A comment engendered by Lucy's post "Yesterday" -
- Pinecones do not exist for us to observe them, we exist so that there can be pinecones. The job of humanity is to observe. We do not own, we are not the master of the world, we are the servant of What Might Be, making the world moment to moment so that all the wonderful things that might be in it have a chance to exist.
I've known it was coming for a while, but today my two pairs of much loved work shoes - suede slip on things that cost about $10 each, both died. They were starting to go at the back, the uppers parting company with the soles, and that's exactly what happened in it's entirety today. To both.
I have a pair of emergency work shoes, and a pair of desert combat boots, but these are stop-gaps. I needed to bite the bullet and buy some shoes. I chose to do so online. Thanks to a remarkably unstable wifi connection, it took an hour.
I noticed a couple of things: for a desert, Arizona is remarkably keen on boating and deck shoes. It's also keen on "board shoes" which appear to be for surfing in. There are lakes here, where one could yacht if one so chose, but there is no surf, no snow. Perhaps these are skateboarding shoes.
Secondly, there are no interesting shoes for men. This is a rant in itself, one that I shall post another time, but the really interesting thing is that the shoes there are have either staid and sensible names or really aggressive and macho ones.
Sometimes, they are named after cars.
They are also expensive. Very expensive. So I have bought cheap shoes, because 'pon my return to the UK I shall be buying Docs and shoes made of concrete to keep out the weather. However, American shoes are marketed on the assumption that all men in America have laughably small genitalia.
Seriously! Marketers the country over think that American men all need help asserting their masculinity. This is why the cars are big, why some of them are called "muscle cars" (and it ain't the biceps they're talking about), why the handguns come in everything from .22 to fifty-cal (and anything less than a .38 is "for girls"), why the steaks are huge and why the beer is weak (so you can drink lots and look like a Real Man without killing your liver in one night).
I know a few American men. Not that well, because I'm English and therefore after seven years I am only half way through the "casual nods at a distance" process of getting to know people, but well enough to know that by any sensible measure of manliness they're definitely owners of a Y chromosome. They aren't Hemmingway, but then who is?
I have been sans-internet since this afternoon.
It's back now, because someone nearby is incautious with their very slow, very weak wireless connection. If I knew how to leave a note saying "dude, WEP key at least!" I would.
I think I have entirely failed to tweet, because when everything fell over I was setting up Twitter. Conspiracy? I think it might be.
On the plus side, I cooked roast beef. On the minus side, I have been moping. I am going to flip this thing over to Ubuntu, listen to some Doctor Who audio and attempt to be Zen - although we already know I am to Zen what Prince Phillip is to International Diplomacy.
I can't get "All Along The Watchtower" out of my head.
...this was possibly more a Tweet than a blog entry.
I'm in an odd place; one of the things I am planning to do this year is return to the UK and find somewhere to live. This means that I need to think about packing and the extortionate costs of shipping goods across the Atlantic. If I were more Zen about this, I would be casting aside as many posessions as possible and just turning up with a suitcase.
It turns out I am less than Zen, because of my ongoing book addiction.
While I have steeled myself to not buying any more new books, something that grates at my nerves daily, and while I have steeled myself against buying new things generally, I still have a small collection - perhaps a couple of dozen books - that I cannot bear to be parted from. I now face the unhappy choice of deciding which ones come with me...and which ones don't.
I toyed, briefly, with the idea of putting up some kind of poll and letting other people help me decide. Then I decided that would be far too callous. These aren't people, these are books, they're important. Also, I can't ask people to decide on something so personal unless they have the same relationship with said books that I do. So it really comes down to me making the final cut.
This is an aspect of the final move I am really not looking forward to. It's odd, too, because of all the roots I should have put down in the last seven years this is the biggest wrench. This is the one that's difficult. Moreover, it's like a little window into mortality. At some time in the next...ooo...seventy* years or so someone else is going to have to go through my book collection and sort out what they want to keep, and what to throw away, and probably make little "tsk tsk" noises at my fondness for British fantasists with comedic tendencies. My bet is that they will box up the dusty tomes and ship them off to an Old Folks Home where people still enjoy print as opposed to reading things via direct retina projection (ooo - can we call the interface the iBall?) or having them channelled directly into their CNS.
*a wildly optimistic ballpark figure. If I get through today alive I will be impressed.
For the record, I enjoyed it.
I had to watch it, you don't miss that sort of thing. I wanted to find out how it was all going to be resolved.
Satisfyingly, I think.
Although I have no doubt that somewhere in the next six months to a year someone will point out to Ronald D Moore that all of that ending has happened before, most recently I think by Douglas Adams.
All is forgiven, though, for the fate of Starbuck (he's already catching a lot of flack for that, and I think Moore should shrug it off and keep going) because sometimes you don't get all the answers, and that's OK.
Look, if Battlestar can borrow an ending from DNA, I can borrow a line from Moffat.
Plus, the show wins for the final look at the eventual fate of the colonials and playing out with the tune that has haunted the series for a while.
On that note, it's probably time I called it a day here too. I think I would prefer to play out, like H2G2, with Louis Armstrong's "Wonderful World."
It's Olde Englishe and it means "cheerful".
I thought it was worth recording here because the way it's constructed makes me see glædmód as "glad mode".
Which I like.
Glad Mode. I have engaged it.
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