She smiled.
At, or with, doesn’t matter.
She smiled.
That’s all that matters.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Pitch Awaits
As a Canadian, there are certain sports allegiances that are not only expected, but required as a condition of continued citizenship. Even if you're not a fan of the CFL, if you're asked whether you're a fan, the minimum response required is a firm, approving nod followed by a "you bet." If the question is "do you like hockey?," it's proper form to respond by asking the questioner if the feel okay, or need to lie down for a but. I mean, we're talking hockey, okay? Do you like hockey?" Pfft. What kind of question is that?
But when it comes to other sports, Canadian associations and allegiances fade into the background, and old ethnic remembrances move to the fore. Are we talking soccer? Rugby? Kabaddi? Baseball? Each major sport can call upon a dedicated and fervent subset of society, displaying a passion for their game that you may not have realized they felt. Encountering that passion in its raw, undiluted form can be a real eye opener. In 2006 this happened to me. I had moved to Dubai, just in time to catch the Cricket World Cup taking place in the West Indies.
In the past when I had thought of cricket, if I had thought about it at all, it was as part of a punchline involving words like 'eternity' or how a 'century' didn't refer to runs, but to the length of the average match. In university I knew cricket in two forms, test cricket, which is the three to five day affair where two teams finish "a" game or match. The other is annoyance cricket, usually played by South Asian students at my old university, in large open foyers almost always inconveniently packed with people. After more than a few close calls, where a "ball" (felt more like a rock to me, then) would nearly take off my head, I decided to take the matter up with higher authorities.
At that time I was heading up my college's athletics council, and was part of the campus wide intra-mural sports body. I began advocating that cricket be added to the intramural sports list, even if only because a third or more of our students seemed to hail from India or Pakistan. Absolutely sure that I had a winner, it was a surprise to me when that suggestion went over like a dirt pancake. A few of the football players on the council acted like I'd asked everyone to apply for Chinese citizenship. That nearly two billion people are nuts about cricket didn't seem to register, for as they said "That's a stupid idea. Nobody likes cricket."
And so the matter dropped, and I forgot about the whole thing, except when a near miss/death experience would act as a subtle reminder. But in 2006, when I moved to Dubai where 90% of the expat community lives, eats, and breathes cricket, it was hard not to get sucked in. It was the ICC World Cup of Cricket, and a host of nations around the world were there, including Canada, who managed to embarrass in ways I never thought imaginable in sports. Watching them play cured me of nationalist favoritism, and so I became a fan of Sri Lanka. I'd have chosen India, but since I lived with Indians and was always surrounded by them, I needed something to set me apart, and cheering for Pakistan in a room full of Indians was, is, and probably always will be the surest path to a broken nose there is. So that's why I chose Sri Lanka, that and the fact that the Sri Lankan team was actually exciting, in a way I had never seen a baseball team be exciting.
Still, for all the enthusiasm I started to show, my overall love of the game was lukewarm at best. The ICC World Cup plays a form of cricket called "ODI" which stands for "one day international." The games don't actually take a whole day to play, just six or seven hours. Which is actually an improvement over the days long test matches. But three days, or even six hours, is far too long to sustain a real feeling of excitement and engagement. I had gotten a taste of cricket, and I liked it when the game flowed, but more often than not watching was an awful drudge.
But then something happened. The first 20/20 World Cup aired, and my eyes were opened. There, in front of me, I beheld a form of the game that had it all. Passion, skill, ferocity, and most importantly, brevity. Each team had a very limited chance to stack up some runs, so every little mistake counted. Games took as little as two hours to play, just like a baseball game. When India won that first cup, I was right there cheering Ms Dhoni, the captain of the Indian team. I didn't care, because I was having so much fun.
Not long afterwards the IPL, Indian Premiere League, started, and brought cricket to an entirely new level. One of the biggest problems with cricket is the nationalist aspect of the game. Teams represent countries, and matches come often resemble war by proxy depending on who is playing. But this IPL deal, they went all out and splashed money around like nobody's business, snapping up the best players from around the world, and mixing them together on different teams.
That first IPL was incredible. With the exception of a few NHL playoff seasons, one in particular in the 90's when the Maple Leafs played the most epic seven game series against St. Louis that had ever been played (where they were screwed by Cujo for the first, but not the last time), I had never felt this level of engagement or involvement in any season or tournament. But I couldn't help it with the IPL thing. Every game was a barn burner, the rich and powerful were humbled beyond compare, the dismissed and humble stepped about like giants, crushing everything in their wake. That first tournament was epic, the memory of which will probably remain with me for a long, long time.
Now, in a couple days, the second IPL will begin. My expectations are high, too high, which will probably guarantee disappointment, but I'm not worried about that. I prefer to hold out hope that the magic will come again.
But when it comes to other sports, Canadian associations and allegiances fade into the background, and old ethnic remembrances move to the fore. Are we talking soccer? Rugby? Kabaddi? Baseball? Each major sport can call upon a dedicated and fervent subset of society, displaying a passion for their game that you may not have realized they felt. Encountering that passion in its raw, undiluted form can be a real eye opener. In 2006 this happened to me. I had moved to Dubai, just in time to catch the Cricket World Cup taking place in the West Indies.
In the past when I had thought of cricket, if I had thought about it at all, it was as part of a punchline involving words like 'eternity' or how a 'century' didn't refer to runs, but to the length of the average match. In university I knew cricket in two forms, test cricket, which is the three to five day affair where two teams finish "a" game or match. The other is annoyance cricket, usually played by South Asian students at my old university, in large open foyers almost always inconveniently packed with people. After more than a few close calls, where a "ball" (felt more like a rock to me, then) would nearly take off my head, I decided to take the matter up with higher authorities.
At that time I was heading up my college's athletics council, and was part of the campus wide intra-mural sports body. I began advocating that cricket be added to the intramural sports list, even if only because a third or more of our students seemed to hail from India or Pakistan. Absolutely sure that I had a winner, it was a surprise to me when that suggestion went over like a dirt pancake. A few of the football players on the council acted like I'd asked everyone to apply for Chinese citizenship. That nearly two billion people are nuts about cricket didn't seem to register, for as they said "That's a stupid idea. Nobody likes cricket."
