June 2, 2004
I don't know what it is about fonts. I love fooling with them. Perhaps it is something in my nature. The days pass by, one by one, rolling on towards the horizon of life. Yesterday I couldn't get Pookie to work in Dreamweaver. So I wrote my first Blog in word and saved it as a web page. That worked without a hitch, but today I charged up Dreamweaver and suddenly the font was here. Ah, the mysteries of com-pu-ters.
Blogging is a new art form and the rules of it are not well-established. Being a hybrid form between the private journal and the public work of journalism, the blog is often fraught with difficulties of audience which the writer must resolve to his best satisfaction. A friend commented on my first blog and so I made a few changes.
Seven blind and deaf elves
live in the attic above me. Their names are winkin,
blinkin, tinker, sven, udolph, Jermaine, and Sal, and they
come out to play only after midnight. They quote James Joyce:
They quote James Joyce:
” Like John o'Gaunt his name is dear to him, as dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend sable a spear or steeled argent, hoNorificabIlitudiNITatibus, dearer than his glory of greatest shakescene in the country. What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.”
The self is a fictive construct, anyway, isn't it? Isn't that the essence of our modern mythology since Ulysseus? Bloom wrote, therefore he is?