Anybody's Home?

Recently I’ve become captivated by a rather spell-binding film called Home. Home is a full-length documentary filmed in over 50 countries from a bird’s-eye view, if that bird happened to look like this guy. In many ways it is a poetic visual homage to the ancient rhythms of human life that rattle through our bones daily, so often driven into oblivion by this distraction or that.

The film takes viewers from the beginnings of life on Earth, to its possible endings, all the while angrily baring its teeth at the vast expanses of precious life laid to waste by consumer culture and the society that’s been built around its altar.

Home has received millions of views around the world by now and is shown for free in this medium or that. Profits go to charity, and so forth. In a way, the film has ‘gone viral’, which is every marketeer's wet meme dream—as an aside, it seems this relatively new term means that the collective wills of millions of computer users erode like dust in the wind; some greater cultural force takes over, singing us the irresistible lyrics of Jizz in My Pants or the entertaining, yet informative, tune of Story of Stuff (not sure if this is considered ‘viral’ yet, but it should be).

But what struck me all the more about Home is that of its sponsorship. The film starts with the acknowledgment of the support by a group called PPR. The opening montage sees the logos of countless fashion companies exploding into a cloud of ethereal pixie dust, which eventually coagulates into the title of the movie. We’re reminded that this movie is thanks to the support of the 88,000 employees of PPR group.

But who the fcuk is PPR? That’s what kept tickling the back of my throat. The irony here was never lost on me-- the scathing, if sometimes vague and formulaic, critique of 21^st century consumer capitalism sponsored by a hodgepodge of transnational fashion corporations. But it wasn’t until I typed in a few buttons on this here ol’ computamatizin’ tappin’ machine that I found how deep that irony actually runs.

PPR is indeed a mega-huge corporate conglomerate headquartered in Paris, with a majority stake in subsidiaries like Puma and Gucci, which themselves own brands like Yves St. Laurent, Alexander McQueen, Stella McCartney, along with other lines of African cars and pharmaceuticals. But what’s interesting is how slimy PPR's reputation is among those that have dedicated much more of their life's energy to this issue than I (see here too).

It casts new light on the 10 million euros PPR shelled out to fund this 12 million euro documentary eco-endeavour when you read that NGO’s like World Wildlife Fund and Clean Clothes Campaign have consistently given PPR a failing grade on a number of environmental and social responsibility report cards. Among the accusations include:

-Selling exotic luxury fashion items made of red fox and badger fur, snake and crocodile skin, among other must-haves like Alexander McQueen’s well-advertised python egg handbag.

-Selling factory-farmed mink coats--which makes the section in Home depicting the ‘concentration-camp styled cattle farms’ all the more poignant.

-Breaking international labour laws, paying illegally low wages and busting unions

-Employing 16 year old girls to slave for 17 hours a day while forcing them to pay back their earnings for crowded company-owned housing

-Fining workers for refusing to work overtime, not providing clean drinking water at factory facilities and subjecting pregnant women to harsh working conditions

There’s a full gamut of accusations on the exploits of PPR. But why care so much? These sorts of financial relationships are inescapable in much of big productions like Home. It’s a valid question that doesn’t have a clear answer to me, except that I find such an ironic public partnership blasphemous to the suffering of all those beings who have been muffled and maimed by this nameless corporate enterprise. That and it detracts from the integrity of the film which is quite mesmerizing on its own. It’s crucial to point to these inconsistencies of word and deed as they leave companies like PPR vulnerable to public critique and hence opportunities for meaningful change in their international business operations.

Michael Conroy, author of the book Branded!, notes that companies that publicly market their brands to consumers are sensitive to market campaigns by advocacy groups who petition them to adopt more responsible ways of doing business. He notes that companies that invest so heavily in the value of their brand are extraordinarily exposed to negative publicity and civil discourse which can leave a huge impact things as seemingly ethereal as their stock prices. Many big brands have well over 50% of their stock price tied up in the perceived value of their brand.

Conroy points to Nike in the mid-1990's when the company came under intense public scrutiny by labour organizations, human rights groups and investigative journalists for their use of dollar-a-day-12 hour day-forced overtime- child labour in their supply chains (*also of note were the women workers in Vietnam who were exposed to environmental carcinogens 177 times higher than legal standards). In just over a year the company lost 57% of its share value, and with it tens of billions in shareholder money. While much progress remains to be seen in the global garment industry, Conroy suggests these events led to the adoption of more stringent labour standards and better factory monitoring for Nike.

