out of the blue

Can omniscient God, who
Knows the future, find
The omnipotence to
Change His future mind?

– Karen Owens

I worked a lot today adding functionality to the image display script. It now has the option of being paginated, and I think the design is incredibly elegant (visually and functionally). The code will need to be revamped at some point, but it's still pretty good. And the pictures on there are now my own. They are mostly from my trip to the Canadian Rockies, but there are highlights from the rest of my photographic history. Those of you not terribly interested in the web design aspect of it might still find those pictures interesting. I would appreciate any comments on the design you have, from feature suggestions to bugs to general aesthetic impressions. I want to make it as good as possible.

( gallery link | source code )

I made a gallery script for displaying all of the images in a folder. It is cross-browser, valid html, and well-documented. It has good separation of content, presentation, and behavior. It gracefully degrades in sub-standard browsers (like IE6), and with JavaScript disabled. In general, it is an exemplar of good web design, to the extent that I understand it.

The script must be run on a server with PHP enabled, but some of you might have use for it. It is free for the taking, modifying, and general carousing around.

The photos on it used to be Soren's, from his recent post. But now they are mine.

( gallery link | source code )

[edited 24 October 2006 to reflect changes in the design]

I had a really wonderful time visiting Sarah in Utah this past weekend. Five days without any schoolwork, just spending time with one of my favorite people ever. I love you, Sarah. You are lovely.

Here are some pictures:

Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation

God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!

Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory —

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

"I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import — that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of — except he pause and think.

"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

"You have heard your servant's prayer — the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your hearts — fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. the whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory — must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it — for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(After a pause.) "Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!"

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

I just bought Neil Gaiman's new book of short stories, Fragile Things. I don't expect it to take long to read. I also got Old Man's War, by John Scalzi, from the library. So I have a good deal of new reading material, all of which I have been looking forward to. Forecast: a happy Smurf.

I was thinking about sheep earlier today, and it reminded me of something that I learned a long time ago. My fourth grade class went to visit a farm one October, and throughout the day we talked to the people in charge of the various animals: the man who took care of the cows, the lady who knew all the horses by name, the pig-man, and the chicken-keeper. The sheep were the last. Probably because they were so fuzzy and good to pet. Anyway, this lady was telling us that every sheep has its very own individual pattern of hairs, sort of like a fingerprint. Some sheep have curls closer together, some have slightly different directions or tightnesses of curls on their sides or their necks or their legs. She said that she knew her sheep so well that she could tell them apart just by running her fingers through their hair. She would often go out to them at midnight when she couldn't sleep, and whisper their names. "Hello Winifred." "How you doing, Molly?" Sometimes they would nuzzle her as they slept, and every once in a while she'd wake one of them up. And you know what? Sheep aren't as grumpy when they're woken up. They don't snap at you, they just realize that you're there, and that you care about them. She joked that she sometimes thought that she preferred sheep to people.

It makes me wistful. I wonder if I know anyone well enough to tell them apart just by being in their presence, just by that indefinable aura that fills any room that they occupy. Someday, I hope to.

Now for Lila's request, of something cute. Anything cute. I was thinking of painting her portrait just because it would be funny, but I decided against it (because I was too lazy). Anyway, I've been experimenting with a more poster-like style recently. Not as fuzzy and abstract as what I usually draw. I like the style quite a bit, and I think I'm going to use it more often. It's teaching me useful new techniques. Be sure to view the whole image, because it's funny, and the small one is incomplete because of how tall the full image is.

(See a larger version by following the link.)

DRAWING REQUESTS PROGRESS

• Andrea Crow – doodle of "The Cat and the Fiddle"
• Jenny Sullins – a pretty sunflower, or a swallow midflight, with the right colors
• Cami Wendlandt – a lighthouse shining over the ocean at night
• Sarah Redd – a flying purple llama
• Ann Foreyt – draw anything, but at the park (view)
• Soren Laulainen – something Fugue-related, or Rock Lake
• Paul Moore – a forest-dwelling ascetic being given an ice cream cone
• Aya – a picture of a very fat cat looking arrogant (view)
• Lila – something cute (view)
• Laila – a Rusty

There has been a flurry of activity in the "blogosphere" around the passing away of John M. Ford. Making Light just posted an entry with a large number of his various comments and writings (there seems not to be much distinction between the two terms, in his case). I found a number of them wildly entertaining, so I'm going to reprint them here. The original article on Making Light is here: Mike Ford: Occasional Works (Pt. One) I also have one stolen from Neil Gaiman's journal.

John M. Ford's comments are so chock full of allusion that you might just drown in it, and he has a satirical streak as wide as the Mississippi. Beware.

( John M. Ford, selective collection )

For those of you who missed Aaron's recent adventures, here is a picture I took of him breathing fire. That's one talented madman!