I read a t-shirt recently that read "In America, we don't redistribute wealth, we earn it," and I immediately began to question the category of "earn." By "earn" do we mean that we deserve only that money we work for? And my thoughts turned to the deplorable conditions of those who pick the fruit that we eat, as well of those who build our electronics. They are doing the actual work, but they are not getting rich doing it. The wealth has already been redistributed away from them. I found myself considering that I completely agreed with that t-shirt, but probably not in the way the t-shirt designer intended.
"God makes his will visible to men in events, an obscure text written in a mysterious language. Men make their translations of it instantly; hasty translations, incorrect, full of mistakes, omissions, and misreadings. Very few minds understand the divine language. The wisest and calmest, the most profound, decipher slowly, and, when they arrive with their text, the need has long sicne gone by; there are already twenty translations in the public square. From each translation a party is born, and from each misreading a faction; and each party believes it has the only true text, and each faction believes it possesses the light." -Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
Friday, June 25, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Am I a...Balloonatic, so to speak?
So for my graduation, my Dad offered me the choice between a kindle or a hot-air balloon ride. I took the hot-air balloon ride--as cool as it is to have Star Trek technology available in the present, I refuse to be impressed until we have transporters, or warp drive at the very least. Plus I get tired of looking at computer screens all day. Dead-tree editions are how I rest my eyes. Call me a ludite, call me narrow-minded, call me on the wrong side of history, the fact of the matter is that my copy of 1984 will remain firmly in my hands, and not being erased from before my eyes by the Party.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/18/technology/companies/18amazon.html
Ignorance is strength indeed.
Anyhoo, I didn't know when I'd ever have another chance to take a hot-air balloon ride, paid for and everything, and given the vagaries of fate and the capriciousness of existence and the inevitable entropy that haunts our dreams both sleeping and awake, I thought it best to take advantage while I still could.
Amanda and I left before the butt-crack of dawn, because the flight was up in Park City, and the flight at 6:30. Am. A previous friend had canceled on my citing chronic fatigue and general not-being-a-morning-person-ish. Can't say I blamed her. But, it's also been forever since I saw a bona fide sunrise, so despite only having gotten roughly 3 hours of sleep (most of the night was spent in bed staring at the ceiling chanting "Go to sleep...go to sleep...go...to...sleep..."), it actually felt oddly invigorating to leave at so early. I blasted Soundgarden to wake myself up.
Our pilot was, no joke, nick-named "Wild Bill," and claimed that he had, while living in California, been the sky-diving pilot for Patrick Swayze bless his soul. Their website said that "Wild Bill" is their most requested pilot and with good reason--it is refreshing to be with someone who is doing exactly what they want to do with their life, and are enjoying every minute of it. People like Wild Bill win at every single high school reunion: Guy 1-"I'm a highly paid lawyer and drive a ferrari." Guy 2-"Good for you! I'm a hot-air balloon pilot." Guy 1-"[Explitive deleted] law school and student loans..."
Despite the supposedly June weather it was quite chilly out, so I was wearing a jacket and had brought a scarf and a coat just in case. The latter two quite unnecessary--it turns out, believe it or not, that the term "hot-air balloon" is quite literal, and you are standing directly next to the propane-flame as you ascend. No matter how chilly it is, you will never need more than a light jacket.
Winds were too high in Park City, so we rode in a van down to Heber City, where the pilot picked a random field, and had his crew roll out the balloon. Amanda and I were recruited to hold open the mouth so that it could fill up. First Wild Bill used a fan, but then when there was enough space to start blasting the flame, I could only remember the line from Nabokov: "It was a paradise with a sky of hell-flames, but a paradise nonetheless."
Amanda, who'd agreed to go last minute, told me she'd been having a panic attack the night before, because she suddenly remembered she hates heights, as her experience on roller-coasters indicated. (She probably could've called me about it, I was wide awake.) But balloons are very gentle, quiet, informal, and lovely; pretty much as calming as a roller coaster is thrilling. I also told her about how the only natural predator of the hot-air balloon is the WWI bi-plane and frightened French farmers, so we had nothing to worry about.
