Ephemeral

I am writing this post directly into blogger from a computer in the science building of my school.  My computer is currently about sixteen feet away in the possession of the school's IT help desk, awaiting attention from the technicians.  With luck, they will be able to clear up some of the lingering virus trouble I've been having.  In the meantime, I am depending on the computer facilities around campus.  I hope this will not be an extended state of being.

There are many things I could discuss related to my current dilemma.  But today is not a day to complain.  I am more intrigued by this post itself and how it is unique.  After I have posted this, these words will exist nowhere else in the world.  Nowhere.  Having spent all last night making sure everything else I wrote was copied and copied again, this is jarring.  I have a tendency to want things to last, just in case I might want to come back to them at some other time.

Then again, there is value in that sense of impermanence.  Music and theatre, when performed live, are never the same twice, and that gives them a form of life to which recordings cannot compare.  There are artists, too, whose only record of their art is a photograph.  Andy Goldsworthy comes to mind: his art includes only natural resources, and as the pieces are exposed to the elements, they change and fall apart and are gone.  By only appearing once, these things become rare, valuable, and special in many ways.

Far be it from me to suggest that this pithy little post, written fourteen minutes before class, is in any way significant to anyone's life or point of view.  But there is value to the things that disappear.  Maybe it would be better not to hold on so carefully to what we have done in the past.

Plug Me In, Please? Much Obliged

For the past few days, I’ve been unable to connect to the internet.  A virus invaded my computer and caused quite a stir, to say the least.  With the addition of a new anti-spyware program to my defense, it was ousted, but not without leaving a bit of damage behind, mostly to my firewall.  Nothing too traumatic, only irritating—it will probably be cleared up as soon as I can get someone wiser than I to take a look. 

I’ve been trying to take it in stride.  After all, I tell myself, it’s not such a terrible thing.  I lived through a very happy childhood without constant access to the internet.  Perhaps it’s a sign from God, I told my father facetiously, that I should be working on my thesis.  And yet it’s niggling in the back of my mind even now, the fact that I am unable to dive into this ocean of information at whim.  No games, no manga, no facebook—horror upon horrors.  More seriously, no email or blog (I am posting this tonight via another, more functional computer), no research for my classes or for my work assignment. I cannot look up a new name for the most recent character to appear in my novel, or search for the definition which I need confirmed.  I can’t even google “internet”, as I thought of doing only moments ago.

It’s astonishing how data-infused our lives have become.  The internet as we know it is younger than I am: though wide-reaching networks existed in the eighties, public access to the “world wide web” required a browser, which didn’t appear until 1994.  And now, less than twenty years later, society is unrecognizable.  Phrases coined by the web community are in common usage, phrases like “google it”, “Skype me”, “facebook stalking”, etc.  Business is conducted over the internet with Skype meetings, documents sent by means of Dropbox, and email the primary means of communication.  Every single small device we use for other purposes—phones, iPods, even cameras and printers, I believe—now often will have a connection to the internet as well.  The web of information has entangled us all.

I’ve prided myself in the past on not being quite as “plugged in” as everyone around me.  My phone only makes calls; my iPod only plays music.  In the past I have been capable of turning my computer off well before bedtime and sitting up for a while with a book.  (Read: an actual book with paper pages and a board cover, not an e-reader.)  And yet being unable to access the internet has left me rather forlorn.  I feel lonely, at odds with myself and having difficulty thinking of something to do.  I worry ridiculously that something important will come up on facebook or email, and I will offend someone by not having checked either more than once in the past twenty-four hours.

It’s funny to me, and a bit troubling.  We’ve all become psychological cyborgs, dependent on our power sources.  Now, I’m certainly not saying anything against the internet—I’ll be overjoyed to have it back when my computer difficulties are solved.  I just can’t help thinking about that old “too much of a good thing” saying.

Save the Planet?

I was recently watching a George Carlin sketch based on global warming.  For whatever reason, we don’t think of comedians as intellectuals, but this man was a genius.  He talks about how humans are vain to believe that we need to save the planet when we can’t even take care of ourselves.  “The planet is going to be here,” he says, “for a very long time.”  And it’s true.  Earth will take care of itself.  When we speak about environmentalism, we might as well call it what it is: an attempt to save our own race from our self-destructive habits.

