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I WANT TO BELIEVE 



I've been following the story of Dutch engineer Jarmo Smeets, who claims to have cracked the code on how to fly like a bird.

Inventors since Leonardo have been trying to do this. We've been able to create wings for gliding at high altitude, but the engineering challenge has been that if you make the wings large enough to support the weight of a person, no human being is strong enough—or can flap his arms fast enough—to achieve lift-off.

Smeets says that his breakthrough is using the motion detector from a Nintendo Wii to power small rotors, so that only short, brisk movements of his arms are necessary to power the flapping of the wings. With a running start, he says, he and his wings can take flight.

His YouTube videos are impressive.

The science community, however, is skeptical about the videos. Apparently Smeets' alleged credentials don't check out, either.

Too bad.

As someone who has dreamed of flying nearly every night since childhood, I want so badly to believe that this is possible!


~DM

FINAL SOLILOQUY OF THE INTERIOR PARAMOUR by Wallace Stevens 



Light the first light of evening
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one…
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

CHILDHOOD by Rainer Maria Rilke 



It would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
for those long childhood afternoons you knew
that vanished so completely -and why?

We're still reminded-: sometimes by a rain,
but we can no longer say what it means;
life was never again so filled with meeting,
with reunion and with passing on

as back then, when nothing happened to us
except what happens to things and creatures:
we lived their world as something human,
and became filled to the brim with figures.

And became as lonely as a sheperd
and as overburdened by vast distances,
and summoned and stirred as from far away,
and slowly, like a long new thread,
introduced into that picture-sequence
where now having to go on bewilders us.