What a difference a day makes

Apologies for the cliche title.  And it's actually more like a week that made the difference, but still.  Got out for a bike ride along the Potomac today near Hancock, 50 miles or so upstream of where I drove around Shepherdstown last week.  This area had the same flooding issues as downstream but, aside from a few sandy, scoured spots, there wasn't the same grim feel to this part of the river.  It was chillier today than last week by about 25 degrees, but Spring was apparent in the sprouts of grass and sticky little leaves.

The things I saw today reflected the countryside I rode through--  Cardinals and turtles, old tires and trillium.  The sun was warm, though the breeze was cold.  Spinning past the remnants of abandoned apple orchards that were once the main industry of this area, a very different tune popped into my head from the one that matched last week's mood...



Hey little apple blossom
what seems to be the problem
all the ones you tell your troubles to
they dont really care for you

Come and tell me what you're thinking
cause just when the boat is sinking
a little light is blinking
and i will come and rescue you

Lots of girls walk around in tears
but thats not for you
you've been looking all around for years
for someone to tell your troubles to

Come and sit with me and talk awhile
let me see your pretty little smile
put your troubles in a little pile
and i will sort them out for you
i'll fall in love with you
i think ill marry you

Flew home on the highway in the direction of an amorphous waxing moon, feeling that good old euphoric feeling.  It's a high that doesn't last any longer than one induced chemically, but the lack of nasty side effects makes it vastly preferable.  So I think of apple blossoms and try to hold on to it. 

I didn't feel so bad till the sun went down...

Drove along the river road downstream from Shepherdstown today.  At the height of the flooding a week ago, the river topped out at close to 25 feet through this area (this person up near Williamsport got some photos that give an idea of what it was like).  On a typical spring day, the depth of the water is more like 3 feet and the scenery along shore is sparklingly pretty.  This winter was damned rough, though.  If I'd driven up this way last weekend, the road would've been submerged in waves of cafe au lait.  Instead, I was dodging potholes where the water had churned at the pavement.  It's obvious this has happened before over the years, as most of the houses along the road are either raised above garages or built way up the hillside.  The only structure anywhere close to the water's edge is the ruin of an old mill from near a hundred years ago.

Up in town, there were daffodils cropping up in people's yards and buds beginning to sprout on the tips of tree limbs.  Down here, the ground was scoured by river sand, what bits of grass there are flattened by the surging water and the tree trunks dragged along through it.  On the second day of spring, there are no signs of tender new growth, only river detritus and leftover mud.  Just dead leaves and dirty ground.



Dead leaves and the dirty ground
when I know you're not around
Shiny tops and soda pops
when I hear your lips make a sound
when I hear your lips make a sound

Thirty notes in the mailbox
will tell you that I'm coming home
And I think I'm gonna stick around
for a while so you're not alone
for a while so you're not alone

If you can hear a piano fall
you can hear me coming down the hall
If I could just hear your pretty voice
I don't think I'd need to see at all
I don't think I'd need to see at all

Soft hair and a velvet tongue
I want to give you what you give to me
And every breath that is in your lungs
is a tiny little gift to me
is a tiny little gift to me

I didn't feel so bad till the sun went down
Then I come home
No one to wrap my arms around

Well any man with a microphone
can tell you what he loves the most
And you know why you love at all
if you're thinking of the Holy Ghost
if you're thinking of the Holy Ghost


The scene by the river matched my mood today.  I think... that I'm becoming tired of being alone.

Random babblings: Of Elephants and things

Despite a gloomy pall spread across the mid-Atlantic states by four days of rain, the first morning of Daylight Saving Time found me feeling pretty good.  There's been much dukkha lately, much wanting to think about changes that should be made for future happiness and security, and just as much avoidance of thoughts on that subject.  The result has been a lot of time feeling anxious and sorry for myself, and then feeling annoyed at myself for sinking to such depths.

My current infatuation with Jack White has both helped and harmed in this situation.  His music's become, depending on the tune, a wonderful release, an escape, a comfort, and a distraction.  But learning about the man himself has been a tad confounding.  He's apparently a kinetic fount of creative energy with a work ethic that's renowned in the industry.  And there lies the rub.  I'd like to be inspired by him, but instead his example makes me feel ashamed of being such a lazy sod who can't get off her duff and figure out what to do with her life, who'd rather play than work at stuff that doesn't have at least some element of fun, or at least interest, to it.  I imagine White's photo in the dictionary next to the definition of "Type A personality", and that just ain't me.  But there are times when perhaps it should be.  

