• Networking,  Tech

    Connecting Fiber cables to your Media Converter

    When you connect fiber there are two cables. This is assuming you understand the different types of connectors and cables and instead focuses on you connecting the fiber strands to your Media Converter. The MC is a small box that converts the LED light to ethernet. The box will have both a GBIC connector and an ethernet port. But which cable goes in the left or the right port and does it even matter? Yes, it does! One cable is transmitting and one is receiving signal. To discover which is the transmit and which is the receive fibers: Remove the fiber connectors and look inside the SFP (GBIC) with your iPhone camera. One…

  • Poetry

    Here’s Looking At You, Kid

    You can tell Gail, if she calls That I’m famous now for all of these rock and roll songs And even if that’s a lie  She shoulda given me a try When we were kids on the field of the first day of school I would’ve been her fool And I would’ve sang out your name in those old high school halls You tell that to Gail, if she calls And you can tell Jane, if she writes That I’m drunk off all these stars and all these crazy Hollywood nights And that’s total deceit  But she shoulda married me And tell her I spent every night of my youth…

  • Poetry


    by Eliza Griswold What are we now but voices who promise each other a life neither one can deliver not for lack of wanting but wanting won’t make it so We cling to a vine at the cliff’s edge. There are tigers above and below. Let us love one another and let go.

  • Poetry

    Winter Grace

    by Patricia Fargnoli If you have seen the snow under the lamppost piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table or somewhere slowly falling into the brook to be swallowed by water, then you have seen beauty and know it for its transience. And if you have gone out in the snow for only the pleasure of walking barely protected from the galaxies, the flakes settling on your parka like the dust from just-born stars, the cold waking you as if from long sleeping, then you can understand how, more often than not, truth is found in silence, how the natural world comes to you if you…

  • Life

    Street Talk

    “How are you today? “I said to the homeless woman standing near the bridge on my walk to my office. The cold early morning November wind whipping. “Who are you?! “She said louder than necessary. She seemed startled. “How do you know me? For a moment I thought, oh here we go. My ability to pluck what some would call iadventure, others trouble, smart people would realize was the universe or black magic or bad luck in every encounter where I foolishly left myself open. “I see you on this corner every weekday morning.” I said. “We walk to work together, you and I.” I said, smiling. I saw her…

  • Poetry

    What the Bones Know

    BY CAROLYN KIZER Remembering the past And gloating at it now, I know the frozen brow And shaking sides of lust Will dog me at my death To catch my ghostly breath.             I think that Yeats was right,           That lust and love are one.           The body of this night            May beggar me to death,           But we are not undone           Who love with all our breath.                        I know that Proust was wrong,                      His wheeze: love, to survive,                      Needs jealousy, and death                      And lust, to make it strong                      Or goose it back alive.                      Proust took away my breath.…

  • Uncategorized


         To help pay for college my dad got me a summer job with the roads and grounds dept out at the 102nd FIW on Otis. After my first summer I was “promoted” to railroad crew. The whole reason for railroad was coal. The power plant ran on it and it came in by freight train. We fixed the tracks and picked up the full coal cars and dropped off the empty. I had to grab a shovel get in a one piece jump suit, wear a paper mask and sit in the cars as the coal poured out the bottom of the hopper like an hourglass measuring my…

  • Life,  Poetry

    The Want of Peace

    All goes back to the earth,and so I do not desirepride of excess or power,but the contentments madeby men who have had little:the fisherman’s silencereceiving the river’s grace,the gardner’s musing on rows. I lack the peace of simple things.I am never wholly in place.I find no peace or grace.We sell the world to buy fire,our way lighted by burning men,and that has bent my mindand made me think of darknessand wish for the dumb life of roots.

  • Poetry

    THE FATHER By Ronald Ross

    Come with me then, my son;        Thine eyes are wide for truth: And I will give thee memories,        And thou shalt give me youth. The lake laps in silver,        The streamlet leaps her length: And I will give thee wisdom,        And thou shalt give me strength. The mist is on the moorland,        The rain roughs the reed: And I will give thee patience,        And thou shalt give me speed. When lightnings lash the skyline        Then thou shalt learn thy part: And when the heav’ns are direst,      …

  • Life,  Poetry

    Finding a Box of Family Letters by Dana Gioiat

    The dead say little in their lettersthey haven’t said before.We find no secrets, and yethow different every sentence soundsheard across the years. My father breaks my heartsimply by being so young and handsome.He’s half my age, with jet-black hair.Look at him in his navy uniformgrinning beside his dive-bomber. Come back, Dad! I want to shout.He says he misses all of us(though I haven’t yet been born).He writes from places I never knew he saw,and everyone he mentions now is dead. There is a large, long photographcurled like a diploma–a banquet sixty years ago.My parents sit uncomfortablyamong tables of dark-suited strangers.The mildewed paper reeks of regret. I wonder what song the…