Author Archives: Dave

Howl

It is cruel and embarrassing
 to have an asteroid strike my beauty;
my ecosystems are invaded and disrupted
 with the havoc and the gash.
When my volcanoes erupt,
 my people chastise my
  self-inflicted violence.
They narrow their eyes at my fickle nature;
 they question my bountifulness.
In fear, some look to the moon
 and the craters and despair,
  but I am earth;
   I am shrouded in miracle:
    patient, folding old skin within
     to be rekindled into new,
 canvasing barren landscapes with
  humble grass, and flowers, soon.

Tidal

Beat;
beat.
The waves curl and break within my body,
 up my torso, up my shoulders, and
  burst into my throat,
incessant, insistent,
so constantly ardent.
Where to? Where to?
Where are you going?
Oh, where are you going?

Real Estate

I fancy myself a fine craftsman
 with fortitude enough for a mansion,
someone who adorns, with gold filigree,
 the polished, stained pine
 and keeps each room
  appointed, waiting
  for the assessor’s gaze.
Had I known it was my home I was crafting,
 I would have squatted upon a pond and been
someone who has enough fire
 and just enough wood
  to live.

Crime & Punishment

Failed essays,
 each belying
 my immaturity…

What am I saying?
This is my life I lament:
 real life… lives.

Their blood stains my hands.
Why did I try to write
 with them.

I lament spilling ink,
 but the sin is simpler:
  taking people’s lids off,
  handling their bottles.

The Love

If you allowed
 you to love yourself,

the rough diamonds
 languidly studding
  all the curves
 of your underground,

you would understand
 how silly it is to wish
 you were more.
You already are so much.

Tom Sawyer

When I can afford no clothes
 these I have are sanctified;
  the threadbare are forgiven and loved.
  That they exist is the miracle.
  That I have any at all is God’s blessing.
When I can afford what is my wont,
 a new criteria rules the wardrobe.
Holy is rendered crumby
 and the faith that held the threads together
  is unraveled;
  a new regime overlooks the angles
   guarding tramps.

Witch’s Brew

When the sun colors the sky,
 the girl dons on her red frock
  embroidered with flowers,
  bevied with joy,
  dancing in celebration,
 petal–eyelids open into awe.

With just the same heart

When the moon woos,
 our lady is wrapped
  in her black dress,
  bubbles and stews,
  crackling, agape at the universe,
 irises open to the multitude,
  cherishing each star a sun.

Torvalds: It is the journey, not the destination

http://techcrunch.com/2012/04/19/an-interview-with-millenium-technology-prize-finalist-linus-torvalds/

But to expand on that, and to perhaps give you something of an answer anyway: this is very much true for me in software development too. I like the *process*. I like writing software. I like trying to make things work better. In many ways, the end result is unimportant – it’s really just the excuse for the whole experience. It’s why I started Linux to begin with – sure, I kind of needed an OS, but I needed a *project* to work on more than I needed the OS.

In fact, to get a bit “meta” on this issue, what’s even more interesting than improving a piece of software, is to improve the *way* we write and improve software. Changing the process of making software has sometimes been some of the most painful parts of software development (because we so easily get used to certain models), but that has also often been the most rewarding parts. It is, after all, why “git” came to be, for example. And I think open source in general is obviously just another “process model” change that I think is very successful.

So my model is kind of a reverse “end result justifies the means”. Hell no, that’s the stupidest saying in the history of man, and I’m not even saying that because it has been used to make excuses for bad behavior. No, it’s the worst possible kind of saying because it totally misses the point of everything.

It’s simply not the end that matters at all. It’s the means – the journey. The end result is almost meaningless. If you do things the right way, the end result *will* be fine too, but the real enjoyment is in the doing, not in the result.

And I’m still really happy to be “doing” 20 years later, with not an end in sight.

Bushels and Virgins

I didn’t realize the candle
to refrain from hiding
was my own,
not some super–candle I would one day
acquire or already had that was better than
my real one.

I didn’t realize the money
to refrain from burying
was my pocket change:
all that I had in the world.

I didn’t realize the virgins
weren’t particularly chaste,
but just so young they might not trust
their own wicks.