So today's indulgent escape was a drive up to Gettysburg National Military Park.  The US Civil War's been an interest of mine for years, ever since I moved to Maryland and began exploring the state.  Sitting as it does between Virginia & Pennsylvania, MD's surrounded by Civil War history and multiple battlefield sites:  Monocacy, Antietam, Manassas, Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg are the most well-known of the bunch.  Amazingly, the area around Gettysburg hasn't yet fallen to the developer's axe.  In the years I've been going there, I've noticed the addition of a couple of shopping/movie complexes and a few industrial parks, but none of the rampant house building that's spread so virulently closer to home.  The place seems to still be largely agricultural, and that makes a visit to the battlefield feel, to at least a small degree, like a step back in time.

I hung out for a while at Devil's Den, within view of Round Top and Little Round Top. Some of the most brutal fighting of this three-day battle took place in the space called the Valley of Death, between the Den and the Round Tops, when Confederate troops swarmed over both the rocks and the Federals who'd been holding ground there.

Civil War soldiers spoke of going into battle as "seeing the elephant" and the elephantine, rain-slicked boulders of the Den fit the expression well.  Fortunately, the rain that soaked the rocks also kept the tourist crowds at bay and only a few were climbing about, having their photos taken to look as if they were holding up the gigantic formations with only a fingertip.  So I was able to wander and shoot and attempt to imagine the carnage.  I've read a bunch of books and articles about the Civil War, but I've yet to find anything that satisfactorily explains what motivated the men on either side of the conflict to engage in killing each other in such a barbaric manner.  I understand it from a psychological perspective.  It's fairly obvious that the vast majority of the lower troops just plain had no clue what they were going to face, that some atavistic, testosterone-driven urge excited them to sign up and serve the cause of their chosen side.  Imagine their surprise when the fearsome form of the elephant first came lumbering towards them.  Yet from an empathetic standpoint, I just don't get it.  The men leading the troops had all faced war before, and they didn't hesitate to do so again when Sumter fell.  Robert E. Lee himself famously stated, "It is good that war is so horrible, or we might grow to like it."  I think that Lee understood even less than I do.

Appropriately, I popped The White Stripe's Elephant into the cd player on the way home.  This is the album that apparently launched the Stripes into the stratosphere and it's a fantastic collection displaying the diversity of Jack's genius.  From angry to tender, bragging to entreating, these songs "dedicated to, ...for, and about the death of the sweetheart" cover a gamut of human relations.  Perhaps it's due to the subject matter, but these seem to be some of White's most direct songs.  He's apparently a big fan of metaphor, but the stories on this album are all clearly and coherently told, and his use of imagery is compelling.  Some highlights:



Apparently written about the issues that fame caused for him amongst the Detroit music scene, which prompted his subsequent move to Nashville, there's no mistaking the message that Jack's not to be trifled with-- 

And I'm talking to myself at night
Because I can't forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette
And the message coming from my eyes
Says leave it alone...



I'm only waiting for the proper time to tell you
That it's impossible to get along with you
It's hard to look you in the face when we are talking
So it helps to have a mirror in the room

Absolutely unequivocal.  After this point in the album, though, the anger and cynicism begin to fade and Jack turns to longing for love.  



The sweetest moment of the album is contained in this song. Though the lyrics portray a man who suffers from a mild case of misogyny, the tenderness of Jack's simple vocals tugs at the heart-strings and turn it into a romantic ode to the desperation of love.

Nobody ever told you that it was the wrong way
To trick a woman, make her feel she did it her way
And you'll be there if she ever feels blue
And you'll be there when she finds someone new



One of my favorite things about this album is the track order. To follow the delicate romance of "...In Your Pocket" with the arrogant swagger of "Ball and Biscuit" is nothing short of brilliant.  This song, like "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground" or "Death Letter", is a showcase for Jack's insane talent on the guitar.  But it also stands out as one of the few instances of blatant sexual braggadocio that he's indulged in.  Supposedly inspired by the "ball and biscuit" microphones used in the studio where the album was recorded, Jack very cleverly sings about "getting clean together" and then proceeds to get absolutely filthy on his guitar.



