Here it is, the last day of the first month of the new year.

I had intended to focus this blog on my 'deep thoughts' about technology, psychology, and economics. Instead, it's turned out to be something quite different. In any case, I am posting (below) a poem I found in the Oxford Book of English Verse. It is a wonderful poem, and while its title is "The Door," it could equally refer to portals, which takes us to the Web (and thus may represent my opening volley into the playing field of 'deep thoughts' about technology, communication, and culture).

The Door

Too little
has been said
of the door, its one
face turned to the night’s
downpour and its other
to the shift and glisten of firelight.

Air, clasped
by this cover
into the room’s book,
is filled by the turning
pages of dark and fire
as the wind shoulders the panels, or
unsteadies that burning.

Not only the storm’s breakwater,
but the sudden frontier to our concurrences, appearances,
and as full of the offer of space as the view of a cromlech is.

For doors
are both frame and monument
to our spent time,
and too little
has been said
of our coming through and leaving them.

Charles Tomlinson 1927-

Tout d'abord, j'ai trouve' que mon Francais n'est pas aussi mauvais que j'avais autrefois cru.

This sentence, to a native French speaker, may prove itself to be utterly incorrect. However, it does accurately represent my conclusion after attending this excellent class. (BTW, what I wrote, or intended to say, was: "First of all, I found that my French was not as bad as I had thought.")

Did I ever mention that I spent my fifteenth summer (1971) in Phnomh Penh, Cambodia? That's where I learned French.

Quite the experience, je dois dire (I must say). The city was surrounded much of the time by the Khmer Rouge. We had no TV, just a few books (primarily cookbooks), no telephone, and my three brothers and I had nothing much with which to entertain ourselves--although I did have some fun conducting 'chemistry experiments' with U.S. Army K-rations. My parents were desperate to find something for us to do (think about it: they had four irascible children, ages 9-14, in the house--in the middle of a raging South Asian war).

My father then came up with the brilliant idea of sending me to 'une Francaise de Provence' to study French. Halfway through "Le Petit Prince," I caught on. After a few weeks, I was dreaming in French.

Re: my brothers. One was sent after a few weeks to an English missionary school in the Himalayas. The other two continued to pitch rotten eggs at the Soviet embassy residence, situated katty corner to our house. Note that this was not done out of patriotism. Au contraire, it was the somewhat unusual 'treatment' for a very particular form of ennui.

I am off this morning to a full-day French immersion course at the Alliance Francaise. At one point in the distant past I was almost fluent in French. Now, my knowledge extends primarily to just how far my skills have fallen. I almost feel tempted to study, but somehow that just doesn't feel very French. Since drinking a glass of wine at 7 in the morning might improve my willingness to take risks with the language but would also send me right back to bed, I will turn to plan B. That is: I'll listen to "Les Nubiennes" in the car on the way into town. There. That's the ticket. (Voila. Cela, c'est le billet. ??)

Lest anyone wonder why Refdesk is, in my view, one of the best sites ever-- I offer the following from its featured 'thought of the day':

"A time will come when a politician who has willfully made war and promoted international dissension will be as sure of the dock and much surer of the noose than a private homicide. It is not reasonable that those who gamble with men's lives should not stake their own." - H.G. Wells

Yes it's a quote--but the choice speaks volumes about the sensibility of the chooser.