Quoting Shakespeare
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Tuesday, April 26, 2005
A Brave New Wonderful
In the days after September 11, 2001, I talked to one of my best friends who boldly told me that "we had it coming."I wouldn't have gone that far, but I did go so far as to say that the foreign policy of the United States (as well as actions of American corporate conglomerates) contributed greatly to the conditions to which the events of that day were tied.
So, I applaud the public statement by actress Maggie Gyllenhaal in which she said that September 11 was:
...an occasion to be brave enough to ask some serious questions about America's role in the world. Because it is always useful as individuals or nations to ask how we may have knowingly or unknowingly contributed to this conflict.
Not to have the courage to ask these questions of ourselves is to betray the victims of 9/11.
Of course, her comments have created an uproar
It is beyond me how Americans can be so unable to connect dots... so unwilling to recognize that the attacks of September 11 didn't happen in a vaccuum.
Did the nearly 3,000 people who died that day deserve what happened to them? No. Did the Goliath United States deserve what the David Al Qaida slingshot its way. Maybe. But instead of trying to learn and understand the history that unrolled its matching red carpets in New York City, Washington and the Pennsylvania countryside, we attack those who have tried to point out that the attacks might never have happened had the United States been just a bit more respectful of human life around the world and a little less concerned with military and corporate might.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Mourning
Mourning II
It's not a particularly happy occasion that brings me to post today... For the past couple of weeks, I have been fairly wrapped in a euphoria of watching mourning doves nesting on top of the air conditioner just outside my living room.
I spotted the bird one morning on my return from the grocery store, and when I got a bit closer to investigate, found that there were two eggs in the nest. Eureka!
In the two weeks now since the discovery, I have been documenting — for all of the flickr world to see — the daily adventures of the mourning doves.
Of course, not much happened from day to day, except that the adult (or adults — it was somewhat difficult to tell the male from the female) would allow me to get closer and closer with my camera.
At first, I would set the ten-second self-timer, focus on something approximately the same distance away as the bird, position the camera and wait for the timer to count down. Eventually, the bird would allow me to actually place the camera on top of the air conditioner, which allowed me to get to within four or so inches from her/him.
I shared the photos with flickr (and the world) and each picture increased the excitement for me and those that were looking in.
I gave myself a scare last week when I returned from a trip to Midland, Michigan... I took a walk out on the balcony and from a distance took a look to see if anything was going on. It didn't appear that much was... just the bird sitting on the nest. But as I stood on the chair to raise myself above the top of the air conditioner for my daily shot, the bird flew off and one of the eggs flew out of the nest and landed on the balcony.
I was shook. I got down and walked into the house, pacing in fear that I'd killed one of the soon-to-be hatchlings. Knowing that I would have to document my crime for the world to see, I went back to the balcony and bent down to photograph the carnage, but what I saw was an empty shell, with traces of membrane on the inside surface of the shell. A huge wave of relief washed over me as I recognized what that meant.
The adult dove hadn't returned to the nest yet, so I climbed up once more to see the two hatchlings lying in the bottom of the nest. I quickly took a few photographs and got down so as encourage the adult to return promptly to its place in the nest.
Since that day, I've not bothered the birds all that much, except that I did manage to grab a shot last week of only one hatchling. I don't know what would have or could have happened to the other baby. I looked around on the ground for clues but found nothing. One of the birds engaged in some kind of fight with two other mounring doves last week... I wouldn't know if the events are related.
This past weekend, the weather turned cold again — a couple of days of mid- to low-30s (F) conditions — so I left the birds alone so that they would be able to properly care for the sole developing baby.
Today, I took a look out on the balcony at the mourning doves... and saw the adults sitting together at the edge of the air conditioner. I was hopeful that it was a sign that the young bird was bigger and stronger.
One of the adults flew away, so I slowly ascended onto the chair to take a closer look. As I raised up above the air conditioner, I saw that the brief return to winter this weekend must have been too much for the baby. It lie lifeless and sprawled along one edge of the nest.
