Where the Wild Things Should Be

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So it is now time to trade the streets and supposed comforts of Gothem and to exchange these Happy Hours that go until 8PM and long subterranean commutes, fancy dinner dates with friends just in from London, Paris, Milan, Moscow, with the long singular journey to North, the winterlands and scrub boreal forests of Newfoundland and Labrador.

Some of the comforts will be hard to leave behind. The food trucks, the dollar oyster specials, the constant stream of Beautiful People as well as the vicarious glamour of walking through film productions, fashion model shoots, and gangland shootings that make the news (hi mom). I will leave all this for wind, the call of the loon, and a silence so strong I will again hear just how bad my tinnitus has gotten. For much of this trip, perhaps we could have just taken it using Google Street View™ since this service is in many places you may not expect and can deflate the adventure of not knowing. However, we will attempt it in “real time,” to hazard the journey feeding our little auto gas and seeing how long it takes to burn through an entire tank until the next feeding.

I will perhaps miss the hot water on demand. I say that frequently. Not that this trip involves as much camping as previous ventures North. Still, I am sure I have gotten fat and sassy in my office chair, perhaps more out-of-shape than I know from constant clicking and mouse moving with a few leg stretches about the block just to see the sights. I will also miss the culture. This will be a time without access to the Internets. No music other than what little we can bring and knowing the car, the tape deck eats tapes after a few plays so much of this trip may be in silence. Except for the wind whistling over the hood and through our hair as we drive along or perhaps the smattering of rain as the forecast calls for some precipitation and up there one needs to expect the weather to constantly change. One issue about the rain and a drawback from driving a vintage car is that the roof canvas is quite in bad shape and the top actually held in place by a cord that I think was once a dog’s leash. I know there is a danger for the driver side windshield wiper to fall of the track and if it does I am not sure how to fix it this time. Also, if we are stopped in traffic, which I don’t expect outside of the border crossing, the exhaust pipe broke off about at the rear wheel, so it is best if we keep moving in order to breathe right.

I will also miss the food of Gotham and that harvested from our little garden. I know that there may be a few roadside eateries, truck stops and we will be obliged to stop there since they are 200-300 miles apart and we will need petrol and provisions. This time I will attempt to swear off the poutine, an addictive mixture of all that is bad in food, a pile of starch drowned in salt and fat masquerading as a traditional dish – truly the haggis of Canada and eatable only in jest – and that joke appears old as I write this… not that I may succumb in the moment to temptation and have some version of that dish just to prove that there is a “good” version out there in the world – oh look, this one is better than the one we had in Matagami two years ago…. Provisions will be basic camping fare otherwise, just whatever we can hop out of the car and ruin over a canister of gas or burn in a campfire just in time for the bears to show up. I am not so much looking forward to the gastronomic implications of this trip.

There may be a stage where there is a physical withdrawal to the lack of Internet and news from the outside world, such as the current body count in Gaza or the latest Russian misadventure or a correction of our currency, predicted by some as July 20th 2014, that will lead to financial collapse, the one several Doomers have been warning us about since 2008 put are failing to materialize as a singular event (meaning it is happening, just slower, and we sit here like frogs in increasingly hot water). I may have to look down at my hands every now and then as I constantly do with my smart iDevice. There are times when my left leg buzzes like I am getting a call, but this is strange since my iThingy is on the desk or the other pocket. I wonder when I will go through withdrawal, when will I wake up in the middle of the night and have to check email but can’t or look up a certain fact that arises in conversation and for which there is a disagreement of details – did Sally Struthers (sp?) pitch for International Correspondence School or DeVry University and which one is under investigation by the Attorney General? These questions and more may need to be answered.

Then there is the lack of Beautiful People in those parts. No casual walks to passed stunning men and women who make more money than I ever will be able to, are better educated than I can ever hope, and are better looking and more fit than I were I to binge on plastic surgery, exercise, and clean out the GNC and make a huge protein shake out of the contents of the entire store and blow it up my ass. No Unnamed as-of-yet Scorsese productions being filmed at my feet, no posters for cool free concerts in the park, no Rooftop Films, no friend with an extra ticket to some event. I will have to entertain myself, or hope that Mother Nature, in her unkind and majestic indifference, will provide me with the stimulation I need.

This is also to say that while this author will continue to write a post-a-day, that this blog may fall dark at times as my little car rockets from one distant cell tower to another WiFi connection. This also means that perhaps there will be a total lack of content when this blogger returns since how many times can one recount Ohwepickedblueberriesanditwassogreat?

Tonight off from Gothem to the wild areas of the Catskills and the hamlet of Fort Mudge to pick up the car. Then on to Boston and deep into the borderline between Cambridge and Somerville to reconnect with a friend who was also my landlord and who runs a safe house for Rainbow Gatherers, MIT graduate students, and whomever else needs a bed for the night.

