Imagine…

Snipped from NY Times “Home Alone” op ed by Bob Herbert:
Imagine if we had done some things differently. If, for example, instead of squandering such staggering amounts of federal money on tax cuts and an ill-advised war, we had invested wisely in some of the nation’s pressing needs. What if we had begun to refurbish our antiquated electrical grid, or developed creative new ways to replenish the stock of affordable housing, or really tackled the job of rebuilding and rejuvenating the public schools?
What if we had called in the best minds from coast to coast to begin a crash program, in good faith and with solid federal backing, to substantially reduce our dependence on foreign oil by changing our laws and habits, and developing safer, cleaner, less-expensive alternatives? This is exactly the kind of effort that the United States, with its can-do spirit and vast commercial, technological and intellectual resources, would be great at.
Imagine if we had begun a program to rebuild our aging infrastructure

an epiphany worth sharing

The following is a direct steal from Indigo Ocean’s post yesterday on Blog Sisters.
I had something of an epiphany today when following a link from sysrick.com that led me to a post on Italian living.
You must read the article to be able to put this post into context, but it makes me realize that 1) America does not have a monopoly on escapism; and 2) it actually could get worse here without life on Earth coming to an end.
It could just get worse, and worse, and worse, for thousands of years. We could just stay in an ever more drunken stupor, with more alcohol and heroine and crystal meth, plus think of all the new drugs we will create to soothe an ever more despairing public. We will get TV that is even more flashy, more exciting and violent, with quick cuts that only require we be able to follow a thought for 1 second instead of 3. We could …
Oh, gee. Please people, let’s not. Let’s figure out a new way to combine the tribal wisdom of community and present-centerdness with an expanded modern appreciation for planning ahead. Let’s wed peace of mind with running water. Let’s balance individual freedom with collective responsibility and its cousin self-restraint. Having done this, let’s create a revolution without guilliotines in which the regal sovreigns of the invisible global wealth “nation” are finally removed from power and the will of we common people guides our destiny.

Well said!

I step out and the book goes back.

I did it. I read my poetry at an Open Mic night yesterday. While (a decade ago) I used to do readings where I was one of the featured readers and the listeners knew who I was, this was the first time I did an Open Mic (where I was pretty much a total stranger). Immediate stage fright when I found myself in the spotlight with an amplified voice! Thirty endless seconds of stage fright. And then the Crone rose to the occasion.
Whether I want to do it again is still in question. I’m not sure I have the energy, and maybe blogging fills a need in me for that kind of “performance.” And I’m sure that I’d rather find the time/space/solitude to write more poetry than make the time to go out and read what I’ve already written. When I lived alone, I embraced activities that brought me out into the world of people (dancing, poetry readings, workshops). Now that I have so little time alone, my preference has become to seek solitude. It’s so hard to find the right balance.
Meanwhile, I flipped to the last chapter of Boomeritis, read it carefully, and will be taking the book, mostly unread, back to the library. It’s a lengthy lecture on Wilber’s philosophy disguised as a novel and interspersed with drug-enhanced sensualities, included, I imagine, in hopes that it would grab those who are used to more Hunter S. Thompsonesque reads. It’s not that the message doesn’t have some merit. It certainly is helpful to remember that each moment is all that we have of our lives and that, hopefully, we will live each with caring, compassion, a sense of justice, and enough fun and pleasure to balance out the pain. And if not, well, someday we will, or someday we won’t.
So I’m going back to reading mystery novels with kick-ass female protagonists.
Rock on.

Enlightenment Strikes!

After I dropped off the book I just finished reading, I stopped at the “New Books Just In” section of the library just to see if there might be something that looked interesting. Some new legal mystery with a kick-ass female protagonist maybe.
Hmm. A just-published novel by Ken Wilber. Ken Wilber. Wasn’t he that transpersonal psychology guy? Back in the 70s? I always thought he spelled his name Wilbur. I look at the photo and blurb about Ken Wilber on the back cover. The photo is of a young man wearing a Smilie button. The blurb says:
Ken Wilber, who turned 23 when this book was published, received his degreee from MIT in computer science and artificial life. [emphasis mine, and that should have clued me in right there.] He lives in Denver Colorado with his finace, Chloe Walters, and their dog, Isaac……
I go back to novel’s Table of Contents, which includes chapter headings such as:
Omega_Doom@FutureWorld.Org
And_It_Is_Us@FuckMe.com
Subvert_Transgress_Deconstruct@FuckYou.com
The_Conquest_of_Paradise@MythsAreUs.net

