BurningbirdSince weblogging is all about RSS and aggregation, I’ve added the Mark Pilgrim RSS auto-discovery code to my weblog’s template.
Note: In the interests of disclosing any bias, be aware that I am writing a book on RDF, and that I support RSS 1.0 based on the RDF specification.
I took that Belief-o-Matic test that’s supposed to tell you the religious system that best suits you.
After finishing the test I waited for the results. And waited. And waited. Finally a simple plain white web page opened, and in the middle of the page I read the following words:
I reached a place where every light is muted,
which bellows like the sea beneath a tempest,
when it is battered by opposing winds.
The hellish hurricane, which never rests,
drives on the spirits with its violence:
wheeling and pounding, it harasses them.
The soul falls headlong, down into this cistern;
and up above, perhaps, there still appears
the body of the shade that winters here.*
As I puzzled over the results, a beating sound started coming from my computer and my monitor started slowing spinning. I was amazed since I was using a laptop and the monitor doesn’t spin.
Faster went the monitor, louder was the beating, smoke poured from the machine until all of a sudden the monitor stopped spinning and displayed
And then my machine died. A melted plastic blob, still faintly smoking. In the air, the subtle scent of burnt plastic mixed in with overripe ocean and rotten eggs.
Luckily I had this backup machine so I could post to my weblog. Unfortunately, I don’t have any results from the test to post.
Sorry.
I knew today would be one of those days when I put on a black shirt and black denim pants. My only color was a turquoise necklace – primitive silver encasing the brilliant blue of a clear Arizona morning.
I bypassed my usual music, turning the radio to a station that features the likes of AC/DC, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin. Normally I cut such strong music with softer tunes, but not today. Today I wanted to rip into the air with sound.
Outside, a strong wind was blowing, knocking down tree branches and signs, pushing against the people walking along the street. I headed down to Crissy Fields, knowing I would have the beach to myself.
On the way I followed a muscle car – a black Camaro – and stayed behind him until he turned. I wanted to listen to the sound of the car; a deep, throaty rumble, part growl, part purr. A politically incorrect car among all the politely quiet and refined Mercedes, Audis, BWMs, Lexus, and my lone little Focus.
At that moment I would have sold my soul for a Harley.
I left the digital camera at home, and stopped by the photo shop for a few rolls of B & W film. I wanted to feel the heft of my regular camera, and to pay the consequences of a bad shot. And I didn’t want color. I wanted smug black and white, arrogant gray – to capture form and thought and not be distracted by neutral tans and safe blues.
The Bay was stormy, with an extremely high tide. The waves tore aggressively at the beach, depositing weeds and crabs and other debris in the water’s wake. The wind blew directly into the waves, sending sand into the air and water, stinging the skin of my face and arms.
I wanted to rip my clothes off and let the sand burn me clean.
I stood at the edge of the water, facing into the waves, back to the wind. I lifted my arms from my sides, and the wind blew around my body as the water inched closer to my feet.
And there I stood, balanced between wind and wave, face tilted towards the sun.
I took Interstate 8 from San Diego to Arizona, and stopped at a rest area outside El Centro while still in California. As I got out of the car, I heard this jet sound. Looking up, I saw four jets in close formation directly overhead — the rest area was right next to the base where the Blue Angels practice their show. So I grabbed my water and my crackers and cheese and watched the entire show from the best seats a person could have. Serendipity.
I stayed my first night outside Flagstaff, and the next day went hiking around the Cathedral rocks in the Red Rock country in Sedona. If you’ve ever been in Sedona, you know how incredibly beautiful the countryside is. I took several photos but they don’t even capture the “rightness” of this area. Rust red rocks, dark green scrub, and blue skies, though the sky that day was overcast.
There wasn’t anyone at the park when I got there, which just blew me away. I walked along the stream when I came upon this field of piled rocks. People who visited would take river stones and pile them just as the rock artists in San Francisco. A novel way of marking your visit, without any harm to the area. Eventually the weather and critters will knock the little pyramids down and the stones become fodder for the next artist. Can you see my little pyramid in the photos? Free trip to Arizona for anyone that spots the correct one — one guess to a customer.