But all this noise about brands and hypocritical green/cleanwashing is not meant to detract from the cinematic beauty of Home itself. It's clearly valuable to oscillate between perspectives: from becoming immersed in the messages of Home, to adopting the more critical eye towards its sponsorhsip, company practices and our own choices as civil actors and consumers. Like many other 'viral' carriers, I've been afflicted by the power this strange beast and passed its link on to my friends, family, co-workers and now you. I hope you can still get into it.

Gay Day

Today is June 28, which officially marks the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots in New York City's Greenwich Village that lasted for three days after police tried to raid a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn. This set of events proved a transformative moment in the gay rights movement which had till then relied on non-confrontational approaches to education and advocacy. Marking this anniversary eventually morphed into what is now Pride Week, and the more recently proclaimed Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual and Transgendered Month (LGBT) as articulated by the Obama administration.

To honour this I submit a small piece on the Stonewall Riots from Democracynow broadcast this Friday.http://www.democracynow.org/embed_show_v1/300/2009/6/26/segment/1"



In a somewhat related thread I also submit this performance of Michael Jackson's Man in the Mirror from the 1988 Grammy awards in honour of his passing. It is truly a powerful monument to the human spirit through music. Regardless of what you may think of all the media hullabulloo surrounding his death or the past wasted years of his sadly perverted life, there was so often an unusually strong force of spirit and finesse in his performance. Sadly, I think the corrupted integrity of his personal life can be somewhat instructive or illustrative of the wasted life wrought by child abuse or whatever social chastity may be prescribed for holding what are deemed unacceptable or shameful aspects of one's personal identity. And in this regard gender and sexuality issues remain right at the top of society's list of ultimate taboos.

Anti-hatred

Like an Iranian, I'm willing to face the mechanical onslaught of non-empathy. I need my friends and loved ones to exist, there's no other way. Life is nothing without those I love, and I need them all. I walk through strange streets and tall towers rise above me, their long shadows darkening everything I see. Occasionally a rain of bullets shower down, the bullets pierce our bodies, we feel them coursing threw our viscera, but it's nothing. The crude metals get stuck in our hearts but it's nothing. We merely open our arms and the absurd bullets are expelled, violently, from our chests.

The impossibility of my existing without my loved ones occurred to me as I listened to a popular musical group. Their familiar tunes resound against my sensitive ear drums, and the quantity of people potentially recognizing these melodies in no way reduces the power of this music in making plain to me my great debt to my friends and loved ones. I don't care that it's popular, that it's common. Indeed, their melody swarms my mind and I am convinced that life is impossible without all of you. As though I could live without you! What bearded old man, what old man learned in the texts of a few books could convince me otherwise? I suggest you build your towers high, old men, and crowd them with guns, because I will forever be standing beneath you, my arms spread wide, my head held back, my mouth emitting loudly in the English language "Go fuck your self!"

I can't live without the people I love. I suggest to all of you, die before I do, because the world does not exist without you. And I'm struck by the apparently rare virtue of empathy, whither has it gone? What unique droughts of breath, what singular blinks and scratches, what one-of-a-kind sneezes and sighs exist which negate the experience of others? Why is your experience more important then the stranger's you didn't notice?

My sacred loved ones! I will exist forever because of you! When you sleep comfortably in your beds, when you brush your teeth, when you sip at a glass of water, I am wrestling the heavens, I am elbowing distant constellations in the skull, petulantly putting annoying black holes in my pocket. Nothing can hurt you because I spend my waking life aimed at destroying the destructive forces of reality. And in my dreams I spend blissful afternoons in lovely conversations with you, we embrace and smile at each other. The universe dissolves in our joy. Thank you!

My boredom projected outwards

Every Sunday I look forward to the editorials of Frank Rich in the NYT. If you ever want to spend a few hours with excellent insightful reading about American life, albeit from a rather political and "left" (it's the NYT we're talking about) perspective, try him out. Though his topics are at times less than bearing on my own life, I love his writing and read it greedily each week. Today's offering is as worth reading as ever. Talks about how despite the great economic crisis ongoing and world wide, at its epicenter - the fabled, be-suited Wall Street - it's essentially business as usual, to use a predictable, well-worn cliche. Rich points out that so far, the only real change going on is rebranding. Here's a gem from within its bounty: "The revolving door between the government and Wall Street is as greasy as ever in this White House." That the John Galt culture of Wall Street wizards "isn’t changing so much as frantically rebranding," makes me sad, makes me want to emblazon my neck with an alarming tattoo so to convey to any and all my boundless disgust and suspicion towards The Man.

