeed, the wind blew him higher and higher.
The sun set, and still the dead boy rode the wind. The moon rose and by its glow he saw the fields and forests drifting by. He saw mountain ranges pass beneath him, and oceans and continents. At last the winds gentled, then ceased, and he glided down to the ground in a strange country. The ground was bare. The moon and stars had vanished from the sky. The air seemed gray and shrouded. The dead boy leaned to one side and shook himself until the stick fell from his shirt. He wound up the twine that had trailed behind him and waited for the sun to rise. Hour after long hour, there was only the same grayness. So he began to wander.
He encountered a man who looked much like himself, a bald head atop leathery limbs. “Where am I?” the dead boy asked.
The man looked at the grayness all around. “Where?” the man said. His voice, like the dead boy's, sounded like the whisper of dead leaves stirring.
A woman emerged from the grayness. Her head was bald, too, and her body dried out. “This!” she rasped, touching the dead boy's shirt. “I remember this!” She tugged on the dead boy's sleeve. “I had a thing like this!”
“Clothes?” said the dead boy.
“Clothes!” the woman cried. “That's what it is called!”
More shriveled people came out of the grayness. They crowded close to see the strange dead boy who wore clothes. Now the dead boy knew where he was. “This is the land of the dead.”
“Why do you have clothes?” asked the dead woman. “We came here with nothing! Why do you have clothes?”
“I have always been dead,” said the dead boy, “but I spent six years among the living.”
“Six years!” said one of the dead. “And you have only just now come to us?”
“Did you know my wife?” asked a dead man. “Is she still among the living?”
“Give me news of my son!”
“What about my sister?”
The dead people crowded closer.
The dead boy said, “What is your sister's name?” But the dead could not remember the names of their loved ones. They did not even remember their own names. Likewise, the names of the places where they had lived, the numbers given to their years, the manners or fashions of their times, all of these they had forgotten.
“Well,” said the dead boy, “in the town where I was born, there was a widow. Maybe she was your wife. I knew a boy whose mother had died, and an old woman who might have been your sister.”
“Are you going back?”
“Of course not,” said another dead person. “No one ever goes back.”
“I think I might,” the dead boy said. He explained about his flying. “When next the wind blows....”
“The wind never blows here,” said a man so newly dead that he remembered wind.
“Then you could run with my string.”
“Would that work?”
“Take a message to my husband!” said a dead woman.
“Tell my wife that I miss her!” said a dead man.
“Let my sister know I haven't forgotten her!”
“Say to my lover that I love him still!”
They gave him their messages, not knowing whether or not their loved ones were themselves long dead. Indeed, dead lovers might well be standing next to one another in the land of the dead, giving messages for each other to the dead boy. Still, he memorized them all. Then the dead put the stick back inside his shirt sleeves, tied everything in place, and unwound his string. Running as fast as their leathery legs could manage, they pulled the dead boy back into the sky, let go of the string, and watched with their dead eyes as he glided away.
He glided a long time over the gray stillness of death until at last a puff of wind blew him higher, until a breath of wind took him higher still, until a gust of wind carried him up above the grayness to where he could see the moon and the stars. Below he saw moonlight reflected in the ocean. In the distance rose mountain peaks. The dead boy came to earth in a little village. He knew no one here, but he went to the first house he came to and rapped on the bedroom shutters. To the woman who answered, he said, “A message from the land of the dead,” and gave her one of the messages. The woman wept, and gave him a message in return.House by house, he delivered the messages.
House by house, he collected messages for the dead. In the morning, he found some boys to fly him, to give him back to the wind's mercy so he could carry these new messages back to the land of the dead.
So it has been ever since. On any night, head full of messages, he may rap upon any window to remind someone -- to remind you, perhaps -- of love that outlives memory, of love that needs no names.
“But he is dead!” said the midwife.
“No,” his mother lied. “I felt him suck just now.” Her lie was as milk to the baby, who really was dead but who now opened his dead eyes and began to kick his dead legs. “There, do you see?” And she made the midwife call the father in to know his son.
The dead boy never did suck at his mother's breast. He sipped no water, never took food of any kind, so of course he never grew. But his father, who was handy with all things mechanical, built a rack for stretching him so that, year by year, he could be as tall as the other children.
When he had seen six winters, his parents sent him to school. Though he was as tall as the other students, the dead boy was strange to look upon. His bald head was almost the right size, but the rest of him was thin as a piece of leather and dry as a stick. He tried to make up for his ugliness with diligence, and every night he was up late practicing his letters and numbers.
