Call me a Luddite, but I admit it - I still don't get it. Where is the appeal, the reason, the need for Twitter in the average person's life?
I'm not saying Twitter shouldn't exist (although, if it didn't, I'm convinced no one would be very greatly inconvenienced), but I remain blissfully unaware of its relevance even to 21st-century life.
Now, I can see how it could be useful in a few niche environments - for someone, say, in the news and/or journalism game (and let's not conflate the two), especially in these days of the subdivided 24-hour news cycle. Everything's happening all at once, everywhere, and it does allow a fast, friendly means to get information out quickly and succinctly, and is even, apparently, a great method of organizing a revolution. (It's also an equally fabulous medium for transmitting misinformation at the speed of light, since, let's face it, by the time your correction/retraction has been tweeted, the original item has gone around the world about 14 times, and is, by it's very ubiquity, "true".)
The very speed which is one of Twitter's advantages is, ironically, one of its downfalls. The daily (hourly, every other second) inundation of data which it permits also makes it difficult to cut through the noise to the significant facts. There are some things which are better considered at leisure, and even blogs can be mulled over and digested in a quiet moment at the end of the day, not requiring the immediate attention which Twitter's endless squawking demands.
It seems to me, however, that Twitter is being not merely used by the general public, but touted as The Greatest Communication Medium Ever Invented. (Umm, it's not.) Companies are falling over themselves to develop 'social media' strategies, forgetting that the first rule of any communication should be, must be: know your audience. For some, it makes perfect sense, but: if the people you're trying to talk to don't get their information from smartphones, why are you worried about whether or not your Tweets are attracting followers?
On the other hand, the Twitterati have rather painfully (and occasionally amusingly) illustrated that some people can't formulate a coherent thought even in as little as 140 characters. What price can we put on the very public humiliation of egotistical celebrities, be they actors, sports figures, or politicians?
There's the strange distortion, too, for those who think that by following a movie star or baseball player (assuming it is them and not their personal assistant actually composing the Tweets) they are actually closer to that person, that they have a relationship with them, that they know them. This borders on the creepy. But it's not surprising, really, in a world where, in some fields of endeavour, people are brands.
Twittermania will, I suspect, blow up rather suddenly when a sizable proportion of the people currently using it realize that it's contributing, well, nothing, to their quality of life or business success, and that it has become, in fact, a medium that primarily feeds itself. It won't disappear, but it will diminish until its scale reflects the population that actually enjoys a benefit from its existence. Then, at least, we'll finally know what it's really good for - and it will be good for something. It will not, however, be good for everything.
But, let's be clear: I don't care what you had for breakfast; I'm not particularly interested in where you are RIGHT NOW!; and I have never, under any circumstances, given even the smallest fraction of a damn about Ashton Kutcher. Go where you will - but I'm not following.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
This Dangerous Planet
It has been, recently, a dangerous time to be a resident of planet Earth. Two perils are abroad at the moment - one, natural, and the other, man-made.
If there is still anyone who hasn't seen the hypnotic, terrifying images of the tsunami wave invading Japan's shores, they must, truly, be living in a cave. Once more, as if we needed any reminding, we have been shown how minuscule are our efforts to tame our wild planet.
Earthquakes, tsunamis, tornados, hurricanes, wildfires, droughts: they have been accosting the planet for as long as we have been here - since before we were here - and it makes little difference if you're modern man atop a high-rise, or a prehistoric cave-dweller. Natural disasters are just that - natural. They are an integral part of living here on Earth, and they don't discriminate between humans and any other animal. When nature strikes, we are all helpless victims.
Unless we chose to relocate to safer lands, those far away from where the mighty plates that make up the surface of our planet meet - and we won't - it will ever be thus. We make a cynical calculation - that the big one won't hit in our lifetime; that our neighbours may perish, but we will be spared - and build our homes, and factories, and powerplants atop the fault, or beneath the volcano, or in the midst of the floodplain. It is a reflection of man's inspiring, maddening optimism - without it, could we as a species have survived this long?
At the other end of the spectrum, we have the horror that people visit upon each other. Half a world away from Japan, the lunatic Gaddafi family are intent upon annihilating the portion of the Libyan populace that won't accept the continued brutal rule of daddy Muammar, and his comparably deranged, equally vicious offspring. What's sad is that, as we gather around our television sets (or, more likely these days, computers and smartphones) to absorb the unreality that is northern Japan being swept bare by an unstoppable ocean, we have distanced ourselves from the all too human, all too preventable tragedy that is unfolding in Libya. How is it that we can be so sympathetic to one group, randomly victimized by the planet's tectonic writhings, and yet so callous when others are deliberately, systematically exterminated by one of our fellow creatures?