We shall see where the wild things should be.
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You’re Really Only After 74/75

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Gothem has always had a little trouble with reality. We all do. Those of us who live in and around Gothem, and to a certain extent those who don’t but live in farther regions of this Great Nation but in communion with Gothem or another center suffer from an Unreal that does not allow us to see the world as it exists, that is obeying certain principles of science. We live in a bubble of unrealistic expectations and an unreality that has invented itself as a tight cocoon, a world where dreams are invented right in front of our very eyes and we still believe them.

This bubble is more than that of the alleged Beltway of DC and the plastic partisan politics breeding within, different than the supposed vapid starfuckerdom of LA where image is both a product and a currency bought with likes and reTweets, but a bubble of the Neo Real of immediate service, unlimited garlic bread, and birthday parties with open top shelf bars because if I am going to come out to your goddamn party, you better feed me.

Running an errand brought me to SOHO and the Little Italy area. If you have never been to this part of Gothem please consult your TeeVee Guide since every few hours, whether you know it or not, you have been here. Law & Order. NYPD Blues. Shield. That other one with the cops in the city. Special Victims Unit (never look in bushes in Central or Prospect or Morningside Parks). Ugly Betty (not sure that’s a thing but the No Parking signs said that was the production). Some creepy puppet thing had children and their stage moms wandering about the streets in mid-day. I can always smell a film production from the craft table and by table location and fare – inside, under a small tent or by the presence of lox – I know the production value and quality of colour correction without even seeing the rushes. Then there is the bozo film students and their pathetic little cameras…. You can see the assignment in just a simple powerwalk about the area – I think I counted seven different students photographing some object in front of an advertisement of some kind… I liked the girl doing the flower in the bottle. I could almost smell the blue ink marking “great job Sara” on her contact sheet.

Fashion models are always tripping over one another for some last remaining square foot of “gritty” because they turned the area from Prince to Broome Street into a shopping mall on par with the Mall of America and the Edmonton Mall if not just a little more fake since those malls were built to be fake, which makes them in a way more real… right?

“I have gotten used to the occasional cherry picker in my window in the morning” an older woman exclaimed as I was on line at a certain store – the store was having their windows painted over and posters affixed for some production that will be on HBO, according to the stockboy… or stocker… or Junior Inventory Control Associate… Associater… “I know the director is Scorsese but I am not sure what the film is about other than it takes place in the 1970s.” Which is funny since in the actual 1970s I am not convinced that this location would have had so many posters for bands and the like… considering it was a war zone and I am not sure there was the pedestrian traffic there is today – at least not more than the junkies which are still there today but are but a smaller percentage of the street traffic which is increasingly Beautiful People. Back then it really needed the sign, “No Pissing or Shitting! People Live Here.” Today there are now fake posters from the 1970s and pretend trash on the sidewalk, guarded by very real police.

The piss and shit is fake. The cameras and police state, real.

It seems that every other day this street, really no more than an alley of two blocks, is clogged with various productions from the current really high budget one that has transformed the entire street into one huge Hannah Höch collage. The alley is filled with vintage cars. Last time it was blocked off to make it look like that alley all criminals run into before they get to that dead end.. the cop grabs their leg, there is a short fight, and then it’s over and the day is won and he would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for you meddling kids. Most days the alley has every model measuring out every bad fashion for some perverted old man photographer and dumb pie-eyed kid holding one of those round reflector thingies to make sure there is just the right amount of diffuse light. And to many of us, these spinning of dreams is such a regular thing that it’s part of our lives. We step over bums and electrical cords connecting generators to huge night-into-day Klieg lights without even thinking how unreal this is… or the potential psychic and emotional side effects. Of stepping over the film productions I mean… Not the bum…. We long ago gave up our charity for the poor…

Whether or not you believe in the feedback loop or not there must be some mental impact of being part of this constant dreamscape. We live with the very real process of dream creation and we also are the consumers being bombarded by the very people we step around. The model showing her little ass on Jersey Street is several weeks and one Photoshop session later three stories tall and marketing Gap or American Apparel or Unico or OMG or FLCL or whatever. The films made we just may watch, if only to tell our friends we saw it being produced. And then there is the issue of our believing this is normal. That’s where the bubble starts forming. The bubble of unreal we take wherever we so and that bends our expectations as to what the world should be and our position in that scheme.
I will be glad to now in just days spend time outside of any film location.

I will admit, I took out the camera and shot a few Selfies at today’s film shoot… but, who wouldn’t?

I mean.

It’s Scorsese.
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White Nights and Rainmageddons