Then, the adult that had remained walked closer to the nest where the remains of the baby lie. There was something touching about that... it made me think that I was being told to respect what had happened... that the adults were indeed in mourning.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Words
I have spent so much time with my photography lately that I've not written anything here for close to a month.Wow! Considering that I used to post several times a day, I feel as though I've gone mute.
Life, of course, plods on, and there is probably plenty for me to write about, but it's a very strange phenomenom to have my brain almost completely overrun by the process involved with creating photographs. Some of it has to do with the physical requirements of photography — particularly when it involves posting to Flickr. My trip to Montreal yielded over 700 images which needed to be pared down to what I felt was worth sharing, then cropped, color/density-corrected, uploaded and titled — a major task in and of itself since I titled everything I shot in Montreal in French!
Since that trip, I've made a couple of long walks 'round town in which I came back with loads more to edit and upload. Everywhere I go, I look with the camera's eye, hoping to see something interesting; looking at the details of this world.
Of course, Flickr is about more than simply uploading photos — at least it's more than that to me. Much time is spent looking at others' photographs and commenting on them... the process is very much a social event that involves people from all around the world. Flickr is truly one of the finest uses of the internet and it has been the place lately, in which I have spent most of my spare time. Okay... maybe not so spare.
I expect I'll slowly but surely begin to find that place of balance with regard to my visual vs. written forms of expression, but for the moment, I feel like I need to follow the photographic flame while it's still hot.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
I leave soon for Montreal for the North American Folk Alliance conference. I'm intending on bringing back a Gigobyte worth of photographs!
Adieu pour le moment. Jusqu'à ce que nous rencontrons encore...
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Winter When She Goes
Rachel Bissex by Matt Thorsen
Next week sometime, I'll be going in to WKAR studios to do an on-air review of Tracy Grammer's new solo CD, Flower Of Avalon, and I received an advance copy of the disc from her record label yesterday in order to prepare for the review/interview with Melissa Ingells.
In a very sad twist of fate, I received a forwarded email this morning that announced the death of singer-songwriter Rachel Bissex, someone I knew, albeit not very well. What little I knew of Rachel I liked. She was a wonderful, warm person with an undying giving nature. A sweet, sweet woman blessed with many, many friends.
Last week, as news came to me of her failing condition, a haiku (of sorts) stumbled out of me:
her flame's hot, white dance
trembles 'round the waning wick
before burning out.
And today, as I read the last few words of this morning's email, the first notes and words of Tracy Grammer's "Winter When He Goes" began filling the room and my ears and, eventually, my eyes.
WINTER WHEN SHE GOES*
by Dave Carter
As the sun is to the city
In the endless weeping winter
So is joy to me in pity
When she leaves me falsely tender
Like the true love's knot we tethered
Plastic ivy 'round the portal
For to frame the spring forever
Though the blizzard took the mortal holy rose
It's always winter when she goes
As a matter of convenience
We don't speak of dying gardens
As a man of heart and lenience
I make liberal with my pardons
I am generous with kindess
She with smiles and exaltations
Though she binds her wounds in silence
I my own impracticed patience
Lest she know
It's always winter when she goes
It's always winter when she goes
She collects the twigs and briars
I stack them up for fire
But it's chilly for the burning
She slumbers in the straw
I hold out for the thaw
For the seasons won't be turning
As I'm writing you this letter
The blue stem's running riot
The daisies break their fetters
And the bees will not lay quiet
If you find her where she's dancin'
With her lover or her jailer
Say in April's splendid mansion
I lay broken by her trailer in the snow
It's always winter when she goes
It's always winter when she goes
It's always winter when she goes
*Tracy has sung (and recorded) the song using the "he" pronoun, whereas Dave originally wrote the song as "Winter When She Goes" — I've opted to use the original form here.
