Sunday, October 19, 2008
In London and wondering about America
Traveling again, and I'm finally having time to catch up with reading. Just saw this over on Cory's blog. When I see these videos, or others of McCain/Palin rallies inciting mob hatred, I just shudder. If anything happens to Obama, regardless of the election outcome, these two politicians will have some serious soul searching to do.
And the world really is flat
When I first heard that Iceland was facing bankruptcy and trying to borrow money from Russia I was confused. Isn't Iceland the country with the showcase energy policy and one of the highest standards of living in Europe, if not the world?
Thomas Freidman offers a solid explanation today, and shows once again that we are all connected and getting more so every day.
Thomas Freidman offers a solid explanation today, and shows once again that we are all connected and getting more so every day.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Carl's Journey
My friend Carl decided to teach himself better photography by taking a picture a day for a year, and posting them to Flickr. The result is not only a wonderful array of photos, but a fabulous year-long story. Enjoy.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
BART Sightings
Something unusual is happening on BART.
Last week, at the end of a very long day, I joined the crowd on the dusty platform waiting for the train to take me home. Standing near the elevator, which makes a convenient marker mid-platform, I stared down the tunnel to see if any light was shining. As I strained to see into the dark, I became aware of an odd sort of bouncing and twirling movement to my side, with an accompanying tapping sound.
Turning to see more clearly, yet trying not to be conspicuous in my staring, I saw a young woman. Under most circumstances she would be unremarkable. Wavy, dark hair, a non-descript outfit, an aged backpack. Eyes closed and listening to a tune in her head, she was in the midst of performing an Irish jig. Arms rigid by her side, feet moving in the intricate patterns of the jig, she danced to the unheard music.
I was certain she would stop quickly, because it was obvious that the other commuters on the platform, like me, found this impromptu dance a bit unusual. Maybe it was the pack on her back, flopping up and down and looking pretty uncomfortable. Maybe it was just the incongruity of the lively dance on the platform, the absence of music loud against the crowd noise. But she danced on, oblivious to the stares of the passers-by. Then a train came, the doors opened, and she was gone.
I didn't think of it again until this morning. My train pulled into one of the above-ground stations and there, on the platform, dressed in a pale skirt with tailored jacket, was a young woman jumping rope. Without a rope. I watched her jump in a steady rhythm until the train pulled away and I couldn't see her any longer.
I'm not sure what to make of these sightings. I guess it could be boredom, or the pent-up energy that comes from sitting behind a desk all day. I wonder if it's come to this, that the only time to exercise is while waiting for a train?! Or nice to think, maybe it was joy.
Last week, at the end of a very long day, I joined the crowd on the dusty platform waiting for the train to take me home. Standing near the elevator, which makes a convenient marker mid-platform, I stared down the tunnel to see if any light was shining. As I strained to see into the dark, I became aware of an odd sort of bouncing and twirling movement to my side, with an accompanying tapping sound.
Turning to see more clearly, yet trying not to be conspicuous in my staring, I saw a young woman. Under most circumstances she would be unremarkable. Wavy, dark hair, a non-descript outfit, an aged backpack. Eyes closed and listening to a tune in her head, she was in the midst of performing an Irish jig. Arms rigid by her side, feet moving in the intricate patterns of the jig, she danced to the unheard music.
I was certain she would stop quickly, because it was obvious that the other commuters on the platform, like me, found this impromptu dance a bit unusual. Maybe it was the pack on her back, flopping up and down and looking pretty uncomfortable. Maybe it was just the incongruity of the lively dance on the platform, the absence of music loud against the crowd noise. But she danced on, oblivious to the stares of the passers-by. Then a train came, the doors opened, and she was gone.
I didn't think of it again until this morning. My train pulled into one of the above-ground stations and there, on the platform, dressed in a pale skirt with tailored jacket, was a young woman jumping rope. Without a rope. I watched her jump in a steady rhythm until the train pulled away and I couldn't see her any longer.
I'm not sure what to make of these sightings. I guess it could be boredom, or the pent-up energy that comes from sitting behind a desk all day. I wonder if it's come to this, that the only time to exercise is while waiting for a train?! Or nice to think, maybe it was joy.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Working for Quality of Life
A friend of mine recently admonished me to remember that we "work for our quality of life". This thought has stayed with me since he said it because I find that it's hard to believe. It seems true in principle, and certainly it's true aspirationally. But, is this aphorism really true?