The "economic crisis" is as critical as ever but it's hard bordering on impossible to pay attention to such an enormous and amorphous problem, therefore I don't. If I might take some wisdom from Mr. Rich, it's all still a joke - "as greasy as ever" - and as I'm trying to get in shape, I stay away from grease. And so the invisible eyelids of apathy descend over my eyes and I am sated in my ignorance. Hopefully someone in a suit will do the right thing, because their clothing denotes a seriousness and dedication I'm not able to muster. Up here in sleepy Canada, our parliament yawns soporifically, rubs its eyes like a tired toddler and pulls the blankets tight. What are our hard-working politicians up to regarding the crisis, other than patting themselves on the backs for having something to do with our sleepy, that is to say just moderately sullied, banking system? Hooray for risk-aversion and tougher regulation, Canada's totally amazing.

Is there a bottom to the depth of irrelevance in Canadian politics? Canada's political culture is one of the great chasms, lonely and dark, driving down, down to the cold and alien center of the earth. No one wants to go there, because what's there? A few disgusting tubules venting heat? Some ridiculous scavenging creature built to vacuum up equally ridiculous bacteria? Oh wait, what are the big issues in Canadian politics? Presently they appear to be isotopes, EI reform, another possible, maybe, could it be, election. Dear god, choke me to death David Carradine, I can't take the boredom. Canadian politics are perchance the only example on earth of contemporary events giving off that strange quality of irrelevance that is usually found in history books about dead people and places. It's just too boring for words. Only a political science professor has the stomach to pay attention. Remember that awe-inspiring ne'er before seen coalition a few months back? Me neither.

Canada's foreign minister, Lawrence Cannon, has said that Canada will be watching how Iranian authorities treat the impassioned protesters who daily fill the streets shouting God is Great and throw rocks. Watch out mullahs and your minions, Canada's watching you. Of course, Canada's noble intention to serve as human rights angel (for certain peoples and places only) predictably feeds into Iran's well-worn habit of blaming foreigners for internal tensions. It's a norm in developing countries: If there's any sort of disorder, obvious and hidden authorities rush to blame foreign meddlers for conspiring to agitate conflict. Doesn't the Canadian government have anyone to read a wikipedia page or two about it? Whatever, Canada is a comfortable place to live, but our government and political culture is a feeble thing. Whatever to the max.

Happy Bloomsday, Everybody!

Quarks, ahoy!
Everyone knows that today is Bloomsday. Yes, June 16th is of course the day that went down in infamy as the date in which James Joyce's epic post-modern novel 'Ulysses' is set. Many a great, albeit fictional, adventure occurred on this day in 1904. Of course, it took years for 'Ulysses' to catch on and it befuddled most critics of the early twentieth century. But it is now a classic considered by many, not only myself, as the greatest novel ever written.

But what of it's mysterious author? Why should such a date stick around in his bespectacled head? Well, allow me to enlighten you.

You see, 'Ulysees' was published in between 1918 and 1922. He set the story at a time in his life which was fairly nostalgic for him, the year of 1904. Joyce himself had been having many a trouble with women, which was not uncommon in that era for young men in Ireland. Earlier he had sought out attention from Dublin's many prostitutes and had never up until this point, had any kind of a stable relationship with a woman. We know this because of several private letters which Joyce's progeny have published. Mind you, they didn't publish all of them because according to his offspring, it was deemed "...far too lewd, and perhaps damaging to his great esteem." However, one of the letters published reminisced of the date of June 16th, 1904. It was the day that he stepped out on the first date with his future wife, Nora Barnacle. They took a walk through the streets of Dublin that afternoon, filled with glee and joy at having met one another. But Jimmy, a dirty old sod, wanted to get it on with Nora and she being a good catholic soldier said no. Joyce was miffed, and the two modern souls came to a compromise. Nora merely gave James a well-rounded handjob. So perfect was this moment in Joyce's life that in the letter he states that she accomplished such a deed with "...the eyes of a saint."

