Did you have to read Aldous Huxley in high school? I had to read 'Brave New World'. It was disturbing and not well covered by my not so great Junior year English teacher. Over the last 20 years, I have thought about all those babies in jars being acclimatized to future lives in mines or deserts. The ultimate in social engineering. Combined with '1984' and 'Animal Farm', Huxley and Orwell provided me with a distrust of technology, authority, ignorance and fear of the hell that is created when those things combine.
So here we are, and maybe there really is a brave, new world that we have come to that I don't have to distrust and worry over. Yes, there is much that points to us being in the proverbial hand basket. There is a whole blog of examples I could wrote about that (although I think 'No Impact Man' does that quite well enough.) but from my perspective, there is so much out there that points to the flowering of a society that 'gets it'. There are so many people who are questioning technology, authority and ignorance to make small but profound changes in their lives- growing their own food, choosing neighborhood public schools, listening to music from other countries (never under estimate the power of that, it is where rock and roll came from and the Beatles changed the world), riding bikes to get to work, writing blogs ....
Most importantly, voting for leaders based on the content of their characters, and not the colour of their skins (or shape of their genitalia, for that matter). The world is on the cusp of something, and those who fear it the most are the ones who fight the hardest to stop it (what else could explain the Middle East?). We are racing forward at a sickening pace, I call it accelerated evolution, but sometimes it feels more like the sickness that came from too much spinning as a child (I am going to throw up! Let's do it again!). That feeling in the pit of your stomach that tells you the roller coaster is about to start the 5G descent that you would stop if given the chance but really want to do through with. The edges are starting to blur, and the wind is starting to howl in our ears- do we shut our eyes and pray for deliverance or do we throw our hands in the air and hope the camera catches us screaming with joy at the scariest part?
Do we close our fists or hold them open in welcome to this brave, new world?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Not Face to Face(book)
Just the other day, I was finally convinced to join Facebook. My friend tempted me with embarrassing pictures from high school that she refused to show me unless I joined up. Anyone who knows me knows I am a sucker for this kind of thing. The prospect of seeing just how skinny I was comes in a distant second to wanting to know who in the world would have a picture of me? I don't remember people taking pictures of me, I wasn't the kind of person you took pictures of, whatever that kind of person was. It isn't until quite recently that pictures of me have become common place (and quite frankly, I take most of them myself).
I am utterly confounded by Facebook.
All of those people from the past suddenly at my fingertips. What does one say to all of them? Through this journey of mine I have discovered that I have very little to say. To now have to come up with something to say to so many people is daunting. We haven't seen one another in years and in some cases, decades, but that does not mean there are decades of things to talk about. When you reconnect with people for the first time since the Bush Sr. administration, what exactly do you lead with? There have been careers begun and ended, new careers embarked upon, returns to college, marriages, divorces, children, illnesses... it is a lot to cover with one person, let alone an internet full of them! When does it become too much information and too large an audience? Too interactive?
I started to think about this blog. Is this too much? Most likely not as I suspect I am the only one reading it at this point (feel free to prove me wrong on that!). There is no limit to what I can write here, no editor other than the inner one. I only have to say something once and as many people as deign to stop here can read it without any more energy output from me. One person can ask me a question, and all the others can read my response. I can flush out an idea and explore it fully, without interruption, whereas on Facebook, everything seems to come in fragments of speech and interrupted thoughts interjected at random intervals. It takes a lot of concentration to see past the icons and declarations of 'friendship' and invitations to take quizzes about 'What Kind of Woman Are You' (apparently I am kind and compassionate but allow others to stomp on my feelings, uhm, yeah.).
All of this leads me to wonder what inter- relating to people is coming to mean? People tell me about how easy it is to keep up with people by logging on to social networking websites, but how much are we really experiencing? Who puts up truthful, multidimensional, fully realized information about themselves on a website? We edit what people see by only posting the 'good' picture. Who really talks about the hideous argument they got into with their spouse and instead gloss over it by posting about this weekend's cocktail party? Who has a cup of sugar on the internet? There are no pictures of my heinous stretch marks out there!