On the way back I decided to deteour through the Navajo Indian Nation. I thought I could take Highway 160 to 64 and make Santa Fe by evening. What a lousy judge of distance I am.
The Navajo Indian Nation is probably the most inspiring land I’ve seen. It changes constantly from desert to plains to cliffs to hills to rocks to farms. You can’t get bored, but you can get overwhelmed. On thing I had read is that you don’t want to be on the Reservation at night because livestock and wild animals are frequently on the road and it can be very dangerous.
As the afternoon wore on and I saw no end in sight of Arizona, much less getting close to Santa Fe, I started inching my speed up on the car. Well, that was a mistake. The Navajo police are meticulous about the letter of the law. Sure enough, here come the lights. Driver’s license less than 8 months and I get a speeding ticket.
The officer was very nice and asked me the usual, including did I know I was going 71 in a 65 MPH zone. I answered truthfully, that yes, I knew it but I had badly misjudged the length of time to cross the reservation and was concerned about being on the road at night. He checked me out, and maybe because I was honest, and probably because he was a very decent person, he just gave me a warning — saving me I don’t know how much money in insurance rates.
He also told me I would be out of the Res in about an hour, but still in the back country.
At that point I checked the map and decided to cut directly down to the freeway on another road. I started out at dusk and drove for much longer than expected. I’m almost out of gas, it’s dark, the highway isn’t that well traveled and I haven’t seen a sign about what highway I’m on, and when I’ll hit something. Well, something friendly.
I did NOT want to run out of gas in the back country. Sure, I’d be safe enough, though cold. Still — I’m a coward, and I have a real thing about being out in the country all by my lonesome without any preparation, late at night.
Luckily, cars became more frequent, I found a gas station, I got gas, I got on the freeway.
Point to make — having an adventure because you plan it, or deliberately grabbing an opportunity is great; having one happen because you keep making stupid mistakes is a completely different thing.
Next day, I was tired and wanted to just get to my friend’s in St. Louis. I drove through the rest of New Mexico, Texas, most of Oklahoma, and most of Missouri. I drove 18 hours with little break.
Crossing Missouri was a nightmare. It was night, I was exhausted, and there were so many semi-trucks out that I thought I had stumbled on to a trucker’s convention. I spent three solid hours playing dodge car with trucks that could make a smear out of Golden Girl. Worse, I was having real problems seeing at night. In fact, I found that my night vision for driving was extremely poor — is this normal?
By the time I got to St. Louis, I was so tired that I was driving 45 MPH in a 65MPH zone, weaving all over the road. At one point, I was actually confused about the lines on the road and the exit I was to take. Once off the freeway, I had to call my friend on my cell and have him give me step by step instructions to get to his place.
That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done! I will never ever drive that long again, and to that point of exhaustion. I could have killed myself or worse, someone else! And playing games with semi-trucks? Rocks for brains.
All in all, though, I had an enlightening first long distance trip. And I’m already planning my next visit to Arizona — where I will obey the traffic signals to a letter, as well as stay for much longer than a few days.
What is going to be the future of connectivity? What is the Brave New World of the Internet going to be?
Is it going to be a system of services linked together through one centralized (but benevolent) agency? Need a service? Want to sell a service? Check into the Agency, the Agency will take care of you. Oh, by the way, you need to add this to your machine. And you need to give us this information.
And you need to understand that we know what’s best for you…and you have no choice, anyway, do you?
Or is it going to be a brave new world of content publishing and subscription?
You sitting at home passively on your machine hooked up as a dying man is hooked up to a heart machine, each beat a pulse from the great wire, delivering you all the information fit to print, at least fit enough to survive the filters.
You sit and add your own beat, with perhaps an accompaniment of a pat on the head, job well done. Why seek? Why search?
Now, just put that finger on that mouse and click those checkboxes and yes, we’ll take care of you because we know what’s best for you…and you have no choice, anyway, do you?
Put your mouth to the nipple and prepare to be fed.
A brave new world.
Connecting to the void you send tendrils out seeking others of like mind, or not, occasionally bumping into something new or unexpected in your search.
Two paths open for every path that closes, and the only locked door you find is standing alone with no walls around it. You laugh into the void as you walk past the door, continuing on your journey of discovery.