OK, so this must be a different Ken Wilbur…er…Wilber…. I go back and read the blurb on the inside of the front cover.
Ken Wilber’s latest book is a daring departure from his previous wiritings…combines brilliant scholarship with tongue-incheek storytelling…. he expounded in more conventional terms in his recent “A Theory of Everything.
I scan through the first few chapters and see references to Lasch’s “The Culture of Narcissism” and Stern’s “Me: the Naracissitic American.” I also see references to big tits and memes, cognitive malfunction and postmodernism, to sexdrugsand….
Wait a minute! Wait a minute! That doesn’t sound like the Ken Wilbur I used to know. That sounds like…..gulp…..
I take the book home so that I can figure out the Wilbur dilemma and further think about the connection between Wilbur/er and…..gulp….that other guy.
A Google search ultimately proves that Ken Wilbur is Ken Wilber. I can’t find any indiction of why his name is spelled two different ways, but when I compared a current photo of him with the 23 year-old guy on the book’s back flyleaf — yup, it’s the same guy. So, the old geezer is pretending to be a 23 year old geek writer. Uh oh.
That’s when enlightenment stikes.
Rage Boy is Ken Wilbur/er’s Evil Twin, his Dark Side. the other side of his coin. I mean just look them:
eviltwin.jpg
Rage Boy: long hair, down-turned eyes, bushy eyebrows, tight closed mouth, angular face, a look to intimidate if not scare you off completely.
Ken Wilbur/er: bald, turned-up eyes, normal eyebrows, open smiling mouth, softly curved face, an open and inviting expression.
And now the dark Rage Boy side has taken over the enlightened Ken Wilbur side and the result is “BOOMERITIS: A Novel That Will Set You Free.”
Oh where will it all end!

PLEASE! Someone find a cure!

I sure hope someone finds a cure soon for that Geek Syndrome.
I went over to Comp USA with my friend P, who needed to get some guidance (and, she figured, some kind of software) to clean out the old computer that her old (as in “former”) S.O. left with her when he moved out, since he didn’t want it any more. Figures, right? She figures she can donate it somewhere after it’s cleaned out.
Well, someone told her she needed to “ghost” the machine, and I, being technologically retarded, had no idea what that meant. What I would do is go in and delete all the files that I want to get rid of. But what do I know.? Maybe I think they’re all deleted but they’re all still in there somewhere for someone else to find and blackmail me with.
Anyway, she goes up to the young man behind the desk and says that she wants to “ghost” her computer. What does she need to do, she asks. Can she buy software that will do this for her.
So, this tall, lanky low-browed geeky kid looks at her, his eyes glaze a little, and eventually he starts to tell her that she needs to make a boot disk. “How do I do that,” P asks, further explaining that she knows nothing about computers and she has an old one that someone might be able to use but she needs to get all the stuff that’s on it, off it.
Another five minutes of this kid spewing gibberish to two totally uncomprehending middle-aged females, and he finally suggests that we go over to the repair guy and ask him.
Heh. Right. He wasn’t much better, as he repeated some of the stuff about making a boot disk and and re-booting and didn’t she get a boot disk with the computer and something about going into Control Panel…….. But somewhere in all of that guy’s incomprehensive monologue, I did manage to figure out that if one “ghosts” a machine, the whole hard drive gets wiped out, including the operating system — a virtual lobotomy resulting in a very real tabula rosa and a pile of bolts that are not of much use as a gift to some poor kid who can’t afford to buy a new computer.
Someone needs to teach these tech service guys to ask the right questions and respond with understandable answers.
Questions like: Why do you think you need to ghost the machine? Is it that you want to remove all of the files and folders that have information in them that you don’t want anyone else to get hold of? Do you want someone else to be able to use the programs that are in the machine, like word processing and maybe graphics?
Possible answers like: You don’t want to wipe out the hard drive, and you don’t want to delete programs. But you do want to get rid of all the files with information in them. We can do that all for you here and it will cost you XXXX. Or if you want to do it yourself, here’s what you need to do: (and then give her the step by step instructions, which she can write down).
But it’s hopeless. “Listen,” I say to P, who I can see is all at sea. “I’ll come over and show you how to delete files and we’ll look in the Control Panel’s Add-Delete Programs to see if there are any programs you want to delete as well.” I figure I can delete all the temp files and cookies and anything else that doesn’t look like a program and that ought to do it for her. And, if there are some little bytes still stuck in that back of that fake brain somewhere, who cares right?
And it’s time for lunch, anyway. Someplace where there are no inarticulate, borderline autistic geeks, for sure.

Stumbling on the old love vs. fear thing.

Reading Dave Rogers post about evil, love, and fear prompted me to unearth the following poem, based on a true happening. Unearthing the poem has prompted me to plan to do an Open Mike poetry reading this Monday night. It’s something I’ve been thinking about doing. This time I’m letting the fear go.
Hunting
On the rise beyond the stream
on Trout Mountain,
they say, he shot himself

Footloose in the Last Resort

Almost exactly a decade ago, I was footloose and free to take off for points unkonwn on a whim. A female colleague, whose sister opted out at the last minute from a trip to Key West that they had planned together, asked if I wanted to go in her sister’s place. I checked with my boss about taking vacation time; she said no problem and neither did my charge card balances; so I went.
I figured that Key West, which markets itself as the most southern point of the United States, must therefore also be the “last resort” in the U.S. So, there I was, footloose in the last resort, and I decided to take my tourist photos based on that theme. Lying down in the middle of various streets so that I could get my feet included in the photos caused a few odd looks from passersby — but wotthell, it was KEY WEST, after all.
KWcollage.jpg
Neither footloose nor free enough these days to physically take off on a whim for two weeks, blogging has become my “last resort” for easy fun and frolicking. I wonder how many other bloggers, feeling constrained by life’s circumstances, use this as their final frontier as well.
So, as my friend P goes about seeking out some other friend to share her time-share in West Palm Beach during the third week in November, I’m still here, footloose in my very last resort.
kalifoot1.jpg