I keep walking away from Facebook, puzzled and somewhat lost, even though it is populated by many, many dozens of people I know. My 'conversations' with them, feel hollow and without the vitality of our face to face interactions. More like relationships with word blips than the individuals who wrote them.
Perhaps I am simply outdated. Will I ever feel comfortable in this medium?
I am utterly confounded by Facebook.
All of those people from the past suddenly at my fingertips. What does one say to all of them? Through this journey of mine I have discovered that I have very little to say. To now have to come up with something to say to so many people is daunting. We haven't seen one another in years and in some cases, decades, but that does not mean there are decades of things to talk about. When you reconnect with people for the first time since the Bush Sr. administration, what exactly do you lead with? There have been careers begun and ended, new careers embarked upon, returns to college, marriages, divorces, children, illnesses... it is a lot to cover with one person, let alone an internet full of them! When does it become too much information and too large an audience? Too interactive?
I started to think about this blog. Is this too much? Most likely not as I suspect I am the only one reading it at this point (feel free to prove me wrong on that!). There is no limit to what I can write here, no editor other than the inner one. I only have to say something once and as many people as deign to stop here can read it without any more energy output from me. One person can ask me a question, and all the others can read my response. I can flush out an idea and explore it fully, without interruption, whereas on Facebook, everything seems to come in fragments of speech and interrupted thoughts interjected at random intervals. It takes a lot of concentration to see past the icons and declarations of 'friendship' and invitations to take quizzes about 'What Kind of Woman Are You' (apparently I am kind and compassionate but allow others to stomp on my feelings, uhm, yeah.).
All of this leads me to wonder what inter- relating to people is coming to mean? People tell me about how easy it is to keep up with people by logging on to social networking websites, but how much are we really experiencing? Who puts up truthful, multidimensional, fully realized information about themselves on a website? We edit what people see by only posting the 'good' picture. Who really talks about the hideous argument they got into with their spouse and instead gloss over it by posting about this weekend's cocktail party? Who has a cup of sugar on the internet? There are no pictures of my heinous stretch marks out there!
I keep walking away from Facebook, puzzled and somewhat lost, even though it is populated by many, many dozens of people I know. My 'conversations' with them, feel hollow and without the vitality of our face to face interactions. More like relationships with word blips than the individuals who wrote them.
Perhaps I am simply outdated. Will I ever feel comfortable in this medium?
Friday, October 17, 2008
Baby and the Bat
San Francisco is a bicycle city. Everywhere you go, there are swarms of them, even on the insane hills of California street. When stopped at a light in my car, I am usually completely surrounded by urban cyclists. It is interesting to observe. Every type of person can be seen on a bike- twitchy, edgy guys in a big hurry on a fixie; middle aged professionals on hybrids with squishy seats looking nervous about that delivery truck; thrift store girls on old Schwinn three speeds peddling in high heels; older guys with graying beards and old spandex on touring bikes with lots of water bottles (or recumbent set ups with flags)...
The thing about a bicycle is that it becomes very personal. When you ride a bike daily, you start to think of it as almost a part of you- mostly because it is a machine that relies entirely on human input to function and must be fit to its rider exactly in order to function properly. You can tell a lot about a person by looking closely at their favorite bike. Mine are something else. I have two bikes that I consider my favorites- A 21 year old Specialized Rock Hopper Comp that has been modified quite a bit to meet my taste and needs (I have owned it for all but 1 of it's two decades), and a new Batavus Soccorro trekking bike all the way from Holland (it is beeeeeeautiful!) which has received just a few cosmetic changes to suit my taste.