And the view? What can I say? Gorgeous. Unfiltered. Idyllic. This wasn't the cramped view over the wing of the airliner, where the destination is more important than the journey, no, this was the view for it's own sake, the sky as a good of first intent. As always, I took many pictures, and the best of them will never capture what I actually saw. A camera-filter by definition cannot capture an unfiltered experience.
We landed in a Middle-School parking lot, which somehow seemed the most natural place in the world to land. Wild Bill told of the first balloon ride, in 1783, made by the Montgolfier brothers, who, as their paper-balloon caught on fire and landed in a French farm field just outside of Paris, the superstitious farmers came out with their pitchforks to destroy this abomination from hell and burn at the stake the two brothers. But fortunately the two brothers had brought wine from Paris to commemorate the landing, and when the farmers read the label, they did what the French do best when faced by the forces of evil--they had a drink. And all of them being good Catholics, they made a new prayer. To commemorate we had orange-juice with champagne, (Amanda and I just had the OJ), Wild Bill called us all "official Balloonatics," and we recited the prayer together:
Les Vents vous Ont Accueilli avec la douceur.
Le Soleil vous a béni avec ses mains chaudes.
Vous avez volé si haut et si bien
que Dieu vous a joint dans votre rire et vous a réglé
doucement de retour encore
dans les bras tendres de Notre Bonne Vieille Terre.
The winds have welcomed you with softness
The sun has blessed you with his warm hands
You have flown so high and so well
that God has joined you in your laughter
and set you gently back again
into the loving arms of Mother Earth
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/18/technology/companies/18amazon.html
Ignorance is strength indeed.
Anyhoo, I didn't know when I'd ever have another chance to take a hot-air balloon ride, paid for and everything, and given the vagaries of fate and the capriciousness of existence and the inevitable entropy that haunts our dreams both sleeping and awake, I thought it best to take advantage while I still could.
Amanda and I left before the butt-crack of dawn, because the flight was up in Park City, and the flight at 6:30. Am. A previous friend had canceled on my citing chronic fatigue and general not-being-a-morning-person-ish. Can't say I blamed her. But, it's also been forever since I saw a bona fide sunrise, so despite only having gotten roughly 3 hours of sleep (most of the night was spent in bed staring at the ceiling chanting "Go to sleep...go to sleep...go...to...sleep..."), it actually felt oddly invigorating to leave at so early. I blasted Soundgarden to wake myself up.
Our pilot was, no joke, nick-named "Wild Bill," and claimed that he had, while living in California, been the sky-diving pilot for Patrick Swayze bless his soul. Their website said that "Wild Bill" is their most requested pilot and with good reason--it is refreshing to be with someone who is doing exactly what they want to do with their life, and are enjoying every minute of it. People like Wild Bill win at every single high school reunion: Guy 1-"I'm a highly paid lawyer and drive a ferrari." Guy 2-"Good for you! I'm a hot-air balloon pilot." Guy 1-"[Explitive deleted] law school and student loans..."
Despite the supposedly June weather it was quite chilly out, so I was wearing a jacket and had brought a scarf and a coat just in case. The latter two quite unnecessary--it turns out, believe it or not, that the term "hot-air balloon" is quite literal, and you are standing directly next to the propane-flame as you ascend. No matter how chilly it is, you will never need more than a light jacket.
Winds were too high in Park City, so we rode in a van down to Heber City, where the pilot picked a random field, and had his crew roll out the balloon. Amanda and I were recruited to hold open the mouth so that it could fill up. First Wild Bill used a fan, but then when there was enough space to start blasting the flame, I could only remember the line from Nabokov: "It was a paradise with a sky of hell-flames, but a paradise nonetheless."
Amanda, who'd agreed to go last minute, told me she'd been having a panic attack the night before, because she suddenly remembered she hates heights, as her experience on roller-coasters indicated. (She probably could've called me about it, I was wide awake.) But balloons are very gentle, quiet, informal, and lovely; pretty much as calming as a roller coaster is thrilling. I also told her about how the only natural predator of the hot-air balloon is the WWI bi-plane and frightened French farmers, so we had nothing to worry about.