And so the matter dropped, and I forgot about the whole thing, except when a near miss/death experience would act as a subtle reminder. But in 2006, when I moved to Dubai where 90% of the expat community lives, eats, and breathes cricket, it was hard not to get sucked in. It was the ICC World Cup of Cricket, and a host of nations around the world were there, including Canada, who managed to embarrass in ways I never thought imaginable in sports. Watching them play cured me of nationalist favoritism, and so I became a fan of Sri Lanka. I'd have chosen India, but since I lived with Indians and was always surrounded by them, I needed something to set me apart, and cheering for Pakistan in a room full of Indians was, is, and probably always will be the surest path to a broken nose there is. So that's why I chose Sri Lanka, that and the fact that the Sri Lankan team was actually exciting, in a way I had never seen a baseball team be exciting.
Still, for all the enthusiasm I started to show, my overall love of the game was lukewarm at best. The ICC World Cup plays a form of cricket called "ODI" which stands for "one day international." The games don't actually take a whole day to play, just six or seven hours. Which is actually an improvement over the days long test matches. But three days, or even six hours, is far too long to sustain a real feeling of excitement and engagement. I had gotten a taste of cricket, and I liked it when the game flowed, but more often than not watching was an awful drudge.
But then something happened. The first 20/20 World Cup aired, and my eyes were opened. There, in front of me, I beheld a form of the game that had it all. Passion, skill, ferocity, and most importantly, brevity. Each team had a very limited chance to stack up some runs, so every little mistake counted. Games took as little as two hours to play, just like a baseball game. When India won that first cup, I was right there cheering Ms Dhoni, the captain of the Indian team. I didn't care, because I was having so much fun.
Not long afterwards the IPL, Indian Premiere League, started, and brought cricket to an entirely new level. One of the biggest problems with cricket is the nationalist aspect of the game. Teams represent countries, and matches come often resemble war by proxy depending on who is playing. But this IPL deal, they went all out and splashed money around like nobody's business, snapping up the best players from around the world, and mixing them together on different teams.
That first IPL was incredible. With the exception of a few NHL playoff seasons, one in particular in the 90's when the Maple Leafs played the most epic seven game series against St. Louis that had ever been played (where they were screwed by Cujo for the first, but not the last time), I had never felt this level of engagement or involvement in any season or tournament. But I couldn't help it with the IPL thing. Every game was a barn burner, the rich and powerful were humbled beyond compare, the dismissed and humble stepped about like giants, crushing everything in their wake. That first tournament was epic, the memory of which will probably remain with me for a long, long time.
Now, in a couple days, the second IPL will begin. My expectations are high, too high, which will probably guarantee disappointment, but I'm not worried about that. I prefer to hold out hope that the magic will come again.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Observing
Sitting on a stone
in the midst of a crowd,
a quarter in the pocket
but no one to call.
Countless people pass
unaware of the transparency
sitting right
there.
Patterns evolve and revolve,
characters and type
in the human
story.
Who wouldn't want
to be a part,
to know
‘Is this true?’
But if what Heisenberg
was right?
It’s probably best
to just sit on a stone.
in the midst of a crowd,
a quarter in the pocket
but no one to call.
Countless people pass
unaware of the transparency
sitting right
there.
Patterns evolve and revolve,
characters and type
in the human
story.
Who wouldn't want
to be a part,
to know
‘Is this true?’
But if what Heisenberg
was right?
It’s probably best
to just sit on a stone.
Another Look at Reading
My good friend Mike Kasaboski left a comment for me the other day, regarding my essay on reading, and it really got me to thinking. As he put it -
"[I]n regards to Deep Reading. This is most certainly a euphoric state and in addition to experiencing it via reading, I've also experienced it via drawing."
Euphoria is wonderful way to describe the feeling I get in the deep reading state, and it is a word that functions as a way to crystallize other thoughts and memories of reading I have had over the years. Euphoria is a good word, implying a heightened state of pleasure, yet in all goods things, and in all things good, there inevitably is a flip side where good ceases and bad begins.
In article after article, in newspapers, on blogs, in books, and in magazines, whenever the subject of reading is broached, it is broached with a sense of there not being enough of it, of its inherent nobility, of being the very hallmark of civilization. What I almost never see is a look into the negative aspects of reading, the dangers of reading, of how reading may not be all its cracked up to be, and euphoria is just the word to start the discussion.
When terms like "chasing-the-dragon" are used about heroin junkies or opiate addicts, within the epithet is the idea that the high, or euphoric state the users are seeking, can be closely approached, but never truly touched, or held on to for long. In the film Trainspotting, this motif is prevalent throughout the movie, and especially in the soundtrack, culminating in the track "Born Slippy," by Underworld. With reading, however, just as it is with distance running, that high, or euphoria, can be obtained, and sustained. Unfortunately, just as there is with heroin or opiates, there is a cost, even if the cost is undetectable at first. Now, before I advance this argument further, I want be clear that I use a comparison between reading and drugs with tongue only partially in cheek, because there is a kernel of truth to the comparison.
As I said, reading incurs a cost, and even if that cost is not obvious at first, it nonetheless exists. When I was in my mid-twenties, I visited my sister's place, where I learned about the fate of many a title that had mysteriously "disappeared" from my own library over the years. Looking at those books, my sister told me something that has stuck with me since. She opened a few books and pointed out places where I had underlined phrases, or had written notes in the margins. She mention enjoying coming across these little signs of my previous reading, as they helped her understand who I was as a person.
If that seems an odd thing to say, that's because it is, but it was also very true. Today, from the perspective of a father with children of my own, I look back at those years as a child and a teenager and cannot help but be reminded of what I have come to regard as my greatest regret - not knowing my little sister. And why didn't I know her? There were a few reasons, but the biggest among them I now believe, was reading.
During that same conversation with my sister, I don't know what was said or how the conversation got there, but at one point she became somewhat emphatic, wanting me to know that she felt I was "addicted" to reading, and she did not mean it as a compliment. She saw it as a symptom of something deeper, and unwillingness to engage the world, a need for a perpetual escape from reality. I knew she was talking crazy talk, and I told her so.
But she wasn't talking crazy talk at all. She was talking truth. Truth from my little sister, and I wasn't listening. Though in fairness, how many big brothers out there ever do listen their little sisters anyway? I think it's a congenital defect common to all big brothers the world over. Still...She was right.
But I didn't know that then. I had trouble believing it. Was she right? Was reading an addiction? Was my reading my unconscious method of escaping a reality I didn't feel I could cope with? When you put it in those terms, reading starts to sound awfully like a lot of other damaging addictions, drugs included.
