“I MEANT WELL” DOESN’T MEAN enough.
Author: Neal Ross Attinson
Neal Ross Attinson is one of those text-compulsives who feels naked without a keyboard, or at least a a pad and pen. He is unafraid of adverbs, loves astronomy and gastronomy with equally unabashed passion, and lives with/in an eclectic library in Sonoma, California.
Arm’s Reach To The Stars
PERHAPS “ARM’S REACH TO AN asteroid” would be more accurate, but: For the first time ever, humanity has reached out with metal fingers and grabbed a hunk of asteroid to hold before its face. To put it less poetically, Japanese…
Pithyism #2a: A Daily 22-Year-Relationship Joy
“I WAS JUST ABOUT TO say the exact same thing!”
5 Thoughts: The Whole God Catalogue
1. DESPITE THAT THIS BLOG’S SUBTITLE is “A Journalistic Exploration of Experiential Holiness and Snack Bar,” there seems to me to be little direct dealing with the “experiential holiness” end of things: why any 2010 Renaissance Man would fall in…
Pithyism #248
EVERYTHING IS EASIER SAID THAN done. So?
Tools: Spacejock Software
THIS POST IS BEING WRITTEN in yEdit, one of Simon Haynes‘ many fine Spacejock Software products. He doesn’t know I’m writing it, and until I stumbled across his website I didn’t know he was a famous Australian science-fiction author with…
To ALL My Email Correspondents
HAD I KNOWN THAT DELETING email via my shell account (mutt) would also delete my GUI email (Thunderbird), I would not now be writing you. But it did, so if you’ve sent me an unanswered email in the past ……
Pithyism #8
THERE’S A REASON CLASSIC SONGS are classic: they sound only like themselves, and whatever comes in their wake.
Reb Drunkard’s Wisdom
THE MAN WITH THE UNWASHED face was dressed in baggy street-person clothes which seemed to cushion the cold concrete beneath him. He was laying in front of the Carl’s Jr. restaurant in San Francisco’s Justin Hermann Plaza one cool night…
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The Dilettante’s Question
IS IT ENOUGH TO KNOW, or must one also act?
O Hamlet! O Holden!
ONE OF THE SPARE JOYS of bohemian pretention is, and perhaps always has been, writing sad poems in the rain, letting each misty drop efface and blur the tortured scribble; pearls of moisture like the very angels’ tears weeping for…