Commitments, Part II

Still busy today. Yesterday ended back where I started. A whole day’s work for naught. I’m working on a PC for a church friend. It’s old, used, and not stock. Someone, at some time, has fiddled with it. There are numerous jumpers on the system board and I suspect, at some time, those jumpers have been changed. 

In short, the PC is unstable. I thought I’d fixed it several times yesterday only to find some new problem. Now I’m just trying to restore it to Status Quo Ante.

Since I’m still feeling poetic, here’s another poem for today. This one was written by Walt Whitman at the beginning of the Civil War. Whitman was an ardent abolitionist. If you consider the sentiments in 1861 with those likely to arise in 2015 or 2016, the poem is pertinent for today. The difference is that we’ll be fighting for OUR liberty.

1861

Arm’d year! year of the struggle!
No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year!
Not you as some pale poetling, seated at a desk, lisping cadenzas
        piano;
But as a strong man, erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing,
        carrying a rifle on your shoulder,
With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands—with a knife in
        the belt at your side,
As I heard you shouting loud—your sonorous voice ringing across the
        continent;
Your masculine voice, O year, as rising amid the great cities,
Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you, as one of the workmen, the
        dwellers in Manhattan;
Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and
        Indiana,
Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait, and descending the
        Alleghanies;                                                
Or down from the great lakes, or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along
        the Ohio river;
Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at
        Chattanooga on the mountain top,
Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs, clothed in blue, bearing
        weapons, robust year;
Heard your determin’d voice, launch’d forth again and again;
Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipp’d cannon,
I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.

Walt Whitman