I told myself, fervently argued to myself, that what she said was garbage. I liked reading. It was fun. It was a good thing. It wasn't an addiction, and so what if it was? Everyone knew that reading was good, and that more reading was better. Didn't they?
Which brings us back to Mike's wonderful word - euphoria.
All of these conflicting ideas, though I have compressed them in a few short paragraphs, actually slowly surfaced over years, like thoughts in hibernating bear's dream. Now, looking back, with an open mind, I can see not only how my little sister was entirely right, but how this addiction influenced my own actions, and the actions of others - how it literally influenced the course of my own life.
Growing up, I'd moved from place to place, school to school like an itinerant worker between seasons. Five schools by grade five, eight by the time I graduated high school. While not even close to what the average army brat experiences, this sort of dislocation still has its effects. When people and places are constantly changing, often the safest and surest thing is what you know, and what I knew were books. No matter where I was, I was only a flip of the page away from comfort and security, and to ensure that I didn't finish at an inopportune time, I'd learned to carry two books with me at all times - the one I was reading, and an emergency book in case I finished the first one.
I dove into those books every chance I got. While eating breakfast before school, while walking to school, while waiting for the teacher to start class, while the teacher was conducting class, while I was in the washroom, and while I was sitting in the principal's office for being such an obtuse, anti-social jerk. I read during dinner, in the car, on the bus, in bed. Anywhere and everywhere, any time and any place. I loved reading so much that I truly did prefer it to the company of people, for people, I found, were a mystery to me. I'd read so much by grade six that I couldn't relate to anyone my age, and was young enough that jumping into adult conversations and debates (especially not having the sense to know that adults don't like it when a kid makes them look stupid) never ended particularly well. Especially with my father, who saw debate as a very dirty word.
I didn't know it then, but reading is what set me apart, and what had created a permanent wedge between myself and pretty much all of society in general. The more I read, the less I related to others, and the more I sought refuge in books. It was a constantly reinforcing vicious cycle, and there is one particular memory from my past that stands out, representative of it all.
I was in my mid-teens, with my father, sister, step-siblings and step-mother and we had all packed into a van and driven down to Sarnia where and older lady, who was a dear friend of my father, lived. Ruth, and her husband Gus, were the soul of humility and hospitality. Their whole family was over and we all got together for a weekend of barbeque and relaxation. I was particularly psyched because I'd packed Tad Williams' series "Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn," which to a teenage boy was the closest thing to the purest most addictive crystal meth a set of books could ever be.
That weekend I curled up a cozy recliner, and blasted my way through three massive books. From time to time my Dad would call me out and ask me to "socialize" but I just couldn't see the fun in that. I mean talk to people? What was the point? So off I would go, slipping away and finding that comfy spot, and jumping back in where I had left off.
Sitting there on that chair, deep into the story, I felt that euphoria, as I always had when I immersed myself in books, especially ones that were monster sized epic fantasy. But on the last day that all changed. I'd finished the last page of the third book, and was feeling pretty down because while I had packed three books, I hadn't packed an emergency book in case I'd finished all three! The second and third books were my emergency books. No one had said anything about needing triple redundancy. I'd just read them too fast, was all, and was feeling a bit out of sorts. Then I walked into the kitchen, and into a verbal onslaught from Ruth.
You see Ruth was the sort of woman who is representative of the image of kindly grandmother. She was that little old lady who would give you her last nickel, or mend a neighbor's fraying hem, for free. And while it is cliche to say it really did come as a shock when I walked into her kitchen only to see her snarl at me, and launch into a verbal tirade that had me fleeing from her house in very short order. I, she let me know in no uncertain terms, was a stuck-up know-it-all who shoved books in people's faces to prove how smart I was. I was rude, an embarrassment to my father, and did not even have the sense to be ashamed of myself. There was more, but it wouldn't be polite for me to print it here.
What she'd said angered me and confused me, and I took off for five or six hours in a great old sulk. I just couldn't wrap my head around her way of thinking. I didn't think I was better than everyone else, I just liked reading a lot, and felt uncomfortable around others. Sitting in a circle, shooting the shoot, was something I absolutely did not know how to do, and even making the attempt felt tedious and pointless beyond compare. I just preferred to stay out of everyone's way, and figured they'd be happy and I'd be happy. A total win-win. Yet nobody else saw it that way.
Eventually my step-sister was tasked with tracking me down, to see if I was still breathing or not. I reluctantly headed back, and when I got back, the van had already been packed up, and everyone was in a somber mood. My father was walking around on a hair trigger, so I made sure I said and did nothing at all that might upset him. We got in the van, and headed home.
Later, when my father had calmed enough to speak, he started telling me about how ashamed he had felt, how good a friend Ruth was, how I had spit on her hospitality. Or at least I think he said something along those lines. I wasn't listening by then. I just kept thinking about how I wished I had thought to bring another book.
Today, I still have that same love of reading, but also the benefit of time and perspective, if not always the wisdom that goes along with those two. Books are my drug of choice, I see them as such, and use them in the knowledge that that's what they are to me. I don't see them as harmless entities. I see them like a I see a ticket to a movie, a video game, or a DVD, only better. They are a form of entertainment I am particularly adapted to engaging in, which offers an escape from reality, and a chance to slip into a state of euphoria at will.
Which brings this rumination to almost to the end. I hope I haven't left you with the impression that I think reading is bad, because I don't believe it is. But I also I hope I haven't left you with the impression that reading is entirely good, because it's not that either. Like almost any activity in the human realm, overly excessive engagement has negative consequences, and what most see as a virtue, can quickly become a vice.
I gained a lot through reading, learning about different places and times, and taking part in countless stories that made me laugh and cry, excited me and saddened me. But reading also lost me more than I knew. It took my little sister away from me, so that instead of knowing her as someone I loved, played with, and confided in, I only knew her as a shadow slipping along the edge of the dust jacket, as I turned to get better light and avoid unnecessary distractions around me.
"[I]n regards to Deep Reading. This is most certainly a euphoric state and in addition to experiencing it via reading, I've also experienced it via drawing."
Euphoria is wonderful way to describe the feeling I get in the deep reading state, and it is a word that functions as a way to crystallize other thoughts and memories of reading I have had over the years. Euphoria is a good word, implying a heightened state of pleasure, yet in all goods things, and in all things good, there inevitably is a flip side where good ceases and bad begins.
In article after article, in newspapers, on blogs, in books, and in magazines, whenever the subject of reading is broached, it is broached with a sense of there not being enough of it, of its inherent nobility, of being the very hallmark of civilization. What I almost never see is a look into the negative aspects of reading, the dangers of reading, of how reading may not be all its cracked up to be, and euphoria is just the word to start the discussion.