The UN Security Council has just voted for a no-fly zone in Libya, but the details of its implementation are sketchy, at best. The military advises it will take at least a week to make it effective, but how that will help the citizens of Benghazi - the rebel stronghold in eastern Libya that is now surrounded by Gaddafi's loyalist forces - is unclear. I hope it's not too late to prevent Gaddafi re-establishing his iron grip on the country, but it's too soon to celebrate.
It's strange: no one argues that Gaddafi is not a lunatic; no one suggests that his actions are anything less than barbaric, and criminal. And yet.
And yet there is a willingness to stand by, to do nothing. I realize that there are many people who, for legitimate if debatable reasons, are uncomfortable putting their military at risk in a foreign country, where we have, arguably, no national interest, and where a successful rebellion would result in the replacement of a lunatic dictatorship with - what exactly? And yet.
A national interest we may not have, but a humanitarian one - indeed, a human one - we surely do. Intervention, even of limited scope, is not without risk, and it is not without consequences - some of which, it must be acknowledged, we may come to regret. But if we allow the opportunity to rid the world of one of its tyrants to pass, for how long, and to what cost, will we regret that?
I'm not, as a rule, a utopian. I will never live to see a world in which the ground never shakes, harsh winds never blow, and waters never rise. These realities are with us for as long as we inhabit this blue orb. But I would one day like to see a world where we offer succour to those imperiled by nature's fury, and more than mere words to people attempting to free themselves from the indiscriminate brutality of their unelected, unaccountable rulers.
If there is still anyone who hasn't seen the hypnotic, terrifying images of the tsunami wave invading Japan's shores, they must, truly, be living in a cave. Once more, as if we needed any reminding, we have been shown how minuscule are our efforts to tame our wild planet.
Earthquakes, tsunamis, tornados, hurricanes, wildfires, droughts: they have been accosting the planet for as long as we have been here - since before we were here - and it makes little difference if you're modern man atop a high-rise, or a prehistoric cave-dweller. Natural disasters are just that - natural. They are an integral part of living here on Earth, and they don't discriminate between humans and any other animal. When nature strikes, we are all helpless victims.
Unless we chose to relocate to safer lands, those far away from where the mighty plates that make up the surface of our planet meet - and we won't - it will ever be thus. We make a cynical calculation - that the big one won't hit in our lifetime; that our neighbours may perish, but we will be spared - and build our homes, and factories, and powerplants atop the fault, or beneath the volcano, or in the midst of the floodplain. It is a reflection of man's inspiring, maddening optimism - without it, could we as a species have survived this long?
At the other end of the spectrum, we have the horror that people visit upon each other. Half a world away from Japan, the lunatic Gaddafi family are intent upon annihilating the portion of the Libyan populace that won't accept the continued brutal rule of daddy Muammar, and his comparably deranged, equally vicious offspring. What's sad is that, as we gather around our television sets (or, more likely these days, computers and smartphones) to absorb the unreality that is northern Japan being swept bare by an unstoppable ocean, we have distanced ourselves from the all too human, all too preventable tragedy that is unfolding in Libya. How is it that we can be so sympathetic to one group, randomly victimized by the planet's tectonic writhings, and yet so callous when others are deliberately, systematically exterminated by one of our fellow creatures?
The UN Security Council has just voted for a no-fly zone in Libya, but the details of its implementation are sketchy, at best. The military advises it will take at least a week to make it effective, but how that will help the citizens of Benghazi - the rebel stronghold in eastern Libya that is now surrounded by Gaddafi's loyalist forces - is unclear. I hope it's not too late to prevent Gaddafi re-establishing his iron grip on the country, but it's too soon to celebrate.
It's strange: no one argues that Gaddafi is not a lunatic; no one suggests that his actions are anything less than barbaric, and criminal. And yet.
And yet there is a willingness to stand by, to do nothing. I realize that there are many people who, for legitimate if debatable reasons, are uncomfortable putting their military at risk in a foreign country, where we have, arguably, no national interest, and where a successful rebellion would result in the replacement of a lunatic dictatorship with - what exactly? And yet.
A national interest we may not have, but a humanitarian one - indeed, a human one - we surely do. Intervention, even of limited scope, is not without risk, and it is not without consequences - some of which, it must be acknowledged, we may come to regret. But if we allow the opportunity to rid the world of one of its tyrants to pass, for how long, and to what cost, will we regret that?
