Project NATAL: Milo

My husband is a gamer. I am not. He occasionally reads the things I write and comments upon them but because English is not his first language and because he doesn't normally read poetry or short stories, writing per se is a passion he doesn't share. And while I find some games fun--especially word games where you have to construct words out of constantly changing grids or bubbles full of random letters (in which you are timed)--even that reaches saturation level at some point.

But we listen to one another, when one of us gets excited about a certain piece of writing (in my case) or a particular great new game (in his case). And so that's how I found out this morning all about Milo and Project NATAL, Microsoft's new, X-Box360 interactive game that probably won't be available until 2010.

It's the buzz of the Internet today. What's new and revolutionary about this game is that the digital character (Milo) is programmed to recognize you when you speak. ("Hello awyn, how are you today?", I imagine a cartoonish figure walk up, face and address me from the TV screen.) Hmmm.

"Meet your character", spokesman Peter Molyneux explains in this video demonstration. "Feel connected to Milo's world."

The character ("Milo") can recognize emotion--changes in your tone of voice, whether you're happy or angry. That in itself is kind of creepy. (What ELSE does he know about me?)

Not interested in being friends with an 8-year-old boy? Molyneux said there will also be a "Millie" – a female equivalent. Whichever gender you choose, Milo (or Millie!) will form a relationship with you and, if you so choose, other members of your family. Molyneux asked us to imagine leaving Milo on the screen, and allow various family members [to] interact with him. Milo would have a different relationship with each person, and would even reference you (or them) in conversation with the other. In other words, think of Milo as a family friend ... who just happens to live in a box on your wall. [1].

Somehow THAT's even creepier!

You don't need a controller to have this interactive entertainment experience--you can drive a car, simply by turning your hands as if you were turning a wheel. You can paint a picture just by saying the color and throwing invisible buckets of paint at the screen. ("Look, Ma! I'm an artist!")

If you're into interactive playing guitar, drums or singing at the mike along with the Beatles, check out XBox360's new Beatles Rock Band.

I'm amazed at this rampant enthusiasm for increased interaction with digitized images on a TV screen. I tried the Guitar Hero once and it was damn hard. Proved to be more frustrating than fun and not as much satisfaction as say, being able to pick up a REAL guitar and play from memory, improvise, or compose. Not that I can do that--but if I could .... (Gamers everywhere throwing me dirty looks about now, ha ha.)

Granted, it'd be a novel experience, and for those who love this sort of thing, hours of entertaining, interactive gaming pleasure.

What interests me here is the seeming NEED of people to interact--but to do so vicariously. Technology has made it possible for us to do that without ever leaving our house. It affords us the possibility to create our own character, write our own "story", so to speak, and other on-screen characters are able to recognize and verbally interact with us. And now they can even recognize our moods. "Everyone who's experienced it--their hairs are standing up at the back of their head!" gushes Molyneux. Mine, too--but for a different reason.

Comments re: Project NATAL run the gamut from wildly enthusiastic to darkly skeptical:

The cheerleaders:
"This is very exciting stuff, its the possibilities that are exciting."
"I am totally mind blown by this!"
"This is the solution to loneliness everywhere."
"WE ARE SEEING THE FUTURE!!"

The not-so-enthusiastic, "Let's be cautious" group:
"This thing seems totally staged .. and the whole thing is very obviously scripted."
"There's no escapism here. I can do all this in real life, with real people. Microsoft trying to control the frickin world again."
"Amazing, but this could mean the end of the world..."

And then, this comment:
"Its not about making a virtual friend. Think about what this implies: games that incorperate actually being able to talk to characters in real time and have them responding to you based on what's been said. That's an incredible break through in technology.
Though I'm still not getting it, when Milo becomes self-aware we're all dead."

What the video demonstrates is the possibility of "emotionally triggered gameplay". The digital character reacts to what you say and how you say it. Claire (in the video) "perceives" that Milo is worried about not doing his homework (because she "knows" him now) and when she asks him about it, Milo responds by lowering his head. You, as the gameplayer, now realize that you can cause a reaction in Milo. What would Milo do if Claire, instead of being concerned, suddenly starts yelling at him? How is he programmed to respond in that situation?

