My nephew refers to social networking sites as "Spacebook" which brings "LOL" to family members. (Did I use that texting acronym correctly?) These first two sentences give all readers the level of my knowledge about this area of technology. Actually, these first two sentences tell a lot about my level of knowledge about ALL areas of technology. And that's okay by me. I'm pretty much at peace with myself about what I don't know. I really think that if I know too much more, I'll just use up more of my good life moments in front of the flat screen which is exactly what I don't want to do. I have way too much real life to live.
But here's what I really would like to know about social networking and it has to do with something I learned from the aforementioned family members just yesterday. They told us about a major piece of family news that involves another family member whose life has become explosively controversial over the years. And they learned the news on "Facebook." My question and what I want to know: Why do people feel so comfortable posting intimate bits of personal knowledge for all the whole world to see? Why don't they call, or even better, visit the pertinent people who will be affected by the big news and tell them in person? What is happening to face to face communication? Is it easier to just spit out all your personal life problems all over the keyboard and thus onto all the flatscreens of everyone you know? And is nothing sacred anymore? Managing the ego's need for recognition for a large on-screen audience seems like one is answering all of Dr. Phil's questions even before being asked on to the show.
But then notice how often I blog. . . .
Friday, June 25, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Paper and Plastic
I was headed down Highway 213 on my way to Dallas this morning to see my old friend Arlie who's laid up in an adult care home. I stopped at McDonald's for one of my favorite breakfasts (big confession to all my green and healthy eating friends here), a sausage egg McMuffin. One of my great pleasures is to munch this while cruising along this verdant road which is deep within the very definition of "Willamette Valley" with all the crops sprouting and the farmers walking around their properties and the small stands here and there selling scrumptious local berries. But I hadn't even left McDonald's; in fact, I'd barely gone 20 feet before I slowed down to throw the straw wrapper and the bag containing the McMuffin into the trash. I thought, "Hmmm. . .those paper products only lasted seconds, mere seconds before they were relegated to the landfill. Not good."
After my visit with Arlie (whose condition remains a mystery after a lengthy hospitalization, many tests, and still unbearable back pain), we traveled down 99E to Monmouth where we picked up some strawberry shortcake at Burgerville and then proceeded to the park to eat it under the shade trees next to where kids were climbing monkey bars and blowing bubbles and playing in the fountain while their families, relatives, and friends were barbecuing up the picnic lunch. It was a scene straight out of an old page of "Life" magazine. When we left, we carted two heavy weight cardboard boxes, two ultra sturdy plastic forks, and two large napkins to the garbage can. Those disposables lasted about 20 minutes from brand new to old junk.
Then on my way home (and could we just keep this a secret, please?). I stopped yet again at Burgerville for a cheese burger and some fries. I even asked for salt. These burgers remind me of the ones we used to eat at Bob's in Salem in the 60's and 70's. They have the same warm flatness which is mooshed together with the "special sauce" and has the thin cheese oozing out the edges. This is exactly what we ate for a special lunch in high school when we somehow scraped together enough money to have "hot lunch." Only the high school cafeteria ladies at North Salem made them much tastier. But that was back in the day; Burgerville is as close to those burgers as I can get these days. So the whole business of eating one brings back all sorts of good old memories to mull over as I complete my drive home. The scraps from that "meal" lasted from Canby until I pulled into my driveway and threw them into our own garbage can along with some uneaten french fries. I'd finally hit my saturation point with fast junk food. And look at all the paper and plastic products that lasted for only MOMENTS during this day of bad eating before I abandoned them to their fate in the landfill. How sad that they couldn't have lived any longer.
After my visit with Arlie (whose condition remains a mystery after a lengthy hospitalization, many tests, and still unbearable back pain), we traveled down 99E to Monmouth where we picked up some strawberry shortcake at Burgerville and then proceeded to the park to eat it under the shade trees next to where kids were climbing monkey bars and blowing bubbles and playing in the fountain while their families, relatives, and friends were barbecuing up the picnic lunch. It was a scene straight out of an old page of "Life" magazine. When we left, we carted two heavy weight cardboard boxes, two ultra sturdy plastic forks, and two large napkins to the garbage can. Those disposables lasted about 20 minutes from brand new to old junk.