I'm not, as a rule, a utopian. I will never live to see a world in which the ground never shakes, harsh winds never blow, and waters never rise. These realities are with us for as long as we inhabit this blue orb. But I would one day like to see a world where we offer succour to those imperiled by nature's fury, and more than mere words to people attempting to free themselves from the indiscriminate brutality of their unelected, unaccountable rulers.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Art Show: What should we expect?
Had a pleasant afternoon wandering the Art Gallery of Ontario's spacious digs on Dundas St. in Toronto recently. The purpose of the visit was to see a special exhibit entitled, "Maharaja: The Splendour of India's Royal Courts". It presents art, clothing, furniture, jewellery and other objects from 1700 - 1947, when India was ruled by, or at least influenced by, many (many) local princes. (Well, they were kings before the British came, but that's for another day.)
There were a lot of beautiful pieces, and a lot of detailed information. What there wasn't was a story: no narrative thread that tied the whole thing together, and made it more than the sum of its parts.
After touring through room after room of artwork (including some truly beautiful paintings) and objects (the custom Rolls Royce Phantom II is truly automobile as work of art), I was no closer to understanding why I was looking at these pieces. They were lovely, in and of themselves - fine. But what did it mean - in the context of India's cultural history, for one thing, and India's political history, for another? There were a lot of facts, but no synthesis. No "so what?".
OK, it's an art gallery, and shouldn't a consideration of art be objective? To give a story, or 'thesis' to the exhibit would submit it to the subjective interpretation of the exhibit producers - and maybe they've got it wrong.
But, isn't art inherently subjective? Doesn't every work leave itself open to interpretation by the viewer, allowing diverse audiences to draw very different conclusions? Subjectivity is such an integral part of art that having it play a role in the exhibit's design and presentation seems, if anything, to be entirely in keeping with the spirit and values of an art gallery. Besides, the decision of what to put in an exhibit - and consequently what to leave out - so completely introduces the idea of subjectivity to the proceedings that any further objection must be dismissed. Exhibits are subjective.
So why isn't anyone making these exhibits sit up and talk - really driving home an idea or concept that goes beyond the small story each individual piece tells, and instead painting a broader canvas, daring to tell us something we don't already know.
This wasn't the first time I've noticed this. Last year, I took in the touring show on Tutankhamun's Egypt, also at AGO. There was a similar absence of direction in that exhibit - it too lacked a climax to the presentation.
The King Tut display was not, of course, an AGO production, but brought in lock, stock and sarcophagus from an outside company. Which only suggests that this is an attitude that pervades the art world far beyond the neutral-tinged walls of AGO.
And that's a real shame. There's a lot that these paintings, sketches, clothes, and other artifacts have to tell us, not just about their time and place of their origin, but about human beings - and therefore today's society too. I just wish that the curators, art historians, and (doubtless) business-people who bring these exhibits to the public would stop playing it safe, and instead encourage those stories to reveal themselves to museum-goers of the 21st Century.
There were a lot of beautiful pieces, and a lot of detailed information. What there wasn't was a story: no narrative thread that tied the whole thing together, and made it more than the sum of its parts.
After touring through room after room of artwork (including some truly beautiful paintings) and objects (the custom Rolls Royce Phantom II is truly automobile as work of art), I was no closer to understanding why I was looking at these pieces. They were lovely, in and of themselves - fine. But what did it mean - in the context of India's cultural history, for one thing, and India's political history, for another? There were a lot of facts, but no synthesis. No "so what?".
OK, it's an art gallery, and shouldn't a consideration of art be objective? To give a story, or 'thesis' to the exhibit would submit it to the subjective interpretation of the exhibit producers - and maybe they've got it wrong.
But, isn't art inherently subjective? Doesn't every work leave itself open to interpretation by the viewer, allowing diverse audiences to draw very different conclusions? Subjectivity is such an integral part of art that having it play a role in the exhibit's design and presentation seems, if anything, to be entirely in keeping with the spirit and values of an art gallery. Besides, the decision of what to put in an exhibit - and consequently what to leave out - so completely introduces the idea of subjectivity to the proceedings that any further objection must be dismissed. Exhibits are subjective.
So why isn't anyone making these exhibits sit up and talk - really driving home an idea or concept that goes beyond the small story each individual piece tells, and instead painting a broader canvas, daring to tell us something we don't already know.
This wasn't the first time I've noticed this. Last year, I took in the touring show on Tutankhamun's Egypt, also at AGO. There was a similar absence of direction in that exhibit - it too lacked a climax to the presentation.