* * *
Unless otherwise noted, all writings on this blog are copyright Patrick T. Power. All rights reserved.
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Thursday, February 17, 2005
20
Twenty years ago yesterday, my first child was born.
I recently asked my mother about the day I was born and got very little from her other than the date and the hospital — information, you might be surprised to know, I already knew! Perhaps my birth wasn't particularly memorable. Perhaps the third pregnancy was little more than like having a wart removed... I don't know.
My memories of Zachary's birth day begin about nine months earlier. Certainly we couldn't be sure, but Penny and I will always believe that Zach was conceived in a cheap motel in the Chicago area, where we had traveled for my cousin Peggy's wedding — the Brer Rabbit Motel. As my friend Caro might say, Appropriate that.
Flash forward to February 15, 1985... Penny and I went to her monthly doctor visit and her doctor was on a call at the hospital, so Penny was checked out by the nurse. Penny was feeling a bit of discomfort that day and the nurse suggested that we check her into the hospital, that she'd begun to dilate.
Sparrow hospital was practically across the street from the doctor's office, so we headed there and checked in. After what I recall was a fairly long wait, Penny was checked by a staff nurse and we were told that she had barely begun to dilate, that we should go home and come back at a later time. So, off we went.
Before we left, the nurse told us that she'd be on duty until 7:00 the next morning, and that we should call her prior to her getting off shift. She told us that she (as well as other prenatal nurses) were trained to recognize the breathing patterns pregnant women make, and that she would be able to tell how far along in labor Penny was based on what she could hear over the phone.
Penny had a rather fitful night's sleep (as did I, then, of course) and at about 5:00 we got up and Penny took a warm shower — also at the behest of the nurse. Just before 7:00, I called the nurse and got Penny on the phone, who described what she was feeling. The nurse told her that we should plan on coming in to the hospital at about 11:00am.
She was, however, getting upset—rightly so—that I wasn't overly concerned about her condition. What can I say? I seriously felt that the time hadn't come yet and tried to be calm about it all.
I really can't recall why, but Penny had asked our friend Linda to accompany us in the birthing room at the hospital. Perhaps she didn't think I would come through as her breathing coach... I don't know. She called Linda over to the house at about 9:00, probably figuring that she'd have to rely on Linda to get her to the hospital.
Fuh!
Penny was checked in and it was determined by nurses that she still hadn't dilated more than a centimeter or two, so we whiled away the time. I made several phone calls to relatives to let them know things had begun to happen and to expect news soon. Penny's family all lived within twenty miles of the hospital, and most of them would make their ways to the hospital before long.
All the while, of course, Penny was experiencing increasing discomfort. Our original plan was for her to go drug-free for the birthing, but at about 12:40, she decided that she wanted the demerol.
At about 1:10, I was on the phone with Penny's sister Clarice, when Linda found me and told me that things were happening. I returned to the birthing suite where I was handed my scrubs and I washed my hands. I was told that within about twenty minutes of being given the demerol, her dilation shot up to ten centimeters. My memory is that at about this time, the doctor made her first appearance in the room. (Apparently, she had a couple other deliveries that day as well.)
The hard labor went fast. The really serious labor began at 1:11 and by 1:26, Zach was born. Throughout the process, Penny had me in a death grip as I helped her breathe through it all. As Zachary squirted into existence, my eyes watered at the wonder of it all. It truly is one of the most amazing things to witness the beginning of a life.
He has always been a talented artist, having inherited his mother's ability to see what he tries to draw. He loves baseball in general and the Detroit Tigers in particular. As baseball memories go, one of my earliest and fondest occurred during the 1986 World Series. Zach was a over a year-and-a-half old and I was watching the Series on television in the apartment Penny and I originally lived in after moving to Lansing from Toledo. At one point during the game, Zach ran a couple of circles in the living room in front of the TV then SLID! It was the funniest thing to see.