IMG_1063Flights all over the country are being canceled and for no real reason – other than pouring rains, strange convection currents, and rainmagedons. It seems that perhaps rail travel will again emerge since the winds and weather may make air travel a more inconsistent animal than it already is… which is already at an untenable level where flights are changed, moved, or scotched entirely as it is and with “weather events” increasing, there is no longer that summer window where we were almost guaranteed on-time delivery of our person to a distant location as opposed to our wintertide flights where we expected (often if there was the chance of a free hotel and stack of movies hoped) for long layovers and lost connections as we slogged about this land.
It is then to the ground that I will take (since my own air adventure for today and tomorrow was vanished due to a little rain and now I am cooling my heels in Gotham). In two days a little ride known as “The Hooptie” – a Dodge convertible vintage 1984 will start a long 6035.4 kilometer journey up the coast of Eastern North America from the Storied City of Boston to the harbors of Maine and then on to the Bay of Fundy only to then take off from Sidney to the island of Newfoundland on a seven hour ferry to the home of the first European settlements long before more proper kings and queens could fund ventures and have territories.
After a short exploration of these lands we will embark again on a ferry – this time a short plod across whale and iceberg and apparently shark infested waters on to the lands of Labrador where we will again hug the coast and skirt in and out of fog banks to perhaps camp at the side of the road or perhaps deep in the woodlands. From this road, we will then turn to the interior, to take the new (four year old) extension of the Trans Labrador Highway in order to connect to a location called Happy Valley Goose Bay, a place as remote as the name is unlikely. While no settlement is picturesque there is some adventure in visiting these remote places where tourists – apart from the more adventurous – are loath to travel.
I anticipate the fare to be awful as I have been to these northern regions before. Potatoes in gravy, hamburgers in gravy, something like shoe in gravy and all this gravy falling out of tin cans. I expect the villages to be ugly, utility at the helm and no charm as we in the warmer climes of New England have come to demand, but perhaps an old building from long ago still exists and we can snap a few pics. And by long ago I mean 1958 when the place was entirely wilderness cut off from all civilization save for the summer air mail and ferry. And by summer I mean two months when the pack ice finally lets go and allows for some movement. I still think to this old church I saw up north of Montreal about two hundred miles. Now on the edge of a super highway, it once was deep into the dark and cold woods. Perhaps I am tossing too romantic a blanket over this whole landscape. Blackflies and cold dominate. I am sure those older buildings were horrors to live in. I don’t expect to cross any settlement except separated by hundreds of miles. Some camps here and there, some of these camps may even have small houses, but generally we will be packing our own fuel from town to town in order to not run out along the way.
The road in places is paved. Some of the newer sections, and by this I mean hundreds of miles, remain gravel. I anticipate the only other traffic to be huge rigs loaded with stones, trees, stones and trees, or dead moose. Also white pickup trucks from the logging, mining, or hydro conglomerates will be additional traffic. Other than these few instances of “traffic,” I expect our little expedition to be quite alone on the road.
The weather may not be cooperating as much as we had hoped. Two years ago on the sojourn to James Bay the weather was quite warm and while we had our rain storms here and there, we did not have to take cover except for one day. This time, with a polar vortex of something and El Nino or Drecho providing the moist air, we may have several days of some kind of precipitation and to this I hope not too much or at least there are breaks in the rain in order for us to quickly explore the area of interest off the road – and by this I mean blueberry barrens and little stunted forests but I guess I will also have to add any encounters with wolves, polar bears, and flying squirrels if not moose..
While much research has been made on The Googles, we are anticipating the experience in “real time” or in what we called reality Will there be pounding rain? Bears of all sorts? Northern lights or cloudcast stars and twilight gloaming that leads to astrological dusk and scant night with which to rest and by day the blackflies and night the mosquitoes. Will the old rusty trusty car, a 1984 Burgundy a Dodge Convertible survive as it had previous adventures to James Bay and Meat Cove? We shall see for even in this predictable electronic age, there are still some places close by we can turn off our cell phones, and connect.
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Future Harvest