The King Tut display was not, of course, an AGO production, but brought in lock, stock and sarcophagus from an outside company. Which only suggests that this is an attitude that pervades the art world far beyond the neutral-tinged walls of AGO.
And that's a real shame. There's a lot that these paintings, sketches, clothes, and other artifacts have to tell us, not just about their time and place of their origin, but about human beings - and therefore today's society too. I just wish that the curators, art historians, and (doubtless) business-people who bring these exhibits to the public would stop playing it safe, and instead encourage those stories to reveal themselves to museum-goers of the 21st Century.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Curse of Good Television or, When Bad Things Happen to Good Viewers
It's not supposed to be like this. Quality TV shows, critically-acclaimed and popular with viewers, should, in theory, proliferate, spawning more quality shows. So why aren't the airwaves (and fibre-optic lines) a-quiver with top-notch, gripping entertainment?
The networks are, we all know, focused on ratings and ad revenues, so taking a chance on a series that's a little smarter, that asks more of its audience, is a real stretch for the average executive. ("Hmm, sounds risky. Can't we just do another reality show about people who look like their cats?") But one big hit and everyone's trying to copy it - after all, nothing succeeds like success.
Unfortunately, in Hollywood, nothing exceeds like excess. So, in the wake of shows like Lost, we have a multitude of programs that have large casts, multiple storylines, complicated, long-running 'mythologies', and employ non-conventional story-telling, like flashbacks, and non-sequential scenes. (A brief digression: at what point does the non-conventional become conventional - I mean, is it before or after it's been done to death by a spate of imitators?) And guess what? They mostly stink.
Sure, all the ingredients are there, but this isn't like simply following a recipe and ending up with a cake as good as a master baker's. There are an infinite number of decisions to be made on how the story is told, and even subtle variations can make the difference between the brilliant and the banal. Not least of these is the pace at which information is doled out to the viewer.
There's a fine balance between too much and too little. Audiences can barely wait through a two hour movie to have "the answers" revealed (now you know why you feel like you've seen the movie after watching the trailer) - imagine how much more challenging it is to make them wait three, five, seven years for a resolution to all the mysteries they've puzzled over in their favourite weekly drama. Without regular doses of enlightenment, the audience will simply drift away.
But there has to be something held back. Giving away all the secrets at once, and early, strips much, if not all of the appeal of these shows. Revealing (spoiler alert!) in the first episode of The Event that the 'bad guys' are aliens was gutsy, and likely included to defuse the accusation so often hurled at Lost: "you never tell us anything big". Can't help but wonder, though, how much more compelling a series it would be if there was more to be guessed at. Besides, the audience will always imagine a more personally compelling conspiracy than the writers will devise, so it pays to have them at least somewhat in the dark.
Ironically, episodic television lends itself to this kind of storytelling in a way that other media can't, because of the unnatural pause between weekly installments. The seven-day delay allows for reflection, reassessment, and discussion with friends, or - more likely these days - with a community of fans on a website. Then, back to the tube to see if you were right (and more importantly, to prove that blowhard in accounting was completely off base).
Like a lot of things, it's harder than it looks. As a result, there are many shows that would like to be the next X-Files, Mad Men, or (name of your TV crush here), but they just can't pull it off. Channel after channel is clogged with wannabe's, few of which will survive. (Flashforward? Flashed-forward to its own demise. The Event? Rapidly becoming The Non-Event. Fringe? Well, there have to be exceptions.)
So enjoy these good shows while they're around - you'll spend the next few years channel-surfing to avoid their pale imitators. And, of course, whining about the good ol' days.
The networks are, we all know, focused on ratings and ad revenues, so taking a chance on a series that's a little smarter, that asks more of its audience, is a real stretch for the average executive. ("Hmm, sounds risky. Can't we just do another reality show about people who look like their cats?") But one big hit and everyone's trying to copy it - after all, nothing succeeds like success.
Unfortunately, in Hollywood, nothing exceeds like excess. So, in the wake of shows like Lost, we have a multitude of programs that have large casts, multiple storylines, complicated, long-running 'mythologies', and employ non-conventional story-telling, like flashbacks, and non-sequential scenes. (A brief digression: at what point does the non-conventional become conventional - I mean, is it before or after it's been done to death by a spate of imitators?) And guess what? They mostly stink.
Sure, all the ingredients are there, but this isn't like simply following a recipe and ending up with a cake as good as a master baker's. There are an infinite number of decisions to be made on how the story is told, and even subtle variations can make the difference between the brilliant and the banal. Not least of these is the pace at which information is doled out to the viewer.