And the view? What can I say? Gorgeous. Unfiltered. Idyllic. This wasn't the cramped view over the wing of the airliner, where the destination is more important than the journey, no, this was the view for it's own sake, the sky as a good of first intent. As always, I took many pictures, and the best of them will never capture what I actually saw. A camera-filter by definition cannot capture an unfiltered experience.
We landed in a Middle-School parking lot, which somehow seemed the most natural place in the world to land. Wild Bill told of the first balloon ride, in 1783, made by the Montgolfier brothers, who, as their paper-balloon caught on fire and landed in a French farm field just outside of Paris, the superstitious farmers came out with their pitchforks to destroy this abomination from hell and burn at the stake the two brothers. But fortunately the two brothers had brought wine from Paris to commemorate the landing, and when the farmers read the label, they did what the French do best when faced by the forces of evil--they had a drink. And all of them being good Catholics, they made a new prayer. To commemorate we had orange-juice with champagne, (Amanda and I just had the OJ), Wild Bill called us all "official Balloonatics," and we recited the prayer together:
Les Vents vous Ont Accueilli avec la douceur.
Le Soleil vous a béni avec ses mains chaudes.
Vous avez volé si haut et si bien
que Dieu vous a joint dans votre rire et vous a réglé
doucement de retour encore
dans les bras tendres de Notre Bonne Vieille Terre.
The winds have welcomed you with softness
The sun has blessed you with his warm hands
You have flown so high and so well
that God has joined you in your laughter
and set you gently back again
into the loving arms of Mother Earth
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Nungun Humano Ser Es Illegal
While I was a reporter in Mexico, we once ran a news article on a recently split up family; the wife, a Mexican, had wandered across the border while still a teenager, eventually settling in Ohio and marrying a native-born American citizen. They had two children together. After all these years, the wife decided to "legally" become a US citizen. But once Immigration learned that she had entered "illegally," she was kicked out of the country and barred from re-entry. Her husband was understandably furious. I have not followed up on the story and do not know what has happened since.
I bring this example up because in the furor over the recent law passed in Arizona, many of the law's defenders have said that those who are here "illegally" should go get their "papers" to become a legal US citizen. The aforementioned mother tried to do that, and was kicked out of the country. I don't think most Americans understand just how incredibly difficult it is to get a green card, let alone become a "legal" US citizen. Quite frankly, if all 300+ million "native-born" Americans had to jump through all the hoops of the multi-year process of becoming a US citizen, most of us would fail. And I think if most Americans had to provide "papers" every time they're citizenship was questioned, we'd all be crying bloody murder and Soviet Russia.
I often find American's tendency to exploit immigrant workers and then deport them appalling. I remember that President Bush, after he repeatedly violated the constitution through the Patriot Act, illegal wire-tapping, expansion of Executive powers, torture of prisoners without trial, all while waging a war that had nothing to do with 9/11 and doubling the deficit while doing so, did not lose the support of conservatives until he suggested that there should be processes in place to allow illegal immigrants to start the process of citizenship process without having to leave the country or get treated like a criminal. Go figure.
I'm actually somewhat sympathetic towards Arizona; they are overwhelmed with undocumented workers ripe for exploitation and don't know what to do about it. But of their limited options, punishing impoverished populations for coming here searching for a better life and who are too poor to do so "legally" was probably the worst. Thus, in spite of my sympathy for Arizona, I must ultimately condemn them for their terrorizing police-state tactics.
I once saw a t-shirt in Mexico I wish I'd bought; "Ningun Humano Ser Es Illegal"--No Human Being Is Illegal.
I bring this example up because in the furor over the recent law passed in Arizona, many of the law's defenders have said that those who are here "illegally" should go get their "papers" to become a legal US citizen. The aforementioned mother tried to do that, and was kicked out of the country. I don't think most Americans understand just how incredibly difficult it is to get a green card, let alone become a "legal" US citizen. Quite frankly, if all 300+ million "native-born" Americans had to jump through all the hoops of the multi-year process of becoming a US citizen, most of us would fail. And I think if most Americans had to provide "papers" every time they're citizenship was questioned, we'd all be crying bloody murder and Soviet Russia.