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I remember as a kid there was a show on TeeVee called Matinee at the Bijoux – as it sounds, the weekly show was a repeat of 1930s matinee shows including shorts, cartoons, and a film of some low quality since it was perhaps churned out in haste (lots of Radio Ranch stories and cartoons with little by way of plot). One film that stuck with me was a cheese-fest called Things to Come. From what I remember, without using The Googles or IMDB, this was a story of a future world obsessed with technology – but that old Future technology that looks very quaint today as Modern was much different back then – all Art Deco and stuff. In the film people lived in a world that fought over something… and it looked like everyone would die… in the end they shot a couple – the Adam and Eve trope – into space via a huge cannon in order to have them explore space and something-something-something start a new world where people lived in peace. While there was a dire warning about the future in this film, there was also an idea that humans were able to one day rise above our petty squabbles and perverted predilections to become the Superman of Nietzsche or Shaw, or whomever…. or whoever? There was still a hope in the future, which is amazing considering the dark clouds gathering in Europe and about the world at that time.
Today, there is less hope in the future, since it is not just the worries about the technologies and their control over us (that has been an old idea) and the environment that is fast unwinding but that we are seeing the limitations not of the universe but of the human condition. Our toys, that is our technologies, are outgrowing us and getting older and we’re just staying the same age. We are not becoming Superman, we are not becoming the new Adam and Eve, we are just the same base, nasty, dirty animals we have always been. We just now have amazing tools in order to carry out our ape-like desires. How cold and alone is the man of Hitchens devoid of the divine and yet lacking in the rationality that was to replace the crutch of faith. Now we see how naked we apes are. Yet, we must look ahead – Buddha or Bodhisattva or Charles Manson said that the end of the birth would be the end of death, but considering our birthrate, we must look ahead since we are right now projecting several generations into that future we are hard at work creating today in all the glory of mass killing, domestic violence, and consumer goods filling our stores to bursting.
So, rather than shrug, we must imagine the future knowing we cannot change certain things – like our nature – and must then build a world that does not rely on the Ifonlywecouldlivetogether ideal of the 1960s. We must build a world that has the capacity to carry hate and anger, as it does love and conviviality and somehow control our own tools that place superpowers into the hands of a species that will never control it’s passions.
We must work with who we are, not who we wish we could be. These children of today will also murder too directly, or by way of corporate and military proxies, indirectly.
Looking ahead to Things To Come, there appears a total mess on the horizon. Perhaps no worse than what dangerous visions we may have a decade ago. I assumed we’d have a larger hole in the ozone.
There is toxic slime growing in lake Erie. The entire western lands of Canada seem on fire. The worst in recorded history. Ebola. Yeah, that. We have these problems and a web of small wars all over the globe. The weather is weird. Really strange, even more so than last year. It seems ever harder to look ahead and project some hope.
So perhaps we need scale back the idea of future into a more manageable set of moments. Let us think of our gardens planted this spring will be harvested. We may fight vermin, flood, or drought along the day but there will be harvest of our little victories. We my get occasion to take a break from our labour.
This blogger will be embarking in a few short days on a trip to Newfoundland, Labrador and Quebec to unplug from the world and see the wild lands. The road is still unpaved in vast sections and there will be few settlements along the way.
Perhaps that is future enough and to attempt to look ahead to the next decade is not a wise endeavor these days considering the mental and physical stress it may induce. And so to that, perhaps we will just forecast next week, and our excited expectations as to what will ripen next.

That Old Ideal

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From looking back these past few posts, perhaps now is as good a time as any to look ahead. Perhaps, considering all the signs of impending doom… it’s not a good time to look ahead.
Were I, however, to write this post from 2004, I would have seen a different picture. I had, at that time, thought I won the game. I was worth such-n-such, owned a certain amount, and while I worked hard and paid my bills just-in-time, it seemed that I had somehow tricked fate, Dame Fortune, into launching me one day into the life I would like. Some travel, a garden, time to study, time to write, sip wine here and there with a loved one, all those blessed things we want in college but most of us are smart enough to give up when we first join the Rat Race, make children with another Rat, and nest in whatever simple accommodation we can find, the dream of being a bohemian or academic we aspire to in our college years set aside along with all our dolls, Star Wars toys, and Legos. This giving up of childish things is written in the Bible and perhaps a few other places by those who long ago knew that life was a veil of tears – or to them it was, and they wanted everyone else to share their dismal world. Some of us just become adults later in life and by that I do not mean responsible, I mean wake up to the cold facts that water bills, heating bills, rent, is our life and perhaps we can only then steal some moments here and there to truly live. The sad thing is that those I knew back then were also optimistic too, but now I cannot count but a few people who are not struggling or just plodding along as best as they can. Albeit, my friends are not struggling like Gaza children wondering if they’re going to be bombed… Not African girls sold into slavery by rebels. Not Chinese workers choking on smog. But, by the standards of our nation, the people I know are just meeting their bills, have stagnated in their careers and their wages, are moving ever out of the center of some location that gets ever expensive as the Beautiful People move in and slither around with mouths open. Many acquaintances keep a stiff upper lip but most caught suspended in some funk. Maybe it is just the circles I had acquired. Creative people perhaps are useless after their twenties.
Meanwhile in Gothem, the city gets ever more expensive. The condos are tossed up and they are sold before they are finished. Trendy bars and cafes open up with $15 cocktails and these bars are full not only Friday night, but most nights of the week… What do these people do to afford this? I have traveled much of the world in the past decades and for this I have been to many trendy bars in several major cities… and most of them are almost empty on a good night. The economy in Gothem is inexplicable. Were I working in data, which I often am, I would then have to consider this an outlying data point.
But this writer digresses.
I am trying to look ahead and right now, perhaps it is fear that holds me back. Perhaps ineptitude of imagination. Rather than forecast and have some fun making insane predictions like some TeeVee politico, I can only look ahead and see the skull of the planet. Rather, I continue to think back to the person I was and wonder what I expected… did I think about a future? Not just the future of flying cars and the rise and fall of nations, but a personal and private future. I must have. I was married. I owned a house. I had a good friend network. I know that the world was to become ever harder, that the economy would become ever tighter the people of the future – of today – ever meaner and petty but I guess I thought I could ride that wave at the top and this would allow me and those about me to rise above it all. Allow us to write dumb poems and go to art shows and talk about politics and to take holidays in strange lands and to meet new people.
And to this, had I manged to do achieve my then dream, I would be just one more out-of-touch pontificator floating about like a balloon animal in a gentle summer day about the park, perhaps Central Park, maybe Boston Commons, perhaps Smith College, spewing name brand theories and sipping box wine trying to convince my friends it was as good as the shit in bottles or better because you could play slap the bag with this one.
The world has become ever harder and in some ways so have I. However, when I think back to the near distant past, I have to admit that I have maintained my ways even though not in the standards I had considered. Even though each day gets no simpler and with age ever harder in many other ways, that old ideal of gathering with friends for dinner, of keeping gardens and making home made whatever, of traveling to new places continue even if these activities take place in ever smaller stolen moments between work and work, and work. The world will get ever more difficult, and with the weather ever more moist, but perhaps there is something to be learned that only experience can provide although Pink Floyd seemed to have known this so long ago when he asked “did they get you to trade a walk on part in a war for a leading role in a cage.”
It is – perhaps – that to look ahead is to look with no set plan but to see if we can continue to live the live we seek no matter what the world may toss in our way. If we are inclined to pursue art, learning, and friendship it is no difficult thing to do so in the nursery of youth but it is perhaps a mark of some achievement for those who can continue this path and maintain their bills, rent, water bills, heat bills, and sundry other hallmarks of what passes for modern American adulthood.
We may look back in anger, but we can perhaps look ahead and storm, to somehow keep up our energy and never let, as they say, the bastards wear you down.