There's a fine balance between too much and too little. Audiences can barely wait through a two hour movie to have "the answers" revealed (now you know why you feel like you've seen the movie after watching the trailer) - imagine how much more challenging it is to make them wait three, five, seven years for a resolution to all the mysteries they've puzzled over in their favourite weekly drama. Without regular doses of enlightenment, the audience will simply drift away.
But there has to be something held back. Giving away all the secrets at once, and early, strips much, if not all of the appeal of these shows. Revealing (spoiler alert!) in the first episode of The Event that the 'bad guys' are aliens was gutsy, and likely included to defuse the accusation so often hurled at Lost: "you never tell us anything big". Can't help but wonder, though, how much more compelling a series it would be if there was more to be guessed at. Besides, the audience will always imagine a more personally compelling conspiracy than the writers will devise, so it pays to have them at least somewhat in the dark.
Ironically, episodic television lends itself to this kind of storytelling in a way that other media can't, because of the unnatural pause between weekly installments. The seven-day delay allows for reflection, reassessment, and discussion with friends, or - more likely these days - with a community of fans on a website. Then, back to the tube to see if you were right (and more importantly, to prove that blowhard in accounting was completely off base).
Like a lot of things, it's harder than it looks. As a result, there are many shows that would like to be the next X-Files, Mad Men, or (name of your TV crush here), but they just can't pull it off. Channel after channel is clogged with wannabe's, few of which will survive. (Flashforward? Flashed-forward to its own demise. The Event? Rapidly becoming The Non-Event. Fringe? Well, there have to be exceptions.)
So enjoy these good shows while they're around - you'll spend the next few years channel-surfing to avoid their pale imitators. And, of course, whining about the good ol' days.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Are we having fun yet? (None of your damned business.)
There are, it seems, two kinds of people in the world: those who insist that having a good time is a group activity, and those on whom the first group try to impose their will.
You've seen it (you may have even lived it - I know I have): at a sporting event, or concert, or even at a company party. Some of the people are screaming their heads off, laughing, jumping around, and very obviously "having a good time". Another group (the one I'm in) is smiling, talking, perhaps watching and listening to what's going around them, or maybe just staring at the loud people. Thing is, I'm probably having as good a time as the screamers - I just don't show it.
The Extroverts (as I have chosen to call the screaming group) believe that you can't be having a good time if you're not showing the world that you're having a good time. This is, for the Introverts, nonsense. And annoying nonsense, for we keep getting asked, "Are you having fun?", or advised, "You should loosen up." We're plenty loose already, thank you, we just don't understand why "fun" has to be broadcast.
Which brings us to those inevitable corporate, community, or even family events where someone (and they're usually an Extrovert) organizes a "fun" activity, where everyone has to participate. Has it ever occurred to any of these people, well-intentioned as they may be, that this "compulsory fun" is, for many folks, no fun at all? That is seems forced, and unnatural? Fun should just happen, it can't be planned. I mean, no one sits down and says, "I will have fun now." You can't put it on your calendar - 1 pm to 3 pm: 'FUN!' - and you certainly can't put it on someone else's.
More to the point, if you make us do this supposedly fun stuff, that you enjoy - we don't enjoy it. We stop having a good time, right there and then. Screaming your head off might give you an adrenalin rush, but us - not so much. We enjoy things internally. Don't get me wrong, both are valid. But let's respect our differences.
So, next time you're at a concert, banging your head and yelling, and you turn to the quiet, smiling person sitting next you and say, "You should try to enjoy yourself!", remember that we were - right up until you asked.
You've seen it (you may have even lived it - I know I have): at a sporting event, or concert, or even at a company party. Some of the people are screaming their heads off, laughing, jumping around, and very obviously "having a good time". Another group (the one I'm in) is smiling, talking, perhaps watching and listening to what's going around them, or maybe just staring at the loud people. Thing is, I'm probably having as good a time as the screamers - I just don't show it.
The Extroverts (as I have chosen to call the screaming group) believe that you can't be having a good time if you're not showing the world that you're having a good time. This is, for the Introverts, nonsense. And annoying nonsense, for we keep getting asked, "Are you having fun?", or advised, "You should loosen up." We're plenty loose already, thank you, we just don't understand why "fun" has to be broadcast.