When terms like "chasing-the-dragon" are used about heroin junkies or opiate addicts, within the epithet is the idea that the high, or euphoric state the users are seeking, can be closely approached, but never truly touched, or held on to for long. In the film Trainspotting, this motif is prevalent throughout the movie, and especially in the soundtrack, culminating in the track "Born Slippy," by Underworld. With reading, however, just as it is with distance running, that high, or euphoria, can be obtained, and sustained. Unfortunately, just as there is with heroin or opiates, there is a cost, even if the cost is undetectable at first. Now, before I advance this argument further, I want be clear that I use a comparison between reading and drugs with tongue only partially in cheek, because there is a kernel of truth to the comparison.
As I said, reading incurs a cost, and even if that cost is not obvious at first, it nonetheless exists. When I was in my mid-twenties, I visited my sister's place, where I learned about the fate of many a title that had mysteriously "disappeared" from my own library over the years. Looking at those books, my sister told me something that has stuck with me since. She opened a few books and pointed out places where I had underlined phrases, or had written notes in the margins. She mention enjoying coming across these little signs of my previous reading, as they helped her understand who I was as a person.
If that seems an odd thing to say, that's because it is, but it was also very true. Today, from the perspective of a father with children of my own, I look back at those years as a child and a teenager and cannot help but be reminded of what I have come to regard as my greatest regret - not knowing my little sister. And why didn't I know her? There were a few reasons, but the biggest among them I now believe, was reading.
During that same conversation with my sister, I don't know what was said or how the conversation got there, but at one point she became somewhat emphatic, wanting me to know that she felt I was "addicted" to reading, and she did not mean it as a compliment. She saw it as a symptom of something deeper, and unwillingness to engage the world, a need for a perpetual escape from reality. I knew she was talking crazy talk, and I told her so.
But she wasn't talking crazy talk at all. She was talking truth. Truth from my little sister, and I wasn't listening. Though in fairness, how many big brothers out there ever do listen their little sisters anyway? I think it's a congenital defect common to all big brothers the world over. Still...She was right.
But I didn't know that then. I had trouble believing it. Was she right? Was reading an addiction? Was my reading my unconscious method of escaping a reality I didn't feel I could cope with? When you put it in those terms, reading starts to sound awfully like a lot of other damaging addictions, drugs included.
I told myself, fervently argued to myself, that what she said was garbage. I liked reading. It was fun. It was a good thing. It wasn't an addiction, and so what if it was? Everyone knew that reading was good, and that more reading was better. Didn't they?
Which brings us back to Mike's wonderful word - euphoria.
All of these conflicting ideas, though I have compressed them in a few short paragraphs, actually slowly surfaced over years, like thoughts in hibernating bear's dream. Now, looking back, with an open mind, I can see not only how my little sister was entirely right, but how this addiction influenced my own actions, and the actions of others - how it literally influenced the course of my own life.
Growing up, I'd moved from place to place, school to school like an itinerant worker between seasons. Five schools by grade five, eight by the time I graduated high school. While not even close to what the average army brat experiences, this sort of dislocation still has its effects. When people and places are constantly changing, often the safest and surest thing is what you know, and what I knew were books. No matter where I was, I was only a flip of the page away from comfort and security, and to ensure that I didn't finish at an inopportune time, I'd learned to carry two books with me at all times - the one I was reading, and an emergency book in case I finished the first one.
I dove into those books every chance I got. While eating breakfast before school, while walking to school, while waiting for the teacher to start class, while the teacher was conducting class, while I was in the washroom, and while I was sitting in the principal's office for being such an obtuse, anti-social jerk. I read during dinner, in the car, on the bus, in bed. Anywhere and everywhere, any time and any place. I loved reading so much that I truly did prefer it to the company of people, for people, I found, were a mystery to me. I'd read so much by grade six that I couldn't relate to anyone my age, and was young enough that jumping into adult conversations and debates (especially not having the sense to know that adults don't like it when a kid makes them look stupid) never ended particularly well. Especially with my father, who saw debate as a very dirty word.
I didn't know it then, but reading is what set me apart, and what had created a permanent wedge between myself and pretty much all of society in general. The more I read, the less I related to others, and the more I sought refuge in books. It was a constantly reinforcing vicious cycle, and there is one particular memory from my past that stands out, representative of it all.
I was in my mid-teens, with my father, sister, step-siblings and step-mother and we had all packed into a van and driven down to Sarnia where and older lady, who was a dear friend of my father, lived. Ruth, and her husband Gus, were the soul of humility and hospitality. Their whole family was over and we all got together for a weekend of barbeque and relaxation. I was particularly psyched because I'd packed Tad Williams' series "Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn," which to a teenage boy was the closest thing to the purest most addictive crystal meth a set of books could ever be.
That weekend I curled up a cozy recliner, and blasted my way through three massive books. From time to time my Dad would call me out and ask me to "socialize" but I just couldn't see the fun in that. I mean talk to people? What was the point? So off I would go, slipping away and finding that comfy spot, and jumping back in where I had left off.
Sitting there on that chair, deep into the story, I felt that euphoria, as I always had when I immersed myself in books, especially ones that were monster sized epic fantasy. But on the last day that all changed. I'd finished the last page of the third book, and was feeling pretty down because while I had packed three books, I hadn't packed an emergency book in case I'd finished all three! The second and third books were my emergency books. No one had said anything about needing triple redundancy. I'd just read them too fast, was all, and was feeling a bit out of sorts. Then I walked into the kitchen, and into a verbal onslaught from Ruth.
You see Ruth was the sort of woman who is representative of the image of kindly grandmother. She was that little old lady who would give you her last nickel, or mend a neighbor's fraying hem, for free. And while it is cliche to say it really did come as a shock when I walked into her kitchen only to see her snarl at me, and launch into a verbal tirade that had me fleeing from her house in very short order. I, she let me know in no uncertain terms, was a stuck-up know-it-all who shoved books in people's faces to prove how smart I was. I was rude, an embarrassment to my father, and did not even have the sense to be ashamed of myself. There was more, but it wouldn't be polite for me to print it here.
