Connecting Fiber cables to your Media Converter

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fiber-small.pngWhen 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 side will have a small red laser light (TX) and the other will be dark (RX). Now take your phone again and look into both ends of the fiber patch cord. One strand will have a small red laser light (TX) the other will be dark (RX). Make sure that the Transmit (TX) fiber strand is connected to the receive (RX) port on the SFP. If you need to reverse the fiber strands, the small clip that holds the two connector ends together can be removed, the connectors reversed, and then clipped together again. Be careful with the connector, it's generally easy to break it.

Here's Looking At You, Kid

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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 on the floor

Bleeding out from all these wounds

I would've gotten her right out of that town she despised

You tell that to Janie, if she writes

But boys will be boys and girls have those eyes

That'll cut you to ribbons sometimes

And all you can do is just wait by the moon

And bleed if it's what she says you oughta do

You remind Anna, if she asks why

That a thief stole my heart while she was making up her mind

I heard she lives in Brooklyn with the cool

And goes crazy over that New York scene on 7th Avenue

But I used to wait at the diner a million nights without her

Praying she won't cancel again tonight

And the waiter served my coffee with a consolation sigh

You remind Anna, if she asks why

Tell her it's alright

You know it's hard to tell you this

Oh it's hard to tell you this

Here's looking at you, kid.


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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.

Winter Grace

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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 go out to meet it,
its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,
its vacant birdhouses, and dens
full of the sleeping.
But this is the slowed-down season
held fast by darkness
and if no one comes to keep you company
then keep watch over; your own solitude.
In that stillness, you will learn
with your whole body
the significance of cold
and the night,
which is otherwise always eluding you.

Street Talk

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"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 face widening in a toothless smile.
It was true. I saw her often on the corner at the same time every day. 
"Yesssss..." She said cackling and smiling. "You've got a good eye."
"You can see me.., she said, in a strange singsong way that very young children and demented people use. "Not everyone can." 
Her voice trailed and she turned to walk away. So did I. 

What the Bones Know

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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.
                                 The later Yeats was right
                                 To think of sex and death
                                 And nothing else. Why wait
                                 Till we are turning old?
                                 My thoughts are hot and cold.
                                 I do not waste my breath.


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  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 summer days disappearing. After they were empty we brought them back to Falmouth where they were picked up. One morning my fellow summer coworker and I asked the boss if we could ride ahead on the empty cars instead of in the engine to take them back to the Falmouth line. (The engine pushed the empty cars to Falmouth and pulled the full ones.) the front empty cars clacked and rocked but it was quiet so far from the engine. On this early summer morning it was cool but the day was going to be sunny and hot. I watched from up high the trees and buildings pass by to the rhythm of the rails. As we approached the stables near the golf course the horses heard our cars and raced across their field towards the noise. They stood with their heads over the fence breathing steam watching us pass. I remember surprise at how fast they ran and how they were curious and my naive reaction to their obvious love of running without being commanded by a human.

That was a day. 

The Want of Peace

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All goes back to the earth,
and so I do not desire
pride of excess or power,
but the contentments made
by men who have had little:
the fisherman's silence
receiving 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 mind
and made me think of darkness
and wish for the dumb life of roots.

THE FATHER By Ronald Ross

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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,
       For thee to give me heart.

Forthrightness I will teach thee;
       The vision and the scope;
To hold the hand of honour:--
       And thou shalt give me hope;

And when the heav'ns are deepest
       And stars most bright above;
May God then teach thee duty;
       And thou shalt teach me love.

Sent from my iPad. 

The dead say little in their letters
they haven't said before.
We find no secrets, and yet
how different every sentence sounds
heard across the years.

My father breaks my heart
simply by being so young and handsome.
He's half my age, with jet-black hair.
Look at him in his navy uniform
grinning 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 photograph
curled like a diploma--a banquet sixty years ago.
My parents sit uncomfortably
among tables of dark-suited strangers.
The mildewed paper reeks of regret.

I wonder what song the band was playing,
just out of frame, as the photographer
arranged your smiles. A waltz? A foxtrot?
Get out there on the floor and dance!
You don't have forever.

What does it cost to send a postcard
to the underworld? I'll buy
a penny stamp from World War II
and mail it downtown at the old post office
just as the courthouse clock strikes twelve.

Surely the ghost of some postal worker
still makes his nightly rounds, his routine
too tedious for him to notice when it ended.
He works so slowly he moves back in time
carrying our dead letters to their lost addresses.

It's silly to get sentimental.
The dead have moved on. So should we.
But isn't it equally simpleminded to miss
the special expertise of the departed
in clarifying our long-term plans?

They never let us forget that the line
between them and us is only temporary.
Get out there and dance! the letters shout
adding, Love always. Can't wait to get home!
And soon we will be.
See you there

- Posted from my iPhone

The Demon!

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the demon.png


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I see the mermaids, my friends, who do not sing to me, instead sing only to each other in the secret tongue of those who belong to something, even if it is only the sea.

M M Locker

- Posted from my iPhone

Grown up me still ♥'s Farrah.