Which brings us to those inevitable corporate, community, or even family events where someone (and they're usually an Extrovert) organizes a "fun" activity, where everyone has to participate. Has it ever occurred to any of these people, well-intentioned as they may be, that this "compulsory fun" is, for many folks, no fun at all? That is seems forced, and unnatural? Fun should just happen, it can't be planned. I mean, no one sits down and says, "I will have fun now." You can't put it on your calendar - 1 pm to 3 pm: 'FUN!' - and you certainly can't put it on someone else's.
More to the point, if you make us do this supposedly fun stuff, that you enjoy - we don't enjoy it. We stop having a good time, right there and then. Screaming your head off might give you an adrenalin rush, but us - not so much. We enjoy things internally. Don't get me wrong, both are valid. But let's respect our differences.
So, next time you're at a concert, banging your head and yelling, and you turn to the quiet, smiling person sitting next you and say, "You should try to enjoy yourself!", remember that we were - right up until you asked.
Monday, November 1, 2010
After the Fall - Is Autumn the most contemplative time of year?
In Spring, they say, a young man's fancy turns to, well, let's call it love. The days are getting longer (at least, in northerly climes), the flowers are in bloom, and there's a reassuring warmth to the sunlight. Everything seems possible. Summer, all blue skies and beaches, is for living, while Winter, well, that's just survival.
But it's another story when evening comes early and fast. The leaves relax their tenuous grip on the trees, and the wind blows with an increasing hostility. Autumn is, indeed, a different beast, and it may be the season that invokes and inspires the most introspection.
The seasons are a stark, annual reminder of the cycle of life, birth through death, and the fall is that late middle age of recollection and regret. Time to tally the myriad tasks you didn't accomplish in the glorious summer, the lofty goals of spring still unmet (that screen door isn't going to fix itself, you know), and to confidently, naively assume that there are things you can still do one more time before the temperature drops and the snow flies - a final round of golf, painting the shed.
It brings a greater appreciation, too, of things taken for granted only weeks earlier. Who hasn't abandoned an otherwise pressing chore in order to take advantage of a beautiful fall day - a walk in the woods, a bicycle ride, an enthusiastic game of touch football? We clutch at these moments because we can't be sure when we'll have another.
Of course, regrets and unfulfilled intentions aren't as easily dealt with as dead leaves. (You can't, for instance, casually blow them onto your neighbour's lawn.) There's always denial, but that's just a means of avoidance, not engagement. It might be easier, for a while, not to look deeply into those regretted corners of our lives, but they must eventually be confronted - to continue the metaphor, they need to be bagged and left at the curb.
I've always felt that a thing should only be regretted if you could, with honesty, say that the person you were at the time could reasonably have made a different choice. Otherwise, you're just wishing you had been someone else - and that's an entirely pointless exercise. Better, then, to accept who you've been, who you are, and, if you decide you'd like to be someone different, or better, enact the changes necessary to make that happen.
Fall - in a year, in a life - is really just a time of transition. And it's how we embrace that transition that defines who we are - and whether our autumn will be red, or golden - or just a yucky brown.
But it's another story when evening comes early and fast. The leaves relax their tenuous grip on the trees, and the wind blows with an increasing hostility. Autumn is, indeed, a different beast, and it may be the season that invokes and inspires the most introspection.
The seasons are a stark, annual reminder of the cycle of life, birth through death, and the fall is that late middle age of recollection and regret. Time to tally the myriad tasks you didn't accomplish in the glorious summer, the lofty goals of spring still unmet (that screen door isn't going to fix itself, you know), and to confidently, naively assume that there are things you can still do one more time before the temperature drops and the snow flies - a final round of golf, painting the shed.
It brings a greater appreciation, too, of things taken for granted only weeks earlier. Who hasn't abandoned an otherwise pressing chore in order to take advantage of a beautiful fall day - a walk in the woods, a bicycle ride, an enthusiastic game of touch football? We clutch at these moments because we can't be sure when we'll have another.
Of course, regrets and unfulfilled intentions aren't as easily dealt with as dead leaves. (You can't, for instance, casually blow them onto your neighbour's lawn.) There's always denial, but that's just a means of avoidance, not engagement. It might be easier, for a while, not to look deeply into those regretted corners of our lives, but they must eventually be confronted - to continue the metaphor, they need to be bagged and left at the curb.
I've always felt that a thing should only be regretted if you could, with honesty, say that the person you were at the time could reasonably have made a different choice. Otherwise, you're just wishing you had been someone else - and that's an entirely pointless exercise. Better, then, to accept who you've been, who you are, and, if you decide you'd like to be someone different, or better, enact the changes necessary to make that happen.
