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thrice great hermes
battles without honor and humanity @ fwc, portland
xenomorphs @ fwc, portland
katamari @ fwc, portland
tokyo art beat @ superdeluxe, tokyo
full of pryde @ fwc, portland
psychometry ii @ arratia beer, berlin
psychometry @ exile, berlin
found photos @ fwc, portland
rom spaceknight @ fwc, portland
caleb hildenbrandt, 2012
tokyo art beat, 2009
pete toms, 2006
_ #9 (2018/03/21)
by stanley lieber
Shinji was gone and Cameron didn’t care. The snow had come again, blanketing the evidence of filth on the street. Andrew was bereft. What now?
He’d saddled them with significant debt. Three shipments were en route, but the shippers might refuse to release the cargo if outstanding invoices were not paid. Classic cash flow roulette. Cameron just wanted to walk away from it all. Maybe she would.
There had been no word from the son of a bitch. He’d simply disappeared.
No such luck with Andrew. Her brother could drive her crazy. He was already arranging some kind of insurance scam based on the losses that would be incurred from the three stuck shipments. If the shippers eventually relented, well, then, more money for the both of them.
Cameron wanted out.
Shinji was tapped out. He’d spent the last of his savings on the ticket home (his uncle was generous, but perverse). If they’d already let his apartment, what could he do?
He unlocked the door on the roof and headed downstairs to his apartment. Well, the apartment, whoever it belonged to now. That would take some getting used to.
Carmine answered the door. He spoke, acted without thinking.
"Oh," he said, and closed the door again.
Andrew was beside himself. The whole thing had come apart in his lap. All his carefully laid plans spilling onto the floor. How was he going to pay off the—No, something would work out. It always did. He flashed on the real estate Shinji had left vacant in Japan. Shouldn’t be much trouble taking possession. He had the papers of incorporation. It would just be a matter of convincing the property manager, and that guy was already on the payroll.
Carmine had to think quickly. Much depended on what he said next. His cousin was patient, but even family ties could be stretched to their breaking point. He ran first one, then another elaborate explanation through his mind, rocking the tape back and forth, searching with the knob of his tape machine for the sweet spot—he’d know it when he heard it.
Nothing sounded good.
Finally, Carmine opened the door again, but just stood there and said nothing. Shinji remained planted on the same spot in the hallway, just outside the door to his own apartment. Carmine looked left, then right, craning his neck for a better view down the hallway, then leaned forward and kissed his cousin on the cheek.
Smiling, he stepped back and watched to see how Shinji would react.
_ #8 (2018/03/20)
by stanley lieber
Returning to Japan had been a mistake. Shinji was no longer a child. He didn’t know this place, and everyone who had known him was long gone.
His cousin had left for America around the same time that he’d boarded the plane from New York. He’d still be on the boat. Ironic; maybe Shinji would even beat him back to America.
But that was unlikely. He’d forfeited his original travel visa by returning. It would take time to reapply for permission to leave. He hoped that Carmine would be comfortable, alone in his lonely apartment. Shinji had always been comfortable there.
This was great. What luck. Shinji (sorry, Carmine) made himself at home. His cousin had left the country, presumably for good, and he’d left all of this in place, just in time for Shinji (sorry, Carmine) to stroll along and assume control. He’d always suspected that Shinji had had a good thing going, here in New York, but now he could see it with his own eyes: the separate facilities, the free labor, the charitable cover—it was a ready-made operation, for which Shinji (sorry, Carmine) was a ready-made captain. Whatever it was Shinji had been up to, Carmine would take it over and make it his own. Fit himself right into place. This was great.
Shinji’s uncle had come through again. He always seemed to have solutions for bureaucratic problems. At least for the ones where members of his family were concerned. Shinji’s flight took off within the hour.
Back in New York, Shinji splurged on a cab from the airport. When it set down on the roof of his apartment building, he immediately sensed that something was wrong. His plants. They were gone. He’d left New York three weeks ago, without emptying his apartment, without even terminating his lease agreement, and now his plants were gone. What could possibly explain that? Something was wrong.