"Milo ... go fetch me a glass of water." (Will he comply?)
"Milo, who's your favorite baseball team?" (scripto-glitch? What should we have him say?)

I don't know what to say about Milo and Project NATAL. I can appreciate the advances in technology vis-a-vis interactive gaming, but...

What's that got to do with writing? Oddly, I keep coming back to the opposite world of writing fiction and poetry. In fiction you invent a character and place him/her in imaginary situations. You make the character real to the reader (or try to) using words. In poetry you hope the images you struggle to convey will enable the reader to see the whole picture as you see it, or something very close to it, hopefully ... and of course, who wouldn't like to know the reader's reaction? Did your words connect? Were the metaphors recognizable? Did the writing have *meaning* for the reader?

Does it matter?!!
(I mean, if one simply finds it entertaining, or momentarily interesting but then moves on... (so much to read, so little time! ha ha).

If one COULD interact with a digital reader who "recognizes" you, would that count? I'm trying right now to imagine an interactive writing experience where instead of Milo, the digital character is, say, some famous, revered writer.

"So ... what'd you think of my poem, Walt?"
(Whitman's character fingers his voluminous beard and averts his eyes.)

"How 'bout you, Henry? Care to take a stroll down by the pond and compare notes?"
(H.D. chews on a twig and sets off in the opposite direction.)

I see I am having no luck with the dead. They seem adamently opposed to digitization. But imagine this sort of technology applied to interactive writing workshops, poetry slams, or teleconferencing with fellow writers and poets worldwide! Everyone (except you) is a character on your screen with whom you can chat, suck up to, criticize or simply share a coffee with. THAT might be interesting. These are people, of course, with whom you'd orinarily never be conversing, people who perhaps wouldn't even give you the time of day--or are deceased. They're not really REAL. What would be the point. It'd just be another (albeit entertaining) interactive Game.

As the indomnitable Miss Brodie said (head held back, nose in air) to her impressionable young minions: "For those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like."

Okay gamers, just teasing.

Sorry, but I just can't seem to relate to cartoonish characters mimicking real people or digitized actors replacing unemployed human ones. I confess I DO enjoy MadCaps, Greedy Words and Bookworm Deluxe though (a lot!) and find them relaxing and entertaining ... sometimes even mildly addictive ... (did I mention the Need for Speed car racing ones?) but I think I'll pass on Milo and his digital family.

Hey, it's bad enough they have refrigerators that talk to you ("You're running out of milk. The green beans are moldy, what are you going to do about it? That's your THIRD pint of Cherry Garcia this week!"). Imagine turning on your TV, only to see a blank screen and a scolding voice incessantly whining: "Remember, we agreed you weren't to watch Frasier re-runs again until you spent at least two hours working on that novel!!" hahahahaha

[The time I spent penning this blog entry could have better been put to use planting the cucumbers in the back yard and cleaning out the shed. Ah well.]

Over & out....

Dance Again!!

June 5 - 13
au centre ville at Trois-Rivieres, Quebec
Danse Encore
the 15th annual

INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL OF DANCE

Here are some of the Artists who will perform. Click on links below to see a mini-video of their different dance styles:

Vanill É Kola (West African)
Party Time (Hip Hop)
Step Afrika!
Ballet Flamenco Arte de Espana
Tapestry Dance Company (tap dance)
Shaun Hounsell (contemporary dance)
Vanessa Lawson & Jaime Vargas (ballet)

Check here for list of FREE performances outside, this Friday and Saturday night (scroll down).

Little Neighbors

[Photo by awyn]

Play break in the courtyard
talk about Junior's lost stickball
compare the boo-boos on our knees
giggle
lick the sticky remnants of the orange popsicle
off two laughing lips
Let's go chase the butterfly
Nah. Let's just watch.

Hmmm....

