As a sort of Boston native myself — not that I ever went into Boston proper — I’d just like to apologize to the nation for the Boston Police Department’s obvious play for overtime pay. What is really embarrassing is that they’re acting as if there’s a chance that someone somewhere might actually believe they were honestly afraid of this.
I am hoping that my friend has been released from the hospital in good health. I’m not sure she’s been back to the hospital but that is what I am expecting based on an earlier report of the flu that was that bad. So, good wishes to her and hers. Let me know if you’re reading this.
I found it! I found the font on the header of River’s medical chart in Joss Whedon’s film Serenity! It is a font named “Induction” and it is available from http://tinyurl.com/2t9le5. I’ve posted this to Adventures in Font Matching but I figured I’d take credit here on my own blog too. Relevant-not as it may be.
Quite a dream last night. I was visiting a spiritual retreat in some mountainous place. Across the distance one could see another series of mountains, part of the same chain — not far away, but the faces were steep, and they were separated from this mountain by a deep gorge. In the daytime, one could see that in some point in time, monks had labored on the faces of those nearby mountains to add mica to boulders, or to place large rocks in particular places, and to move aside foliage, arranging for some artistic effect which had, it seemed, fallen into disrepair in the intervening centuries between then and now. It looked like an engineering ruin upon those steep mountainsides. That is what I assumed it to be.
That is, until I stepped out the main doorway of the main hall one evening, when the sky was darkening blue but not yet black, and some ambient light was still managing to come across the mountain on which I stood, reaching the mountains across from me. And what I saw stunned me so that I said aloud “Oh my God!”
Before I describe what I saw, I will mention that standing a few yards down the path from the main hall was a group of native youths, dark skinned and thin — were we in India, perhaps? — who, unlike the tourist-like visitors such as myself had a particular function of noting errors in the practice of the visitors such as myself. They were like youthful Teaching Assistants. Though I expect another reason they had this task was to keep the youth occupied.
“Calling on God!” the children shouted in unison, a reminder by the students of an error in practice which they took delight in noting for everyone to hear.
But how could I not have said that aloud? For on the mountainsides across from me, I saw in this twilight not the ruins and reflective stones and vegetation that could be seen in the daytime, but rather, I saw reflected from the failing light — as big as the mountain faces themselves — the perfect holographic renderings of ornamental bowls. Three bowls high, perhaps six across, each perfect and etched in different patterns. Glowing softly green, the last bits of ambient sunlight somehow catching the mica and other reflective stone surfaces to project this 3D impression, in a marvel of engineering that made the elements of the hologram perfectly visible while the foliage and the rest of the seeming clutter was made invisible in the growing darkness. The mountainside was transformed each night at this time (or at least during particular seasons at this time) into this collection of bowls.
I felt a bit foolish for underestimating the technology or insight of the monks of this place. Under such cheap guises of poverty and simple draped clothes, they were hiding marvels. Which I expect was the message of this wonder. Though of course, the monks who built that centuries before deserved most of the credit, I thought. Who knows if the current ones had kept up that level of ingenuity. They certainly gave no outward expression of it.
I resumed walking down the path, said a slightly bravado “Yee-aah” as I passed by the youths to acknowledge that I had in fact called on God too casually. I put my hands behind my back and attempted to be more dignified as I walked away.
And that was the important part of the dream I wanted to relate. Everything else in the dream was more mundane, including finding an artwork that I myself had drawn some years ago placed upon the wall in a hallway of a teaching facility here — which seemed outrageous for two reasons, the first being how in the world did someone find a drawing I’d discarded in my own bedroom years before, and second, that it was a hideous drawing of me standing next to Warren “The Ape” Demontague, the noted thespain Ape-creature from iFC’s puppet show Greg the Bunny, on a horrific orange background. Enlarged to a four foot plus display, and given an equally tacky gold frame. There was some kind of message here too, but it felt more like a message created by the Western white teachers that had set up shop (and created courses) on the mountain of this place, rather than the finessed message that came from the natives who had been here for centuries. Also dreamed that a housemate was there and complained that our rooms smelled of body odor, and other stuff which I suppose was just a reminder of different parts of our nature.