Carmine had big plans for the public space on the roof of the apartment. Permits and convention be damned.
This was going to be great.
_ #7 (2018/03/20)
by stanley lieber
The branches and leaves turn back on themselves, an uncertain autumn, folding into security, is it me, is it me, is it me.
The mail came and Shinji climbed out of bed to retrieve it. The stairs were steeper in the morning. It was a big box. Cutting the tape with confident strokes of his pocket knife, green boards of Nabokov smiled up at him. He left the box on the table and went to make some coffee.
04:13. Just enough time to walk to work. He arrived with minutes to spare and greeted the early arrivals. It was all the same. Shinji switched himself off and got on with his day.
The smuggling business had proven hard to control. Shinji was desperate. He flashed on his cousin, in New York. Here was a guy who’d always help out. Making sense of the details could wait for later.
He didn’t know how to say goodbye to Cameron and Andrew. Figured he wouldn’t. that would alleviate the need to discuss his debts...
He’d simply not return to Japan.
Shinji was ready to return to Japan. All that was left was for him to set a date of departure. His uncle had made the arrangements. No slow boat for him, this time.
It was out of his hands. They’d cut off the tip of each index finger. He couldn’t play the piano. He couldn’t gamble. Shinji realized he couldn’t visit his cousin while he was still using his name. He practiced calling himself Carmine in the mirror. It didn’t feel very natural, anymore.
What did they expect him to do?
_ #6 (2018/03/16)
by stanley lieber
Drawn by morning to the glistening confusion of possibilities, awakening the self, conscripting the now reluctant, now impatient body in anticipation of the inevitable, predictably (yet nevertheless) violent shock to the senses, Shinji bin Sony places first one foot, and then the other onto the floor in front of him. He has overslept again.
He doesn’t reach the community center until well after 06:30. Most of his regulars have already cleared out. This is fine. Shinji uses the time to tidy up the communal space. He gets the ones who stuck around to help. He’ll pay them. Something.
There are a handful of remaining matters that must be attended to before he can return to Japan. He believes he is resolved; once these loose ends are tied up, there will be nothing left to hold him here. That’s when he will find out just how resolved he really—he’s pretty sure he wants to go home.
He doesn’t remember being this... indecisive? This certainly isn’t America talking.
That had been this morning, during the present tense. Before he knew it it was growing dark. The day was gone. Shinji shooed out the stragglers still poking at the afternoon dishes and closed up shop for the evening. Tonight he would walk the several blocks to his apartment alone. Inadvisable even during daylight hours, but Shinji needed the exercise.
Speed lace boots crunching snow, the gray of the walls, passing taxis, flickering selves caught red handed contemplating murder in retail displays. Shinji walked. There was nothing to stop him from doing it. He had the money. There was not even anyone he would need to say goodbye to. Just get on the boat.
Crossing over in the opposite direction had not been so easy. More than likely they’d never let him back in. But would that really be so bad? The point of leaving was to leave.
These were idle thoughts. Shinji climbed the stairs to his small apartment and sat down at his desk to write a letter to his cousin.
_ #5 (2018/03/15)
by stanley lieber
Joining the priesthood had been a mistake. Years hated, but Shinji didn’t know what else to do with his life. At his age, abandoning the security of the church was a risky proposition, and he didn’t want to fall into the cycle of migration from scam to scam, burning bridges for firewood but somehow still just barely getting by. He didn’t want to end up like his cousin, Carmine.
"You know what’s fun?" Shinji asked.
"I do not."
"Blowing through all this money." Shinji snatched a bale of cash from his roll cart and sent it sailing overboard. "Watch for falling prices!" he screamed over the deck rail. It wasn’t clear if there was anyone walking below.