Days until an investigation was ordered into the Pearl Harbour attack: 9
Days until an investigation was ordered into the Kennedy assassination: 7
Days until an investigation was ordered into the Challenger disaster: 7
Number of days until an investigation was ordered into the sinking of the Titanic: 6
Number of days until an investigation was ordered into the 9/11 attacks: 411

Amount of mone More..y allocated for the 1986 Challenger disaster investigation: $75 million
Amount of money allocated for the 2004 Columbia disaster investigation: $50 million
Amount of money allocated for Clinton-Lewinsky investigation: $40 million
Amount of money allocated for the 9/11 Commission: $14 million

[From Liveleak.com]

I'm renting a farm!!

farm n. A tract of land cultivated for the purpose of agricultural production

What was I thinking? I already have a garden at the back of my house, several small plots carved out of the lawn that over the past three years have gradually increased so that it is no longer a lawn anymore. I realized the green grassy part the cats love to sit in and my bare feet love to walk on is slowly disappearing. Do I really want to make of my favorite summer sitting place a mini-farm?

Exactly five blocks down the street, behind the soup kitchen, sharing land with a church, is the Friendship Community Garden. I passed by this garden at summer's end last year and was astounded at the number of abandoned, weed-choked plots with hanging, rotted tomatoes and neglected, shriveled peppers. Who would take the time to cultivate the soil, plant and start a garden--and then simply leave it to die?

Only eight people came last week to sign up for a garden plot in the community garden this year. Eight! The monumental lack of interest in taking advantage of this wonderful opportunity, to me is staggering. Here you can have, for a mere $10 [Cdn.] per year, a 15' X 15' plot of enriched, tilled earth that gets FULL sun; a key to the shed, with free rakes, hoes and shovels; barrels full of water available and all the help you need if you have never gardened before. For $15, you can have TWO plots.

Imagine, your own little "farm"--a mere 10-minute walk from your house, where you can grow and harvest your own organic vegetables. How many people living in tin shacks in poverty-stricken countries while their children scavenge among trash mounds for objects to sell to buy food--or dwellers in urban high-rises surrounded by concrete--would give anything to have access to such land. It's not fair, that such opportunities exist but the people who could most benefit by them won't ever get the chance, and the ones for whom they do, simply aren't interested.

My mate asked me if I was sure I wanted to tackle three separate gardens this year--the one at home and these two huge plots in the community garden. "No problem," I said, envisioning the long, neat rows of carrots, beets, cucumbers, chard, radish and lettuce on my newly rented mini-farm.

On Saturday I stopped by to locate my plots, which I marked with some Tibetan prayer flags. One fellow gardener had already planted his onion bulbs and cucumber seeds and was watering them. Another--a 90-year-0ld man!--was stooped over his plot, digging and scraping. Yesterday I spent two and a half hours getting the ground ready for planting and realize it is going to be far more work than I had ever imagined. Every bone in my body ached and I haven't even put the seeds in yet. I can understand now why some might want to just give up. You have to really really want to do this, to make it work.

The advantages to having this second, larger garden:
(1) It's possible to grow more vegetables there;
(2) the soil is richer than in my back yard;
(3) the water barrel's always filled and their shed has more and better tools than I do;
(4) it's located further away from the dastardly Wayagamack paper mill whose noxious fumes and toxic air-borne particulates float daily over the river towards my sector.
And so for all these reasons, I am determined to keep renting these two plots and give it my all.

My main crop will be Swiss chard. It's very rare that you find it in the supermarkets here. On Wednesdays, sometimes at Panier Sante you can find chard imported from California, and at Metro market, sometimes chard produced regionally (but it always seems too limp and lifeless, and is expensive).

There is nothing so great as plucking vegetables directly from the garden, while they're still "live" and eating them fresh out of the earth. So much better than sprayed, irradiated produce that sits in a crate or refrigerated truck and travels thousands of miles to get to you.

I've only been gardening for six years. Before that I knew absolutely nothing about it. People would go on and on about their gardens and I found it boring. About dirt, for example. The Ph balance, acidity, nitrogens; fertilizers; natural ways to discourage bug takeover; but especially about dirt--I mean, really, what is so fascinating about DIRT?

And now I am one of those dreaded people, ha ha. The soil is really important. You don't just throw something into the ground and it grows....

AND YET --

Mitso's Accidental Garden

One summer in Greece we were staying in the countryside and I watched my then father-in-law sweating and swearing over his garden, at which he worked endlessly, planting things in neat, symmetrical rows with the utmost care--and the curses that ensued when the crop did not turn out as he expected.

