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    <title>The (mis)adventures of a macintosh administrator.</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/" />
    <link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://dvsjr.com/atom.xml" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2007-08-30://2</id>
    <updated>2010-03-02T09:11:20Z</updated>
    <subtitle>Wherein our hero battles the forces of commuting, technical support, rabbits and squirrels in his garden, all while maintaining his disguise as a mild mannered IT director for a great metropolitan design firm.</subtitle>
    <generator uri="http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/">Movable Type Publishing Platform 4.0</generator>

<entry>
    <title>Un Bel Di  by Gerald Locklin</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000070.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.70</id>

    <published>2010-03-02T09:10:58Z</published>
    <updated>2010-03-02T09:11:20Z</updated>

    <summary> Because my daughter&apos;s eighth-grade teachers Are having what is called an &quot;in-service day,&quot; Which means, in fact, an out-of-service day, She is spending this Friday home with me, So I get up in time to take us, On this...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[
Because my daughter's eighth-grade teachers
Are having what is called an "in-service day,"
Which means, in fact, an out-of-service day,

She is spending this Friday home with me,
So I get up in time to take us,
On this summery day in March,
For a light lunch at a legendary café
Near the Yacht Marina.

Then we feed some ducks before catching 
The cheap early-bird showing of
My Cousin Vinny, at which we share a 
Dessert of a box of Milk Duds large
Enough to last us the entire show.

Afterwards we drive to a shoe-store to
Get her the Birkenstocks she's been coveting,

But they're out of her size in green; we leave
An order and stop for dinner at Norm Calvin's 
Texas-style hole-in-the-wall barbeque rib factory.

When we get home I am smart enough 
To downplay to my wife what a good day
We have had on our own. Later, saying
Goodnight to my little girl,

Already much taller than her mother,
I say, "days like today are the favorite
Days of my life," and she knows

It is true.


- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Pull a string a puppet moves</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000069.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.69</id>

    <published>2010-02-25T17:42:53Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-25T17:43:14Z</updated>

    <summary> By Charles Bukowski each man must realize that it can all disappear very quickly: the cat, the woman, the job, the front tire, the bed, the walls, the room; all our necessities including love, rest on foundations of sand...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[
By Charles Bukowski


each man must realize
that it can all disappear very
quickly:
the cat, the woman, the job,
the front tire,
the bed, the walls, the
room; all our necessities
including love,
rest on foundations of sand -
and any given cause,
no matter how unrelated:
the death of a boy in Hong Kong
or a blizzard in Omaha ...
can serve as your undoing.
all your chinaware crashing to the
kitchen floor, your girl will enter
and you'll be standing, drunk,
in the center of it and she'll ask:
my god, what's the matter?
and you'll answer: I don't know,
I don't know ...



- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Nostalgia  by Dawn Potter</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000068.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.68</id>

    <published>2010-02-13T10:39:36Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-13T10:39:57Z</updated>

    <summary> It was darker then, in the nights when the cars Came sliding around the traffic circle, when the headlights Speckled with rain traveled the bedroom walls and vanished; when the typewriter, the squeaking chair, the slow voice of the...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[


It was darker then, in the nights when the cars
Came sliding around the traffic circle, when the headlights
Speckled with rain traveled the bedroom walls
and vanished; when the typewriter, the squeaking chair,
the slow voice of the radio stirred the night air like a fan.
Of course, the ones we loved were beautiful--
slim, dark-haired, intent on their books.
The rain came swishing against the lamp-lit windows.
The cat purred in his chair. A clock sang,
and we lay nearly asleep, almost dreaming,
almost alone, nearly gone--the days fly so;
and the nights, like sleep, disappear without memory.


- Posted from my iPhone, early in the morning. <br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>This Year&apos;s Valentine  by Philip Appleman</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000067.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.67</id>

    <published>2010-02-09T14:00:34Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-09T14:01:05Z</updated>

    <summary> They could pump frenzy into air ducts and rage into reservoirs, dynamite dams and drown cities, cry fire in theaters as the victims are burning, but I will find my way through blackened streets and kneel down at your...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[


They could
  pump frenzy into air ducts
    and rage into reservoirs,
  dynamite dams
    and drown cities,
  cry fire in theaters
    as the victims are burning,
but 
I will find my way through blackened streets
  and kneel down at your side.