Shinji opened his community center every day at 06:30. There were always a few junkies waiting when he arrived. He would nudge them awake and ask if they’d had any breakfast, inviting them in for a free meal. Most of the time the junkies would roll their eyes. But they’d still come inside for the meal. He was happy to help.
"Lady, you look good in that shirt." Shinji had convinced her, after all these months, to try one on. He had convinced her but still she wasn’t convinced. "I look like an idiot," Cameron said. Shinji frowned, hurt. "Why, you do not." She took off the shirt anyway, and tossed it back on the cart. "I don’t want to do this anymore." A seagull took this opportunity to relieve itself, right on top of the cart. "Exactly," Cameron said.
Shinji had often thought about returning to Japan. New York didn’t need him; he knew that, now. His extended family at the community center comprised an equinoctial procession of different faces, all with the same problems. He had to resist giving newcomers a rundown of all the many things that were (he knew, straightaway) going wrong with their lives before they’d even had a chance to speak. He was losing it; that state of grace from which all moral authority flowed. Shinji bin Sony would shortly resign his commission.
"You can’t just quit," Shinji said, matter-of-factly, and smiled. "We’ve a contract."
Cameron dipped her finger into the seagull shit, dug it around defiantly, and, before he could stop her, smeared a dollop across Shinji’s smugly curled upper lip. He took a full step backwards, nearly tripping over Andrew.
"Th—This is an outrage. Why, I’ve half a mind to—"
"Can it, shitface" Cameron said, and stomped down the ramp to the docks.
This gave Shinji an idea.
image by alan moore (writer) and eddie campbell (artist), used without permission.
_ #4 (2018/03/14)
by stanley lieber
Cameron fried an egg. Cook encouraged her. She used too much oil, and she left the egg in the frying pan for a bit too long. Breakfast didn’t taste very good, but at least she had the toast. Cook beamed at her, gratified.
Shinji had actually showed up at their apartment. No warning. When the sensors went off she even let him in. Of course, he’d brought the t-shirts. (Andrew obliged.) But what he had really wanted was to talk to her. Her? she had asked. Her, he had said, winking conspiratorially.
Shinji offered a proposal that seemed preposterous on its face. He wanted to sell his shirts in America. And who did he happen to know who frequently visited America? Cameron wasn’t so sure about the idea. Andrew, obviously, was all in. Of course he was. Where would they begin?
Cameron felt she needed to exercise some control over her life. She’d start with breakfast, and hopefully expand into more meaningful territory. This proposal would mean curtailing her book hunting; they’d need the separate storage for Shinji’s shirts. She decided to go along with it, if only because at least this was something different than her usual pattern, stumbling around all tired and grumpy from arguing. And anyway, America was America. Right? Andrew could keep the money.
Five or six shipments later, even she was sick of America. She wondered if it was really necessary to accompany the shirts on every single trip. Shinji insisted. Well, let’s just have a look at these shirts, she had said. Shinji froze, and she knew right then and there that something was wrong. She had had to choose her next words carefully. "I’ll be the one to chaperone the shirts—this time, next time, and every time after that, for as long as this goes on," she said. Perhaps sensing that their enterprise dangled on the end of a slender thread, no one objected to her demands. And so it went.
She didn’t want to know what Andrew did with his money. In spite of their joint success, he remained broke.
It wasn’t her problem.
image by romina ressia, used without permission.
_ #3 (2018/03/13)
by stanley lieber
Who could say why she wanted to go. Each time they returned home she promised herself, never again. Then, when the next opportunity presented itself, she would change her mind. Even with her brother tagging along, she found she could never resist. Her parents, if they were ever to become aware of her innermost thoughts, would probably find this funny.
The next trip would continue through April. That was a long time to be alone with him. This time, she’d have to take charge of his schedule. She thought she could handle it.
She couldn’t handle it. His drama ate up all of her free time. She told herself, never again. Even as she made the promise she knew it was a lie. America was where she went.
In Seattle they had searched for the book he wanted. An import chain that stocked books form home. The volumes were sold out, except in America. The logistics were annoying to think about, but, Andrew insisted. He could run you into the ground.