Meanwhile, a short piece down the road was grizzled old Mitso, sitting on his ramshackle porch swigging ouzo. His method of planting was to (and I actually watched him do this) literally scoop up and throw a bunch of seeds from his chair on the porch and toss them into the air, letting them land where they may. What eventually came up was a little patch of cucumbers here, tangled in with some radishes, followed by a big dusty bare spot there, next to a hilly mound of weeds; some more hilly humps of peppers over there, with an occasional onion mixed in; and there by the fence a tomato plant sharing space with a raspberry bush bordered by the most gorgeous wildflowers---really, it was very hodgepodge and all the more ironic because Mitso's peppers were far nicer looking than Yorgo's (my father-in-law), a fact that grated Yorgo no end.

Mitso, the accidental gardener. We think his garden flourished despite his seeming disregard--because he sang to it. He was always singing, Mitso . They were compatible, he and his land. I can still see him, there on his cluttered veranda, the devilish squint in his eye, waving his hand toward his lumpy, prolific terrain.

I stand corrected. Dirt IS important. But singing to Life, perhaps even more so.

Their words spoke to me. Still do.

Hello Darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again ....

In restless dreams I walked alone
narrow streets of cobblestone ...

People talking without speaking
people hearing without listening
people writing songs that voices never share ...

Silence, like a cancer, grows

My words like silent raindrops fell
and echoed in the wells
of silence.

-- Simon & Garfunkle, in "Sound of Silence"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

All my words come back to me
in shades of mediocrity
like emptiness
in harmony ....

-- Simon & Garfunkle, in "Homeword Bound"

Here and There, Everything and Nothing

A while back I wrote a poem describing what it feels like (to me) to be physically firmly planted in one place but find myself still mentally there in another place that nostalgically gnaws at the heartstrings. Apropos my posting the other day about location disorientation, I revisit the memories but can’t imagine actually living there again because Now is not Then, and I am not the same, and even if I were, it still wouldn’t work because There isn't the same there anymore.

THE THERE AND THE HERE

When you reside in one country
but your heart lives in another…
the Here becomes the new familiar.
What may have begun as reluctant acquiescence
turns to habit
as the Now slowly compartmentalizes
all former knowns.

Sometimes, lured by the pull of nostalgia,
you return to the There,
only to be met with a chill of alienation
wrought by time
and changes,
prompting you to question:
Where do I belong?

You vacillate between the There
and the Here,
between the Then
and the Now,
struggling to hold a life remembered
against the blistering winds of change
that take you sometimes
where you may have never
intended
to go.

--awyn

This morning I came across a poem called “Here and There” by French poet Jean-Michel Espitallier.

I was intrigued by these particular excerpts regarding his take on the Here and the There because it seemed to clarify something that I myself have been unable to articulate:

The world is all that is there... one cannot conceive a universe comprised of there only. However, all that is not here, does not exist... and thus the world does not exist. Save here... The totality of other people over there corresponds to the totality of the potentials of here... Each there is the there of all the other theres at once... The frontier between here and there is not very neat... The statement “I am there” is a logical impossibility.

And he ends the poem with these lines:
"Just one here for two there is a logical aberration. Or is it the war."

[Click here to hear Espitallier read the poem in French, with the accompanying complete translation in English.]

Nicholas Manning’s Review of Espitallier’s Theorem gave me a somewhat more complete picture of Espitallier and his style of writing. I like the way Espitallier pushes the envelope, so to speak. His poems make you think. Of course the problem with satire is that it can get overdone, become the sole costume for which one is known, obscuring the unexpected insights hidden in the play on words that could open doors of perception previously inaccessible. Reading a satirical poem--one starts laughing (or perhaps, as Manning suggests--ending up groaning).

Manning's review includes Espitallier’s poem about:

"Something rather than nothing ... Everything rather than something ... Something rather than everything ... A little nothing in each thing ... All of everything in each nothing ..."

(excerpts, not in order [apologies to Espitallier] , but it’s like a song that if I listen to it over and over again, pieces of the puzzle slowly begin falling into place.

I’m not making much sense. I don’t pretend to understand Wittgenstein, or mathematics “poetically rendered”, or what this particular poet might actually have been trying to say in these poems. It could be that what resonates with me here is applicable solely to my own personal conundrums re: the Here and the There, the foggy worlds of Somethings and Nothings, and existence in general, and the trail threads more to philosophy than poetry.

