It’s the weekend. Where I am, snow is on the ground and more is coming. I just finished a whirlwind week where a wide range of the “whole community” was trying to engage various complex adaptive systems on which we depend each day. Looking for something else entirely — an algorithm actually — I stumbled on this poem by George Santayana:
There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
For mine own bosom is the paradise
Where all my life’s fair visions are unfurled.
Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled,
Unmindful of the changing outer skies,
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.
I heed them not; or if the subtle night
Haunt me with deities I never saw,
I soon mine eyelid’s drowsy curtain draw
To hide their myriad faces from my sight.
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.
A pleasant exercise of posters-privilege.