Fall - in a year, in a life - is really just a time of transition. And it's how we embrace that transition that defines who we are - and whether our autumn will be red, or golden - or just a yucky brown.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
On Going Down into the Bowels of the Earth, and Coming Back Out Again
I've never been trapped in a mine.
I have been underground, though, not a lot, but more than once or twice, and it's an experience I recommend to anyone. Sure, we all understand, intellectually, that there's a lot of rock under our feet, and that some of it's (relatively) full of metal. But until you stand in a 4 meter by 4 meter drift, looking up at the narrow vein of copper glittering golden as it runs along the ceiling, you don't understand it viscerally. (Just don't think about the tonnage of rock above your head, if you're bothered by that kind of thing.)
A trip to the underworld starts with the long, dark ride down in the cage - that's what miners call the elevator that traverses the shaft - the only light coming from the cap-lamps that are slung over their shoulders. (Etiquette dictates that you refrain from mounting your lamp on your hardhat in the cage: you'll end up blinding everyone standing in front of you.) 20 or 30 guys (let's face it, even in 2010, it's almost all guys, except for the occasional geologist, or environmental specialist) crammed in together, almost inappropriately closely, and probably all looking at you, knowing you're a visitor, because your hard-hat isn't quite dinged enough, or your coveralls are too clean. And besides, you don't have a lunchbox.
A miner's lunchbox is, it must be said, a thing of wonder. No small square box with a Power Rangers decal like you carried on the bus in third grade, or a nylon bag with a bottle of water strapped to the outside. Miner's lunchboxes are large, ocean-going vessels - great stainless steel coffins with a handle on top, and the promise of a smorgasbord inside. If you see a guy with a hardhat and coveralls carrying a gargantuan toolbox, he's not there to fix the ventilation - he's come to dine.
You drop pretty fast, and there's not much of a view, just a grey wall of rock sliding past, punctuated by the occasional flash of a tunnel. Depending on how far down you're headed, your ears may pop. It starts to smell both damp and dusty.
When you get off at your stop (a 'level', designated by its depth, as in "We're headed to 2200 Level"), you quickly realize a couple of things: first, 50 feet down and 5000 feet down look pretty much the same; and second, it's going to be rather dark should the lights go out. If you ever want to see darkness, real darkness, a mine's the place to do it. Find somewhere with no powered lights, and then turn off your lamp. Complete darkness. Total absence of light. You should see it, once, just to know what it's like. Then turn your lamp back on.
Every level has a lunchroom (no quick hops up to the surface for a Tim's, down here) - a small room blasted out of the rock, the walls painted white, and equipped with a phone, tables and chairs, possibly a microwave, and a water cooler or bottled water. No mere break-room, this: in the event of an emergency, this is the refuge station.
When the alarm is given underground, it's usually in the form of an offensive odour. Stench-gas (ethyl mercaptan, the stuff that makes propane stinky), is added to the ventilation system as a quick and effective way to send a message. Auditory warnings might not work, as many of the miners will have hearing protection in place due to the proximity of heavy equipment, and depending on what the crisis is, the radio network could be inoperative. When they smell the gas, the miners make their way to the nearest refuge station. It has its own ventilation shaft to the surface, in case the air in the mine becomes dangerous, and materials to seal the door if they need to keep smoke out.
I've been in several such refuges, though never in an emergency, but I have to admit, I've never once envisioned being stuck in there, with 32 of my closest and dearest friends, for two months. It's a staggering thought. I'm not claustrophobic, and frankly you're unlikely to meet a miner who is, but it's hard to imagine being cooped up in that size space with that many people for that long and not having somebody go nuts.
Of course, nobody goes underground without the expectation that they'll be back on surface at then end of the shift. If you allow yourself to think like that, working in a mine, you won't be working there for long. Sure, things happen. The power can go out. The cage can break down. Rock moves. (I was once underground when the miner next to me said, "There's an event." I looked at him. "You mean a seismic event?" I asked. He nodded. All I'd heard was the sound you'd make if you hit a stone, lightly, with a rock hammer: a tap. "Not very big," he assured me, "and not close." Still: something, somewhere, had moved.) But they don't happen often, and well, I mean, they won't happen to me. Right?
The stranded miners in Chile, who against the odds returned, mostly unharmed, to their families this week, did have two things working in their favour. One, that they had, in their subterranean prison, each other: miners, men who worked underground, knew the risks, but more importantly, understood the fragile bargain they made each day with the earth to return them safely to the surface. But they also had a world of miners above ground, working to get them out. In a tight spot like this, that's who you want on your side.
I'm sure I'll go underground again, and I won't go fearfully or with trepidation. But I might step off the cage at the end of the day with a small sense of triumph. Or maybe it will just be relief.
