After standing three hours at the end of September in Ottawa to touch the flag that covered Pierre Elliot Trudeau.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death.

I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me
Shall you be overcome.

Posted by at September 30, 2000 09:20 PM

I am working on adapting a Secret report to the web that talks about there being poverty among women in Canada. Apparently there's quite a bit of it.

Don't TELL ANYBODY THOUGH, IT'S STILL A SECRET!

Posted by at September 28, 2000 01:50 PM

You bring sound knowledge of Microsoft IIS and Coldfusion.

Why the hell do companies decide what scripting languages they're going to use on their web site BEFORE they hire their project manager?

Isn't it possible that the new guy might know something you don't?

That, and scripting languages are a dime a dozen -- if your new guy can't pick it up because of his innate grasp of site construction, you're screwed anyhow. You want general experience, not monkey-regurgitation of a few crammed courses in technology that'll be obsolete by the time your site goes online, anyhow.

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Of the paradise and glory
Of the never-ever time
Of a place none can point at
No matter how many preachers are born
There will be no celebration of life
Except where memory collected and collective
From then now and then guides us

Now even though
My children have never known peace
I would like the children of the world
To see with their ear
And sing the sunrise in Tunis

It is heart-of-watermelon red
Mellow like an amber slice of moon
As it emerges from high rock and low cloud
Suspended near the blueless sky
A spectre between nothing and nothing
Without a single ray of light
As if to simply say
Don't you know the world is remarkable

Keorapetse Kgositsile

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