Why I Read

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;
I wasn't born for an age like this;
Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?
(George Orwell, "Why I Write")

The fact that he was writing this in 1935 in rhyme should maybe have tipped him off he wasn't made for an age like this.

Anyway, found professional occasion to go back to this essay by Orwell this morning. Read all about it in a month or three.

Kairos

Who are you?
I am Kairos, master of all.

Why do you run on tiptoe?
I am Kairos, ever-running.

Why are your feet winged?
Because I fly like the wind.

Why do you hold a knife in your hand?
To remind men that sharper than the sharpest blade am I.

And why does your hair hang down into your face?
For him who meets me to grasp me by the forelock.

Then why is the back of your head bald?
Because when once on winged feet I have raced past, none that I have passed shall grasp me.

Why did the artist create you?
For your sake, stranger, that I might teach you lessons.

-- The poet Poseidippus, epigram from a statue of Kairos, god of the moment and of opportunity.

It came from outer space

Here is a series of short texts about life on the International Space Station. They were written by Donalt Pettit, an American astronaut who lived on the ISS for 6 months. The texts range from very no-nonsense scientific texts to strangely poetic, haiku-like observations:

It is easy to spill a little water. Perhaps you release some water from the nozzle of our food re-hydrating dispenser, or perhaps from the nozzle where we bathe. In either case, you produce a most amazing array of tiny jeweled spheres, each glistening like a crystal lens as they scatter in all directions. You chase them down with a tissue and catch a few before they impact on the walls. When tissue-contact is made, they adsorb so quickly they simply disappear as if they were soap bubbles that had just popped. You feel a small sadness inside for having destroyed something so beautiful.

Something about the distance from Earth must give you quite the existential change of perspective.

Also, he plays the didgeridoo, which he made. Out of ice and butter..