Think about it.  The world as a whole is much more adaptable than any one species.  What cannot adapt dies; what can will live and reproduce, carrying on the new way.  An ecosystem may be hurt by the loss of a species, but it will recover to fill the empty space.  Now, the loss of human beings may cause a very large empty space, depending on how we go out (the video End of Ze World comes to mind).  But the world will recover.  Earth will not stay out of balance for long.

So where does that leave us?  It leaves us making a giant mess which no one will pull us out of.  In our pride, we’re turning our backs on the truth, that we are natural creatures with very little physical differences from the other animals of the world.  We also need to eat, drink, breathe and keep warm.  And yet we are destroying our habitat, reducing our own resources for the future and hurting our own chances for continuance.  We are adapting ourselves away from what worked for thousands of years and finding suddenly that the new way is problematic.

Last year I read an article about a man who had attacked a group of others out of hatred for what humans had done to the Earth.  Obviously he was a lunatic, but some of his words had a chilling truth.  “The humans?” he said.  “The planet does not need the humans.”  And it doesn’t.  But we need the planet.  So who is it that needs saving again?

Archaeology

Most of these posts come from a morning writing session (testimonial?  rant/rave?) I’ve been doing recently.  I make it a priority first thing in the morning to turn on my computer and write a bit.  It doesn’t really matter what about—just whatever comes to mind.  I have some notes on topics I might explore at a later date.

But this is in no way, shape, or form a diary.  I never saw much use in a diary; one’s day-to-day life doesn’t change very much.  We tend to live our lives in chunks, based on school years, jobs, travel and big events.  It’s the little things that make a difference from one day to another, such as who we’ve met, what we’re working on, or what we have planned.  For a while I kept a diary, but upon entering my self-deprecating middle school years, I disposed of it, because who in the world would want to read about my thoughts and dreams?

I still feel that way about diaries, though for a different reason.  I think there are better ways of telling my thoughts than simple exposition.  Instead of a diary, I keep a journal, a “rambling” journal as I call it, and I have been faithful to this habit since the age of fourteen.  Currently I am in the middle of volume thirteen.  In these journals I make notes of ideas for stories or simply things that interest me, write poems, draw (poorly), collect quotes and the names of books that I want to read, tape interesting articles and dried leaves from the autumn.  Now, interpreting these would probably require a very talented archaeologist, but at least something exists to attest that I lived.

And now there is this.  Together they’re more a record of who I am than what I’ve done.  Honestly, I think that’s the more important thing to remember.

Owls

Last night, while I was paging through one of those time-wasting websites with adorable pictures, I stumbled across a photo of a baby owl.  I recently discovered (through an almost embarrassing reaction to a bronze figurine) that owls are my favorite animals.  I think they are graceful, beautiful birds, and their association with wisdom appeals to me.

As I am learning, though, there are other legends about owls that don’t always match our first impression.  My guess is that the wisdom symbolism comes from Roman tradition, where the goddess Athena kept an owl with her at all times.  But Athena was also a war goddess, and so it makes sense that she would choose an owl as her companion.  They are hunters, just as fierce as hawks and falcons are in the daylight hours. 

Here are some other myths about owls I discovered:

From Algeria: if you put the right eye of an Eagle Owl into a sleeping woman’s hand, she will speak all her secrets.

From South Africa: the owl is the sorcerer’s bird, according to the Zulus.  Someone must have told J.K. Rowling, at least.

The Arctic Circle and Burma have stories trying to explain the owl’s flat face.  These stories usually involve an impact of some kind.

From Arabia: two good ones here.  They say that the death-owl (al Sada) would hoot ceaselessly over the grave of a man whose death had not been avenged.  Additionally, every female owl has two eggs: one which can cause hair loss, and the other which can restore it.  I envision men testing this out and have a good chuckle.

Celtic tradition says that the owl is a sign of the underworld.

From Indonesia: Owls here are called Burung Manguni and are considered very wise.  Certain peoples listen for the call of the Manguni to tell whether it’s safe to go somewhere, and they follow the advice they are given.