There you have it. In Dublin today, there are parades, festivals, theatrical extravaganzas, and games for the kids. How little do they know, that what they are celebrating is a wonderful joke on James' part; that of the most famous handjob in literary history.

Stupidity is a mental disorder

There's a movement afoot to include bitterness in the upcoming fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the authoritative guide to all things psychiatric. Apparently, the thinking on the disorder of bitterness models itself on the apparently ubiquitous problem of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and accordingly the nomenclature, should the idea be accepted by the psychiatric community, will be something like Post-Traumatic Embitterment Disorder. It states that some people, perhaps a large number of us, cannot overcome everyday occurrences like relationship breakups, failure to receive promotions, hell, even a neighbor's shiny new barbecue might trigger a decent into embittered malaise. One psychiatrist considers the disorder of embitterment to be a step beyond your meat-and-potatoes rage, by attaching to it the feeling helplessness. Yes, no matter how one might fret, his neighbor will irritatingly continue to enjoy evening barbecues on that fantastic appliance.

Everyone has come across these sorts of people; heaven forbid a cherished knowingdoingean might also harbor boundless and debilitating feelings of resentment and anger. You know the attitude: "The world has conspired against me, everyone else has everything and receives every opportunity I don't; it's everyone's fault but mine." I once commented on a young man's work attire, only to learn - years later - that so deep was his hatred and bitterness towards me that he lay in wait, like a retarded hunter, all those intervening years for his chance to strike, which he did by commenting on my own vetements. I was barely conscious of the experience, so enfeebled had his rage made him. I had to be told of the event after the fact. I was in the center of a raging hurricane and I didn't even notice. I've occasionally seen it in work mates as well, the constant drudging up of distant snubs, ignored or glossed over misunderstandings and such. Usually I try to change the subject, or remark on the great quantities of wasted time and effort at carrying around that sort of ill will. "There's nothing to be done about it, move on," I'd say, you know pretty normal, dare I hazard, "common sense" sort of advice. Almost invariably the quibble persists, the resentment festers, like a colony of warts left unchecked.

I should quickly concede the point that there are no doubt situations in life that may justly lead to uncontrolled bitterness. I can imagine a catastrophic injustice like rape, murder of a loved one, theft of one's property, and other similar examples might indeed be difficult if not impossible to overcome. Nevertheless they should be overcome, not for any ideal of magnanimity, but so that the person having undergone the injustice can go on to enjoy and appreciate their life. But from my reading of a few articles about this issue, it is not these genuinely traumatic experiences which are compelling psychiatrists to medicalize embittered attitudes, but the more everyday sort of stuff - break ups, failed undertakings, casual remarks about work uniforms - which is causing people to seethe in resentment.

This being the case, I propose psychiatrists hurry up and develop diagnostic criteria for several other, unseemly human follies. Perhaps selfishness is a mental disorder? How about pettiness? A lack of curiosity? Maybe we should include that feeling of anger towards amorphous entities like "governments" or "liberals" or "them" too. Does this sound far fetched? A little hyperbolic, exaggerated and what not? Well the people who ponder the parameters of normal/healthy human behavior are preparing to anoint bitterness with the status of mental illness. And if the psychiatry community agrees, then I propose they hurry up and declare the above list as equally deserving of medical cordoning. But maybe all this hairsplitting of deplorable personality traits is a waste of time, more about enabling the easy packaging of particular pharmaceuticals with particular disorders.

If you ask me, and I'll do it for you, thanks for asking, I sincerely believe that this would have been called stupidity once upon a time. I believe, and think a little too, that intelligence and stupidity have more to do with morality than an aptitude for calculus or comprehension of technological mechanisms. The emphasis that intelligence or its converse are most about what skills can allow one to manipulate nature, succeed financially, "out smart" others, is a red herring, a distraction from the true purpose of our analytical faculties. All that matters is how we treat each other, intelligence properly defined should lead us away from debilitating, destructive attitudes and opinions to those enabling and productive. Following from that, I believe that all these negative attitudes and mind sets ultimately flow out of that eternal well-spring of human folly, stupidity. Bitterness and selfishness are mere weeds in the great garden, the boundless forest, the immortal fecundity, infinitely perennial, of human stupidity. Stop being stupid or they'll pour more pills down your throat! You know, I'm feeling kind of bitter about this.

Bleating my feeble bleats... Bleat!