His voice was like the rasping of dry leaves. Because it was so hard to hear him, the teacher made all the other students hold their breaths when he gave an answer. She called on him often, and he was always right.
Naturally, the other children despised him. The bullies sometimes waited for him after school, but beating him, even with sticks, did him no harm. He wouldn't even cry out.
One windy day, the bullies stole a ball of twine from their teacher's desk, and after school, they held the dead boy on the ground with his arms out so that he took the shape of a cross. They ran a stick in through his left shirt sleeve and out through the right. They stretched his shirt tails down to his ankles, tied everything in place, fastened the ball of twine to a buttonhole, and launched him. To their delight, the dead boy made an excellent kite. It only added to their pleasure to see that owing to the weight of his head, he flew upside down.
When they were bored with watching the dead boy fly, they let go of the string. The dead boy did not drift back to earth, as any ordinary kite would do. He glided. He could steer a little, though he was mostly at the mercy of the winds. And he could not come down. Indeed, the wind blew him higher and higher.
The sun set, and still the dead boy rode the wind. The moon rose and by its glow he saw the fields and forests drifting by. He saw mountain ranges pass beneath him, and oceans and continents. At last the winds gentled, then ceased, and he glided down to the ground in a strange country. The ground was bare. The moon and stars had vanished from the sky. The air seemed gray and shrouded. The dead boy leaned to one side and shook himself until the stick fell from his shirt. He wound up the twine that had trailed behind him and waited for the sun to rise. Hour after long hour, there was only the same grayness. So he began to wander.
He encountered a man who looked much like himself, a bald head atop leathery limbs. “Where am I?” the dead boy asked.
The man looked at the grayness all around. “Where?” the man said. His voice, like the dead boy's, sounded like the whisper of dead leaves stirring.
A woman emerged from the grayness. Her head was bald, too, and her body dried out. “This!” she rasped, touching the dead boy's shirt. “I remember this!” She tugged on the dead boy's sleeve. “I had a thing like this!”
“Clothes?” said the dead boy.
“Clothes!” the woman cried. “That's what it is called!”
More shriveled people came out of the grayness. They crowded close to see the strange dead boy who wore clothes. Now the dead boy knew where he was. “This is the land of the dead.”
“Why do you have clothes?” asked the dead woman. “We came here with nothing! Why do you have clothes?”
“I have always been dead,” said the dead boy, “but I spent six years among the living.”
“Six years!” said one of the dead. “And you have only just now come to us?”
“Did you know my wife?” asked a dead man. “Is she still among the living?”
“Give me news of my son!”
“What about my sister?”
The dead people crowded closer.
The dead boy said, “What is your sister's name?” But the dead could not remember the names of their loved ones. They did not even remember their own names. Likewise, the names of the places where they had lived, the numbers given to their years, the manners or fashions of their times, all of these they had forgotten.
“Well,” said the dead boy, “in the town where I was born, there was a widow. Maybe she was your wife. I knew a boy whose mother had died, and an old woman who might have been your sister.”
“Are you going back?”
“Of course not,” said another dead person. “No one ever goes back.”
“I think I might,” the dead boy said. He explained about his flying. “When next the wind blows....”
“The wind never blows here,” said a man so newly dead that he remembered wind.
“Then you could run with my string.”
“Would that work?”
“Take a message to my husband!” said a dead woman.
“Tell my wife that I miss her!” said a dead man.
“Let my sister know I haven't forgotten her!”
“Say to my lover that I love him still!”
They gave him their messages, not knowing whether or not their loved ones were themselves long dead. Indeed, dead lovers might well be standing next to one another in the land of the dead, giving messages for each other to the dead boy. Still, he memorized them all. Then the dead put the stick back inside his shirt sleeves, tied everything in place, and unwound his string. Running as fast as their leathery legs could manage, they pulled the dead boy back into the sky, let go of the string, and watched with their dead eyes as he glided away.
He glided a long time over the gray stillness of death until at last a puff of wind blew him higher, until a breath of wind took him higher still, until a gust of wind carried him up above the grayness to where he could see the moon and the stars. Below he saw moonlight reflected in the ocean. In the distance rose mountain peaks. The dead boy came to earth in a little village. He knew no one here, but he went to the first house he came to and rapped on the bedroom shutters. To the woman who answered, he said, “A message from the land of the dead,” and gave her one of the messages. The woman wept, and gave him a message in return.House by house, he delivered the messages.