What she'd said angered me and confused me, and I took off for five or six hours in a great old sulk. I just couldn't wrap my head around her way of thinking. I didn't think I was better than everyone else, I just liked reading a lot, and felt uncomfortable around others. Sitting in a circle, shooting the shoot, was something I absolutely did not know how to do, and even making the attempt felt tedious and pointless beyond compare. I just preferred to stay out of everyone's way, and figured they'd be happy and I'd be happy. A total win-win. Yet nobody else saw it that way.
Eventually my step-sister was tasked with tracking me down, to see if I was still breathing or not. I reluctantly headed back, and when I got back, the van had already been packed up, and everyone was in a somber mood. My father was walking around on a hair trigger, so I made sure I said and did nothing at all that might upset him. We got in the van, and headed home.
Later, when my father had calmed enough to speak, he started telling me about how ashamed he had felt, how good a friend Ruth was, how I had spit on her hospitality. Or at least I think he said something along those lines. I wasn't listening by then. I just kept thinking about how I wished I had thought to bring another book.
Today, I still have that same love of reading, but also the benefit of time and perspective, if not always the wisdom that goes along with those two. Books are my drug of choice, I see them as such, and use them in the knowledge that that's what they are to me. I don't see them as harmless entities. I see them like a I see a ticket to a movie, a video game, or a DVD, only better. They are a form of entertainment I am particularly adapted to engaging in, which offers an escape from reality, and a chance to slip into a state of euphoria at will.
Which brings this rumination to almost to the end. I hope I haven't left you with the impression that I think reading is bad, because I don't believe it is. But I also I hope I haven't left you with the impression that reading is entirely good, because it's not that either. Like almost any activity in the human realm, overly excessive engagement has negative consequences, and what most see as a virtue, can quickly become a vice.
I gained a lot through reading, learning about different places and times, and taking part in countless stories that made me laugh and cry, excited me and saddened me. But reading also lost me more than I knew. It took my little sister away from me, so that instead of knowing her as someone I loved, played with, and confided in, I only knew her as a shadow slipping along the edge of the dust jacket, as I turned to get better light and avoid unnecessary distractions around me.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Fear
They
smell it on you,
craving, wanting,
needing.
Shaking, quavering,
the soul quails,
you cannot see
they are not
the enemy.
Without a touch,
to overpower or subdue,
your violation
had already occurred.
smell it on you,
craving, wanting,
needing.
Shaking, quavering,
the soul quails,
you cannot see
they are not
the enemy.
Without a touch,
to overpower or subdue,
your violation
had already occurred.
Kindle Thoughts: Part 2
A little while ago, Roy Blount Jr., President of the Authors Guild of America, took not a small amount of umbrage regarding the Kindle 2, and let the world know in a New York Times Op-Ed titled The Kindle Swindle. In a nutshell, his position was that the text to voice capability of the Kindle amounted to larceny on a grand scale since the audio reproduction of a work somehow violated copyright (in some alternate universe, perhaps?), and it all boiled down to outrage over dollars being snatch away from starving writers from the sales of audiobooks that would no longer happen now that the Kindle 2 had come to town.
I have touched on this topic before in an earlier post, in regards to how this copyfight will only be a lost cause for the Author Guild due to the interests groups involved, but I wanted to expand a bit on other reasons why I feel the Authors Guild's case lacks credibility. Let's start with that Roy fella.
Go back a hundred years and Roy could have been the president of the saddle maker's guild. For some reason, he seems to think he can kibosh an entire emerging technology because it seems threatening to his way of life. Well that is not going to happen. As has been proven time and again, disruptive, emerging technologies will displace older modes, if not immediately by force, then over the long term as old school die-hards start dying off. For now, however, Roy wants the status quo to remain intact, and fears that that consumers will choose to listen to books on their Kindles rather than plonking down $49 for an audiobook.
If this were the case of a truly superior product being undermined, I might have pity for old Roy. But what Roy doesn't comment on in his Op-Ed is the state of audiobooks right now, and that state is not all that great.
To start off, I want to state that I love audiobooks. Growing up I saw them as somewhat pointless. I mean, you read a book, you don't listen to one. But as I got older, with so much less time for the written word, I started to see their utility, and began to really enjoy them.
Since embracing audiobooks as the equal of regular books, I have listened to a number of excellent productions, but I have also come across a lot of pretty terrible audiobooks as well. And that is the crux of the issue.
Honestly, publishers have been lazy for years. TMore often than not, when I sit down and turn a title on, it feels as if the publisher just sat one person down in front of a microphone, and had them read. Oh sure, they get another person to edit and master the audio, but that is it. It's done, and done very cheaply. Few are the audiobook publishers who approach an audiobook as they would a radio drama, by actually bringing in a cast, using sound effects, and producing something very close to real theater of the mind. It doesn't take much, really, and it's not as if the BBC sound library is that hard to get.
The audiobooks that do go the extra mile in production are worth every penny. I bought the BBC Lord of the Rings, and The Hobbit, and found I enjoyed the story even more than I did when reading or, later, when watching on film. It was an awesome experience. But it was not an experience the Kindle is ever going to replicate with a text-to-speech function added in to assist customers with disabilities. And it is not and experience the Kindle is going to replicate by the simple fact that the Kindle is a clunky little beast of a thing, at least compared to normal audio devices.
You see, I use an iPod shuffle for my audiobook listening. I'd never wear a big old Kindle around me head. Nor would I prop a Kindle up in the passenger seat so I can listen to the book. There may be people who might do this, but not many, and definitely not this one. The physical shape and size of the Kindle make it impractical as an on the go listening device. Sitting down, it's wonderful, but not otherwise.
Still, even if I am wrong, and people start plugging in headphones and listening instead of reading on the subway, it only says one thing...audiobook makers have to up their game. It is the prime rule of the marketplace. And this is what truly scares Old Roy.
So along comes Mr. Kindle, and the publishers and the authors guild are angry that the audiobook business may actually require them to work a bit now. They suddenly have to think about their product, and to think about the audience, especially how to win over that audience. And it makes them angry, because things should be easy. The rest of the publishing business is hard, but this one part was not supposed to be hard. It was supposed to be cream for them. Suddenly it's not.
What's worse, at the same time publishers are trying to cling to the easy pickings, the audiobook market, they seem to be overlooking the fact that publishing itself has just become insanely cost effective, and that what was a low margin, high error business may soon be a high margin, low error business in short order. Luckily for the publishers, retailers like Amazon and Indigo are stepping up to save them from themselves.
A shift to e-books will save the industry. Not today, and not tomorrow, but sooner than you might think. Not just by rationalizing costs and doing away with wasteful production, distribution and returns practices, but by producing content in a format that the current new generation of customers actually uses and is familiar with.