Dieser Blog Post ist schlecht für die Umwelt.

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Editor’s Note: This entry is in honor of the winning World Cup team’s home country and beautiful language (think “butterfly”). The original post in English can be found HERE.

Wo ich zur Arbeit ein Technologie-Unternehmen, war, dass, während große und Unternehmens, Gedanken, sich als “Start-up” und mit einem “Start-up-Mentalität.” Meine Aufgaben bei dieser Firma sind etwas, das sich am besten als die Bereitstellung der Dokumentation beschrieben werden können, wie auf die Werkzeuge, die dieses Unternehmen die Erstellung zu verwenden. Ich würde mit dem Produktteam gerecht zu werden, machen Sie sich Notizen, Treffen mit Dokumentation (die technische Redakteure, als ich etwas mehr Kundenkontakt Erstellung von und für Menschen mit nur einer Basislinie technisches Verständnis, geschweige denn die Fähigkeit zur Reihenfolge der Operationen), mit verschiedenen traf ich Direktoren sowie meine Arbeit übergeben obwohl zahlreiche Management-Schichten in meinem eigenen Abteilung. Das kostete Zeit und Mühe, aber das beste war, dass durch die Zeit, die ich etwas von einer fertigen Arbeit hatte, das Produkt verändert hatte, Hotfixes aufgebracht worden war, und was auch immer Arbeit, die ich hatte, war überholt. Das war ein fast wöchentlich Auftreten und für eine Zeit dachte ich, dass dies ein kafkaesken Reality-Show und ich war nicht einmal die Hauptrolle. Dann begann ich zu überlegen, in diesem Informationszeitalter, wie unser Wissen – das ist die tatsächlichen Fähigkeiten und Technik über bestimmte Werkzeuge sowie zugehörige Informationen läuft jetzt schneller als die Milch Sie vergaß und im Auto gelassen.
Es scheint mit der Änderungsgeschwindigkeit, was wir können schneller lernen – und früher vergessen. Vielleicht ist alles, was wir lernen können, schneller als zuvor, vergessen werden, bis zu dem Punkt, wo wir die Spitze des Wissens erreicht haben, dass hohe Spitze des Berges, wo der Swami sitzt (warten, wird Swami als rassistisch jetzt?), Denn was auch immer Frage, die wir hatten zu Beginn unserer Reise wurde entsorgt und ersetzt tausende von Zeit, bevor wir nach oben zu kommen.
Was hast du mein Kind zu suchen?
Es spielt keine Rolle. Ich hatte eine tolle Idee für eine Waffel Nahrungsmittel-LKW wollte ich von Ihrem passieren, aber das gesamte Lebensmittel LKW Sache ist jetzt vorbei.
Dies ist nicht nur Ideen, die austauschbar sind, sind diese ganzen Fähigkeiten. Wissen, wie man einen Videorekorder zu programmieren? Ihre Großmutter kann. Sie können jetzt die Dinge vergessen, sofort und nicht erst ein oder zwei Generationen. Die Werkzeuge, die Sie im letzten Jahr verwendet, sind jetzt Werkzeuge deines Großvaters. Oft, buchstäblich, wenn Ihr Großvater passiert zu sein um Wühlen in Ihrem Papierkorb kann er einige Verwendung in Ihrem Universalkanal-Wechsler-Ding zu sehen.
Wir leben in einem Zeitalter der Wegwerf-Medien und Werkzeuge und perfektionieren die kurze Aufmerksamkeitsspanne. Hat der Reaktor Spitze in das Getränk oder online ist, oder was war das neue Geschichte und haben wir darauf zu achten? Solange Lolicats sind und laufen, der muss über den Unterhaltungswert der News wissen? Es ist nur Hintergrundinformationen. Die Sortier Sie bekommen natürlich von allen Anzeigen die Sie zu Fuß zur Arbeit zu fahren, oder der Radiosender spielen in der Kwikimart Toilette ausgesetzt sind. Wer nutzt ein Betriebssystem von vor zwanzig Jahren? Wer erinnert sich noch, wie man ein Telefon wählen? Die Haltbarkeit von Wissen wächst kürzer und kürzer auf den Punkt, an dem Veröffentlichungsprozess eines Buches dauert oft länger als die Haltbarkeit der Informationen in der, ob technische oder kreativ. Das Sprichwort in der Universität so, dass die Institution war eine Generation hinter sich. Es machte Spaß, Spaß veraltet Text Bücher, Präsentationen und Professoren in einer anderen Generation, das entweder die Hippie-Bart-Typ oder der Anzug und Krawatte verstrickt zu machen. Jetzt können nur Universitäten, sondern hinter, auch wenn der Kopiermaschine wird fieberhaft daran, morgen Multi-Media-Powerpoint zu drucken. Diese Institutionen haben August, indem Sie versuchen, mehr und mehr von Bedeutung sein, werfen Sie die Klassiker-Abteilung, ließ Sprache und Philosophie und Geisteswissenschaften, haben sich mehr lächerlich zu versuchen, up-to-date in einer Welt, in der Informationen ist nutzlos bleiben. Sie sind wie der alte Großvater versucht, hip zu sein und zu sagen “das ist wirklich Titten!”, Wenn er sagen sollte “mint” oder “rad.”