My relationship with Zachary has been going through a number of transitions since his mother and I divorced... he's still trying to find his way in this ever more complicated world and I'm trying to find my way with him, trying to be there for him while he goes through his current difficulties with money and roommates; trying to bite my tongue about his wretched smoking habit and his fondness for drinking beer; continually urging him to rely on himself to find his way out of his confusing times.
His roommate is also unemployed and has been nothing but irresponsible for the last two years (as best as I can tell). They're both great kids who can't seem to right their listing ships and all I can really do at this point is watch and hope and perhaps make a few phone calls.
* * *
Unless otherwise noted, all writings on this blog are copyright Patrick T. Power. All rights reserved.
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Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Blog Problems
I don't know what was going on here for the last few days, but when I dropped by to check in on stats yesterday, I noticed that my post from over two weeks ago was the most recent one available. After failing to republish the entire blog, I sent a note to Blogger. They must have fixed something as I'm back up and running at the mouth!Friday, February 04, 2005
Dancing In My Head (Eddi Reader, Part II)
Dancing In My Head — ©2025 Patrick T. Power
I was particularly enjoying Eddi Reader's "All Or Nothing" this morning (actually, I've played it virtually non-stop since last night!) and wondered if I might get to capture a bit of what I was feeling with the camera...
The song is from Eddi's second release as a solo artist (that is, post-Fairground Attraction), Mirmama, a word that combines the Yugoslavian word for peace—mir and a common expression for mother.
Those who know me also know that dancing in public is a rarity for me unless alcohol is involved, and I catch quite a bit of flack for not partaking in the organized dance activities that my folk music organization puts on. I don't know what it is, but I've not been interested in going anywhere for the explicit purpose of dancing since high school. The last time I danced in public was probably five years or more ago when I was seeing the lovely Audrie. We danced in front of the main stage at Blissfest as if there were no one else around. I was seriously in love then, and it was the pull of her eyes and her sweet face that lifted me from the ground.
ALL OR NOTHING
By Eddi Readeraye-ya
I whistled a tune called "Lazy" and I tiptoed a very tight line
all of the time walking backwards, all of the time I was blind
and the only voice I was hearing was yours inside my head
saying "Get yourself back to the kitchen girl,
one true move and you’re dead"
but, I, I, I found out it's all or nothing
all of the time he fiddled, I danced to the dark of his breath
too lazy to crumble and jumble there, over and over he played
and the only sound I was hearing was the one inside my own mind
saying "Get yourself back to the kitchen sink girl,
you’ve blown it one more time"
ah, I, I, I found out it's all or nothing at all
{bg vocal: yes it's over, once you've lost it}
nothing's changed, yes it's over, still you breathe
I whistled a tune called "Crazy" and I tiptoed a very tight line
faltered ever so slightly, all of the time I was blind
and the only voice I was hearing was the one inside my head
saying "Get yourself back to the kitchen girl—
fly to the moon instead"
I-ah, hiya... I found out, it's all or nothing
I-ah, hiya... I found out, it's all or nothing
yes, it's all or nothing at all
fly me to the moon, let me go
nnn-nn-nn-...
ah-ha, ah-ha
higher, higher
fly me to the moon, let me roll among the stars
higher, higher
higher, higher
* * *
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Thursday, February 03, 2005
"Keep Romance Alive!"
Eddi Reader
Every now and then a musician comes along that simply yanks my feet to the stars, and Eddi Reader is certainly one of them.
A number of years ago, Eddi's name was bantied about on a discussion list I belong to, so I checked her out, then bought her then current CD, Angels & Electricity. I was mesmerized by her voice, and I must have left "Bell, Book and Candle" on repeat for weeks!
As with so many of the artists I go gah-gah about from time to time, I spend months listening to their CDs — practically exclusively — then will go months without listening to a single track. But I always eventually return and rediscover everything that hooked me in the first place.