I often find American's tendency to exploit immigrant workers and then deport them appalling. I remember that President Bush, after he repeatedly violated the constitution through the Patriot Act, illegal wire-tapping, expansion of Executive powers, torture of prisoners without trial, all while waging a war that had nothing to do with 9/11 and doubling the deficit while doing so, did not lose the support of conservatives until he suggested that there should be processes in place to allow illegal immigrants to start the process of citizenship process without having to leave the country or get treated like a criminal. Go figure.
I'm actually somewhat sympathetic towards Arizona; they are overwhelmed with undocumented workers ripe for exploitation and don't know what to do about it. But of their limited options, punishing impoverished populations for coming here searching for a better life and who are too poor to do so "legally" was probably the worst. Thus, in spite of my sympathy for Arizona, I must ultimately condemn them for their terrorizing police-state tactics.
I once saw a t-shirt in Mexico I wish I'd bought; "Ningun Humano Ser Es Illegal"--No Human Being Is Illegal.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Venus in Furs and Twilight
My intense distaste for Twilight comes primarily from how poorly it is written; I used to work at the writing center, wherein my eye became attuned to picking out badly written sentences, and Twilight was consequently a sensory overload to me. I'm more on the Oscar Wilde side of text evaluation; a book is either well written or badly written, and Twilight is most decidedly badly written. It has caused me to question the old maxim that "at least it gets people reading books." With books like these, who needs illiteracy?
The book's defenders, especially LDS ones, say that Twilight at least champions chastity before marriage. I was willing to allow this single insignificant data point until I read last semester Venus in Furs by Leonard von Sacher-Masoch, the author from whence we get the term masochism. In this book, a man falls for a woman whom he glorifies as Venus, the ideal of love and beauty; he loves her more as an ideal, as a statue, than anything else. Against her wishes, he begs her to whip him and torture him, to generally treat him like a slave, demanding his undying devotion. He begs her to do this because he is a "super-sensualist," and intense pain, both physical and emotional, is how he gets off.
Though very sensual, Venus in Furs is utterly devoid of sex; but then, the point of masochism isn't the sex itself, but the prolonging of sex, the stretching out of the sexual tensions for as long and as tortuously as possible. In Twilight we have the same scenario; a man falls passionately in love with a character so life-less she might as well be a statue; he tortures himself for her love; and the sex act is prolonged as long as possible. In sum, Twilight is not a chaste novel; it is a masochistic novel. It promotes not chastity before marriage, but masochistic torture before consummation. With chastity like this, who needs deviancy?
The book's defenders, especially LDS ones, say that Twilight at least champions chastity before marriage. I was willing to allow this single insignificant data point until I read last semester Venus in Furs by Leonard von Sacher-Masoch, the author from whence we get the term masochism. In this book, a man falls for a woman whom he glorifies as Venus, the ideal of love and beauty; he loves her more as an ideal, as a statue, than anything else. Against her wishes, he begs her to whip him and torture him, to generally treat him like a slave, demanding his undying devotion. He begs her to do this because he is a "super-sensualist," and intense pain, both physical and emotional, is how he gets off.
Though very sensual, Venus in Furs is utterly devoid of sex; but then, the point of masochism isn't the sex itself, but the prolonging of sex, the stretching out of the sexual tensions for as long and as tortuously as possible. In Twilight we have the same scenario; a man falls passionately in love with a character so life-less she might as well be a statue; he tortures himself for her love; and the sex act is prolonged as long as possible. In sum, Twilight is not a chaste novel; it is a masochistic novel. It promotes not chastity before marriage, but masochistic torture before consummation. With chastity like this, who needs deviancy?
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Quote of the day...
'It's so quiet, peaceful and solemn, not like me rushing about...not like us, all that yelling and scraping, not like that Frenchman and our gunner...with their scared and bitter faces, those clouds are different, creeping across that lofty, infinite sky. How can it be that I've never seen that lofty sky before? Oh, how happy I am to have found it at last. Yes! It's all vanity, it's all illusion, everything except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing--that's all there is. But there isn't even that. There's nothing but stillness and peace. Thank God for that!' -Tolstoy, War and Peace
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