They could 
  jump the median, head-on,
    and obliterate the future,
  fit .45's to the hands of kids
    and skate them off to school,
  flip live butts into tinderbox forests
    and hellfire half the heavens,
but
in the rubble of smoking cottages
  I will hold you in my arms.

They could
  send kidnappers to kindergartens
    and pedophiles to playgrounds,
  wrap themselves in Old Glory
    and gut the Bill of Rights,
  pound the door with holy screed
    and put an end to reason,
but
I will cut through their curtains of cunning
  and find you somewhere in the moonlight.

Whatever they do with their anthrax or chainsaws,
however they strip-search or brainwash or blackmail,
they cannot prevent me from sending you robins,
all of them singing: I'll be there.



- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>The Lanyard by Billy Collins</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000066.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.66</id>

    <published>2010-02-07T23:39:54Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-07T23:40:13Z</updated>

    <summary> The other day I was ricocheting slowly off the blue walls of this room, moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano, from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor, when I found myself in the L section...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly-
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that's what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift-not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.


- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Trapeze  by Deborah Digges</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000065.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.65</id>

    <published>2010-02-06T06:46:47Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-06T06:47:07Z</updated>

    <summary> See how the first dark takes the city in its arms and carries it into what yesterday we called the future. O, the dying are such acrobats. Here you must take a boat from one day to the next,...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[
See how the first dark takes the city in its arms
and carries it into what yesterday we called the future.

O, the dying are such acrobats.
Here you must take a boat from one day to the next,

or clutch the girders of the bridge, hand over hand.
But they are sailing like a pendulum between eternity and evening,

diving, recovering, balancing the air.
Who can tell at this hour seabirds from starlings,

wind from revolving doors or currents off the river.
Some are as children on swings pumping higher and higher.

Don't call them back, don't call them in for supper.
See, they leave scuff marks like jet trails on the sky.


- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>I need it to be Monday. </title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000064.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.64</id>

    <published>2010-02-06T04:59:51Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-06T05:00:10Z</updated>

    <summary>I need her to fly home, safely. Please. Thank you. - Posted from my iPhone...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[I need her to fly home, safely.
Please. Thank you.    

<br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/41967480@N00/4334189414/'><img src='http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4047/4334189414_af5d51cc3f_m.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />

- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Speed download 4 Safari and DMG files</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000063.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.63</id>

    <published>2010-02-05T03:11:44Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-05T03:12:03Z</updated>

    <summary> If you have an Intel processor Mac, are running Snow Leopard 10.6, and use the mac download utility Speed Download (version 4) be sure to switch Safari 4 to 32 bit mode. (To do this get info on safari...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[
If you have an Intel processor Mac, are running Snow Leopard 10.6, and use the mac download utility Speed Download (version 4) be sure to switch Safari 4 to 32 bit mode. (To do this get info on safari and click the 32 bit checkbox) 

Because Snow Leopard and newer intel Macintosh computers are 64 bit, the plugin for speed download will hang on DMG file downloads.

Thanks to a CNET poster, a half hour of my time and google for this fix. :)  

- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Her</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000062.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.62</id>

    <published>2010-02-03T03:47:07Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-03T03:47:26Z</updated>

    <summary> - Posted from my iPhone...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[
<br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/41967480@N00/4339390427/'><img src='http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2689/4339390427_7eb981a0f4_m.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />


- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Autopsy in the Form of an Elegy  by John Stone</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000061.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.61</id>

    <published>2010-02-02T08:36:26Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-02T08:36:47Z</updated>

    <summary> In the chest in the heart was a vessel was the pulse was the art was the love was the clot small and slow and the scar that could not know the rest of you was very nearly perfect...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[

In the chest
in the heart
was a vessel

was the pulse
was the art
was the love

was the clot
small and slow
and the scar
that could not know

the rest of you
was very nearly perfect



- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>The thing about life. </title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000060.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.60</id>

    <published>2010-02-01T04:43:56Z</published>
    <updated>2010-02-01T04:44:14Z</updated>

    <summary>&quot;The thing about life is that you must survive. Life is going to be difficult, and dreadful things will happen. What you do is move along, get on with it, and be tough. Not in the sense of being mean...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA["The thing about life is that you must survive. Life is going to be difficult, and dreadful things will happen. What you do is move along, get on with it, and be tough. Not in the sense of being mean to others, but being tough with yourself and making a deadly effort not to be defeated."