There is a large amount of nothing being promulgated here. That's to say that I'm not responsible for any actual finding out of stories, I'm not doing the leg work as it were, not digging up leads, not hounding down witnesses and such. For example, today I read about how Indian prostitutes were being trained in the ancient martial art of karate, an initiative to help them defend themselves against angry males who want to hurt them in addition to hump them; you know how men are, wanting to have and eat their cake at one and the same time, oh males, sigh, when will you learn? But I realized... when had I last trodden upon the ancient lands of India? When were my feet last snug inside a pair of cheap sandals, when was my belly last stuffed with the tastiest masala, when did I last stroke the spinal column of a divine yet emaciated cow found outside a video rental proprietorship? Not recently. Come to think of it, I've never stepped foot on the great subcontinent known in the English-speaking world as India. See! I told you! I've got no first hand knowledge of the stories I pretend to have something to say about. What usually takes place is that I imagine something to say after first clicking on a few hyperlinks on a handful of websites. If I'm lucky, once the information has found its way to my computer and converted the electronic signals to a human-friendly medium, only then do I read it and plan my pretend insights.

So I was going to talk about how I'm really happy that Indian prostitutes are learning how to defend themselves against aggressive clients, that I thought it a sign of good times that vulnerable females were being equipped with the skills and wherewithal to kick a would-be barbarian in the face if he insinuated his experience involve more than she bargained for. But what gives me the right? I wasn't the journalist paid to travel to those remote locals, not the photographer paid to take those suggestive shots. No, I am worse than than an uninformed observer, worse even than an armchair critic. Truth be told, I don't know what I'm talking about. What else don't I know, you might ask but aren't but I am? Well, I wonder about the meeting between Novaya Gazeta editors and Russian President Dimitry Medvedev, and I felt pleased that the head of an essentially autocratic state would meet with the essentially renegade news source, especially since Novaya Gazeta journalists have been dropping like flies, if "flies" means "human beings" and "dropping" means "brutally murdered." That must be a sign of good things I thought. But immediately following this thought, I thought "What do I know?" And I realized: Not much. So I have to admit that my mentioning of the miserable conditions of Russian journalists and the possible rapprochement of Medvedev is outside my area of familiarity, let alone, leaving aside, not to mention, expertise. I'll not pretend to have an opinion about this.

So what should I do? I'm not a journalist, and I'm not reporting first hand about the inhumanity everywhere apparent. All I can do is bleat (a whining feeble complaint) my feeble little bleats. And they are feeble, and I'm easily calmed with a dish of milk and a melancholy tune on a set of ancient pipes. Thank goodness blogs are so redundant and unnecessary. I wouldn't want to give the impression that I cared about anything. But worry not knowingdoingeans, I'll return soon to bathe my nasty armpits in the fetid waters of hypocrisy. These digital pages will once again see uneducated, inexperienced and unwarranted opinions expressed. Fret not!

Egads, that's one ugly duck!

Did anyone see that matador receive his just deserts the other day? The promising young matador Israel Lancho was gored by one of his adversaries' pointed horns, the dying bull sunk it into his guts. I think he survived so it's fair to poke fun at him, to mock him with bitter contempt, which is what I'll proceed to do presently. I have no appreciation for bull fighting, it is a bizarre throwback to ancient times, when young men impressed one another by their ability to jump over angry male cows. "Wow, that was quite a feat of athleticism," one of the onlookers would say, secretly harboring a seething jealousy. I suppose the maidens standing further afield, away from the rutting, flared-nostriled spectacle of masculinity, might be a little impressed. "Well, he sure can jump over that large animal, I guess he might make a good husband."

Centuries of subtle change gradually brought us to a time when powerful bulls are as expendable as any other non-human animal. So the Spaniards grow them and harvest them for lopsided duals with tightly clothed matadors. "How romantic," Ernest Hemingway and Orson Wells thought, fat and drunk in the grandstands, probably glancing regularly at the bare thigh of a young woman sitting near by. These two monumental American artists were reportedly enthralled to the age-old battle between man and beast. They couldn't get enough of those lithe matadors' deftly flexed buttocks, their humorous skill in sidstepping the enraged, bloodied and dying animals before stabbing them with a final death blow to the neck. "That's the stuff of life," Hemingway and Wells thought, stroking their beards, chugging their wine, meditating on the meaning of the universe.