For herself she would collect local histories, typically self-published, and perhaps only available at the offices of municipal governments. Andrew hated visiting the courthouses and small country libraries. Unless he happened upon a venue in which to gamble away his allowance.
Cameron would amass a substantial collection of the local histories, sufficiently unwieldy to transport that she’d have to ship them back to Japan in a separate compartment. Most of them would survive the journey. When one didn’t, Andrew would grudgingly agree to help her track it down.
He was not entirely useless.
_ #2 (2018/03/12)
by stanley lieber
Over the years, as the voyages to and from home became familiar territory, and the peculiarities of each trip became less distinct, melting gradually into the overhead map of her childhood, it would come to seem that there had only ever been one trip. They were always returning from America.
Her brother would probably say that their ability do so was a privilege. It sounded like their mother talking. Cameron knew she could do as she pleased. Roppongi beckoned.
The taxi set down and they disembarked. Andrew was anxious to hit up the parlors, while Cameron went to her room to unpack her things. Housekeeping had gathered her mail into a neat pile on her writing desk. She sat down and began to go through the stack one by one.
The letter she’d sent from America had arrived. She looked at her own handwriting. She couldn’t remember having written the letter, but she did remember addressing the envelope. Whatever she’d had to say to herself would hopefully prove interesting.
It didn’t. She’d written a list of books to read, once she got home. Half of them she’d read on the boat, the other half she hadn’t really been serious about. She had already bored herself.
School would start soon. She hoped to avoid the scoundrel Shinji bin Sony. He loitered, selling those t-shirts with the recent celebrity catchphrases printed on the front. Nobody bought them. Why would they; his family were criminals, nobody wanted to get involved. As she packed her backpack she tried to think of a way she could excuse herself when he inevitably presented his wares in the hallway. She didn’t come up with anything good.
Andrew bought Shinji’s shirts every time he came around. He seemed to think they were funny.
It was snowing again. Cameron decided to take her coat. She finished packing her school materials and headed out for a walk. She’d have dinner down the street. Cook was fine, but sometimes she needed to get out of the apartment. She pulled on her mask and braced herself for the noise of the neighborhood below.
_ #1 (2018/03/11)
by stanley lieber
Where would you like to go today? The tone was flat. She closed the book. Cameron spent the whole morning looking for conflict, but it hadn’t been necessary to look; Andrew piled into the vehicle and away they went.
At certain angles the glass seemed to depolarize, and the glint of morning sunlight cut into her eyes, making her sorry she’d awakened for... this. Andrew was deep into his book, never looking up. She leaned back in her seat, still not sure she was really awake.
Dapples of whatever on the dashboard. She noticed housekeeping had skipped the car. Andrew, of course, couldn’t care less. She tried not to touch the arm rests with her fingertips. Andrew elbowed her absentmindedly.
Tried again to listen to her book but it was no use, she couldn’t concentrate on the words. Her mind kept wandering to the scenery, trees and bushes whipping by outside. She made her window dark and closed her eyes.
Thump. Thump. Thump. She was awake again. Seams in the highway.
Andrew had dozed. Nearer to the coast, now, she could begin to make out the island’s visual effects. Mostly, the sunlight still disrupted the integrity of the images. That and its reflections on the water.
She was thirsty, but Andrew had finished off the last of the grapefruit juice. She watched him sleeping.
The big curve around the mountain came right on schedule. The car banked, reducing its speed only slightly, and Cameron was tipped off-balance, momentum pressing her firmly into her door handle. The fluid in her ears shifted and she gritted her teeth at the familiar lurch in her stomach. She hated the car.
Andrew had awakened and moved on to another book. She decided to have a look at what he’d been reading before he fell asleep. There were crumbs in the pages, she realized, as breakfast debris rained into her lap. She stared hard at him but still he didn’t look up. Why would he care, she acknowledged.