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Publicity photo of the cast of the television ...

God made man stronger but not necessarily more intelligent.
He gave women intuition and femininity. 
And, used properly, that combination easily jumbles the brain 
of any man I've ever met. 

Parables. Part one.

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An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. 
"A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy.
"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. 
One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego."
He continued, "The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too."
The grandson thought about it for a minute 
and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"
The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

Location:The bus

Silo Solo by Joyce Sutphen

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My father climbs into the silo.
He has come, rung by rung,
up the wooden trail that scales
that tall belly of cement.

It's winter, twenty below zero,
He can hear the wind overhead.
The silage beneath his boots
is so frozen it has no smell.

My father takes up a pick-ax
and chops away a layer of silage.
He works neatly, counter-clockwise
under a yellow light,

then lifts the chunks with a pitchfork
and throws them down the chute.
They break as they fall
and rattle far below.

His breath comes out in clouds,
his fingers begin to ache, but
he skims off another layer
where the frost is forming

and begins to sing, "You are my
sunshine, my only sunshine."

- Posted very late from my iPhone

Me and Chas

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Me and Chas

NYC, Chelsea, West 18th st. 

My next door neighbor Charlie and I messing around with a web cam
connected to my roommate Andy's PC laptop. Circa 1995.


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By John Brehm

Surfeit of distance and the wracked mind waiting,
nipping at itself, snarling inwardly at strangers.
If I had a car in this town I'd
rig it up with a rear bumper horn,
something to blast back at the jackasses
who honk the second the light turns green.
If you could gather up all the hornhonks
of just one day in New York City,
tie them together in a big brassy knot
high above the city and honk
them all at once it would shiver
the skyscrapers to nothingness, as if
they were made of sand, and usher
in the Second Coming. Christ would descend
from the sky wincing with his fingers
in his ears and judge us all
insane. Who'd want people like us
up there yelling at each other, trashing
the cloudy, angelic streets with our
candywrappers and newspapers and coffeecups?
Besides, we'd still be waiting for
the next thing to happen in Heaven,
the next violin concerto or cotton candy
festival or breathtaking vista to open
beneath our feet, and thinking this place
isn't quite what it's cracked up to be,
and why in hell does everybody
want to get here? We'd still be
waiting for someone else to come
and make us happy, staring
through whatever's in front of us,
cursing the light that never seems to change.

The Ideal

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by James Fenton

[For @ameliemx]

This is where I came from.
I passed this way.
This should not be shameful
Or hard to say.

A self is a self.
It is not a screen.
A person should respect
What he has been.

This is my past
Which I shall not discard.
This is the ideal.
This is hard.

- Posted from my iPhone

A Cat's Life

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by David R. Slavitt

Her repertoire is limited but fulfilling,
with two preoccupations, or three, perhaps,
if you include the taking of many naps:
otherwise she is snuggling or killing

- Posted from my iPhone

Location:on the bus to work


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Meta kitty squeeze



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"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life.
Don't be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people's thinking.
Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice.
And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.
They somehow already know what you truly want to become." 

I remember those dark days.

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From John Lilly's tumblr: 'Fuck Michael Dell' 

"It was a tough time at Apple -- we were trading below book value on the market -- our enterprise value was actually less than our cash on hand. And the rumors were everywhere that we were going to be acquired by Sun. Someone in the audience asked him about Michael Dell's suggestion in the press a few days previous that Apple should just shut down and return the cash to shareholders, and as I recall, Steve's response was: "Fuck Michael Dell.""

Someone ought make T-shirts. I know I'd buy one.

The Guardian by Joseph Mills

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I don't think my brother realized all
the responsibilities involved in being
her guardian, not just the paperwork
but the trips to the dentist and Wal-Mart,
the making sure she has underwear,
money to buy Pepsis, the crying calls
because she has no shampoo even though
he has bought her several bottles recently.
We talk about how he might bring this up
with the staff, how best to delicately ask
if they're using her shampoo on others
or maybe just allowing her too much.
"You only need a little, Mom," he said,
"Not a handful." "I don't have any!"
she shouted before hanging up. Later
he finds a bottle stashed in her closet
and two more hidden in the bathroom
along with crackers, spoons, and socks.
Afraid someone might steal her things,
she hides them, but then not only forgets
where, but that she ever had them at all.

I tease my brother, "You always wanted
another kid." He doesn't laugh. She hated
her father, and, in this second childhood,
she resents the one who takes care of her.
When I call, she complains about how
my brother treats her and how she hasn't
seen him in years. If I explain everything
he's doing, she admires the way I stick up
for him. Doing nothing means I do nothing
wrong. This is love's blindness and love's
injustice. It's why I expect to hear anger
or bitterness in my brother's voice, and why
each time we talk, no matter how closely
I listen, I'm astonished to hear only love.

