SkyMinds ~ by Matt - développeur WordPress, formateur | Page 4

I WISH THIS story were different. I wish it were more civilized. I wish it showed me in a better light, if not happier, then at least more active, less hesitant, less distracted by trivia. I wish it had more shape. I wish it were about love, or about sudden realizations important to one’s life, or even about sunsets, birds, rainstorms, or snow.
Maybe it is about those things, in a sense; but in the meantime there is so much else getting in the way, so much whispering, so much speculation about others, so much gossip that cannot be verified, so many unsaid words, so much creeping about and secrecy. And there is so much time to be endured, time heavy as fried food or thick fog; and then all at once these red events, like explosions, on streets otherwise decorous and matronly and somnambulant.
I’m sorry there is so much pain in this story. I’m sorry it’s in fragments, like a body caught in crossfire or pulled apart by force. But there is nothing I can do to change it.
I’ve tried to put some of the good things in as well. Flowers, for instance, because where would we be without them?
Nevertheless it hurts me to tell it over, over again. Once was enough: wasn’t once enough for me at the time? But I keep on going with this sad and hungry and sordid, this limping and mutilated story, because after all I want you to hear it, as I will hear yours too if I ever get the chance, if I meet you or if you escape, in the future or in Heaven or in prison or underground, some other place. What they have in common is that they’re not here. By telling you anything at all I’m at least believing in you, I believe you’re there, I believe you into being. Because I’m telling you this story I will your existence. I tell, therefore you are.
So I will go on. So I will myself to go on. I am coming to a part you will not like at all, because in it I did not behave well, but I will try nonetheless
to leave nothing out. After all you’ve been through, you deserve whatever I have left, which is not much but includes the truth.

The Handmaid’s Tale, chapter 41.

This chapter is a turning point for Offred is no longer a victim but an active agent ready to give an extraordinary account of her affair with Nick and the salvaging afterward.

She will try to fulfill her quest or relationships and reciprocity through the experience with Nick and then honesty to her imaginary reader, promising him/her to tell the truth.

Dismemberment and fragmentation

Fragmentation annoys her and weighs heavily on her: she is a trapped mind wandering endlessly in a maze. The plotline constantly jumps about, each paragraph is unrelated to the previous and next one.

Fragmentation positions Offred as a victim of Gilead: the fragmented quality of her writing becomes a graphic representation of Gilead’s influence on the narrator’s psychological balance.

She is also a victim in the process of story-telling for she appears unable to control what she tells. This idea is reinforced by another quote: “it isn’t a story I’m telling”, underlining that her mission is not to make things up and to beautify reality but to render things as they truly are.

Her mission is to get a message across, it has a didactic purpose: “after all I want you to hear it”.

“I’m sorry that it’s in fragments, like a body caught in crossfire and pulled apart by force”

  • there is a parallel between the body and the text
  • the fragmented text represents her own fragmented body

The text becomes less fragmented as she manages to write about her affair with Nick (“write her body”).

Besides, both tale and body are dismembered for both were violated and maimed. The body is often raped by the commander in the same way as Offred’s tale is said to have been raped or maimed by the two professors who have supposedly reorganized it.

Gradually, the narrator evolves from a denunciation of fragmentation to a search for unity and the confirmation that she exists.

That was in May. Spring has now been undergone. The tulips have had their moment and are done, shedding their petals one by one, like teeth. One day I came upon Serena Joy, kneeling on a cushion in the garden, her cane beside her on the grass. She was snipping off the seed pods with a pair of shears. I watched her sideways as I went past, with my basket of oranges and lamb chops. She was aiming, positioning the blades of the shears, then cutting with a convulsive jerk of the hands. Was it the arthritis, creeping up? Or some blitzkrieg, some kamikaze, committed on the swelling genitalia of the flowers? The fruiting body. To cut off the seed pods is supposed to make the bulb store energy.
Saint Serena, on her knees, doing penance.
I often amused myself this way, with small mean-minded bitter jokes about her; but not for long. It doesn’t do to linger, watching Serena Joy, from behind.
What I coveted was the shears.

Well. Then we had the irises, rising beautiful and cool on their tall stalks, like blown glass, like pastel water momentarily frozen in a splash, light blue, light mauve, and the darker ones, velvet and purple, black cat’s-ears in the sun, indigo shadow, and the bleeding hearts, so female in shape it was a surprise they’d not long since been rooted out. There is something subversive about this garden of Serena’s, a sense of buried things bursting upwards, wordlessly, into the light, as if to point, to say: Whatever is silenced will clamour to be heard, though silently. A Tennyson garden, heavy with scent, languid; the return of the word swoon. Light pours down upon it from the sun, true, but also heat rises, from the flowers themselves, you can feel it: like holding your hand an inch above an arm, a shoulder. It breathes, in the warmth, breathing itself in. To walk through it in these days, of peonies, of pinks and carnations, makes my head swim.