I have been underground, though, not a lot, but more than once or twice, and it's an experience I recommend to anyone. Sure, we all understand, intellectually, that there's a lot of rock under our feet, and that some of it's (relatively) full of metal. But until you stand in a 4 meter by 4 meter drift, looking up at the narrow vein of copper glittering golden as it runs along the ceiling, you don't understand it viscerally. (Just don't think about the tonnage of rock above your head, if you're bothered by that kind of thing.)
A trip to the underworld starts with the long, dark ride down in the cage - that's what miners call the elevator that traverses the shaft - the only light coming from the cap-lamps that are slung over their shoulders. (Etiquette dictates that you refrain from mounting your lamp on your hardhat in the cage: you'll end up blinding everyone standing in front of you.) 20 or 30 guys (let's face it, even in 2010, it's almost all guys, except for the occasional geologist, or environmental specialist) crammed in together, almost inappropriately closely, and probably all looking at you, knowing you're a visitor, because your hard-hat isn't quite dinged enough, or your coveralls are too clean. And besides, you don't have a lunchbox.
A miner's lunchbox is, it must be said, a thing of wonder. No small square box with a Power Rangers decal like you carried on the bus in third grade, or a nylon bag with a bottle of water strapped to the outside. Miner's lunchboxes are large, ocean-going vessels - great stainless steel coffins with a handle on top, and the promise of a smorgasbord inside. If you see a guy with a hardhat and coveralls carrying a gargantuan toolbox, he's not there to fix the ventilation - he's come to dine.
You drop pretty fast, and there's not much of a view, just a grey wall of rock sliding past, punctuated by the occasional flash of a tunnel. Depending on how far down you're headed, your ears may pop. It starts to smell both damp and dusty.
When you get off at your stop (a 'level', designated by its depth, as in "We're headed to 2200 Level"), you quickly realize a couple of things: first, 50 feet down and 5000 feet down look pretty much the same; and second, it's going to be rather dark should the lights go out. If you ever want to see darkness, real darkness, a mine's the place to do it. Find somewhere with no powered lights, and then turn off your lamp. Complete darkness. Total absence of light. You should see it, once, just to know what it's like. Then turn your lamp back on.
Every level has a lunchroom (no quick hops up to the surface for a Tim's, down here) - a small room blasted out of the rock, the walls painted white, and equipped with a phone, tables and chairs, possibly a microwave, and a water cooler or bottled water. No mere break-room, this: in the event of an emergency, this is the refuge station.
When the alarm is given underground, it's usually in the form of an offensive odour. Stench-gas (ethyl mercaptan, the stuff that makes propane stinky), is added to the ventilation system as a quick and effective way to send a message. Auditory warnings might not work, as many of the miners will have hearing protection in place due to the proximity of heavy equipment, and depending on what the crisis is, the radio network could be inoperative. When they smell the gas, the miners make their way to the nearest refuge station. It has its own ventilation shaft to the surface, in case the air in the mine becomes dangerous, and materials to seal the door if they need to keep smoke out.
I've been in several such refuges, though never in an emergency, but I have to admit, I've never once envisioned being stuck in there, with 32 of my closest and dearest friends, for two months. It's a staggering thought. I'm not claustrophobic, and frankly you're unlikely to meet a miner who is, but it's hard to imagine being cooped up in that size space with that many people for that long and not having somebody go nuts.
Of course, nobody goes underground without the expectation that they'll be back on surface at then end of the shift. If you allow yourself to think like that, working in a mine, you won't be working there for long. Sure, things happen. The power can go out. The cage can break down. Rock moves. (I was once underground when the miner next to me said, "There's an event." I looked at him. "You mean a seismic event?" I asked. He nodded. All I'd heard was the sound you'd make if you hit a stone, lightly, with a rock hammer: a tap. "Not very big," he assured me, "and not close." Still: something, somewhere, had moved.) But they don't happen often, and well, I mean, they won't happen to me. Right?
The stranded miners in Chile, who against the odds returned, mostly unharmed, to their families this week, did have two things working in their favour. One, that they had, in their subterranean prison, each other: miners, men who worked underground, knew the risks, but more importantly, understood the fragile bargain they made each day with the earth to return them safely to the surface. But they also had a world of miners above ground, working to get them out. In a tight spot like this, that's who you want on your side.
I'm sure I'll go underground again, and I won't go fearfully or with trepidation. But I might step off the cage at the end of the day with a small sense of triumph. Or maybe it will just be relief.
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