Während die semantische Punkt kann argumentiert, dass es Informationen und nicht knowedge geworden ist, dass endlich in seiner Nützlichkeit für die durchschnittliche Person, Informationen wie die Bausteine ​​des Wissens und der Erkenntnis als Struktur, in der die in diesen kleinen Stückchen passen bricht, wenn diejenigen, wenig Bits wie Scheiße zusammen …. Ein Master-Abschluss in kinetische Intelligenz …. Einmal von der Syracuse University I glauben …. Nutzlos. Jetzt, eine Generation von Anti-Traditionalisten haben etwas davon, wenn sie die Pop-Kultur-Studien als Disziplin und postmodernen Menschen mit all ihren Care Bears als Externalisierung von Anal Bühnen Hermeneutik aber diese Leute wurden vor unter den Bus geworfen Jahre erstellt. Ihr Ersatz sind die “Ich weiß, wie man lernt” foolios noch denke, wir müssen lehren, Nichtigkeiten, da wir wissen, wie Sie lernen, was wir brauchen. Das Problem ist – es gibt nicht mehr “Dinge” wert “Wissen” und dass, während “Information” kann die Leistung der Weg eine Taschenlampe hat Macht, aber Information ist nicht mehr Macht in der Weise, dass ein TE-416 Tomahawk-Rakete kann weit besseres Licht bis zum Himmel. Und diese Art von Macht ist heute nicht mehr als in den Händen der oft dumm.

In all diesen Informationsaustausch, Ebbe und Flut des Wissens essen wir unseren Weg durch die Welt, eine China-Syndrom, aber es ist die Menschheit, die auf der Suche nach den Materialien in die Erde versinkt sich tiefer und tiefer, um unsere ständige Verbesserungen und fanatischen Änderungen Ziegel und Mörtel Realitäten. Mit jedem neuen System, werfen wir ein älteres System, wir einen weiteren Haufen giftigen Produkte hinzufügen, um dieses alte Mülleimer der Geschichte (Anmerkung, sie nicht sagen, Papierkorb der Geschichte), die nicht in eine Maschine, die aus bläst Häschen und Kätzchen angesaugt werden aber sind zerschlagen und von den Menschen verbrannt, um die kleinen Teile lohnt sich, unsere Industriemeister wiederverwenden zu retten. Acht-Spur-Bänder, Videorecorder, ROM, Disketten, Mix-Tapes Ihre Mutter, Rolle, Spieler taumeln, Boom-Boxen, analoge TeeVees, die riesigen 36” dumm TeeVees jeder bei in den 1980er Jahren, CDs und ihre Spieler, Sony Walkman, AOL Platten, Aufzeichnungen, iWhateverthefuck, der Kalte Krieg, institutionelle Confinement der Geisteskranken, Willowbrook, Detroit, Youngstown, US Steel, Pentium I, II, II, IV, V Prozessoren, PDAs, jeden Tag, dass Kaffeetasse und Deckel weg werfen Sie versichert, dass es wird ein Einhorn, nachdem er aus dem Papierkorb, Schuhe, Reifen entfernt, und die Liste geht weiter. In meinem Leben habe ich ein Handy ab 1999 gehörte. Seit dieser Zeit bis heute, habe ich durch rund acht verbrannt. Ich habe einen Computer seit 1996 im Besitz und seit dieser Zeit abgestürzt oder aus-gezeichnete sechs Computer, zerschlug vielleicht fünf Monitore. Nachdem ein Auto seit 1991 gefahren oder so, habe ich den Untergang von acht Autos gesehen, Zählen, dass neun von diesen Jahren habe ich nicht ein Auto, es ist immer noch 1,3 Autos pro Jahr besitzen – jedes Auto braucht seinen eigenen Besitzer manuel, ihren eigenen Bits von Informationen, eigenes Wissen über blinde Flecken und die Fähigkeit, so und solche Aufgabe zu erfüllen, und was zum Teufel ist ein “Check Engine Light” und warum ist es immer kosten $ 800 bis dieses Licht steigen, wenn ein Hammer und Nagel könnte das gleiche tun Job? Zum Preis von 1,3 Autos pro Jahr, dass ein riesiger Haufen aus meinem aktuellen Leben lang, und ich seltsamerweise amn’t den einsamen Autobesitzer auf diesem Planeten.