My bikes, while sharing certain traits- upright, european style seating position, rack and luggage set ups that allow me to haul almost anything I would haul on a bike, fenders- are very, very different. My old, beat up, well loved Specialized (Baby) is tacky, there is no getting around it. What Pepto Bismol is to the colour pink is exactly what my bike is to the colour green. Baby has yellow fenders (plastic) and a huge black metal basket hanging off the handlebars. The bell is painted orange with multicoloured flowers painted on it. The blue panniers that hang off the back are the same ones I have had since I first got the bike. When I ride Baby, she makes me happy (try to ignore how that sounds and just go with it). Just looking at Baby makes me smile, her utter silliness is pure joy to me. Baby is regular, old me who can't believe I am not in college any more. Baby wants to ride out to the beach and smoke a fatty.
My new bike (The Bat) is many things, but tacky is not one of them. The Bat is shiny black and brushed silver, with a step through frame that sweeps like a swan's neck. The panniers on The Bat are bright red with a Japanese floral design. The saddle is a deep, lovely brown leather, and the handle grips are lacquered cork. As for the bell, it is brass and sounds like a Tibetan talking bowl. This machine is sleek and architectural and European. Riding The Bat, I have to step up my game and make sure I pay attention to the niceties of grooming and style. The Bat is grown up and focused and much prefers a smoky scotch in a jazz club to a gritty joint.
These are sides that are equally representative of 'me'. I could not pick one over the other. My many sides are only bits of a whole, after all. Some days seem to call to different parts, and I surely do see the world differently from these different 'bicycles'. 'Baby' days are coloured by humor and fun and utter lack of concern for schedules or convention. 'Bat' days are productive and stylish and urban. Both take me all over the place, and each is with me even when left at home. Each teaches me more about myself and how I fit into the grand scheme of things.
Pretty cool for two wheels.
The thing about a bicycle is that it becomes very personal. When you ride a bike daily, you start to think of it as almost a part of you- mostly because it is a machine that relies entirely on human input to function and must be fit to its rider exactly in order to function properly. You can tell a lot about a person by looking closely at their favorite bike. Mine are something else. I have two bikes that I consider my favorites- A 21 year old Specialized Rock Hopper Comp that has been modified quite a bit to meet my taste and needs (I have owned it for all but 1 of it's two decades), and a new Batavus Soccorro trekking bike all the way from Holland (it is beeeeeeautiful!) which has received just a few cosmetic changes to suit my taste.
My bikes, while sharing certain traits- upright, european style seating position, rack and luggage set ups that allow me to haul almost anything I would haul on a bike, fenders- are very, very different. My old, beat up, well loved Specialized (Baby) is tacky, there is no getting around it. What Pepto Bismol is to the colour pink is exactly what my bike is to the colour green. Baby has yellow fenders (plastic) and a huge black metal basket hanging off the handlebars. The bell is painted orange with multicoloured flowers painted on it. The blue panniers that hang off the back are the same ones I have had since I first got the bike. When I ride Baby, she makes me happy (try to ignore how that sounds and just go with it). Just looking at Baby makes me smile, her utter silliness is pure joy to me. Baby is regular, old me who can't believe I am not in college any more. Baby wants to ride out to the beach and smoke a fatty.
My new bike (The Bat) is many things, but tacky is not one of them. The Bat is shiny black and brushed silver, with a step through frame that sweeps like a swan's neck. The panniers on The Bat are bright red with a Japanese floral design. The saddle is a deep, lovely brown leather, and the handle grips are lacquered cork. As for the bell, it is brass and sounds like a Tibetan talking bowl. This machine is sleek and architectural and European. Riding The Bat, I have to step up my game and make sure I pay attention to the niceties of grooming and style. The Bat is grown up and focused and much prefers a smoky scotch in a jazz club to a gritty joint.
These are sides that are equally representative of 'me'. I could not pick one over the other. My many sides are only bits of a whole, after all. Some days seem to call to different parts, and I surely do see the world differently from these different 'bicycles'. 'Baby' days are coloured by humor and fun and utter lack of concern for schedules or convention. 'Bat' days are productive and stylish and urban. Both take me all over the place, and each is with me even when left at home. Each teaches me more about myself and how I fit into the grand scheme of things.