Any one of us old dinosaurs who grew up addicted to the old dead tree media may be cool with chucking ten books in a bag for a trip somewhere, but our days are numbered, because I can guarantee that just about any teen I know (and I am high school teacher, so I know more than a few) vastly prefers media, of any sort, they can put on their phone, or their iPod. They won't buy a Kindle, that's for darn sure, the Kindle is for us dinosaurs, a transition technology to get us into the 21st century, but these youths can and will buy titles for their own devices.
Just yesterday one of my students was showing me The Watchmen on his Nokia. Not the movie, but the comic book. He reads all his comics on his phone and on his computer. He can't buy them that way, yet, so he is obviously turning to the grey market, and getting them as torrents. But he represents a real market that actually exists and could be utilized if only the publishers weren't too busy hiding under their beds spraying Lysol all about in order to hide the tangy scent of urine permeating the air.
I have touched on this topic before in an earlier post, in regards to how this copyfight will only be a lost cause for the Author Guild due to the interests groups involved, but I wanted to expand a bit on other reasons why I feel the Authors Guild's case lacks credibility. Let's start with that Roy fella.
Go back a hundred years and Roy could have been the president of the saddle maker's guild. For some reason, he seems to think he can kibosh an entire emerging technology because it seems threatening to his way of life. Well that is not going to happen. As has been proven time and again, disruptive, emerging technologies will displace older modes, if not immediately by force, then over the long term as old school die-hards start dying off. For now, however, Roy wants the status quo to remain intact, and fears that that consumers will choose to listen to books on their Kindles rather than plonking down $49 for an audiobook.
If this were the case of a truly superior product being undermined, I might have pity for old Roy. But what Roy doesn't comment on in his Op-Ed is the state of audiobooks right now, and that state is not all that great.
To start off, I want to state that I love audiobooks. Growing up I saw them as somewhat pointless. I mean, you read a book, you don't listen to one. But as I got older, with so much less time for the written word, I started to see their utility, and began to really enjoy them.
Since embracing audiobooks as the equal of regular books, I have listened to a number of excellent productions, but I have also come across a lot of pretty terrible audiobooks as well. And that is the crux of the issue.
Honestly, publishers have been lazy for years. TMore often than not, when I sit down and turn a title on, it feels as if the publisher just sat one person down in front of a microphone, and had them read. Oh sure, they get another person to edit and master the audio, but that is it. It's done, and done very cheaply. Few are the audiobook publishers who approach an audiobook as they would a radio drama, by actually bringing in a cast, using sound effects, and producing something very close to real theater of the mind. It doesn't take much, really, and it's not as if the BBC sound library is that hard to get.
The audiobooks that do go the extra mile in production are worth every penny. I bought the BBC Lord of the Rings, and The Hobbit, and found I enjoyed the story even more than I did when reading or, later, when watching on film. It was an awesome experience. But it was not an experience the Kindle is ever going to replicate with a text-to-speech function added in to assist customers with disabilities. And it is not and experience the Kindle is going to replicate by the simple fact that the Kindle is a clunky little beast of a thing, at least compared to normal audio devices.
You see, I use an iPod shuffle for my audiobook listening. I'd never wear a big old Kindle around me head. Nor would I prop a Kindle up in the passenger seat so I can listen to the book. There may be people who might do this, but not many, and definitely not this one. The physical shape and size of the Kindle make it impractical as an on the go listening device. Sitting down, it's wonderful, but not otherwise.
Still, even if I am wrong, and people start plugging in headphones and listening instead of reading on the subway, it only says one thing...audiobook makers have to up their game. It is the prime rule of the marketplace. And this is what truly scares Old Roy.
So along comes Mr. Kindle, and the publishers and the authors guild are angry that the audiobook business may actually require them to work a bit now. They suddenly have to think about their product, and to think about the audience, especially how to win over that audience. And it makes them angry, because things should be easy. The rest of the publishing business is hard, but this one part was not supposed to be hard. It was supposed to be cream for them. Suddenly it's not.
What's worse, at the same time publishers are trying to cling to the easy pickings, the audiobook market, they seem to be overlooking the fact that publishing itself has just become insanely cost effective, and that what was a low margin, high error business may soon be a high margin, low error business in short order. Luckily for the publishers, retailers like Amazon and Indigo are stepping up to save them from themselves.
A shift to e-books will save the industry. Not today, and not tomorrow, but sooner than you might think. Not just by rationalizing costs and doing away with wasteful production, distribution and returns practices, but by producing content in a format that the current new generation of customers actually uses and is familiar with.
Any one of us old dinosaurs who grew up addicted to the old dead tree media may be cool with chucking ten books in a bag for a trip somewhere, but our days are numbered, because I can guarantee that just about any teen I know (and I am high school teacher, so I know more than a few) vastly prefers media, of any sort, they can put on their phone, or their iPod. They won't buy a Kindle, that's for darn sure, the Kindle is for us dinosaurs, a transition technology to get us into the 21st century, but these youths can and will buy titles for their own devices.
Just yesterday one of my students was showing me The Watchmen on his Nokia. Not the movie, but the comic book. He reads all his comics on his phone and on his computer. He can't buy them that way, yet, so he is obviously turning to the grey market, and getting them as torrents. But he represents a real market that actually exists and could be utilized if only the publishers weren't too busy hiding under their beds spraying Lysol all about in order to hide the tangy scent of urine permeating the air.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Paradigm Shift
It’s all about perspective.
The hole opens,
the maelstrom calls,
rock shifts to sand
and the pattern holds true;
nothing to do but watch.
It all happens again,
as it was before,
now and ever shall,
actions based on instinct,
motions learned through habit.
Looking into the maw,
of apparent defeat
by an implacable fate,
three words fly out
to hold on to:
‘I did this.’
Later, eyes open and clear,
it becomes apparent;
Newton was right
about the redemption of faith
and all that stuff.
When the heart speaks,
all that is required is to listen.
The hole opens,
the maelstrom calls,
rock shifts to sand
and the pattern holds true;
nothing to do but watch.
It all happens again,
as it was before,
now and ever shall,
actions based on instinct,
motions learned through habit.
Looking into the maw,
of apparent defeat
by an implacable fate,
three words fly out
to hold on to:
‘I did this.’
Later, eyes open and clear,
it becomes apparent;
Newton was right
about the redemption of faith
and all that stuff.