— Katharine Hepburn


- Posted from my iPhone. <br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Lullaby  by Dawn Potter</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000059.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.59</id>

    <published>2010-01-31T11:05:29Z</published>
    <updated>2010-01-31T11:05:48Z</updated>

    <summary> The lilacs are fading; their petals are falling. The ants have crawled into their holes. The children are restlessly tossing their beds. The horses are chasing their foals. The dark, oh the dark, flies upon us so fast. The...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[

The lilacs are fading; their petals are falling.
The ants have crawled into their holes.
The children are restlessly tossing their beds.
The horses are chasing their foals.

The dark, oh the dark, flies upon us so fast.
The little boys roll up and down.
Their feet kick the walls, and they churn up the sheets,
while sailors jump ship and then drown,

and armies hunt men, and butchers kill hogs,
and hurricanes level the towns
on the coast where the sea goes on slapping the shore,
and the dogs run careening like clowns


- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>The Ineffable  by George Bilgere</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000058.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.58</id>

    <published>2010-01-25T07:03:41Z</published>
    <updated>2010-01-25T07:04:00Z</updated>

    <summary>I&apos;m sitting here reading the paper, feeling warm and satisfied, basically content with my life and all I have achieved. Then I go up for a refill and suddenly realize how much happier I could be with the barista. Late...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[I'm sitting here reading the paper,
feeling warm and satisfied, basically content
with my life and all I have achieved.
Then I go up for a refill and suddenly realize
how much happier I could be with the barista.
Late thirties, hennaed hair, an ahnk
or something tattooed on her ankle,
a little silver ring in her nostril.
There's some mystery surrounding why she's here,
pouring coffee and toasting bagels at her age.
But there's a lot of torsion when she walks,
which is interesting. I can sense right away
how it would all work out between us.

We'd get a loft in the artsy part of town,
and I can see how we'd look shopping together
at our favorite organic market
on a snowy winter Saturday,
snowflakes in our hair, 
our arms full of leeks and shiitake mushrooms.
We would do tai chi in the park.
She'd be one of the few people 
who actually "gets" my poetry
which I'd read to her in bed.
And I can see us making love, by candlelight,
Struggling to find words for the ineffable.
We never dreamed it could be like this.

And it would all be great, for many months,
until one day, unable to help myself,
I'd say something about that nostril ring.
Like, do you really need to wear that tonight 
at Sarah and Mike's house, Sarah and Mike being
pediatricians who intimidate me slightly
with their patrician cool, and serious money.
And she would give me a look, 
a certain lifting of the eyebrows
I can see she's capable of, and right there
that would be the end of the ineffable




in⋅ef⋅fa⋅ble  [in-ef-uh-buhl] 
–adjective
1.	incapable of being expressed or described in words; inexpressible: ineffable joy.
2.	not to be spoken because of its sacredness; unutterable: the ineffable name of the deity.

- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
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<entry>
    <title>Weekend</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000057.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.57</id>

    <published>2010-01-18T03:36:30Z</published>
    <updated>2010-01-18T03:36:50Z</updated>

    <summary>- Posted from my iPhone...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[<br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/41967480@N00/4283259415/'><img src='http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4071/4283259415_fcc312402b_m.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />- Posted from my iPhone<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Joy  by Julie Cadwallader Staub</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://dvsjr.com/archives/000056.html" />
    <id>tag:dvsjr.com,2010://2.56</id>

    <published>2010-01-16T14:03:38Z</published>
    <updated>2010-01-16T14:04:01Z</updated>

    <summary> Who could need more proof than honey-- How the bees with such skill and purpose enter flower after flower sing their way home to create and cap the new honey just to get through the flowerless winter. And how...</summary>
    <author>
        <name>dvsjr</name>
        
    </author>
    
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://dvsjr.com/">
        <![CDATA[

Who could need more proof than honey--

How the bees with such skill and purpose
enter flower after flower
sing their way home
to create and cap the new honey
just to get through the flowerless winter.

And how the bear with intention and cunning
raids the hive
shovels pawful after pawful into his happy mouth
bats away indignant bees
stumbles off in a stupor of satiation and stickiness.

And how we humans can't resist its viscosity
its taste of clover and wind
its metaphorical power:
don't we yearn for a land of milk and honey?
don't we call our loved ones "honey?"

all because bees just do, over and over again, what they were made to do.

Oh, who could need more proof than honey
to know that our world 
was meant to be

and 

was meant to be
sweet?





- Posted from Rhode Island<br />]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

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