Then on my way home (and could we just keep this a secret, please?). I stopped yet again at Burgerville for a cheese burger and some fries. I even asked for salt. These burgers remind me of the ones we used to eat at Bob's in Salem in the 60's and 70's. They have the same warm flatness which is mooshed together with the "special sauce" and has the thin cheese oozing out the edges. This is exactly what we ate for a special lunch in high school when we somehow scraped together enough money to have "hot lunch." Only the high school cafeteria ladies at North Salem made them much tastier. But that was back in the day; Burgerville is as close to those burgers as I can get these days. So the whole business of eating one brings back all sorts of good old memories to mull over as I complete my drive home. The scraps from that "meal" lasted from Canby until I pulled into my driveway and threw them into our own garbage can along with some uneaten french fries. I'd finally hit my saturation point with fast junk food. And look at all the paper and plastic products that lasted for only MOMENTS during this day of bad eating before I abandoned them to their fate in the landfill. How sad that they couldn't have lived any longer.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Empty Stage
Rolling through the end of the night on our way to Owl Grove was almost fun and almost exciting and certainly strange. I had forgotten how truly closed the world almost is at 4 a.m. The night approaching morning was dark, still and quiet. It wasn't even raining.
We steathily made our way out of the car and waited at the edge of the grove until just enough light let us make our careful way to the shelter closer to the grove. We strained our ears and scanned the dark sky. We heard lots of robins. No hoots. No wingspans crossed the sky. When the light increased a bit more, we made our way slowly through the trees. We found the old nest. We had to wait even longer to conclude that it was empty. And still not a single hoo-hoo-hoo. Then when it was almost totally light, we were able to see evidence of chalky owl poop at the base of some of the trees. They had definitely visited the grove, but their physical and audible absence at this point informed us that they had not nested in this part of their territory this year. We stayed until we were sure of this fact and then made our way back to the morning proper. We formally closed the last page on the adventure part of Owl Grove and will only re-visit it if we happen to be in the area and when we are marketing the book.
We steathily made our way out of the car and waited at the edge of the grove until just enough light let us make our careful way to the shelter closer to the grove. We strained our ears and scanned the dark sky. We heard lots of robins. No hoots. No wingspans crossed the sky. When the light increased a bit more, we made our way slowly through the trees. We found the old nest. We had to wait even longer to conclude that it was empty. And still not a single hoo-hoo-hoo. Then when it was almost totally light, we were able to see evidence of chalky owl poop at the base of some of the trees. They had definitely visited the grove, but their physical and audible absence at this point informed us that they had not nested in this part of their territory this year. We stayed until we were sure of this fact and then made our way back to the morning proper. We formally closed the last page on the adventure part of Owl Grove and will only re-visit it if we happen to be in the area and when we are marketing the book.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Time and Sound
I was talking to my students about visual and oral presentations of argument yesterday. I took them back to Elizabethan times when Shakespeare's audiences were more dependent on the spoken word to get meaning than they were on visual effects or the printed word. After all, most people then could neither read nor write. So they took lots of information in through their ears rather than their eyes. Hence, they were more attuned to the spoken language of the play to understand what sort of light was crossing over Juliet's balcony because there was no electrical source of illumination. Props, light sources and pyrotechnics were not part of the way they took in their world views at the time.
Then I brought the students to the speed changes that have occurred in my life time. My parents had an alarm clock. They wound it every night. They could plainly hear it tick, and if they wanted to know what time it was, they had to turn on a light. They were awakened by an ugly and irritating ringing sound that had to be shut off by touching the right switch. So they were very involved in the process of informing themselves about time. Much of what they learned about time depended on sound.
I have a device in my bedroom that looks nothing like a clock. It shines red, digital figures on the ceiling at night that inform me not only of the time, but also of the temperature outside. It makes a steady buzzing sound in the morning that can be easily tapped to allow me ten more minutes of sleep. At this point there is no message on the ceiling but the digits appear on the device itself. I am much less involved in how I get information about time. I simply use my eyes with very little involvement for my ears.