Auch dieser Blog-Post ist schlecht für die Umwelt. Das elektrische System wirkt, wird der Computer bald zu einem gewissen Stapel hinzugefügt werden, ein Kind Bangladashi zertrümmert mit einem Hammer und dann verbrennt, um die Blei, Cadmium bekommen (oder ist das in unserer Ernährung Milchpulver?) Und Superkräfte innerhalb , und die Zuschauer dieses Blogs auch Ihren Teil dazu beitragen, einen Beitrag zu dem, was wir als “E-Müll”, da “giftig Haufen Scheiße” können nicht gedruckt, da wir nicht erlaubt, “Scheiße” sagen werden, und wir alle weiß, es ist nur Hintergrund giftig Scheiße, die wir die ganze Zeit ausgesetzt sind. Wie die normale Dosis der Strahlung bekommen wir von der [Ozonloch ausgesetzt] Sonne.
Vielleicht wissen die Dinge nicht so eine tolle Idee. Für eine Sache, ist Wissen und Informationen für die Umwelt schlecht. Vielleicht ist unser Versagen in der Technologie, wird die technobastion unserer Informationswirtschaft soll für die freigelegt werden
liegen sie ist. der konstante lebenslanges Lernen, die konstant zu halten Fähigkeiten up-to-date, die Skimming-und Infotainment-und Reduktion von Informationen und Wissen, um Lichtpunkte auf einer sich ständig verändernden Daten-Plattform.
Wir möchten auf Dummheit zurück. Um den Besitz nur ein paar gute Bücher. Vielleicht nur brennen alle unsere Bücher und polieren die Korbibtorah sitzt auf dem Nachttisch, wie die Menschheit hat seit Tausenden von Jahren. Angesichts unserer komplexen System von Börsen, Versorgungsleitungen, globale Netzwerke und ständige Updates zu diesen Systemen verschwinden unter einem bisschen Wasser kann die Dummheit der neue Erkenntnis sein. Zu wissen, dass wir nicht lernen, dass es nichts gibt, lohnt sich das Lernen, und gehen zurück und die Rettung dieser Mix-Tapes aus dem Papierkorb, die Mutter warf sich Ursache, Joy Division nicht so schlecht.
Vielleicht neo-Unwissenheit ist gut für die Umwelt.

Anmerkung der Redaktion: Dieser Eintrag ist zu Ehren des Heimatlandes des gekrönten WM-Team und schöne Sprache (man denke “Schmetterling”). Der ursprüngliche Beitrag in englischer Sprache finden Sie HIER.