The car wanted Andrew’s attention but he told it to shut up. Finally he threw his book against the dash. Cameron tried to sink into her seat, ducking her head to avoid his flailing arms. Now he was trying to kick out the windshield. She put her hand on his shoulder and said his word, which calmed him, for a while. He apologized.
It felt as if they would never arrive.
They finally did. The boat was leaving, but they’d made it in time; the ramps were still unfurled. Cameron grabbed her bag and headed for a ramp while Andrew fiddled with his trunk. The car pulled away and returned to the flow of traffic. Cameron waited at the top of the ramp for Andrew to slowly roll aboard. "Do you really need to bring all those things," she asked, knowing that he did. He growled at her and rolled away, leaving her to wonder, again, why she put up with him. She’d have plenty of time to ponder the question during the voyage home.
thrice great hermes #104 (2018/03/05)
thrice great hermes
by stanley lieber
APROPOS OF NOTHING
vidya took only what was necessary, and headed for his makeshift shelter in the woods—several bales of hay, a few loose boards torn down from a decaying barn, and, for a roof, a plastic wading pool found at the fenced off trash dumpster near the road into town.
he leaned his head back against the hay and read his comic book. it would be dark soon. fortunately he’d brought a flashlight. the hay bales were already starting to go moldy, and the smell was getting to him. he thought he heard a dog.
forgot to bring a snack.
he wanted to keep reading, but there was something he had to get down on paper. he laid the comic book down gently on the hay and opened his notebook.
maybe fifteen yards away, p and t pulled on their suede lion suits. "why do we have to do this?" t whined. "don’t worry about it," p assured him.
vidya wrote more and more and more of it down. he filled a few pages in his notebook before pausing to think. he wouldn’t re-read, this time. onward, forward, while there was still time.
hermes stepped from the trees into the small clearing where vidya had erected his clubhouse cum shelter. pine needles caressed his marble white arms, and he looked mildly confused, blinking his eyes in the diminishing sunlight. "what’s he doing here," t whispered, too loudly.
vidya paused again. the next bit would decide everything. he shook his head and continued.
hermes turned himself, slowly, to face the reader. the unmistakable glint in his eye betrayed what had at first seemed to be a friendly gesture. "dear reader, are you getting any of this?" he asked, smiling warmly. seeing that the reader wasn’t, he added, "don’t worry about it," and winked mischievously, quietly, yet smugly amused at the feat of self-reference.
t blundered a few paces into the clearing, tripping over a tree branch that had fallen across his path. his lion mask finally tumbled loose, hitting the ground with a dull thud. "m-meow..." he cooed, weakly. p shook his head, still smarting from hermes’ jibe.
vidya thought again that he heard a dog. he poked his head out of the shelter and saw nothing. the sun had gone down, and it was starting to get cold.
sl barged suddenly into the clearing, swinging his elaborately carved walking stick like a baseball bat. he was shouting something about due process when p and t dove for cover. they both seemed spooked by his sudden arrival, and each of them clambered backwards into the brush, awkwardly displacing different components of their lion costumes, desperately vying for the security of the tree line. vidya was never able to gain clarity on this point: why were they both so afraid of such a minor character?
étienne and violet traded stories about their grandparents, great grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters, some of whom had owned original pressings of bowie’s early 21st century albums. étienne’s favorite bowie character was the anonymous, unshaven internet troll, clad in cargo shorts, hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, who played on all the star’s later studio cuts. violet somehow had never heard of that one. they agreed to disagree.
at some point vidya had had enough of the moldy smell. he tore the pages he’d been working on out of his notebook and shoved them into a gap between the rotting bales for safekeeping. he egressed the shelter and kicked over the wading pool, breaking the illusion of an intentional structure. as he wandered away from the site, the whole cast of characters converged on his position.