When the heart speaks,
all that is required is to listen.
Is Nothing Sacred?
It seems everyone else is doing an Easter post, so maybe I should to. Then again, what other time could I really do an Easter post? Halloween? Doesn't have the same...gravitas, I'd think.
Actually, I'd wanted to write about this for some time, because the subject has come up several times in discussions and debates in person and online. The subject was the nature of Easter and the conflict between secular and sacred traditions associated with this holiday. Some view the secular aspects as harmless, while others were opposed to them categorically, and see those traditions as a corruption, a vile twisting of the truth and true nature of Easter.
Where I live, Easter is emphatically not a holiday. Today was Easter Sunday, and I was up at dawn, and yawning through the front door of work just like every other weekday morning. Aside from quietly wishing a few colleagues "Happy Easter," it was a normal day like any other. No three or four day weekend as I was used to back at home. And there was no big deal about it publicly, but privately was a different story.
There is a story in the Gulf News today about churches and cathedrals in Abu Dhabi and Dubai absolutely overflowing with the faithful this weekend. I saw it myself on Saturday, having arrived early enough to snag on of the remaining pew spots, before the other thousand or so showed up, having to stand in alcoves, hallways, overflowing to the outdoor courtyard. It was, I learned, one of the smaller masses this weekend.
Here Easter seemed to be a big deal in a religious sense. Very little did I ever see reference to the secular side of the Easter holiday, the ever present Easter Bunny and all it's attendant Easter Eggs. I spotted a few of these in a local Spinney's, and picked up a pack or two for my children, but that was about it. Other than that, there was no secular/sacred juxtaposition over the weekend. The same thing, I now realize, as what generally occurs at Christmastime here. While a there is a bit more of the secular tradition present in the Christmas trees, and the odd picture of a Santa, Christmas here is experienced pretty much entirely within a sacred context. It's natural, and normal for everyone I know here, but comes off as abnormal to myself. Why is that?
This is the question that began to bother me. Like I said earlier, I waded into this topic in person and online with various people, a number of whom regard with horror the secular traditions I am so used to, the traditions dissociated with religion. It makes no sense that anyone would want to profane such profound sacred traditions with the hallmarks of kitsch and cheap consumerism. And they're right. Why would anyone want to do that? From this vantage point, it doesn't make any sense.
But in that lay the crux. From this vantage point. In this part of the world, Christianity is only ever a minority, and a small one at that. Christians here never compromise the majority, nor even constitute a plurality. Which means, in effect, they are the minority culture here, surrounded by traditions and ways that are very different from theirs. In that context it makes perfect sense that the faithful would hold so tightly to the core tradition, the sacred tradition. Still, what explains what goes in Europe and North America?
The best I can guess, the dichotomous secular/sacred nature of Christmas and Easter in Europe and North America grew out of two needs. The first was to recognize the Christian tradition prevalent in those parts of the world. While today religious practice is on the wane in Europe, and in parts of North America, there still remains a plurality of the faithful for whom Easter and Christmas have deep and profound meaning. The second need related to the parts of the culture for whom the sacred aspects of Christmas and Easter held little or no significance. What were they to do during those times of the year, those periods of holiday and celebration for the majority of those around them? Sit in their homes and sulk? Hardly fits the mood of either season. And this, I believe, was the impetus for the acceptance of an alternate, secular version of these holidays. The need to belong, if not in the letter, then in spirit. It became a way of fitting in and taking part in joyous and festive occasions.
Which brings me back to those I'd met who took such exception to the secular aspects of Easter, and by extension, Christmas. Were they right? When you get down to it, the major themes arising from both of these important events are birth and rebirth. Life and love. These holy times symbolize great hope, and redemption.
As I sat at home with my family, just the few of us this Easter evening, as we ate quietly, I couldn't keep a certain comparison from springing to mind. My family here had gone to church, and respected the sacred tradition. We celebrated Easter as is done here, and sat together for a quiet meal. On the other side of the world, my father picked up the phone and gave me a call. The whole gang was at his place, perhaps twenty people in all. They'd prepared a massive feast, and everyone was looking forward to it. None of them had gone to church or followed the sacred traditions, yet there they were, as a family, celebrating life and love, birth and rebirth together, in a room filled with laughter.
Can I honestly say that one tradition is better than the other? Or merely different? And in the end, whatever you choose, is not the end result the same?
Actually, I'd wanted to write about this for some time, because the subject has come up several times in discussions and debates in person and online. The subject was the nature of Easter and the conflict between secular and sacred traditions associated with this holiday. Some view the secular aspects as harmless, while others were opposed to them categorically, and see those traditions as a corruption, a vile twisting of the truth and true nature of Easter.
Where I live, Easter is emphatically not a holiday. Today was Easter Sunday, and I was up at dawn, and yawning through the front door of work just like every other weekday morning. Aside from quietly wishing a few colleagues "Happy Easter," it was a normal day like any other. No three or four day weekend as I was used to back at home. And there was no big deal about it publicly, but privately was a different story.
There is a story in the Gulf News today about churches and cathedrals in Abu Dhabi and Dubai absolutely overflowing with the faithful this weekend. I saw it myself on Saturday, having arrived early enough to snag on of the remaining pew spots, before the other thousand or so showed up, having to stand in alcoves, hallways, overflowing to the outdoor courtyard. It was, I learned, one of the smaller masses this weekend.
Here Easter seemed to be a big deal in a religious sense. Very little did I ever see reference to the secular side of the Easter holiday, the ever present Easter Bunny and all it's attendant Easter Eggs. I spotted a few of these in a local Spinney's, and picked up a pack or two for my children, but that was about it. Other than that, there was no secular/sacred juxtaposition over the weekend. The same thing, I now realize, as what generally occurs at Christmastime here. While a there is a bit more of the secular tradition present in the Christmas trees, and the odd picture of a Santa, Christmas here is experienced pretty much entirely within a sacred context. It's natural, and normal for everyone I know here, but comes off as abnormal to myself. Why is that?
This is the question that began to bother me. Like I said earlier, I waded into this topic in person and online with various people, a number of whom regard with horror the secular traditions I am so used to, the traditions dissociated with religion. It makes no sense that anyone would want to profane such profound sacred traditions with the hallmarks of kitsch and cheap consumerism. And they're right. Why would anyone want to do that? From this vantage point, it doesn't make any sense.