So that's an example of how contemporary people take in information. We are much more used to accessing our experiences through sight. We use flat screens to learn about our daily lives and take in gigantic special effects when we are entertained at the movies. We are persuaded to consume through graphics of all kinds, many of which require no words to influence us.
Tomorrow morning I will experience a more gentle awakening. My sister will rouse me around four a.m. so they we can be at Owl Grove by dawn. We hope to re-trace the parent owls of last spring and discover if they are raising a new family in the same place this season. We will depend entirely on our ears for information access as we hike through the wooded area and strain our ears for owl noise. We will need to depend almost entirely on the sounds in the environment to learn what we need. We'll communicate with each other at a bare minimum. It will be interesting to see how well we take in information the old-fashioned way. No brightly lit trails, no hidden speakers, no road signs, and not a single arrow will point us on way. Our ears will have to do the majority of the work.
Then I brought the students to the speed changes that have occurred in my life time. My parents had an alarm clock. They wound it every night. They could plainly hear it tick, and if they wanted to know what time it was, they had to turn on a light. They were awakened by an ugly and irritating ringing sound that had to be shut off by touching the right switch. So they were very involved in the process of informing themselves about time. Much of what they learned about time depended on sound.
I have a device in my bedroom that looks nothing like a clock. It shines red, digital figures on the ceiling at night that inform me not only of the time, but also of the temperature outside. It makes a steady buzzing sound in the morning that can be easily tapped to allow me ten more minutes of sleep. At this point there is no message on the ceiling but the digits appear on the device itself. I am much less involved in how I get information about time. I simply use my eyes with very little involvement for my ears.
So that's an example of how contemporary people take in information. We are much more used to accessing our experiences through sight. We use flat screens to learn about our daily lives and take in gigantic special effects when we are entertained at the movies. We are persuaded to consume through graphics of all kinds, many of which require no words to influence us.
Tomorrow morning I will experience a more gentle awakening. My sister will rouse me around four a.m. so they we can be at Owl Grove by dawn. We hope to re-trace the parent owls of last spring and discover if they are raising a new family in the same place this season. We will depend entirely on our ears for information access as we hike through the wooded area and strain our ears for owl noise. We will need to depend almost entirely on the sounds in the environment to learn what we need. We'll communicate with each other at a bare minimum. It will be interesting to see how well we take in information the old-fashioned way. No brightly lit trails, no hidden speakers, no road signs, and not a single arrow will point us on way. Our ears will have to do the majority of the work.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Details and Multi-tasking
I'm at the liquor store. It doesn't open until 11:00 and I wonder why. But I take some time to continue reading the interesting article in "The New Yorker" about these people from the United States who lived in China for many years and then moved back to the U.S. The differences between the movers there and here was amazing. In fact, the difference in the social behaviors between the people of the two countries was amazing. And then I go into the liquor store after being pushed aside at the door by the people who wanted to be first. So as I'm looking for some "good" vodka and pretending like I know what that is, I get sidetracked with watching the customers-the man with the rubber hand, the tiny, fat woman with a voice like a cartoon character, the furtive man in the business suit-until I finally just grab something and stand at the back of the line to pay. My, those customers are fast! They all know exactly what to buy.
On the way home, I study a woman I've seen once or twice who gets on the #33 bus wrapped in a long, fleecy, self-belted garment that's really a robe. And then I go to my knitting group and one of my co-knitters tells this story about her parrot which she's had for 33 years and how if you get a parrot you'd better prepare for a life-long commitment because they live as long as humans do. Her parrot's name is Hawkeye and she gave him away once for five years when her children were small because he imitated their crying and that drove her crazy.
Riding back, my friend JoAnn told me this awful story about these friends of hers whose daughter died. The child's father, who's really a strange person, took custody of their granddaughter and he won't let them see her. They are in the process of trying to gain visitation rights so the lawyer advised them to have lots of people sit with them at court so the judge can see all the support they have. And they didn't tell the father of the child so he was there with only his new wife and his parents.