From Jamaica: the owl brings bad luck, but may be warded off by saying, “Salt and pepper for your mammy.”

From Mexico: the cold North wind is made by the owl, while the warmer south wind is made by the butterfly.

From Poland: girls who die unmarried turn into doves, while girls who die after marriage turn into owls.  I think this is an appropriate metaphor.

From Spain: until it saw Jesus crucified, the owl was a beautiful singer.  Ever since then, though, it shuns daylight and says only “cruz, cruz” (cross, cross).

From the U.S., apparently, though I’ve never heard of this: if you hear an owl’s cry, you must either return it, or take off an item of clothing and put it back on inside out.

From Wales: a woman made of flowers, named Bloduedd, betrayed her creator, and so he turned her into an owl.  This story is better than I describe it here.

These were taken from The Owl Pages, under the owl mythology section.  There are many others.  (http://www.owlpages.com/)

Why am I raving about owls?  Well, I find it interesting that one creature can inspire so much superstition.  I like the idea of wisdom having such a fierce bite.  And this morning, that baby owl was staring at me from my desktop, kicking off my thought process.     

Acoustics

Music has infused my life since I was very small.  (Isn’t that a great word, infused?)  I was the daughter of two singers, a somewhat mediocre piano student and a devotee of the marching band.  I was in various choirs all through my church-going years, and the least embarrassing of our home videos are those with a small self wandering around singing some song.  Now I am a connoisseur and a composer, always looking for more beautiful and heart-catching melodies.  It isn’t surprising, I suppose, that I relate so much of what I see and hear back to music, including my location in the world.

I’ve been thinking about acoustics this morning.  I love spaces that are meant for music.  Huge cathedrals with soaring ceilings and stone walls; wooden chapels with rafters that collect sound; teaching spaces with wide hallways and thick doors.  When I enter one of these places, I imagine that over time music collects in the air, the light, because there’s just something different about existing when one is in such a place.

I also really like these halls when they’re empty and silent.  On campus the music hall is widely acknowledged to be the creepiest place to be after dark, but I love to be there early in the morning when no sane college student would ever be awake.  I love to walk into a church sanctuary on a weekday, when it’s dim and shadowed.  It’s like a new morning, a world of possibilities.  The space is just waiting to fulfill its purpose, waiting for me to fill it.

The Journey of a Thousand Miles...

I had a meeting this morning with the editor of Valley Business Front, for whom I will likely be writing a few things in the near future. I told him that I wanted to be a writer, to make my creative skills marketable, or in other words, valuable in the “real world.” His first question was, “Do you have a blog?” When I said no, his immediate response was, “Start one this afternoon.”

Et voila.

It’s an excellent idea, and one I’ve been mulling over for the past few weeks. All the advice I’ve read for writers includes one very simple little imperative: write. It’s effort that brings results, like practicing scales on the piano, or throwing many, many lumps of clay before coming out with a recognizable mug. A blog is not only an opportunity for this constant practice, but also a way for a writer to have his or her work accessible to the public. And it’s a voice that other people can hear and respond to, and who among us doesn’t want that?

I’ve found myself considering blog topics for myself—things that interest me, things that irritate me, things that I question. The words “when I get a blog” usually are part of this line of thought, and having thought them, I can then continue with whatever thoughtless activity I am doing. So the question becomes: why haven’t I done this before, taken the metaphorical plunge into the mire of online talkers?

Part of it may be my inner cynicism of thinking, I don’t just want to jump on any bandwagons. Equally possible is my uncertainty of wondering, do I really have anything to say that anyone would want to read? Then there are the college student’s long list of excuses: I have so much homework, I should be working on my thesis, I forgot to send this email… Even thinking about them makes me annoyed. The thing is, I don’t like excuses, whether I’m hearing them or making them. No matter what kind of blather I could present, the fact of the matter is that I haven’t done it when I should. And the only way to remedy that is to get going.

So here I am, on a rainy Wednesday five minutes from the time when I should be at work. Blog post number one will go up, and I will stand behind it and hope for the best.