Their are plenty of people who do not stab injured bulls in their necks, and consequently it is rare for the non-matador portion of humanity to receive a goring. In fact, a large majority of human-bull interaction is a symbiotic working relationship. These animals are strong and stubborn; train them and yoke them and they'll till the soil until the job is done. There are probably untold friendships between man and bull, and probably more than a few between woman and bull too. I'm thinking of one relationship in particular captured in the moving documentary Old Partner, out of South Korea. It tells the story of an 80-something farmer and his beloved 40-year-old bull. They've gone out to the fields and back again since Hendrix was lighting his guitar on fire, and their souls somehow got wound together, never to be unwound. Try to find it, it will be worth it. I was thinking as I watched it about what that tiny old man would do if someone tried to stab his old partner in the neck. I suspect that no matter how elegantly dressed, no matter how striking the hair style, no matador would be able to kill him.

I can see it now: There in the afternoon sun, the old bull rests at the field's edge munching on some carefully gathered roughage, the old man is crawling in the shallow water planting his rice. Suddenly, a matador appears out of nowhere, his vest and cape displaying labyrinthine patterns, his epaulettes shimmering tremulously, there in his hand a shiny blade. The old bull bellows a strange grunt. The old man raises his head. The matador moves to strike! But there is the old man to check the would-be assassin's blow. Demonstrating a skill of movement cultivated in the sleepy fields of his farm, the old man would take the blade, and the matador's effeminate slippers would lose their grip causing him to tumble down into the mud, soiling his painstakingly cared for garments. The old bull calmly chews at his roughage, the bell at his neck harmoniously noting his gentle movements. The shamed matador would get up, pick up his mud-caked cape and begin making his way from whence he came. The old bull is safe, for now.

Put down your socks and blackberries

I should have known from the socks pulled up high over his calves that I was dealing with an absurd man. From the start I was impressed by his skill in stretching those poor cotton fibers to their limits, so that the elastic at their openings were forced to cling desperately just under the knee. Above that, long tanned thighs proclaimed to the world "Here I am!" before darting back under his multi-pocketed khaki hiking shorts. Man those socks were pulled high! But there were other signs of his fantastic absurdity. The first was his voice, a low baritone full of good cheer and unnecessary commentary which he would call out unpredictably and often. Here's just one example: After one speaker finished her short presentation, she asked if there were any questions. The absurd man's hand shot up, like a marlin attacking a panicked ball of mackerel: "Do we have to speak as fast as you do?" I was taken aback when a few fledgling absurd people laughed a little, but their laughs were exactly nothing when compared to our subject's rich and oaky guffaws. His laughter filled the room, I felt I was drowning in his humor. The man could not be more delighted with his awkward attempt at hilarity.

But all this is only the appetizer before the main course, which was this: When the absurd man sat in his chair, can you guess how far his legs were spread? You know what I'm getting at and you can probably imagine it. We're talking gymnast flexibility here, I think he managed 180 degrees from the hips on occasion, and all with a good natured grin beaming from his face. I was deeply impressed by his display, and I wondered what caused him to showcase his crotch so brazenly to those gathered. What delicate goods required such unconstrained freedom? Was it the lotus blooming for a moment before its eternal sleep? The best part? I think his socks climbed even higher as his thighs spread wide. One day I'll write a taxonomy of the absurd man, and his tight socks will be my measure. Oh, of course he wore a fanny pack, not around the waist but over the shoulder, desperado style. What a treat.

But this absurd man is not the purpose of this post, rather it was the absurd young woman who sat not far from him. Though they both partook, and indeed seemed very familiar with those remote horizons of oblivious public behavior, this young woman's absurd display seems to me to be a more common variety and deserves some description and perhaps even some prescriptive advice. The essence of her absurdity rested in her incessant thumb tapping on her mobile device. She absolutely needed to be in two places at once, and thankfully the technology exists for purchase which allows this previously impossible feat. It was amazing. Not for a moment did her pink-encased device lower from its position 10 inches from her face. How my heart wanted to help her, perhaps building some sort of harness on which the device could be mounted. Then at least she could shake her arms if they got tired without missing the instant a new message arrived, requiring her immediate consideration and response. Speaker after speaker told us about their doings and offerings, and she nodded occasionally, signifying her attention was indeed present.