Pretty cool for two wheels.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Alan Watts- Music and Life
I ran across this video while looking around at various "Slow Bike Movement" websites (there is one perma linked in the side bar). There is something about Alan Watts that I really like.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERbvKrH-GC4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERbvKrH-GC4
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Through the Looking Glass
A woman whom I have come to know somewhat over the months, posed an interesting question to me today- how do you know what is 'you' and what is 'conditioning'? A seemingly simple question, but with a maddeningly difficult answer to come to. How do I know what is what? If I do manage to identify it, then what do I do?
Life hands us a lot of things to process along the way. Some of the lessons leave more deeply ingrained scars than others. Somewhere along the line we learn that it is impolite to interrupt, that crooked teeth should be hidden behind hands or close lipped grimaces, that certain music is bad, that brussel sprouts are gross... We learn how to swim through the stream of life, along with the current, trying to make as few waves as possible. Then BLAMMO! It turns out to all be wrong. Where do you go with that?
For myself, it is interesting. I am a rebel. Not in the sense that I need to appear, outwardly, much different from anyone else. Inwardly, though, I am very much my own person, at least in my own mind. The reading I have been doing lately is on the nature of inter-dependence and how the true nature of all things is one of non-difference and inter-being (a lot of hyphenation in this new world I am finding!). This is a great departure from my normal line of thought. These teachings propose that our base consciousness is derived from many sources, and while we each have our own basic (store) consciousness, it is only a part of the collective consciousness of all beings. Without the collective store, I would not have my conscious, nor would you. Further, without my conscious, the collective conscious would not exist.
This is big stuff. It changes the whole game. Now comes the point past which there is truly no return. And there is no choice but to continue, because the door is open and it is sucking me through. I am Alice, and I have drunk the potion.
Life hands us a lot of things to process along the way. Some of the lessons leave more deeply ingrained scars than others. Somewhere along the line we learn that it is impolite to interrupt, that crooked teeth should be hidden behind hands or close lipped grimaces, that certain music is bad, that brussel sprouts are gross... We learn how to swim through the stream of life, along with the current, trying to make as few waves as possible. Then BLAMMO! It turns out to all be wrong. Where do you go with that?
For myself, it is interesting. I am a rebel. Not in the sense that I need to appear, outwardly, much different from anyone else. Inwardly, though, I am very much my own person, at least in my own mind. The reading I have been doing lately is on the nature of inter-dependence and how the true nature of all things is one of non-difference and inter-being (a lot of hyphenation in this new world I am finding!). This is a great departure from my normal line of thought. These teachings propose that our base consciousness is derived from many sources, and while we each have our own basic (store) consciousness, it is only a part of the collective consciousness of all beings. Without the collective store, I would not have my conscious, nor would you. Further, without my conscious, the collective conscious would not exist.
This is big stuff. It changes the whole game. Now comes the point past which there is truly no return. And there is no choice but to continue, because the door is open and it is sucking me through. I am Alice, and I have drunk the potion.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Family Tree
Today I was listening to a dharma talk on the Prajna Paramita, which encompassed a number of interesting things. One of them was the first explanation of 'emptiness' that I have heard that made sense- emptiness is another word for the lack of intrinsic stability in the world of form, or more simply, everything changes so don't get too stuck on it.
The other lesson was this- we are all aggregate manifestations of every circumstance and situation that came before us, or we are completely a product of everything that has ever happened in the universe.
I have no issue with either teaching. They both make complete sense to me, and in a way, are the wording for things I have thought without words for years. What has come from those thoughts is interesting.
When I look at myself, I have tremendous gratitude for all the factors that brought me into this world. While I have made a large effort to study Buddhism, lately, I do not find myself to drawn to the teachings of suffering. There have been difficult times and situations in my life, but I do not feel that I have lived a life of suffering. However, in feeling the gratitude for my life, I started to think about some of the circumstances of the world that allowed me to be born- some of them take some effort to be grateful for.