- Posted from my iPhone

Verses for a Night Walk.
Autumn brings me closer impacts with reality than any other season. The balmy airs of Spring and Summer breed in my mind only pretty pantheistic sentiments, but let a tang spill into the air, and my comfortable and easy-going soul is spurred on to great adventure. On nights such as these I disappear over the back wall and head across country. The stars are sharp and brittle. Odors of dying vegetation rise from the ground. I tramp on, searching for what Vaughan said he saw--
"I saw Eternity the other night,
Like a great Ring of pure and endless light,
All calm as it was bright."
And turning toward home, my feet slogging along a little slower, my head in the heavens, I wonder at Vaughan's other verse--
"There is in God, so some say,
A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here
Say it is late and dusky because they
See not all clear.
O for that Night! where I in Him
Might live invisible and dim."

- Posted from my iPhone

Hammurabi gave us a code which is honored to his very day by many nations, including my own, and by all heroes in cowboy and gangster films, and by far too many people who feel they have been insulted or injured, however slightly. However accidentally:

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
Revenge is not only sweet - it is a must!

What antidote can there be for an idea that popular and poisonous? Revenge provides revenge, which is sure to provide revenge, forming an endless chain of human misery.

Here's the antidote:

Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.


Some of you may know that I am a Humanist, not a Christian. But I say of Jesus, as all Humanists do, ''If what he said was good and so much of it is absolutely beautiful, what can it matter if he was God or not?''

If Christ hadn't delivered the Sermon on the Mount, with its message of mercy and pity, I wouldn't want to be a human being.

I would just as soon be a rattlesnake.

- Posted from my iPhone

Smart guy gets girl.

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smart guy gets girl

My favorite selection from "A Father's Story"

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Cover of "Selected Stories"

Cover of Selected Stories

printed from the book Selected Stories by Andre Dubus

       I have said I talk with God in the mornings, as I start my day, and sometimes as I sit with coffee, looking at the birds, and the woods. Of course He has never spoken to me, but that is not something I require. Nor does He need to. I know Him, as I know the part of myself that knows Him, that felt Him watching from the wind and night as I kneeled over the dying boy. Lately I have taken to arguing with Him, as I can't with Father Paul, who, when he hears my monthly confession, has not heard and will not hear anything of failure to do all that one can to save an anonymous life, of injustice to a family in their grief, of deepening their pain at the chance and mystery of death by giving them nothing--no one--to hate. With Father Paul I feel lonely about this, but not with God. When I received the Eucharist while Jennifer's car sat twice-damaged, so redeemed, in the rain, I felt neither loneliness nor shame, but as though He were watching me, even from my tongue, intestines, blood, as I have watched my sons at times in their young lives when I was able to judge but without anger, and so keep silent while they, in the agony of their youth, decided how they must act, or found reasons, after their actions, for what they had done. Their reasons were never as good or as bad as their actions, but they needed to find them, to believe they were living by them, instead of the awful solitude of the heart.
       I do not feel the peace I once did: not with God, nor the earth, or anyone on it. I have begun to prefer this state, to remember with fondness the other one as a period of peace I neither earned nor deserved. Now in the mornings while I watch purple finches driving larger titmice from the feeder, I say to Him: I would do it again. For when she knocked on my door, then called me, she woke what had flowed dormant in my blood since her birth, so that what rose from the bed was not a stable owner or a Catholic or any other Luke Ripley I had lived with for a long time, but the father of a girl. 
       And He says: I am a Father too.
       Yes, I say, as You are a Son Whom this morning I will receive; unless You kill me on the way to church, then I trust You will receive me. And as a Son You made Your plea.
Yes, He says, but I would not lift the cup.
True, and I don't want You to lift it from me either. And if one of my sons had come to me that night, I would have phoned the police and told them to meet us with an ambulance at the top of the hill.
       Why? Do you love them less?
I tell Him no, it is not that I love them less, but that I could bear the pain of watching and knowing my sons' pain, could bear it with pride as they took the whip and nails. But You never had a daughter and, if You had, You could not have borne her passion.
       So, He says, you love her more than you love Me.
       I love her more than I love truth.
       Then you love in weakness, He says.
       As You love me, I say, and I go with an apple or carrot out to the barn.

posted from my iPhone

Fave bad pet pic #2

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Fave bad pet pic #1

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In the Basement of the Goodwill Store

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by Ted Kooser

In the musty light, in the thin brown air
of damp carpet, doll heads and rust,
beneath long rows of sharp footfalls
like nails in a lid, an old man stands
trying on glasses, lifting each pair
from the box like a glittering fish
and holding it up to the light
of a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap
of enameled pans as white as skulls
looms in the catacomb shadows,
and old toilets with dry red throats
cough up bouquets of curtain rods.

You've seen him somewhere before.
He's wearing the green leisure suit
you threw out with the garbage,
and the Christmas tie you hated,
and the ventilated wingtip shoes
you found in your father's closet
and wore as a joke. And the glasses
which finally fit him, through which
he looks to see you looking back--
two mirrors which flash and glance--
are those through which one day
you too will look down over the years,
when you have grown old and thin
and no longer particular,
and the things you once thought
you were rid of forever
have taken you back in their arms

- Posted from my iPhone