Lately, I've been listening to Eddi as lead singer with the 1980s British pop band Fairground Attraction (Eddi is a Scot). Mark E. Nevin was the primary songwriter for the group (and a great songwriter he was!) but Eddi was the focal point. She might not have written many of the songs, but the songs were hers once she sang them.
Eddi is probably the finest singer I have ever heard. Her instincts are impeccable. The songs come from a place so deep inside her that that it's hard to truly separate her from the song as it drifts from her lips.
Check out Eddi with Fairground Attraction: Moon On The Rain (please right click and save to your computer)
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Meeting The Governor
I arrived at Hannah Community Center and found the band waiting... They were irritated that they had been in town for a few hours but hadn't been informed as to their hotel accommodations. I had left a message on one of their cell phones the day before to call me so that I could give them the details but they said no such message existed.
This was not a very good start to the evening, so I began to think back on the nightmare I'd had about the concert the previous Monday night. In my dream, it was after 8:30pm the night of the show and the band was yet to do their sound check. People who had come to see the show were leaving in disgust; leaving in droves.
Once the band was loaded in, I got them off to the hotel with the plan that they'd be back by about 6:55 for sound check. They indeed arrived by that time, but our crew still wasn't quite ready for them. So, sound check ran a bit longer than planned or desired. People began lining up quite early – before 6:30 and due to the delay, had to wait until 7:55 to get in to the theatre.
As house manager, I decided to make the people wait outside the theatre's foyer – in the hallway/lobby of the community center. My thoughts were that our gate manager, Rita, needed some space – physically and mentally – so I opted to maximize that space so that she could set up and prepare for the oncoming onslaught of people we expected.
During that spell, a rather tall fellow walked into the foyer. He looked rather serious and interested, but he walked past me and Rita and towards the utility area of the theatre. He stopped and came back to me, then introduced himself as he pulled a wallet out of his inside coat pocket and flipped it open revealing a badge. He flashed the badge at me so quickly, and rattled off "Michigan State" something, I thought to ask him to show it to me again... but I didn't. He informed me that Governor Granholm would be attending the concert and that he was there to prepare for her arrival. He wanted to select seats for her and her husband as well as for two additional security people.
Upon selecting the seats, he said that the Governor would arrive very close to 8:00 so as not to create a stir amongst the audience. In actuality, she arrived at about 7:30 and after shaking her hand and introducing myself, I ushered her in to the theatre. This happened in clear view of people waiting to get in, so I was a bit antsy as she greeted someone in the lobby as it increased the likelihood that regular attendees would see her and make a fuss.
The Governor was treated to the last ten minutes or so of Danú's sound check before I was able to allow the rest of the audience in. Later, during intermission, I stopped by her seat and gave her a Fiddle calendar for future reference and joked about putting her on the email list. She asked for my name again – and I walked away not to speak with her again. I was pleased to see that she stayed for most of the show... I think she left just prior to the band's encore.
Groundhog Day
I've got no real reason for posting about Groundhog Day or groundhogs, for that matter, but the local news just made mention of the nonsensical competition between two groundhogs, Punxsutawney Phil and some other one I'd never heard of before. Hell, I can't even recall what name!
I've not been posting much of late as I've been seriously trying to catch up with work I need to do for the Great Lakes Folk Festival, a few other websites and my addiction.
I've also been on the road a bit... I went to Midland, Michigan with Julie, a colleague at the MSU Museum to deliver a weaving exhibit to the Midland Center For The Arts. Midland is the home of Dow Chemical and one of the most dioxin-polluted landscapes in the state, if not the country. I wondered, as we crossed the Tittibiwassee River just how much chemistry has been absorbed by the land and subsequently by people who have lived there over the years.
I wonder how many cancer-riddled employees of Dow have supported, and will continue to support their employer's "right" to contaminate everything in sight despite the health risks — all because their jobs depend on a successful Dow Chemical.