War- My family is predominantly English, and what isn't English is from some other part of Brittan. My family, on both sides has been profoundly affected by The Battle of Culloden, The Tudor wars, the Boer War, WW1, WW2, and many, many dozens of others. So my gratitude has to go out to not only those who died, but those who killed. My gratitude must extend to not only those who died in the camps, but those who ran them, right up to Hitler himself. I must be thankful for the French sinking English ships, the Russians for killing the Czar, the Vietnamese for ousting the French, the colonists for tossing the tea. I have to thank the Cesears for all they did, and all those that opposed them.
Religion- Romans and Pagans, I must give my thanks to. Pontius Pilot must have equal ranking with Jesus. The Crusader's make the list as does Mohammed. Buddha walks hand in hand with Jim Jones in the ranks. The Pope (s) and Martin Luther..... even King Henry the Eighth (which of his wives could be left out of the story and still have 'me' be here?)
Conquest- All of them can line up, I owe them my life. From Alexander and Genghis Khan, to Teddy Roosevelt and Joseph Stalin. All of them beat and stole and murdered their way to me. Would I be here if Cortez had not sought his fortune?
There are so many 'aggregate circumstances', that make up who I am, and I can't just put in the ones I like. General Custer is as much my ancestor as Crazy Horse, as are all that died that day, and all who lived to tell the tale.
How do I look at history again? Everything I have ever learned, every person I have ever read about it, is my ancestor. Everyone, everything they did is responsible for my life. And yours.
The other lesson was this- we are all aggregate manifestations of every circumstance and situation that came before us, or we are completely a product of everything that has ever happened in the universe.
I have no issue with either teaching. They both make complete sense to me, and in a way, are the wording for things I have thought without words for years. What has come from those thoughts is interesting.
When I look at myself, I have tremendous gratitude for all the factors that brought me into this world. While I have made a large effort to study Buddhism, lately, I do not find myself to drawn to the teachings of suffering. There have been difficult times and situations in my life, but I do not feel that I have lived a life of suffering. However, in feeling the gratitude for my life, I started to think about some of the circumstances of the world that allowed me to be born- some of them take some effort to be grateful for.
War- My family is predominantly English, and what isn't English is from some other part of Brittan. My family, on both sides has been profoundly affected by The Battle of Culloden, The Tudor wars, the Boer War, WW1, WW2, and many, many dozens of others. So my gratitude has to go out to not only those who died, but those who killed. My gratitude must extend to not only those who died in the camps, but those who ran them, right up to Hitler himself. I must be thankful for the French sinking English ships, the Russians for killing the Czar, the Vietnamese for ousting the French, the colonists for tossing the tea. I have to thank the Cesears for all they did, and all those that opposed them.
Religion- Romans and Pagans, I must give my thanks to. Pontius Pilot must have equal ranking with Jesus. The Crusader's make the list as does Mohammed. Buddha walks hand in hand with Jim Jones in the ranks. The Pope (s) and Martin Luther..... even King Henry the Eighth (which of his wives could be left out of the story and still have 'me' be here?)
Conquest- All of them can line up, I owe them my life. From Alexander and Genghis Khan, to Teddy Roosevelt and Joseph Stalin. All of them beat and stole and murdered their way to me. Would I be here if Cortez had not sought his fortune?
There are so many 'aggregate circumstances', that make up who I am, and I can't just put in the ones I like. General Custer is as much my ancestor as Crazy Horse, as are all that died that day, and all who lived to tell the tale.
How do I look at history again? Everything I have ever learned, every person I have ever read about it, is my ancestor. Everyone, everything they did is responsible for my life. And yours.
Friday, August 15, 2008
I Am the Ocean
I am not the boat,
tossed on the ocean.
I am not the bird,
resting in it's waves.
I am the waves,
the movement of the ocean.
I am the ocean.
Let the boat and bird
rest in me.
tossed on the ocean.
I am not the bird,
resting in it's waves.
I am the waves,
the movement of the ocean.
I am the ocean.
Let the boat and bird
rest in me.
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