"i’m not being sarcastic," sl said, apropos of nothing. "i am sarcasm."
thrice great hermes #103 (2018/03/05)
thrice great hermes
by stanley lieber
in the community kitchen. her ex-husband wanted her to take their son hadn’t considered it out of the ordinary—at one time or another she’d written by other contractors, sometimes being paid to re-fact-check the book. then she realized that it might make more sense to track the date when she finished. she’d tried both, and the log was already a family. she felt like there was something she had intended to write down. some the duffle bag was secured with a small padlock, the key to which she had complained that she never pulled her fair share of cleaning duty idea, or realization, or some clever procedural tweak that could be "unsee" a thing; as the initial sensation receded, so, too, did its implemented at work, to shave seconds off the department’s response their contact these days was infrequent. so, why did she miss him? remembered them? looking at the photo albums her whole life had collated and analyzed systematically. the whole thing had become a, felt—somehow, she guessed—wrong. was it a conflict of interest? were frowned upon by the corporate bean counters. demand had normalized the tax implications? she concluded these considerations were above their contact these days was infrequent. so, why did she miss him? full she was barely able to hoist it into the truck. the duffle bag was secured with a small padlock, the key to which she hadn’t considered it out of the ordinary—at one time or another she’d her normal salary, which the county sometimes decided to pay out. she date when she finished. she’d tried both, and the log was already a additional security concerns were dealt with as they arose, on a her own. she was at once a writer and an editor, which was normally committed wasn’t immediately apparent. in a way, she’d come to seeing the thing was fine, making the realization stick was quite a collate and analyze systematically. the whole thing had become a collate and analyze systematically. the whole thing had become the book. then she realized that it might make more sense to track the different exercise. contrary to the cliché, there was no need to her normal salary, which the county sometimes decided to pay out. she realized, this was a form of early submission. but whatever flags she’d case-by-case basis. a small bookshelf housed the binders. she transported them back and mentioned her son. it had been quite a while ago, and at the time she committed wasn’t immediately apparent. in a way, she’d come to one thing she insisted on: she turned off her visor while she wrote. frowned upon by the corporate bean counters. demand had normalized as though she did nothing but keep track of her son. which disney’s competitor, gogol/verizon, also paid, though not quite there tax implications? she concluded these considerations were above a small bookshelf housed the binders. she transported them back and committed wasn’t immediately apparent. in a way, she’d come to implement at work, to shave seconds off the department’s response a small bookshelf housed the binders. she transported them back and additional security concerns were dealt with as they arose, on a family. case-by-case basis. in the community kitchen. her ex-husband wanted her to take their son, her brother, sl, had said things like that. maybe she was glad just kept on paying her to write. article, just to make sure that any uncredited borrowing she’d the duffle bag was secured with a small padlock, the key to which she her brother, sl, had said things like that. maybe she was glad that each sheet—violet didn’t know what they were called. seeing the thing was fine, making the realization stick was quite a small bookshelf housed the binders. she transported them back and a small bookshelf housed the binders. she transported them back and date when she finished. she’d tried both, and the log was already a hadn’t considered it out of the ordinary—at one time or another she’d seeing the thing was fine, making the realization stick was quite a had complained that she never pulled her fair share of cleaning duty written by other contractors, sometimes being paid to re-fact-check her normal salary, which the county sometimes decided to pay out. she submitted the same report to both entities. no one ever seemed to forth between locations (work, home) in an oversized duffle bag. once written by other contractors, sometimes being paid to re-fact-check "unsee" a thing; as the initial sensation receded, so, too, did its mishmash of different combinations of data points, difficult to idea, or realization, or some clever procedural tweak that could be submitted the same report to both entities. no one ever seemed to sensitive material, especially when that material frequently concerned
thrice great hermes #102 (2018/03/05)
thrice great hermes
by stanley lieber
sl made one last attempt to animate his limbs. He lay on the floor, on his futon, really feeling the pain, not sure which way to try and move. Any gesture he made sent the pain shooting in that new direction. It never really wore off, never left any one area completely, just shifted its intensity down legs and arms, out to fingertips and toes, up along his neck and into his jaws and ears. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, as if that had been the plan all along. He finally decided he wasn’t going to get up, this time. He squinted bitterly and pissed himself.