If there is a recurring thought in my head, it's about how we have allowed ourselves to become slaves to commerce. It used to be that commerce was an exchange between people within communities — more as a necessity, a life support model for all parties involved. The profit motive, however, has screwed up all that.
Since seeing Ridley Scott's Alien years ago, I have believed the film to be a metaphor for big business and its modus operandi, which is—put quite simply — profit at all costs. Corporations such as Dow are much like the alien creature in that film — they have lives of their own. They must be fed to survive... they feed upon people and the environment. Executives have no other concern beyond the lives of their respective corporations — again, at all cost.
It's sickening. It's sad. It's fatal. And as far as I can see, there's no turning back. We are addicted to this way of life — "it's the economy, stupid!"
* * *
Unless otherwise noted, all writings on this blog are copyright Patrick T. Power. All rights reserved.
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Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Memory
I've always thought that I've had a pretty good memory. I recall events from as far back as forty-five years ago, although my short-term memory has been taken over by too much information and a life of scattershot interests.As I was reading the third chapter of The Bell Jar this afternoon, Plath's telling of her times in graduate school brought on a memory about memory.
I believe that it early 1978... One day, in Psychology 201 (Intro to Psychology) the instructor took us through an exercise involving long-term memory. On the blackboard he wrote:
1. Command
2. Spider
3. Girls
4. Trouble
5. Eagle
then proceeded to show us how to remember them. Basically, the idea was to take the number, rhyme it with something, then figure out a relationship between the rhyming word and the word to be remembered.
One rhymes with bun — "Get your buns in here!" is a command;
Two: shoe &mdash "spider in your shoe" is an old expression (or so I was told);
Three: tree — "girls drive you up a tree" (my contribution!);
Four: door — doors give you trouble (I guess.);
Five: hive &mdash bees live in hives... eagles have wings &ndash just like bees (another of my contributions).
Monday, January 24, 2005
Johnny
My father died a few days after Johnny Carson's last show... I watched the last show while in the hospital waiting room, which was my makeshift hotel room for a few days.
Dad didn't care much for watching The Tonight Show, always complaining about Carson's "dirty jokes" — like he'd never told any!
Thankfully, he would go to bed at about 11:30 anyway, so we'd still be able to watch the show.
I think that he was more turned off by Ed McMahon, actually, and I'd like to believe that one of his better moments while in the hospital was when I told him that the show was going off the air — that Mcmahon was losing a job.
Of all the many laughs I enjoyed watching the show, my favorite Carson moment took place when Richard Pryor made his first public appearance after he'd suffered major burns from a fire. As Johnny was about to go to commercial, he reached over (as he often did with guests) and lightly touched Pryor on his forearm.
Pryor then recoiled and howled as if in pain and Carson about crapped his pants as he thought he had done something to hurt Pryor. The look on Carson's face at that moment was priceless, as was the look of relief when he realized Pryor was joking.
Most Depressing Day
According to a formula created by a part-time tutor at Cardiff University in England, today — January 24th — is the most depressing day of the year.I don't like Monday 24 January
January has been long regarded as the darkest of months, but a formula from a part-time tutor at Cardiff University shows it gets even worse this Monday.
Foul weather, debt, fading Christmas memories, failed resolutions and a lack of motivation conspire to depress, Cliff Arnalls found.
GPs say exercise and reading up on depression are ways to beat the blues.
"Yes, we do see lots of people with depression and anxiety in the winter months.
"The message is it's not a terrible disorder, people do get better," Royal College of General Practictioners spokesman Dr Alan Cohen said.
"Exercise and bibliotherapy - reading a number of books to allow people to understand their own symptoms and how to control them," were initial treatments, he said.
The formula for the day of misery reads 1/8W+(D-d) 3/8xTQ MxNA.
Where W is weather, D is debt - minus the money (d) due on January's pay day - and T is the time since Christmas.