The willow is in full plumage and is no help, with its insinuating whispers. Rendezvous, it says, terraces; the sibilants run up my spine, a shiver as if in fever. The summer dress rustles against the flesh of my thighs, the grass grows underfoot, at the edges of my eyes there are movements, in the branches; feathers, flittings, grace notes, tree into bird, metamorphosis run wild. Goddesses are possible now and the air suffuses with desire. Even the bricks of the house are softening, becoming tactile; if I leaned against them they’d be warm and yielding. It’s amazing what denial can do. Did the sight of my ankle make him lightheaded, faint, at the checkpoint yesterday, when I dropped my pass and let him pick it up for me? No handkerchief, no fan, I use what’s handy.

Winter is not so dangerous. I need hardness, cold, rigidity; not this heaviness, as if I’m a melon on a stem, this liquid ripeness.

The Handmaid’s Tale, chapter 25.

The Garden of (Serena) Joy

Abundance and life

Spring is the time of birth of nature. Abundance is conveyed by the number of adjectives. The narrator drowns in this garden – “makes my head swim” – and light seems to come from everywhere.

The passing of time is never recorded precisely: ellipses of several days/weeks. Chronology is not always respected, through the use of analepses and prolepses.

The passing of time is marked by seasons, the natural time and flora.

The garden as a fruiting body

The environment becomes consistent: the garden is like a body. The importance of softness is emphasized by the alliteration in [s].

The thread of the present is marked by the changing flora and the narrator’s gradual metamorphosis is modeled on that of Nature’s.

Serena as the disturbing element

Serena is seen as the disturbing element in this Garden of Eden.

Birth of the narrator as a human being, conscious of herself

Presence of feminity, necessary to the birth process

Feminity is needed for the birth and the whole garden is seen as a fruiting body.

Lyricism opposes the sense of osmosis felt by the “pathetic fallacy”: when natural elements are attributed with human attitudes. The garden shows the image of a natural world, which is everything Gilead has lost.

Pathetic fallacy is a literary technique that corresponds to a personification with natural elements.

Thanks to Offred’s heightened literary imagination, she can respond to the beauty of the garden and see the poetics behind the natural: the trees are seen as “birds in full plumage”.

Si vous possédez et gérez votre propre serveur email, il peut être très intéressant de proposer des comptes emails et des alias pour vos utilisateurs.

J’ai écrit il y a quelques années un tutoriel qui faisait cela à la main avec une base SQL et des domaines virtuels mais il y a aujourd’hui beaucoup plus simple avec PostfixAdmin.

PostfixAdmin

PostfixAdmin est une interface web open-source qui permet de gérer des comptes mails, des domaines et des alias sur un serveur mail Postfix.

il s’intègre avec

  • Postfix
  • un server IMAP/POP3 comme Dovecot ou Courier
  • une base de données (sqlite, mysql, postgresql)
  • Fetchmail (optionnel)

Il est très utile pour créer des alias à la volée ou des comptes mail rapidement.

Création du sous-domaine

Je trouve cela plus simple de créer un sous-domaine pour ce type d’application. Dans votre gestionnaire DNS, il suffit d’ajouter un enregistrement de type A:

XXXXX.EXAMPLE.COM IN A xxx.xxxx.xxx.xxx

XXXXX est votre sous-domaine sur EXAMPLE.COM et xxx.xxx.xxx.xxx l’adresse IPv4 de votre serveur.

Création de la base de données

Nous utilisons MySQL/MariaDB pour postfix donc on s’identifie sur la console mysql :

mysql -u root -p 

[MOT DE PASSE ROOT]

Et on lance:

CREATE DATABASE postfix; 
CREATE USER 'mymailadmin'@'localhost' IDENTIFIED WITH mysql_native_password BY '1nyXI7Y)$spmslgz4HhdE4Lc_vm&)Gh!MsZFf64645fek'; 
GRANT ALL PRIVILEGES ON postfix.* TO 'mymailadmin'@'localhost'; 
FLUSH PRIVILEGES; EXIT;

Nous avons donc un nouvel utilisateur et une nouvelle base de données, spécifiques pour PostfixAdmin.

Configuration NginX pour PostfixAdmin

On crée un nouveau server block spécifique à PostfixAdmin:

nano /etc/nginx/sites-available/postfixadmin.conf
close