What I take to be the core honey sap of absurdity in this case is that I believe she actually imagined herself to be present in both places. It seems to me that she thought she was conveying the appearance of careful attention though she most obviously resembled a 10-year-old drooling in front of his hand-held gaming device. What taboos allow her to pretend this feat? Has no one ever asked her, not a stranger but a friend even, if she actually believed she was paying attention? What if I had brought my laundry to the meeting and proceeded to fold, hang and even iron, offering the odd nod as a token of my attention? Would this be socially acceptable? I think someone might tell me: "Hey, put your laundry aside for a moment and pay attention." That would be reasonable. Yet with these communicative instant messengers, people are able to essentially hang their laundry and pretend they're present and attentive. What a strange thing! The entire one hour passed in this way, pink device in hand, thumbs regularly tapping away, the occasional glance toward the speaker (not 4 meters away I should add) and a nod of pretend understanding.

We are living in the eye of this technological revolution and notwithstanding the wistful science fictions of wannabe prophets, yes you Ray Kurzweil, time needs to pass before any of this will make sense. One thing that cannot be disputed about the ascendancy of mobile communication technologies is the extent to which they are affecting (may I hold back from claiming 'transforming'?) our interpersonal communications. One commentator has referred to it as "our relentless access to others—and them to us." This seems to me to be as good as any slogan for describing what's happening to us. But I want to say that this ability to instantly access others does not necessarily imply that it should be this way. Aside from the obvious argument around emergencies - exactly how the companies that provide these products and services sold adults on the idea that their children needed phones - it's hard to understand what circumstances justify that absurd woman's relentless accessing of whoever received the bulk of her little notes. If she was giving a real-time account of the meeting, I would claim the information passed on would barely reach the level of approximate. Unless she has been trained in the short hand of a stenographer, I sincerely doubt the effectiveness of simultaneously taking in, understanding and informing others of what is being explained at exactly the same moment. And if she was in two completely separate intellectual environments, the flesh-and-blood meeting and whatever conversation causing her to tap her thumbs so, I doubt she had much success in either of them. But then what's success, right?

Surely these technologies are opening enormous possibilities for communication, instant and otherwise. But equally as surely, marvelous technologies do not imply a concomitant new age of human consciousness, where comprehending and understanding are the same as explaining and conveying. All things in their time text tappers! Pull down your socks and put down your blackberries, at least for one of the instants of your day.

Can a Picture change you?

"This modern world is starving for images..."
- Werner Herzog





Does an image have the capacity to change the way you think? Has there been a picture that allows you to understand the human condition deeper than you have before? The questions are mild ones, but perhaps in some way prudent. Numerous photographs from the pages of National Geographic and Life magazine are considered classics of modern art. The Afghan girl. The burning monk. The starving child and vulture. We feel an attraction to such images for various reasons; their beauty, the contrasts and it's message. For me, it is the story. An overused cliche, "A picture is worth a thousand words" is in some way what I am drawn to with photographs.

When I was old enough to understand what was happening in China, 20 years ago on this day, for some reason the picture made all the difference. It brought the tragedy to a level that I couldn't help but understand. We've all seen the picture, on coffee mugs, posters on peoples walls, and computer desktops. I'm not going to describe what it shows. The only thing that I'll relay is what the picture helped me understand.

Besides the simple 'Every individual can make a difference' claptrap, the picture was somewhat instrumental for me to understand the internal politics of power. I don't buy that this man's act changed anything on that day, the tanks eventually went on their way, paving over students who just wanted a bigger slice of democracy. Power is a force that bleeds from the top down. If it is anything in the photograph that I think about, I'm thinking about the men in the tanks. They were well aware of what they had to do on that day, and knew that it would probably involve death. One their way to achieving their goals, one man was able to make these men hesitate. For just a few moments, I think that the tank drivers became aware of what was at stake. Perhaps they realized what kind of cog they were in the machinations of power. It is that simple hesitation which haunts me.

What pictures, if any, seem to strum a chord with you?

We three bees.

A little boy who is actually an ancient whale

I heard about a little boy whose neck was broken, and his legs didn't work, and his arms didn't either. But somehow his smile still worked and his laugh is said to have worked though I never heard it. He was just five years old, for only a single Stalin plan had his small heart been beating in the world. When he was in the first year of that plan, a car accident broke his neck. Coincidence, bad timing, misfortune, fate, a bad decision and a mistake all came together in one moment of frightening potency. That's what ended the use of his legs and arms. Perhaps he was just getting used to using his legs too. It would have been nice to have seen him walk a little bit, each step promising countless thousand more throughout his lifetime, how ever long that might be. He was already probably very good at using his hands, he probably could have held a favorite object in this hand, then the other hand. He would have been amazed at his power to trade objects back and forth between his hands. Maybe, if he was feeling inspired, he would take the object and rub it against his growing teeth for a while, then back away from his face to look at it. But those days were only for memories after the car accident. After that, his pudgy fingers clenched no more objects.