I Turn My Camera On

photo (35)
In the challenge to post every day this month on the theme “decade,” I am having to delve into and organize a long and forgotten digital shoebox and in sifting through memory of the spices but remembered from the kitchens of our youth and whatever record I can access in the several locations I find myself in any given week, it is hard to keep up this schedule as it is to confront so much of the clutter in my mind around life and those events that have formed a chain of ten links.
Did I think I would be this person were I to ask that younger self, what advice would that younger self give to me? Common questions of an existential nature that we come to ask no longer having to just consider that as part of a therapy session or some random question from a spin the bottle in college. For me those questions are not so interesting even to consider, of course the older me would have sage advice of course the younger me would have yelled, “Look out for that nail!”
However, I will continue for a few more days to steep in memory until I spend a week looking ahead. And we will see where that takes us.
In 2004 who would have known that I was to be married only a few more years. What would my spouse remember of those times? I always feel it is gossip to speak of known others, so I guess I will wait to pander to the dirty gossips in all of us to spill this or that relationship story which, truth to say, there isn’t more that can’t be summed up in the simple arc of there was a beginning, a middle, and an end and that this relationship took me from the last of the extended childhood of Americans to a solid middle of my adulthood to which I am fast waving goodbye to.
I remember that we went to Hungary perhaps the year after. I examined my passbook, but other than record of transit, there are no associated dates. I know I was working for a program and somehow I had more time off than my spouse. I also had more reason to go since I hail from family that originated in what is now Romania and then was part of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire and I had some researching to do in order to find out more about my grandfather, a man who was always in my life but who I had never actually met. His stories were passed on as Family Lore by my grandmother, my mother, and whatever traces had been preserved in various shrines. He was a handsome little man, fought in the War, lived where he wanted to, fucked who he wanted to, and traveled where he pleased, knowing seven languages and always a hit with the ladies. He had come from the last of a rotting pile of money. The money in his day had to flee what was then just become Rumania and to Budapest to dwell in various stately houses. One of the houses had been bombed flat in The War. The other, situated what was then considered “our of town” but now was almost central in the city had not been bombed flat and was quite extant. However, the SOVIETS had divided the house into apartments… which was understandable… and placed a huge block of cement with little apartments carved in to it in what had once been the lawn and garden of the house. Having arrived to this situation when I did, the house had since been privatized and whomever was living there each had chosen a different colour as well as maintenance schedule for the house. In other words…. it was a strange sight to see the house my grandfather could never go back to and to which, I would never be other than as a voyeur, a stranger on the sidewalk peeping over the hedges and inviting what was now, with the fall of communism, private lives. I took several pictures. These may have been digital photos, but I cannot think as to the hard drive they may have been on. Perhaps they were still printed out, but I know that I saw one of the pictures I took digitized… perhaps scanned, as we used to do way back then.
I walked down the hill from my encounter… yes I had taken pictures for my family to see, I remember that I shared them with my sister. Perhaps even my mother. My grandmother had been dead for some time so no need to take a picture for her. I guess she didn’t live to see this.
I cut across on a lane and landed at a cafe, which then meant bar that also served coffee and there were some trendy brash crass Modern neuvo-capitalists enjoying what was rather expensive fare considering the economy had not yet moved to Western Standards and I believe most of the old women were munching on fish heads for sustenance.
This was not my first time in Hungary, I had been there years prior on a mission to see the entirety of Europe one college summer. Shoe string, journal, blah blah blah, hostels, going to local bars, blah blah blah, avoiding touristic places, eating new food, making new friend… we know the post card. I remember the city was darker. More dirt. More signs of the Uprising as well as The War. Many of these old bullet holes, especially the sections where you could tell someone was smoking out a sniper was gone and replaced by a cleaner version of the old city, yet not the Shinny Happy People Prague I saw in 2001, still a little grime and noir.
The youth with the lap tops and track suits made noise. I finished my beir and left, off to search for the other house, an even stranger exercise since not only would I not visit this house, it no longer existed. Needless to say, based on that information relayed to me by my sister who had finally connected with the old man I had yet to meet, I found what I think was the sight of the home, now a large building, gray like the rest, cement like the rest, but with some very large SOVIET art hanging on one side, the meaning of which and relevance lost entirely on me as I neither studied art nor knew any Hungarian in written or spoken form.
I guess that this was a pilgrimage of sort for this persistence ghost in my life, this grandfather of fame that I had years before tried to track down but was not successful in making contact, and that this was one thing I had to do in order to assure our meeting, perhaps a test to see how interested I was by journeying to a former homeland. My attempt at contact had been almost a decade prior, when an even younger self was still interested in distant family and learning about my “heritage” (I have since evolved my thinking on history and “heritage”) but this letter was never returned and my sister, who had already gained audience with this specter, had seen the letter I had written while still in university, paper had yellowed, the paperclip had rusted slightly in the moist south pacific island air and to this day I get a little melancholy when I think of this small piece of me sitting and desiccating in a desk drawer and this man growing ever older wondering who this kid was or would this be the year of contact.
Still, I had started this quest she was able to better finish. And now I was to get ever closer to constructing these clues and finding these lost spaces on our supposed family’s map on this journey before the next summer where I would meet the man himself. After visiting ruins and reporting back, my last event was to meet an old friend of his. She was a woman of a certain age and had been married to Q- a very high up Party Official. Having lost her husband, she had also been able to shed any communistic traits she may have once had, or had to have had, and blossomed into quite the silver Capitalist. She also knew how to pour fingers of Zwak for a Hungarian version of tea and then jump behind the wheel of a sedan and drive about the city giving me the tour, so surprised that her old friend had a grandchild he had never spoken of. Not that they had spoken much since the Wall came down. It was obvious that they had been lovers. But… what are you going to say to an older woman who doesn’t speak much English in order to learn more about a family member you don’t… when you start to see it with more adult eyes… know… at all…. So one is prying into the life of a stranger. But, with the fourth sifter of liqueur of a strange and herbal nature, I may have not only asked her… Perhaps the thought to make a pass may have also occurred.
It was not long after that brief meeting that my spouse joined me and I set aside the research and moved into vacation mode, visiting wine bars, castles, art collections, and something else that I just can’t remember… like a movie or show of some sort, but perhaps that was another time and place pushing into my narrative. We had a good time. We drank wine on the hill by the castle. We took a train down to Romania. However, that is a longer story and for another time.
It is an interesting exercise to jump into remembrance and to reconstruct events and in some way perhaps to that more difficult task which is to reconstruct who one may have been at a certain, and in this case arbitrary point in time… Did all those photos of a grandfather’s house change me? Can I even, these short years later, remember?

“He was well aware that of the two of three thousand times he had made love (how many times had he made love in his life?) only two or three were really essential and unforgettable. The rest were mere echoes, imitations, repetitions, or reminiscences.”
―Milan Kundera,The Book of Laughter and Forgetting