The final cut on the album is a whimsical little number with guest vocals from British singer, Holly Golightly.  While it could easily be dismissed as fluff or filler, the humor in the tune makes it a gem.  It's a nice touch, after beginning the album in anger, then traveling through yearning and boasting, to end things with a smile.

A White weekend.

My Facebook status on Saturday morning read, "White (snow) outside the window, and White (Jack) coming out of the speakers. One in massive amounts is definitely preferable to the other."  For those of you who haven't heard, a record-setting snow-storm hit the mid-Atlantic region beginning this past Friday.  Total snowfall ranged from 2-3 feet and created a three-day, housebound weekend for the majority of the population.  I told everyone at work last week that I'd be out and about by Sunday, and damned if I wasn't.  Spent over two hours digging around the car, then waited for the snow removal company to come with a skid loader to haul away the piles that the plow had left behind my parking space.  A few spun wheels later and my little Civic was out for a quick trip to the grocery and video stores.

I was out of the house again at 8:15 this morning for a dentist appointment (the only one who hadn't canceled on them by that point) and had a ball surfing the car over the compacted-but-churned 3 inches or so that was on most of the roads.  And, as much as I'll hate the stuff when I have to commute to work through it tomorrow, I must admit that the deep, untouched, virginal white snow, sparkling like a donut covered with little icy sprinkles, was achingly beautiful.   

My only fear, of course, was those folks who are either so scared they shouldn't be on the road, or so obliviously, arrogantly cocky that they put the rest of us in jeopardy.  I feel for the former, and give them as much room as I can.  The latter, though, deserve little patience and I can't help but hope for them to have an accident.  Not one serious enough for them to get hurt, there's really no malice to this wish.  Just bad enough to damage their car and make them piss their pants.  That's the only thing that will teach them the common sense necessary for driving in this weather.

Though there was one guy in a massive pickup truck who was actually passing and weaving through traffic in places where the snow and slush narrowed the usual two full lanes into one and a half.  He might actually need a concussion and a broken arm to learn anything. 

To pass the otherwise snowbound hours (and hours and hours) at home, I surfed the 'net for info about and videos by Jack White of The White Stripes/The Raconteurs/The Dead Weather/It Might Get Loud/Who knows what he'll be doing next?-fame and developed myself a full-fledged new musical infatuation.

I mentioned once before that I'd been wanting to get into The White Stripes for a while because it's obvious that there's just something about Jack.  But I had no clue as to the levels of complexity, whimsy, and just plain raw talent in this guy.  As always, it took the right song at the right moment for it all to sink in and grab me.  The tune that did it is one from his project before last, The Raconteurs.  It's a torchy number tweaked with some backwards-output sections that put it in a league apart from the traditional blues that White apparently loves.  But the big surprise to me was Jack's voice.  As usual, that's the hook for me.  I had initially considered his high-register, often nasal vocals to be interesting, even cool, but most of the White Stripes tunes I'd listened to were too quirky to pick up on his emotive abilities.  Blue Veins has emotion in spades, with Jack's voice expressing tension, adoration, and a subdued passion:



Even better, if you've got the time, is the band's live performance of the song, which includes not only Janis Joplin-esque vocals but also the dramatic guitar playing that made White a top-pick for the It Might Get Loud documentary:



Amongst the many gems I found on YouTube this weekend is this version of Wayfaring Stranger that he performed for Cold Mountain (both the novel and film are favorites of mine):



Another is Jack's tribute to the most awesome bluesman you've never heard of, Son House, whose Grinnin' In Your Face is apparently White's favorite song. Like Blue Veins, the guitar work in this jam takes the blues to a level guys like House could never have dreamed of:



And, of course, there's the crunchy, gut-shivering riff in Seven Nation Army that made the Stripes a household name:



For a musician of this sort to then turn around and cover a song like Conquest and make it cool is nothing short of genius:



So, now it's Monday afternoon and I've only got a handful of hours left to fully cement this new obsession (Edit: We were hit with another blizzard Tuesday and I spent another two days on YouTube. Obsession cemented).  While I'm off doing that, I'll leave you with a final treat, one that I find beautifully moving.  I hope you enjoy:



As Ugly As I Seem

I
Am as ugly as I seem
Worse than all your dreams
Could ever make me
Out to be
And
It makes me want to scream
When it's Halloween
And the kids are all laughing at me
The rogue
Is a bank
He's never broke
But worth as much as a joke
That no one is laughing at

Can
You believe some things are not
Appealing as a spot
On the ceiling of my childhood bedroom
And
Count these dreams you can't imagine
But none of them match the vision
That you had decided for me
You
Want to take away from me
Things that are mine
And it's not your right
I bet that you wouldn't expect a fight
Can it be
That I don't
Want what you want
And the only thing I could care for
Is a place in a home that is safe and warm
Safe and warm,
safe and warm,
safe and warm

Judge
Yourself if you feel the need
Just let me alone to be
In search of the truth myself
There
Is a drop of blood on the ground
And it seems to me
That it's not my kind
And I can't be sure if it's yours or mine

I
Am as ugly as I seem
Worse than all your dreams
Could ever make me
Could ever make me
Could ever make me
Could ever make me

A Day at the Museum(s): Rodin and the Underground

Drove to Philly through the snow yesterday for a visit to the Rodin Museum and a Poe-related twilight tour at Laurel Hill Cemetery.  It had just begun snowing when I left and the drive up was fun for watching the flakes swirl in paisley patterns across the roads, and for zooming along I-95 past Baltimore only to find that the city skyline had disappeared behind a wall of foggy clouds. 

Danaid - The Source

The Awakening


How does this appear to you?  As peaceful repose?  Erotic abandon?  She was originally intended to be part of Rodin's masterwork, The Gates of Hell, but ended up being sculpted life-size on her own.  Seen whole, the tension in her pose becomes apparent and she takes on a much different meaning.  Rodin named her The Martyr.

A few more images here.

Arrived at the tiny Rodin Museum with nary a flake in the overcast Philly sky, but after my half-hour wander-through found that flurries had begun.  By the time I grabbed something to eat, the snow was again swirling and gathering on the roadways and getting to the cemetery was sketchy.  So very worthwhile, though, as the Underground Museum (as Laurel Hill is called) is truly one of the most fantastic cemeteries I’ve been to.  Built on the grounds of what were once three estates on the border of Philly, it’s a city unto itself, with boulevards lined by family plots and obelisks for skyscrapers.  The Poe connections mentioned on the tour - graves of people he’d known and/or worked with during his short time in Philly - were really unnecessary.  Seeing the place in the snow was reason enough to be there.  The lights of downtown Philly reflected between the cloudy sky and the snowy ground to create a rosy-golden glow in the air that contrasted with the dark grey and white-shrouded monuments.  Unfortunately, it was both too dark and too cold to attempt photos, so the best I can do to convey the beauty of the place is a handful of shots from past rainy-day visits.

The day began early and ended very late and, despite the snow-extended driving time, was full in a way that makes it feel long in a satisfying way.  Which, unfortunately, will make today feel lethargic and brief in comparison.  Always a trade-off...

Random babblings: Seasons roll on by

And I'm lost behind
Words I'll never find.
And I'm left behind,
As seasons roll on by...*

Still can't string together anything pithy, but feeling the urge to blog anyway.  In the mood for weirdness today... 

Watched The Libertine again last night.  The prelude to the film is only partially accurate:  I do find Wilmot repellent but, like Sade, still fascinating.  I wouldn't like him as a person, but greatly admire him as an idea.  Probably his best known (read: most notorious) work is A Ramble in St. James's Park (I'm not quoting it here, I don't want my blog reported.  Follow the link if you're curious).  What compelled the man to write such obscenity-filled bawdiness?  Especially considering that he could turn around and pen something like this:

After Death nothing is, and nothing, death,
The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside
His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;
Let slavish souls lay by their fear
Nor be concerned which way nor where
After this life they shall be hurled.
Dead, we become the lumber of the world,
And to that mass of matter shall be swept
Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept.
Devouring time swallows us whole.
Impartial death confounds body and soul.
For Hell and the foul fiend that rules
God's everlasting fiery jails
(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools),
With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,
Are senseless stories, idle tales,
Dreams, whimsey's, and no more. 