So I'm talking on the phone with my sister. I sit in my dark bedroom so I won't be distracted. But I'm really trying to keep from multi-tasking while I'm talking to her and which she can always sense. Then she gets all over me because I don't remember details. But how can I when the world is so full of Chinese moving men, liquor store customers with rubber hands, a parrot that sounds like a crybaby, and a mean father who won't let his eight year old see her grandparents???? No wonder life's details escape me. No wonder I'm no good at multi-tasking anymore.
On the way home, I study a woman I've seen once or twice who gets on the #33 bus wrapped in a long, fleecy, self-belted garment that's really a robe. And then I go to my knitting group and one of my co-knitters tells this story about her parrot which she's had for 33 years and how if you get a parrot you'd better prepare for a life-long commitment because they live as long as humans do. Her parrot's name is Hawkeye and she gave him away once for five years when her children were small because he imitated their crying and that drove her crazy.
Riding back, my friend JoAnn told me this awful story about these friends of hers whose daughter died. The child's father, who's really a strange person, took custody of their granddaughter and he won't let them see her. They are in the process of trying to gain visitation rights so the lawyer advised them to have lots of people sit with them at court so the judge can see all the support they have. And they didn't tell the father of the child so he was there with only his new wife and his parents.
So I'm talking on the phone with my sister. I sit in my dark bedroom so I won't be distracted. But I'm really trying to keep from multi-tasking while I'm talking to her and which she can always sense. Then she gets all over me because I don't remember details. But how can I when the world is so full of Chinese moving men, liquor store customers with rubber hands, a parrot that sounds like a crybaby, and a mean father who won't let his eight year old see her grandparents???? No wonder life's details escape me. No wonder I'm no good at multi-tasking anymore.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Friendly Skies, Where Are You?
We leave for Hawaii in two days. What a celebration this will be! Brian and Ashley's wedding and a vacation in Maui! My lesson plans are written and delivered to the subs, the mid-term was created and given today and I've asked for coverage for my tutoring sessions. Warm weather clothing and sunscreen has been purchased, reading material is lined up, the portable knitting project has been decided upon and we're eating up what's left in the fridge. Stacks of clothing, maps, guidebooks, snorkel equipment, and shoes are waiting on a card table especially set up for the purpose of packing with the four carry-on's waiting underneath. Pills are counted out. The paper and mail have been stopped. The house will soon be clean. Neighbors are notified and rides have been arranged.
But I can't find out where I'm supposed to go to get my anti-fear of flying injection. Does anyone know? Why don't I know this? Maybe I missed a class on this subject when I signed up for the other freshman requirements. Or perhaps I was absent when everyone else received the antidote. It's blatantly obvious to me when I study all the other flying passengers that they know things I don't know. They learned how to sit on an airplane without deep breathing. I haven't caught anyone else popping prescribed pills. They even SLEEP. Is there a kiosk at the Town Center that hands out free pamphlets about flying without fear classes and where they're located? How do I tend to this problem that has somehow gone unattended all my life? Am I the only person out of the loop about how to be casual about flying?
But I can't find out where I'm supposed to go to get my anti-fear of flying injection. Does anyone know? Why don't I know this? Maybe I missed a class on this subject when I signed up for the other freshman requirements. Or perhaps I was absent when everyone else received the antidote. It's blatantly obvious to me when I study all the other flying passengers that they know things I don't know. They learned how to sit on an airplane without deep breathing. I haven't caught anyone else popping prescribed pills. They even SLEEP. Is there a kiosk at the Town Center that hands out free pamphlets about flying without fear classes and where they're located? How do I tend to this problem that has somehow gone unattended all my life? Am I the only person out of the loop about how to be casual about flying?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Much Better Than My Thoughts on Poetry
"Where does a poem come from?. . .I do everything to words. I'd be happy to send them to Florida or buy them hot dogs, anything, if they'll just come through. . .The most important thing in a poem is silence. . .Must poetry have music?. . .the poem at the end of the world. . .Writing poetry is a kind of rapture, saying the unsayable, a conversation with the world, a record of time spent in jail, anger. . ."
and here's a good poem
and here's a good poem
How Poetry Comes to Me
It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light
by Gary Snyder
All this from the book The Language of Life by Bill Moyers and all for Nancy.
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