"Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride ... all fear of embarrassment or failure — these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."
Thanks, Mr. Jobs. This was some comfort reading this on the day you resigned as CEO. We love you.
As for you, Mr. Cook- I'm keeping my eye on you.
For your enjoyment, something a good friend sent to me today —
The light turned yellow, just in front of him. He did the right thing,
stopping at the crosswalk, even though he could have beaten the red
light by accelerating through the intersection.
The tailgating woman was furious and honked her horn, screaming in
frustration, as she missed her chance to get through the intersection,
dropping her cell phone and makeup.
As she was still in mid-rant, she heard a tap on her window and looked
up into the face of a very serious police officer. The officer ordered
her to exit her car with her hands up.
He took her to the police station where she was searched,
fingerprinted, photographed, and placed in a holding cell.
After a couple of hours, a policeman approached the cell and opened
the door. She was escorted back to the booking desk where the
arresting officer was waiting with her personal effects.
He said, "I'm very sorry for this mistake. You see, I pulled up
behind your car while you were blowing your horn, flipping off the guy
in front of you and cussing a blue streak at him. I noticed the What
Would Jesus Do bumper sticker, the Choose Life license plate
holder, the Follow Me to Sunday-School bumper sticker, and the
chrome-plated Christian fish emblem on the trunk, so naturally....I
assumed you had stolen the car."
—source unknown
Hacktivism. I'm not sure people who are involved in this activity like the word. But ... it's a clever portmanteau and you can go about your business and leave it at that. But I cannot. For the last few days I've become obsessed with reading as much as I can about the topic. [If you know me at all, you know how I am. I'm that girl who discovered Somerset Maugham and bought all the books. I'm a selective completist.]
I've been aware of vigilante hacking and always seemed to mentally back-burner the idea. But I got hooked. It happened about 2 in the morning during yet another insomnia episode. It was one of the few times I was glad to be wide awake in the middle of the night. Someone tweeted something about a Gawker link to a Westboro interview something-or-other. As much as I hate the new Gawker site, I couldn't help it ... CLICK! "Oh gosh. This looks like a smackdown I'm going to love," I thought.
And that was pretty much it for the night.
[If you're reading this, we know each other from twitter or facebook, most likely, and I don't want to be redundant so I won't embed the videos but will link instead.]
So there was this: Anonymous Hacks Westboro Baptist Church Website During Live Confrontation. Do I even need to qualify this with how bat-shit Westboro is? That they're not a religious group as much as they are a cult. That they are so egregiously grotesque that opposing hacktivists can agree that they should be taken down.
The radio spot was fascinating. Transfixing. I despise Westboro and I really admired the poise and calm of the Anonymous representative. Further, how could you not admire the calm cool collectedness of an organization who refused to engage and then decided to silence that little barnacle with a -BLAM!- all your sites belong to us, kind of move. Impressive. Like having a Maserati and not feeling the need to race it down the street.
And it started a few days and nights of surfing the net, learning about Anonymous, the Jester, how they are alike, how they are philosophically opposed, finally learning more about Wiki-Leaks, and following a number of Anonymous-related accounts on twitter.
That's it for now. I'm sure the next post will be full of links and ideas and loops of ethical internal conversations. I just wanted to update you about where I'm at.
I knew about Soft Machine, but I wasn't aware of Robert Wyatt and his contribution to the early days of this seminal 70s prog group. Nor was I aware of his intensely personal and profound solo album Rock Bottom. You can read about Wyatt and the backstory for the album at the wiki. It's a complex story that's at once sad and inspiring. You can read reviews at allmusic, at Pitchfork, and at uncut. These last two sources are both reviews of Wyatt's reissues.
The exquisite Sea Song is the first track of the album. If this is at all your cup of tea, do yourself a favor and purchase the album. It's a masterpiece of quiet brilliance.
[ click it and listen | song time is 6:33 ]
My best friend, Kerry, had plans for quite some time to vacation in Spain over the holidays. Not long before she was to leave, her cat Sammy came down with what we thought was a cold/flu sort of thing. It was ascertained that he had a tiny mass in his hard palate. Kerry and Sammy's doctor had a fair amount of conversation about this—what it meant at the moment and what it might mean in the future and what options were viable.
After two attempts at different antibiotics, Sammy was back to his old self. Kerry and I talked quite a bit about what to do and I encouraged her to continue with her plans and that Sammy would be happy and content at my home for the holidays. Knowing that I wouldn't take no for an answer, I was delighted that Kerry agreed. We decided that Sammy should spend his first night at my home while Kerry was still in town so that we could see how he fared.
The little guy took to his new surroundings immediately. He was my constant companion—except for when he needed his alone time. And this alone time always seemed to involve finding the best patch of sunlight for napping. When he wasn't patrolling the perimeter, he was ensconced in my studio, making his best bid to commandeer my keyboard ... or steal Geo's chair ... or "help" with the podcast that is recorded most Wednesday evenings ... or test out new perches ... or sleep in my lap. I was forced—FORCED, I tell you—to watch old movies with him while he curled up next to me. He had tiny toys and water bowls on all three levels of my home and his meals were served twice a day, each time in a fresh crystal dish.
What? No. Of course I was not wrapped around his elegant, little paw. Not even one little bit.
Near the end of his holiday, he developed a bad cough. I called the Cat Clinic and talked with his doctor. She thought the mass might have a grown a bit and started to cause the congestion I reported. I picked up more meds and proceeded to annoy him at dinnertime with the refresh of antibiotics. He did love, however, that I now had him sit in his new steam room, previously known as my bathroom. He put up no resistance to relocating to the bathroom when he heard the shower running. This new regimen seemed to help, at least enough to take off the edge. He was still eating, even though with a little less enthusiasm. He was still prowling around every level of the house. And he still wanted to "help" record the second podcast during his stay. But I knew down deep that he was diminished, despite his noble attempt to be a good guest. The night before he left, we watched movies together and he lay with his little head on my chest and I suddenly had that sharp corkscrew-to-the-heart feeling. Because I knew. I just knew. It was the inescapable knowledge that this was the last time we would spend an evening like this.
Kerry returned and came to scoop him up. We sat on my red couch, Sammy on her lap, and our conversation that afternoon was a sad one. It was the private conversation between best friends where some things are said and some things are unsaid but completely understood. We have that kind of connection. We packed up the car with the ton of things that a little being needs. (Why is that exactly? The smaller they are, the more things they seem to need. – See: Babies)
Later that day, my cell rang. It was Kerry. With tragic news. Once home, Sammy completely devolved. He had an awful event. She rushed him to the clinic. The mass had grown dramatically and he was fighting to breathe. There was nothing that could be done but the one humane thing.
At age 11, Sammy left us, peaceful and protected and lying in the arms of Kerry, the person he loved most and best.
~ ~ ~