House by house, he collected messages for the dead. In the morning, he found some boys to fly him, to give him back to the wind's mercy so he could carry these new messages back to the land of the dead.
So it has been ever since. On any night, head full of messages, he may rap upon any window to remind someone -- to remind you, perhaps -- of love that outlives memory, of love that needs no names.
A 50-word saga
I chose this one, because it`s amazing how just few words can tell us so much. The subject of this saga is fantastic, besides make you thinking about it.
Waiting for My Father, Who Is Never Coming Home Again,
Ever
A clock ticks in the kitchen.
A car goes by.
I can hear my own breathing.
"Whatcha doin'?" her mom asked.
"Writing a poem for school."
"Oh, may I see?"
Janie tore off the title.
"Sure. It's called Evening."
Waiting for My Father, Who Is Never Coming Home Again,
Ever
A clock ticks in the kitchen.
A car goes by.
I can hear my own breathing.
"Whatcha doin'?" her mom asked.
"Writing a poem for school."
"Oh, may I see?"
Janie tore off the title.
"Sure. It's called Evening."
Saturday, 9 May 2009
50 word saga
This was by far my favourite of the ones I read, because it explains how difficult this task may be, however simple it may seem. Here it is:
A fifty word saga. Difficult? Yes. Impossible? I don’t think so.
I typed, backspaced, counted, recounted, and typed some more. It’s even tougher than I had expected. Too much pressure! I can’t do this! Wait, just a few words more, a little more...voila! I knew I could do it!
A fifty word saga. Difficult? Yes. Impossible? I don’t think so.
I typed, backspaced, counted, recounted, and typed some more. It’s even tougher than I had expected. Too much pressure! I can’t do this! Wait, just a few words more, a little more...voila! I knew I could do it!
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Mice, brains and ants, strange combinations but wonderful
The Austrian artist Peter Kloger (b.1959) rose to international prominence in the late 1970s with his space –related works reflecting on the nature and the impact of modern media. His exhibitions break down all our notion about what should be art and how it is represented. In Lisbon, it wasn`t different. Kogler tries all the time and from different ways illustrate the news organizational models in the 21st century
Giant tubular forms drawn in the large entrance hall invite the visitors to a monstrous imaginary travel through the new media-networked society. Despite the first intention of the artist is represent the new technological era and its chaos, the impact of the black network of pipes take several direction, in other words, allow the visitors to make different interpretations.
The presence of ants in the paintings is constant. They appear in large number, perhaps to show that even being smalls, working together they are able to do any task. It makes comparisons between nature and technology. Both, nature working together and technology linked in network can overcome any challenge.
The convolution of the human brain is also a motif for the artist. He paints it in big scale, so the visitors can take perception about how it functions. Quickly, the visitors understand the artist sight. In this case, he sees a human brain as a network which can only work together.
The technologies, such as video, synchronised projection, graphic design take place in this exhibition. Kloger use them to show the nature evolution. In a dark and large projection room the visitors can see mice in movement. It starts with one mouse, little by little, the room is full of mice. It seems very real, it`s incredible and in same time a little bit scary. The visitor, particularly kids used to try in vain smash them.
That is an unusual exhibition, so I’m sure that everyone, no matter the age, will enjoy it.
Giant tubular forms drawn in the large entrance hall invite the visitors to a monstrous imaginary travel through the new media-networked society. Despite the first intention of the artist is represent the new technological era and its chaos, the impact of the black network of pipes take several direction, in other words, allow the visitors to make different interpretations.
The presence of ants in the paintings is constant. They appear in large number, perhaps to show that even being smalls, working together they are able to do any task. It makes comparisons between nature and technology. Both, nature working together and technology linked in network can overcome any challenge.
The convolution of the human brain is also a motif for the artist. He paints it in big scale, so the visitors can take perception about how it functions. Quickly, the visitors understand the artist sight. In this case, he sees a human brain as a network which can only work together.
The technologies, such as video, synchronised projection, graphic design take place in this exhibition. Kloger use them to show the nature evolution. In a dark and large projection room the visitors can see mice in movement. It starts with one mouse, little by little, the room is full of mice. It seems very real, it`s incredible and in same time a little bit scary. The visitor, particularly kids used to try in vain smash them.
That is an unusual exhibition, so I’m sure that everyone, no matter the age, will enjoy it.