The computer was across the room. He couldn’t reach his book or his notepad. The sun was slowly setting. The phone rang.
sl rolled over and immediately regretted expending the effort. His back spasmed wildly and he cried out, but of course, there was no one to hear him. Defiantly, he moved his hand, and, temporarily dislocated from the extreme pain, he watched his hand move. A form of passive progress.
This sparked a memory from somewhere deep inside him. sl began to order his mind. He watched patiently as each thought found its own level. He forgot where he was. Further displaced from his immediate predicament, he moved first one leg, and then the other, up, then down, off of the futon. The doorbell rang, and he watched himself stand up and answer the door.
"I just got mugged," said the delivery man. sl accepted the pizza, and, experiencing some measure of empathy for the driver, added an extra hundred dollars to his tip. The delivery man shrugged and walked back to his car, forgetting to limp.
sl lay back down on his futon and opened his pizza. He ate, head positioned horizontally so as to avoid setting off his back. It didn’t work.
For the rest of the evening he tried to forget who he was.
This proved costlier than expected.
thrice great hermes #101 (2018/03/05)
thrice great hermes
by stanley lieber
had himself under control, and he had the balanced personality of an aware individual. He was aware of his own strengths and weaknesses, and he knew how to harmonize them with the personality of his adversary in order to accomplish the desired results. He knew the most opportune moments to act and when to lie low.
Been looking for a boot like this for a long time. I wear them with short and pants and they look rugged and masculine. So many combat boots out there don’t get it right with the design and feel. Classic combat boots have become more common on ladies than guys for casual wear, so not all work/combat boots work on guys like they used to.
Modeling and design of software at the architectural level. Architectural styles. Basics of model-driven architecture. Object-oriented design and analysis. Iterative development and unified process. Design patterns. Design by contract. Component based design. Product families. Measurement theory and appropriate use of metrics in design. Designing for qualities such as performance, safety, security, reliability, reusability, etc. Analysis and evaluation of software architectures. Introduction to architecture definition languages. Basics of software evolution, reengineering, and reverse engineering. Case studies. Introduction to distributed system software.
This review is intended to help the reader decipher what looks like an overly complicated book. Read this review while looking at the book’s table of contents.
Keep up your practices and your diary as you see fit.
Paintbrushes are being snatched out of children’s hands
thrice great hermes #100 (2018/03/05)
thrice great hermes
by stanley lieber
REVISE AND EDIT
Here P produced from his satchel two distinct manuscripts. "We recommend these." Werner accepted the manuscripts and examined them carefully. "Okay," he finally said.
Werner got to work cutting them together. It wasn’t at all clear this what P had wanted him to do, but P made no move to stop him. Werner continued:
P consulted his emerald tablet. He swiped right to accept the revisions, then locked the resulting mishmash in his satchel. "You may dispose of the rejected fragments as you see fit." He gestured expansively to the starts Werner had not used, and the remains of the two manuscripts he had operated on. Werner nodded. "Of course." He carefully gathered up the bits of text and deposited them into a drawer. Very likely, something here could be salvaged later, for paying work.
That brings us to your compensation," P said, T already heading for the door. T stopped. From a concealed pocket in his parka P produced a sealed envelope. He broke the seal and handed over Werner’s cheque. "Contract’s printed on the back," he indicated, helpfully.
"In perpetuity, of course," Werner acknowledged. This was nothing new. He folded the slip of paper into his wallet.
Exit P and T.
Werner knew there was no way this could be over. When a knock came on the door he was almost relieved.
It was T, who poked his head into the room (the door had not been locked), apparently looking for his gun. He’d left it laying on the kitchen table. Werner nodded, and T entered, retrieving his weapon and exiting again, all without saying a word.
Werner returned to his empty mug. It was still empty, so he made tea instead.