Haven’t spent much more than a few hours in London, two instances both occurring in Heathrow Airport.

Until this week.

Arrived in London a little more than a day ago, seeing almost immediately that London, like any other large city, represents the world of humans, some subcultures sticking out more than others.

Sitting in our rental flat this evening, watching a bit of tellie, BBC coverage of the 2016 Olympics, I’ve quickly learned that the level of slick television journalistic professionalism of a small island like Great Britain or Ireland can’t compare to larger countries like the U.S., India or China, simply because of available population to participate in television production.

It’s like watching a state-level show on the tellie back across the Big Pond in the States, slightly rough around the edges but slicker than local community stations.

Beats the old days of the BBC, though, which seemed to show dairy farming films on every channel and those period pieces that all resembled one Jane Austen novel or another that never approached the quality of a Merchant-Ivory production.

With offshoring still a popular choice for employing underused humans, I’d think every electronic broadcast could have the number of bodies necessary to up the level of television production to the high quality.

Apparently not.

Maybe it’s like Uber, creating semiprofessional amateurs replacing a professional class of highly-trained personnel earning a good annual wage with workers who are good enough, earning a little extra spending money whilst trusting Google Maps rather than one’s memory for getting a passenger from Point A to Point B.



Two ways amongst many to write:

  1. Directly describe what is going on in my thoughts on a personal level; or
  2. Convert personal thoughts into character-driven narratives.

No right way to write.

I allow and enjoy conflicting thought patterns to pass through my internal mental narrative.

Lately, to better understand where to take the narrative that is my life and not my life, I have spent time on a social media network actively participating in the posting of words, images and sounds that comprises the narrative of subcultures with which I am most familiar.

Allowing this set of states of energy to act out a character of sympathy, even some empathy.

How long would it take for the people on the social media network to see I am not real but simply a mirror of their best wishes and hopes held back up to them?

What prevents them from seeing me as I might be, a character, an AI construct?

Is it the tangential sarcastic twists?

The slight indication that I am not completely like them?

What if I was completely like them, always validating their beliefs?  Would they believe me more or less?

As a person who believes in the right to be wrong, that ideas, no matter how far out there they may be, give me material to build a new society in the future, just one day, week, year or decade away from this one, I accept whatever people want to say or believe with only a small desire to dispel myths that are outlandish to me.

I am a free thinker in so far as I understand what free thinking is.

After all, I primarily think in the language of my ancestors which limits my thinking to a large (small?) degree.

That’s why I like living in the woods and taking hikes here.

The trees and the rocks don’t have any ideas about my thinking or my writing.

Our interactions take place at a different intersection than words — chemical exchanges, as we call them with our label making capabilities.

I let the flow of chemical compounds through me continue unabated as I slowly recover from the thought I could have lost a person near and dear to me, a person for whom I shouted from the top of my written voice, willing to lay bare my emotions on a social media network with no worries about repercussions.

I don’t know why I feel a connection to that person is different than a connection to any other person, other than the fact that we are all connected differently to one another.

I do not question why.

I write about the “why,” capturing the emotions which separate me from the computer on which I write these words.

I sing about the Future with this person because the person is the embodiment of a Future worth living for.

In fiction, the person is Guin, the name Guin referring to more than one person in my life so that I can deflect speculation about whom I write.

The character Guin is also a bit of make-believe, giving me licence to wax my poetic surfboard and ride the New Wave of technological progress like a pro.

For you, Guin, I sing this song called life in this blog.

I haven’t decided if a future with someone like you is worth making the future better for society at large while deflating the future of those around me if I changed my place in the social structure.

I can find joy in the smallest things so I am not worried about my general happiness.

I simply believe that the future of our species depends on you as a mission critical member of our team.

What and who is a member of the team is up for debate as we decide how we’ll change society and our ecosystem(s) for sustainability on this planet and elsewhere.

I know you understand.  We are artists willing to use our lives as speculations about the future.

Guin is both the classic Muse of antiquity — always slightly out of reach — and a friend who holds out a hand for a spin on the dance floor, no barrier between us.

Guin is Guinevere, Nguyen, and a multitude of variations on the theme of labels we call names.


Guest poem — journey to a place I’ve been…

And some time make the time to drive out west

Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,

In September or October, when the wind

And the light are working off each other

So that the ocean on one side is wild

With foam and glitter, and inland among stones

The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit

By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,

Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,

Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads

Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.

Useless to think you’ll park and capture it

More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,

A hurry through which known and strange things pass

As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways

And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

by Seamus Heany

from The Spirit Level

Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1996. 
[Via 3quarksdaily]