Report on a visit
Visit Report – the Convent of Mafra.
You may have already visited this monument located in the town of Mafra, just about 20 miles northwest of Lisbon. Whether or not you have, be sure it’s worth going once more, because there is always something new to discover.
Not only it is completely free, but also an opportunity to learn more about the Portuguese historic background. People from all over the country (and abroad) visit this national landmark for different reasons. You may be a university Architecture student; you may be an enthusiast of Renaissance Art; or you could just be the average tourist. All of these are more than enough reasons to spend an afternoon here.
The convent has been restored recently, with new exhibits available (such as the army showcase). Be prepared to walk – a lot. We’re talking about one of the largest buildings in Portugal. The house of the Royal Family up until three centuries ago, it is a fine example of how the Kings and Queens used to live. Evidently, many of its “furniture”, such as paintings, is now gone (either to Brazil or other museums across the country or the globe). But the history you learn definitely makes up for the lack of some items.
As one enters a guided tour through the convent, the guide shows the church, one fine example of architecture, and, one could argue, waste of money, given the fact that the King spent a scandalous amount of resources in a moment when the country was struggling. But let’s move on. The guide takes us to the King’s bedroom, as well as the Queen’s (both are located in the opposite ends of the convent). We also get to take a look at the glorious library, with over 40 000 books – a key archive site, famous across the European elites of the 18th century. Other areas include the dining room and the prison cells.
Be sure there is more to the convent than meets the eye: after your tour, you can also visit the army complex and take a relaxing walk in “Jardim do Cerco”.
You may have already visited this monument located in the town of Mafra, just about 20 miles northwest of Lisbon. Whether or not you have, be sure it’s worth going once more, because there is always something new to discover.
Not only it is completely free, but also an opportunity to learn more about the Portuguese historic background. People from all over the country (and abroad) visit this national landmark for different reasons. You may be a university Architecture student; you may be an enthusiast of Renaissance Art; or you could just be the average tourist. All of these are more than enough reasons to spend an afternoon here.
The convent has been restored recently, with new exhibits available (such as the army showcase). Be prepared to walk – a lot. We’re talking about one of the largest buildings in Portugal. The house of the Royal Family up until three centuries ago, it is a fine example of how the Kings and Queens used to live. Evidently, many of its “furniture”, such as paintings, is now gone (either to Brazil or other museums across the country or the globe). But the history you learn definitely makes up for the lack of some items.
As one enters a guided tour through the convent, the guide shows the church, one fine example of architecture, and, one could argue, waste of money, given the fact that the King spent a scandalous amount of resources in a moment when the country was struggling. But let’s move on. The guide takes us to the King’s bedroom, as well as the Queen’s (both are located in the opposite ends of the convent). We also get to take a look at the glorious library, with over 40 000 books – a key archive site, famous across the European elites of the 18th century. Other areas include the dining room and the prison cells.
Be sure there is more to the convent than meets the eye: after your tour, you can also visit the army complex and take a relaxing walk in “Jardim do Cerco”.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
Addicted to music?
Do you listen to music through your MP3 player most of the time you're awake? Do you find it hard to spend quality time without listening to your favourite songs? Do you buy or download extreme amounts of songs and albums? Are you bound to get angry or even depressed if your device's battery runs out, or if your earphones malfunction? Do you use it in order to go to sleep or even switch it on during activities that require you to be focused?
If you do (any of these), it is quite likely that you're an MP3 addict. Don't worry though: you're not the only one. Many people, especially in their teens or early twenties, can't live without music. While there is absolutely no doubt music is a part of our everyday lives (and healthy), some people make it the most important thing, in a not so healthy way. Take a look around: MP3 players are everywhere, and it's not like you can walk downtown without seeing people with their earphones on. Not only it can be rather dangerous if you're not listening to what's happening around (and yes, many boys and girls listen to music that loud), but it also carries several consequences physically (loss of auditory capacity) and psychologically (anxiety, interacting problems, relationship issues, just to mention a few). One needs to be careful; and it's not getting any better - in the next decade, this addiction is set to become even stronger.
If you're seeking to overcome this addiction, there is one thing you should keep in mind: set boundaries. Don't listen to music in your player more than a certain amount of time (one hour per day is appropriate). Go out with friends and family when that limit is over. The reason why going out with someone else is recommended is the fact that being alone would encourage listening to more music. It also would be harder to completely stop listening to music - and you don't even need to do that. After all, "music is a way of life".
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