Those of us who work very long hours often have to find quality of life in the work itself. It's not a trade-off -- work hard and then reap the reward later. Instead, work becomes life. And when the work fails to reward, or if it involves struggle or worry, there is no quality of life. Even when not engaged in working, there's the nagging, gnawing feeling at the edge of consciousness that all is not well.
I find that when work fails to reward I have to work twice as hard to set things aside and enjoy the peace and beauty of the day. Instead of working for quality of life, I'm fighting for a few moments of tranquility.
What I take away from this is how important it is to do work that you love, and when that changes, it's time to reconsider options in order to put life back into balance, with quality and perspective.
Those of us who work very long hours often have to find quality of life in the work itself. It's not a trade-off -- work hard and then reap the reward later. Instead, work becomes life. And when the work fails to reward, or if it involves struggle or worry, there is no quality of life. Even when not engaged in working, there's the nagging, gnawing feeling at the edge of consciousness that all is not well.
I find that when work fails to reward I have to work twice as hard to set things aside and enjoy the peace and beauty of the day. Instead of working for quality of life, I'm fighting for a few moments of tranquility.
What I take away from this is how important it is to do work that you love, and when that changes, it's time to reconsider options in order to put life back into balance, with quality and perspective.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
A Sliver of Moon
It's dusk, a sliver of a moon hangs over the lights of Westminster and Big Ben. I walk past the Whitehall Gardens, the air filled with the scent of lilac, because it's still early spring here. (I noticed on Saturday that the lilacs near our house had turned brown and lost their fragrance in the heat.)
I wander down past one bridge to the Vauxhall Bridge, where I decide to cross the river. Up and over the hump of the bridge, with the wind picking up in the center. Stopping, I look back down toward my starting point. On my left are the antique towers of Westminster, glowing gold in the floodlights. On my right the overwhelmingly huge white neon glow of the Millenium Wheel. Very odd.
Turning back, with the wind in my face smelling of the fresh water and reminding me of the sea at Brighton. Although it's considerably more gentle, warmer, with no rain. There are lights strung all along the river side, like a carnival or a holiday, and because the evening is so warm the boats docked along the embankment are filled with people enjoying the evening.
In front of me are two people who at first look like twins, nearly the same height, with white hair the same length, matching brick red fleece jackets and dark pants. The only difference is the white tennis shoes on one, the black walking stick in the hand of the other. Holding hands. I draw closer and then pass them, a man and a woman. Of course I wonder about them, with the sort of feelings that often come when you see two older people, clearly at peace with one another, and assume there's a great love there. Because isn't that what we all hope for ourselves?
I wander down past one bridge to the Vauxhall Bridge, where I decide to cross the river. Up and over the hump of the bridge, with the wind picking up in the center. Stopping, I look back down toward my starting point. On my left are the antique towers of Westminster, glowing gold in the floodlights. On my right the overwhelmingly huge white neon glow of the Millenium Wheel. Very odd.
Turning back, with the wind in my face smelling of the fresh water and reminding me of the sea at Brighton. Although it's considerably more gentle, warmer, with no rain. There are lights strung all along the river side, like a carnival or a holiday, and because the evening is so warm the boats docked along the embankment are filled with people enjoying the evening.
In front of me are two people who at first look like twins, nearly the same height, with white hair the same length, matching brick red fleece jackets and dark pants. The only difference is the white tennis shoes on one, the black walking stick in the hand of the other. Holding hands. I draw closer and then pass them, a man and a woman. Of course I wonder about them, with the sort of feelings that often come when you see two older people, clearly at peace with one another, and assume there's a great love there. Because isn't that what we all hope for ourselves?
Sunday, April 20, 2008
So that's what it's all about
Sometimes I learn things in the most circuitous ways. I've read Garcia Marquez and Isabel Allende, and even Yann Martel, but it took George Bush deciding to mimic Ronald Reagan and buying a "ranch" in Crawford, Texas for me to finally understand.
"Magical realism demonstrates that the most ostensibly mundane objects, examined closely enough, begin to assume phantasmagorical qualities." The literary technique known as 'magical realism' adds dimension and insight to how we think about the world around us. Something I'm going to learn more about.
"Magical realism demonstrates that the most ostensibly mundane objects, examined closely enough, begin to assume phantasmagorical qualities." The literary technique known as 'magical realism' adds dimension and insight to how we think about the world around us. Something I'm going to learn more about.
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