pronounce, or remember the new native election ward names, especially the 21-letter one.

This Tower of Babel exercise confuting of names is absurd and was unnecessary. (There are already many native names for schools and neighborhoods here to begin with, ones that can be pronounced much/more easily.)

If city council wanted to confute voters, they did a good job of it. The ward numbers will likely remain the main actual way citizens will know which area they are in, which they can say. pronounce, and remember.

Happy Thanksgiving, 2021!

First published 2 centuries go (1820) this fall classic. (Note the transitions from early autumn–stanza 1, to mid-autumn–stanza 2, to the end of autumn–stanza 3, and the personification of fall as a fall-drowsy harvester in stanza 2.)


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,–
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

The disaster movie being shot on the streets of downtown Edmonton.
Shouldn’t need too much Hollywood alteration. Edmonton pretty much looks like a wasteland already.

Two thumbs way up  from a Bach fan.

–Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

“Give us this day our daily flux.”

“Give us this day our daily shifting particles.”

“Give us this day our daily iterations.”

“Give us this day our variations on a theme.”

“The universe is transformation; our life is what our thoughts make it.”