But in that lay the crux. From this vantage point. In this part of the world, Christianity is only ever a minority, and a small one at that. Christians here never compromise the majority, nor even constitute a plurality. Which means, in effect, they are the minority culture here, surrounded by traditions and ways that are very different from theirs. In that context it makes perfect sense that the faithful would hold so tightly to the core tradition, the sacred tradition. Still, what explains what goes in Europe and North America?
The best I can guess, the dichotomous secular/sacred nature of Christmas and Easter in Europe and North America grew out of two needs. The first was to recognize the Christian tradition prevalent in those parts of the world. While today religious practice is on the wane in Europe, and in parts of North America, there still remains a plurality of the faithful for whom Easter and Christmas have deep and profound meaning. The second need related to the parts of the culture for whom the sacred aspects of Christmas and Easter held little or no significance. What were they to do during those times of the year, those periods of holiday and celebration for the majority of those around them? Sit in their homes and sulk? Hardly fits the mood of either season. And this, I believe, was the impetus for the acceptance of an alternate, secular version of these holidays. The need to belong, if not in the letter, then in spirit. It became a way of fitting in and taking part in joyous and festive occasions.
Which brings me back to those I'd met who took such exception to the secular aspects of Easter, and by extension, Christmas. Were they right? When you get down to it, the major themes arising from both of these important events are birth and rebirth. Life and love. These holy times symbolize great hope, and redemption.
As I sat at home with my family, just the few of us this Easter evening, as we ate quietly, I couldn't keep a certain comparison from springing to mind. My family here had gone to church, and respected the sacred tradition. We celebrated Easter as is done here, and sat together for a quiet meal. On the other side of the world, my father picked up the phone and gave me a call. The whole gang was at his place, perhaps twenty people in all. They'd prepared a massive feast, and everyone was looking forward to it. None of them had gone to church or followed the sacred traditions, yet there they were, as a family, celebrating life and love, birth and rebirth together, in a room filled with laughter.
Can I honestly say that one tradition is better than the other? Or merely different? And in the end, whatever you choose, is not the end result the same?
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Making
Time is running out.
Regardless of attempts to
snag it's foot on the way,
cajole it into sticking around,
the door shuts with a bang.
Taken for granted,
its passing is a shock.
Raise the town to find it?
Won't help.
You have to engage
in an act of creation.
Regardless of attempts to
snag it's foot on the way,
cajole it into sticking around,
the door shuts with a bang.
Taken for granted,
its passing is a shock.
Raise the town to find it?
Won't help.
You have to engage
in an act of creation.
Kindle Thoughts: Part 1
You know, I used to love having a massive library. I had thousands of paperbacks, and even more hardcovers in my apartment. Since I was in the literary interview gig, all publishers sent me review copies, so I was getting ten to fifteen titles a week, and just adding them to the pile. I loved it. I would look around in contentment, and imagine shelves on every wall, with books arranged from floor to ceiling.
But my wife most certainly did not look around with contentment. Where I saw names, and unique dust jackets, she saw dust, and towering piles of objects that could very well be lethal to a curious, energetic infant or toddler.
I thought long and hard about it, and realized that after I had read a book, it would just sit there, forever more. I didn't reread books, because I like to move on to something new. Those books were not priceless treasures, well used and well loved, or objets d'art to be admired, they were simply fetishes.
It took me about a week to haul box after box to my car and over to the library. I'd decided that those books, just sitting around my place, would only ever sit there, shifted about from time to time, but unused and still. Better, I thought, would be to allow others a chance to have them and use them and benefit by them as I had.
So for people like me, this is where the Kindle fills a deep, desperate need. In the past I had always collected stuff, like a pack rat, and never let anything go. One day I realized...I was a prisoner of my stuff! It was like this Zen realization that I had this great psychic pressure on me emanating from all the stuff I owned. Stuff I carted from place to place, stuff I said I might use one day and never did. So I started a radical de-stuffization of my premises. I filled the downstairs lobby with all this stuff and even put a "free stuff" sign. The landlord and I even had an argument about it; he telling me to clean it up, me practicing my sign language and stomping back upstairs.
An hour later everything was gone, and I had never felt better.
Still, I like to read. I like to read a lot. On my laptop, my Google Reader will bring in an average of 600 to 700 articles a day, sometimes up to 1000 a day, and I will scroll through them and read about a third on a good day. Plus I will dip into a novel, read a magazine article, read emails, etc. But on the go a laptop is cumbersome, and power hungry. A Kindle, however, is not. In fact, I could read all my stuff, switch between novels and magazines, and have access to a massive library all in one tiny book sized gadget.
With a Kindle, I can have my library and read it too.
And the best part is, the tyranny of stuff has no hold on me any more!
Now all I need to do is get my hand son one of those things...
But my wife most certainly did not look around with contentment. Where I saw names, and unique dust jackets, she saw dust, and towering piles of objects that could very well be lethal to a curious, energetic infant or toddler.
I thought long and hard about it, and realized that after I had read a book, it would just sit there, forever more. I didn't reread books, because I like to move on to something new. Those books were not priceless treasures, well used and well loved, or objets d'art to be admired, they were simply fetishes.
It took me about a week to haul box after box to my car and over to the library. I'd decided that those books, just sitting around my place, would only ever sit there, shifted about from time to time, but unused and still. Better, I thought, would be to allow others a chance to have them and use them and benefit by them as I had.
So for people like me, this is where the Kindle fills a deep, desperate need. In the past I had always collected stuff, like a pack rat, and never let anything go. One day I realized...I was a prisoner of my stuff! It was like this Zen realization that I had this great psychic pressure on me emanating from all the stuff I owned. Stuff I carted from place to place, stuff I said I might use one day and never did. So I started a radical de-stuffization of my premises. I filled the downstairs lobby with all this stuff and even put a "free stuff" sign. The landlord and I even had an argument about it; he telling me to clean it up, me practicing my sign language and stomping back upstairs.
An hour later everything was gone, and I had never felt better.
Still, I like to read. I like to read a lot. On my laptop, my Google Reader will bring in an average of 600 to 700 articles a day, sometimes up to 1000 a day, and I will scroll through them and read about a third on a good day. Plus I will dip into a novel, read a magazine article, read emails, etc. But on the go a laptop is cumbersome, and power hungry. A Kindle, however, is not. In fact, I could read all my stuff, switch between novels and magazines, and have access to a massive library all in one tiny book sized gadget.
With a Kindle, I can have my library and read it too.
And the best part is, the tyranny of stuff has no hold on me any more!
Now all I need to do is get my hand son one of those things...
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