So some years past, very few actually, and this little boy with legs and arms which didn't work got sick and he died. I will not try to imagine what his parents felt and thought about this second conspiring of fate. They decided though, that they had had enough of this life, maybe they conceded to fate that it was too powerful for them, the difficulties and pain it grew in their lives were too much to overcome. Fate won, the universe won. They had lost. They put the little boy's body in a back pack and with him they put a few toys. I guess they probably wrapped him in a favored blanket, so that its soft fibers would soothe him in his eternal sleep. Then they took the little boy and they got into their car and drove to a beautiful spot, high above the ocean. I hope it was sunny on that day, but really the sun only suggests good things, it does not guarantee that they be so. And on this day it was not so. And the mom and the dad and the little boy whose body didn't work very well during his short life time probably looked out over the sea and wondered why fate had given them such painful lives. Then they fell over the cliff, and they tumbled to the bottom. How his arms and legs moved as they fell! I bet they traced wild arches in the air, his arms and legs could not be controlled, they were free, not even fate could subdue their freedom and energy. Fate could do nothing! And the family fell into the sea, and they were welcomed there. That's where they will live forever.

Revealed: My thoughts on pigeons

Pigeons aren't very charming. Everyone knows this. At least when we're talking about those nondescript city pigeons anyway. It's possible that their more legendary cousins, the homing pigeons, are somewhat endearing. I'm kind of charmed by the idea that a pigeon can fly back to where it comes from like boomerangs, especially if she has a little note attached to one of her legs. I'm completely charmed when I imagine a more experienced homing pigeon which not only carries the heart-felt poetry of love, but which gingerly holds her leg up to allow the smooth removal of the note. I would probably love that pigeon. But back to the point, most pigeons elicit very little sympathy from me.

Let's consider the city pigeon to generate a clearer picture of why they are so drab and unimpressive. Well in the first place, they are extremely arrogant. Just yesterday a particularly brazen one marched directly towards me, playing a kind of pigeon-chicken, if you will. I couldn't believe it would press my patience in this way, but it held to its path almost to the point of collision. I had to jump out of the way at the last minute, so close was the little beast from walking on my toes. So they think they own the world. That's my first bone of contention.

The second one is that they are greedy pigs. Food is the only thing on their minds obviously, that's why most of them are unattractively plump. Their chests look overstuffed; I doubt they need all that muscle for flying, more likely they're stomachs are full to bursting which gives them their stout appearance. One simply can't leave a crumb laying around anywhere, say for a squirrel or raccoon, without some silly pigeon catching wind of it and pecking at it before you know what's happening. I don't know how they know when I'm dropping crumbs, but as soon as I grind the stale particles of bread between my fingers, a flock of them are frantically strutting at my feet, catching the crumbs as they fall. It's a conspiracy, they know too much. Also, it's really annoying how they're always going on and on about food. Get a life already, stupid pigeons.

My list of things I resent about pigeons is never ending, but not wanting to tire the poor reader, I'll mention just one last issue. This is probably my least favorite things about them, and as a reader familiar with my opinions might guess, it has to do with the gender divide. Male pigeons are insufferable brutes! They flare they're neck feathers, as though it made them more attractive, and bully and boss any female who happens to be in their midst. Of course, the lady pigeons are thinking only of food and seem to pay no attention to the monkeys flaunting their feeble skills. Sure the gloss on their neck feathers reflects a range of greens and greys and purples, but that hardly justifies their ridiculous display. They remind me of the foolish bull who just can't help itself from chasing after that red cloth. And male pigeons think they're so tough, they're always chasing rivals away from the female they pretend they own. I wish the females would stand up for themselves but its always food, food, food. Someone needs to teach those male pigeons a lesson.

The next time a pigeon crosses my path, I'll not stand down. Next time I'll make him get out of my way, see how he likes it! It will take some effort on the part of the pigeons to thaw my frozen heart.