Was it a desire to shock?  Or a compulsion to honesty so intense it became perverse?  As the character of Wilmot says in the film, "I don't mean to upset people, but I must speak my mind. For what's in my mind is far more interesting than what's outside my mind."  Though whether what was in his mind was as interesting to the rest of us is, of course, entirely subjective.
   

Spent a rainy January afternoon today wandering cemeteries outside of Baltimore, then reading Sherlock Holmes while chewing on mussels at Bertha's.  If you're a Holmes purist like I am, don't bother with the new Guy Ritchie/Robert Downey Jr. film unless you can convince yourself that it's not really Sherlock Holmes, it's just an action flick set in Victorian London with characters who solve crimes and share the same names as Conan Doyle's creations.  Just go back and re-read the stories.  Or, watch for the Granada TV series starring Jeremy Brett on public television.

Came home to follow a blog post from The Crow to Sam&Sara Motel and thence to She Is (best. URL. ever.).  Probably not the direction that was intended from the original post, but thoroughly appropriate to my mood.  The images at the latter two put me in mind of Maynard James Keenan and A Perfect Circle, which is fitting after being in Baltimore earlier.

A Perfect Circle - Weak And Powerless
Uploaded by PESfouine.

Driving from Ellicott City through Catonsville and into western B'more, there were so many images I was dying to stop and photograph. So much of the architecture in these neighborhoods indicates that their hey-day was during the early decades of the 20th century. There's so much terrific detail to so many of the rowhouses, individual homes, and storefronts that, though bordering on decrepit now, it's obvious that these areas were once beautiful, vibrant places to live. I get excited at the things I see driving by and want to stop and capture them, save images of them before it's too late, but these are not necessarily appropriate neighborhoods for me be wandering around with a camera. Sure, the idea of being mugged crosses my mind, but it's more a matter of consideration and delicacy. A friend with whom I rode the Gwynns Fall trail summed it up well when we stopped in one of the grittier neighborhoods to snap a shot: Traveling through these neighborhoods is not visiting the zoo.  She's very right.  I would not ever want to offend anyone who lives in such areas by "playing tourist". They live with the grime and crime and grim reality of it. Would my recording the sights that catch my eye in these areas be a compliment or an insult to them? There can be beauty in decay, but do you see it if you're stuck in it every day?

If I should be short on words
And long on things to say,
Could you crawl into my world
And take me worlds away?*

* Chris Cornell, Seasons

It's not dead...

...it's just moribund.  There's only one truth I know, and that's that life is a series of cycles.  The slump I'm in now is sure to eventually spiral back around to something more lively.  In the meantime, I keep having ideas of things to babble about here in blog-land, but when I begin to explore and flesh them out, I find that I really don't want to think that hard.

I'm gonna go watch tv.  Hopefully you'll still be here when I get back.

And more fun wit teh words'n'stuff...

I really need to stop stealing from the essays & effluvia guy, but he posts such great stuff.

The ability to make and understand puns is considered to be the highest level of language development. Here are the 10 first place winners in the International Pun Contest: 

1.  A vulture boards an airplane, carrying two dead raccoons.  The stewardess looks at him and says, "I'm sorry, sir, only one carrion allowed per passenger."

2.  Two fish swim into a concrete wall. One turns to the other and says, "Dam!"

3.  Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly, so they lit a fire in the craft.  Unsurprisingly it sank, proving once again that you can't have your kayak and heat it too.

4.  Two hydrogen atoms meet.  One says, "I've lost my electron." The other says, "Are you sure?" The first replies "Yes, I'm positive."

5.  Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocain during a root canal?  His goal: transcend dental medication.

6.  A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories.  After about an hour, the manager came out of the office and asked them to disperse.  "But why?", they asked, as they moved off.  "Because," he said, "I can't stand chess-nuts boasting in an open foyer."

7.  A woman has twins and gives them up for adoption.  One of them goes to a family in   Egypt  and is named "Ahmal." The  other goes to a family in   Spain ; they name him "Juan."  Years later, Juan sends a picture of himself to his birth mother.  Upon receiving the picture, she tells her husband that she wishes she also had a picture of Ahmal.  Her husband responds, "They're twins!  If you've seen Juan, you've seen Ahmal."