Q is the period since the failure to quit a bad habit, M stands for general motivational levels and NA is the need to take action and do something about it.
Dr Arnalls calculated the effects of cold, wet and dark January weather after the cosiness of Christmas coupled with extra spending in the sales.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
"Oh, I am fortune's fool!"
Husband Commits Suicide, Then Wife Wakes from Coma
ROME (Reuters) - An Italian pensioner committed suicide after his wife fell into a coma, but just hours after he killed himself the woman woke up, Italian media reported on Saturday.
Recalling the end of "Romeo and Juliet", the 70-year-old man, Ettore, who had sat by his wife's bedside for four months after she slipped into a coma following a heart attack, finally gave up hope and gassed himself in the garage of his family home.
Less than a day later, his wife, Rossana, woke up in her hospital bed in Padua and immediately asked for him.
The northern town of Padua lies just 40 miles from Verona, where star-crossed lover Romeo killed himself believing Juliet to have died. But minutes later Juliet woke up and seeing Romeo dead, stabbed herself.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Violencing?!?
During CBS News' Up To The Minute overnight news program, Ibrahim Hooper, National Communications Director for the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR), was speaking of the bad image that Muslim people have due to the "violencing" by a few.Is no noun safe from being turned into a verb?
Doesn't it just make you want to go out and violence someone?
Jaysus!
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Creative License
I am probably as bad as it gets when it comes to being obsessively pursuant of good grammar, proper use of words, proper pronunciation, etc.I also understand, however, that there is such a thing as creative license, that is, the misuse of words intentionally because of the effect that they might create.
I was just thinking how Paul Simon's song "Homeward Bound" is a perfect example of creative license. The song just wouldn't be the same if Simon were to be grammatically correct. "I wish I were homeward bound", while grammatically correct, doesn't sound as good as "I wish I was homeward bound".
That said, had that line not been the chorus, and had the structure of the song not been so that there was a couple of beat delay between "was" and "homeward bound", I might think differently.
Context.
Loss
by colorlogan1
Yesterday, as I was reading the second chapter of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, I was struck by a thought as she was describing her character's love of taking hot baths. She gave cursory mention to styles of tubs, specifically mentioning griffon-footed tubs.
The thought came about, possibly, because I'd seen this photograph recently as well. In my comments on the picture at Flickr, I mentioned that seeing the photo made me imagine the handiwork of the people laying the bricks; looking at the photograph, I can almost feel the personal contribution of those who built the structure—brick by brick—whereas today's buildings don't create such a feeling in me.
Getting to the actual thought I got while reading, though...
I wondered how much creativity has been lost since we became this overly consumerist society. Everything now is so mass-produced with the idea of (supposedly) keeping the costs down, that there is hardly any true craftsmanship or artisanship (a word?) required.
Not that that—in and of itself—is such a bad thing (although I can't really see all that much good that's come out of it), but I mourn the fact that we have sacrificed so much of our creative energies for the sake of profits and so-called efficiency. I have imagined all the men and women who have come and gone since we have decided that profits are more important to us than is value. What might they have contributed had their creative skills been desired, encouraged, and appreciated?
Is there really any wonder that everyday Americans don't seem to truly appreciate art or the artists who create it? Is it any wonder that art programs are the first things to be cut from state and federal budgets?
People don't appreciate art or creativity because they have been trained not to. They have been trained to produce things instead of creating them. Our appreciation for others' creativity is little to none because our creativity hasn't been nurtured in this society.
In the United States, it seems, that which makes us human—our minds, our intellects, our creative instincts—have been stifled and stepped on. Truly the best part of us—as a people, as a society—has been minimized; reduced to a mere memory recorded by a photograph. What we treasure—if today's spate of "reality" television shows is any indication—is backstabbing and manipulation; our worst traits are rewarded. Our truly creative, cooperative abilities are discouraged.
"Those were the days," we might say. Another generation away, I wonder what will be said when there is very little of value standing.
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