Mystery in Sochi

They are about two inches wide,
squarish, and five inches tall.
They hail from the Toggenburg
Valley of northeast Switzerland,
and they are held in the highest
regard by experts around the world.
They are glass bottles used to hold
athletes� urine samples.



From Mystery in Sochi Doping Case Lies With Tamper-Proof Bottle,Rebecca R. Ruiz, New York Times, 13 May 2016. Submitted by Evie Groch.

What They Don't Tell You

My mum doesn�t know who I am.
Sometimes I�m her sister.
Sometimes I�m her dead mother.
Once I was Shirley Bassey,
which made for an interesting evening.

I�d assumed we�d have lots of time
to get to know each other properly.
I was wrong. Instead of visiting coffee shops,
we ended up visiting the memory clinic.
It�s like going home with a newborn baby,
but with less support and no balloons.

They don�t tell you that she�ll hit you
as you coax her into the bath.
Neither do they tell you what nappies to buy
when she becomes incontinent,
how to persuade her to wear one
or stop her taking it off
and stashing it in a pillow case.

They don�t tell you what to do
when she thinks that the small boy
you pass on your walk is her grandson,
and tries to talk to him. Nobody tells you
how to placate the angry parents.

They don�t tell you that she�s never
going to phone you again, see you get married,
be a grandmother to your kids.
Nobody tells you how to channel the anger
you feel that your fellow thirtysomethings� lives
now involve marriage, mortgages and children,
and yours revolves around a confused old lady
who doesn�t know who you are.
They�ve chosen their responsibilities;
you�d give anything not to have yours.

They don�t tell you that you�ll spend hours
trying to feed her a spoonful of hospital jelly
even though she�s pretty much given up on eating,
because you can�t just watch her starve.

It doesn�t matter how distraught you are
that she�s wasting away before your eyes,
or how much it upsets you to agree
to the doctor�s request for a DNR order;
this disease is relentless .

I�m still not sure how to feel about it
when there�s nothing tangible to mourn.
�Waking grief� someone called it.
When the person you knew is gone, but not gone.
But it�s not. It�s a waking, sleeping,
cloud of despair. But then nobody tells you
how to grieve either, do they?

Especially when there�s no funeral to go to.



From What they don't tell you about dementia by Dawn Vance, The Guardian 28 January 2015. Submitted by Angi Holden.

CV

My Most Illustrious Lord,

I know how, in the course of the siege of a terrain,
to remove water from the moats and how to make
an infinite number of bridges, mantlets
and scaling ladders and other instruments
necessary to such an enterprise.

I have also types of cannon, most convenient
and easily portable, with which to hurl small stones
almost like a hail-storm; and the smoke from the cannon
will instil a great fear in the enemy
on account of the grave damage and confusion.

I have means of arriving at a designated
spot through mines and secret winding passages
constructed completely without noise, even if
it should be necessary to pass underneath
moats or any river.

Also I will make cannon, mortar and light ordnance
of very beautiful and functional design
that are quite out of the ordinary.

I will assemble catapults, mangonels,
trebuckets and other instruments of wonderful
efficiency not in general use.

And should a sea battle be occasioned,
I have examples of many instruments
which are highly suitable either in attack
or defence, and craft which will resist the fire
of all the heaviest cannon and powder and smoke.

Also I can execute sculpture in marble,
bronze and clay. Likewise in painting, I can do
everything possible as well as any other.




From a letter Leonardo da Vinci wrote to Ludovico Sforza around 1483, commending himself for court employment. Via Letters of Note. Submitted by Gabriel Smy.