8.  A group of friars were behind on their belfry payments, so they opened up a small florist shop to raise funds.  Since everyone liked to buy flowers from the men of God, a rival florist across town thought the competition was unfair.   He asked the good fathers to close down, but they would not.  He went back and begged the friars to close.  They ignored him. So, the rival florist hired Hugh MacTaggart, the roughest and most vicious thug in town to "persuade" them to close.  Hugh beat up the friars and trashed their store, saying he'd be back if they didn't close up shop. Terrified, they did so, thereby proving that only Hugh can prevent florist friars.

9.  Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him rather frail and, with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath.  This made him (Oh, man, this is so bad, it's good) a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.

10. And finally, there was the person who sent ten different puns to friends, with the hope that at least one of the puns would make them laugh.

No pun in ten did

Much fun wit teh words'n'stuff

The guy at essays and effluvia posts this every year and I greatly look forward to it.  This year, I decided to crib it from him and share...

The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternative meanings for common words.

(I believe this is older)

 
The winners are:  
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach..
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you
   are run over by a steamroller.

10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline..

11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with
   Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief
   that, when you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck
   there.

16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn
   by Jewish men.             

The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. 

Here are this year's winners:
           1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops
   bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows
   little sign of breaking down in the near future.
           2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the
   purpose of getting laid.
           3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the
         subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
           4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
           5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and
   the person who doesn't get it.
           6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are
   running late.
           7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
           8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra
   credit.)
           9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending off all
   these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and
   it's like, a serious bummer.           

         10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day
   consuming only things that are good for you.
         11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
         12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem
   smarter when they come at you rapidly.
         13 Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after
   you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
         14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into
   your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
         15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in
   the fruit you're eating.
And the pick of the literature:
         16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an asshole.

Sometimes there's too much silence

The other day I posted a link on my Facebook page to a particularly appropriate entry at a Twitter feed that I follow called "shitmydadsays":

"I just want silence. Jesus, it doesn't mean I don't like you. It just means right now, I like silence more."

Most days, that's very much how I feel.  I'll babble a blue streak when the occasional mood strikes, but most of the time can't deal with the constant sharing of personal drama and empty, void-filling talk that so many people seem prone to.  It's amazing, though, to think that such verbal diarrhea could be considered a luxury, to realize that there are still places in this world where one has to be careful of their speech and where communication is a controlled, limited thing.

I have a friend blogger who lives in Iran.  Remember Iran?  It was much in the news just a few short months ago, when incumbent leader Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was re-elected through a seemingly fraudulent process.  Protests erupted immediately throughout the country, and the government responded just as quickly to shut down both foreign news media and internet access.  What's surprising is not so much that speaking out against the elections led to many Iranian citizens being arrested, or worse.  That's still almost an everyday occurrence for peoples such as the Tibetans and Uygurs. The amazing aspect to this particular government crackdown is that much of the news that did make it out into the international press came via Twitter. 

Hard for us in more democratic countries to imagine, huh?  My friend, who goes by the intarwebs pseudonym of human being, is a teacher and a poet with a beautiful voice who speaks words that make one think, words that should be shared.  These days, though, those of us who follow her never know when she'll be able to gain access to the 'net to communicate with us.  Most of us spend hours a day on the intarwebs, both at home and at work.  Those with less easy access can still go to places, libraries, etc, and get on a computer that allows us entry to the World Wide Web.  Stop and think for a moment about those words, separately and then together:  World. Wide. Web.  It's sobering and disturbing to think that some of us, grown adults with something worthwhile to say, are not allowed such access out of the fear that we might gain a measure of freedom.
    

hb, if you have the opportunity to see this, I hope you don't mind me sharing your latest words.

sometimes i've got so much to say that
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooi keep silent

sometimes i shout so loudly that
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooono one hears me

sometimes tomorrow is so far away that
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooosoon is yesterday

sometimes you are so close that
ooooooooooooooooooooooooi can't think of you...

Originally posted at Thus Spake the Crow, Sunday, December 6th, 2009.