Eli Likes Sheep
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Eli meant to behave but there were way too many options.
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Eli Rabett
Eli Rabett, a not quite failed professorial techno-bunny who finally handed in the keys and retired from his wanna be research university. The students continue to be naive but great people and the administrators continue to vary day-to-day between homicidal and delusional without Eli's help. Eli notices from recent political developments that this behavior is not limited to administrators. His colleagues retain their curious inability to see the holes that they dig for themselves. Prof. Rabett is thankful that they, or at least some of them occasionally heeded his pointing out the implications of the various enthusiasms that rattle around the department and school. Ms. Rabett is thankful that Prof. Rabett occasionally heeds her pointing out that he is nuts.
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Blog Archive
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2012
(463)
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December
(35)
- About Time to Pipe in the New Year
- Sandy
- Vote for the top climate story of 2012
- Polar Bear Frolics
- Eli Goes Photoshopping for the New Year
- A Tale of Frankenfish or Salmoning Thru the Gates
- Rabett Run As Originally Written
- Eli Delivers
- Facts Shill Matter
- Wien
- Baby
- Should there be any mistakes the Bunny will disavo...
- Requiem
- Nighty
- Eli Likes Sheep
- Sharpening the Teeth on a Whale
- “I could not help myself. It’s the Middle East.”
- The War on Christmas
- Fun With Polynomials
- מנא ,מנא, תקל, ופרסין
- To the Stars (Cause There is a Problem Down Here)
- Climate policy does not need bureaucrats. A carbon...
- When you set out on your journey to Stockholm, pra...
- Eli and the Fox
- Ray Pierrehumbert's Tyndall Lecture AGU 2012
- Pay attention you there in the front row entwined ...
- The long tail of climate change mitigation
- Signifiers
- Time to show fingerprints on Syria issues
- In Memoriam (1920-2012)
- A modest carbon tax has modest carbon reduction re...
- Good Yglesias, Bad Yglesias
- The Problem of Choice
- Bad Attitudes
- Something with a Twist
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▼
December
(35)
Nil Nisi
- A Few Things Illconsidered
- Arthur Smith
- Atmoz
- Capital Climate
- Chris Colose
- Climate Physics Forum
- Cruel Mistress
- Deep Climate
- Delayed Oscillator
- Deltoid
- Denis Delbecq
- Fergus Brown's Old Man
- Greenfyre
- Horatio's Muse
- John Nielsen-Gammon
- Lab Lemming
- Logical Science
- Magnus Westerstrand
- N3xus 6
- Policy Lass
- Post Normal Times
- Rick Piltze
- Some Are Boojums
- Throbgoblin
7 comments:
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
But no thermometer in sight
That medieval Yu-le
"Hither, page, and stand by me
To confirm my telling
That peasant's from the IPCC
Why is he near my dwelling?"
"Sire, he lives at your expense
Up on the UN mountain
Right against the Red Cross fence
By Saint Agnes' fountain."
" On deer flesh and blood red wine
His hearth with logs aquivver
I wish that I could with him dine
Will you send me thither ?"
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather
"Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer."
"Mark my words, page uninformed,
Tread thou forward boldly
Medieval nights are toasty warm
How canst thou freezeth coldly?"
In his master's steps he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
And soon lay dead, poor frozen sod
For the Saint on furs had stinted
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Fail thee not to bless the poor
But look first to their dressing
Cranberry?
Every reader loves the way he tells off
the sun, shouting busy old fool
into the English skies even though they
were likely cloudy on that seventeenth-century morning.
And it’s a pleasure to spend this sunny day
pacing the carpet and repeating the words,
feeling the syllables lock into rows
until I can stand and declare,
the book held closed by my side,
that hours, days, and months are but the rags of time.
But after a few steps into stanza number two,
wherein the sun is blinded by his mistress’s eyes,
I can feel the first one begin to fade
like sky-written letters on a windy day.
And by the time I have taken in the third,
the second is likewise gone, a blown-out candle now,
a wavering line of acrid smoke.
So it’s not until I leave the house
and walk three times around this hidden lake
that the poem begins to show
any interest in walking by my side.
Then, after my circling,
better than the courteous dominion
of her being all states and him all princes,
better than love’s power to shrink
the wide world to the size of a bedchamber,
and better even than the compression
of all that into the rooms of these three stanzas
is how, after hours stepping up and down the poem,
testing the plank of every line,
it goes with me now, contracted into a little spot within.
**Memorizing “The Sun Rising” by John Donne**, by Billy Collins
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/240504
What is not to love about sheep art?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qniwI2hNhDs
And they are delicious, and good for albedo too:
Put some out to safely graze on your green roof today !
My favorite letter from the early 70s National Lampoon.
(from memory)
Do you remember those sheep they found dead in Utah*? Well, they were naked!
Love,
Mothra
*there was, allegedly, a nerve gas accident out in the wilds of Utah which left dead sheep in its wake. Probably the source for the imagery of the same in Close Encounters.
http://youtu.be/tcRYdVlGXNQ
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