Sometimes a single poem or story is innovative and interesting enough that you seek out more writings from the author, and discover a pattern--but when the pattern gets sequelized, reader boredom can set in. Not always. Some readers, insatiable, demand more. But for me, when the formula becomes predictable, such that what jumps out at me IS the pattern, not the content, my interest wanes. And that's a shame because the single poem, on its own, is still powerful. The pattern should not be dominating the content. When all one's poems start sounding alike--the impact lessens. (Or does it? I suppose that depends on the poet.)

Linguistic combination and intentional attempts at satire aside, with this Here and There thing at least, I’m finding in Espitallier's poems certain threads that have particular current meaning to me, which is neither here nor there [no pun intended], but it’s helped me understand the nature of the Here and the There, of Something and Nothing, not in the Wittgensteinian sense but more in a kind of Buddhistic sense--if that makes sense.

Perhaps the confusion lies in our frame of reference. You try to understand something and you can't express it in words. Someone suggests maybe you're not using the right WORDS. Let's analyze the words. What do they MEAN? No, let's just be quiet and BE. Stop dissecting and just breathe it in. It is what it is. You feel it. You ARE it. Why do you need to SAY it?

Because.

Can a painter not paint? A dancer not dance? A writer not write?

I’m babbling. How can I express this?

Let's see:

I disagree that THERE does not exist. (Jean-Michel says “All that is not here, does not exist.”)
(Define Exist.)
To exist is to be. (Define Be.)
To have real life. (Define Real).
Be where you are (they say).
I was There, but now I’m Here.

(Sometimes I’m not Here, though.
Sometimes I’m still THERE--the There that is there but now different… that one.)

Which one is a place?
Which one a state of mind?
Does it matter?
All the Theres are me. The Collective Me.
The Here is me and Not-me. Both, all.
My choice.

Espitallier believes that "Today, the poet is no longer the spokesman of the deeper Self – that is completely outmoded. Writing poetry does not mean cutting yourself off from the world. You are right there in it.” [1]

But the "deeper Self" is part of the Here and Now. Be where you are. Be here.
And included in the Here is all the Theres that ever existed--even the ones that don't exist.

Arrgghhhhhhhhhhh.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“It must be the war.”
You’re right, Jean-Michel.
It must be the war.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Some of Jean-Michel Espitallier's other poems:

Monsieur Cossus's Thoughts
History of Amorous Discourse
On Civil War [audio]

Back

I went away for a week and ended up staying a month. Sometimes things happen that you just don’t plan for.

S. is home after 15 days in two hospitals, not quite in the same condition as when she went in. It’s rather disconcerting when the top neurologists can’t decide on a diagnosis, but the suggested one is tranverse myelitis. Transverse Myelitis is a rare neurological disorder for which there is no effective cure. About a third of those afflicted experience good or full recovery; a third are left with significant deficits; and a third show no recovery or get worse. We don’t yet know into which category S. falls. They can’t do a biopsy because it’s IN the spinal cord, and so, way too dangerous to operate. Meanwhile, life goes on … with limited functioning, loss of income and only questions regarding the future. But we are hopeful.

Meanwhile, I got to bond with the grandbubs, especially GB #1.

Kid-facts learned from conversations walking on the way to Kindergarten:

You can put a ladybug in the plastic bag containing your inch-worm collection and not worry about them eating each other because … “They’re cousins.”

If you touch poison ivy, your fingernails will fall off and you will die.

A tennis-ball whose outer skin has gotten wet has forever lost its bounciness and will no longer bounce the same, even if you dry it out. Its bounce-force will never come back.

~~~~

I have enjoyed the little morning walks, through shady lanes under towering pines and spruces, past the manicured lawns of mansion-sized houses on the way to the crumbling high-school-turned-elementary-school that is falling apart, for which they don’t have the money to rebuild.

I got to bed earlier, but still woke up exhausted.
I walked more and lost 5 lbs.
I missed my mate and hearing spoken French.
I was torn between needing to stay and having to leave.
The sounds and images of there still play in my head.

Woke up the first morning I was back, disoriented, thinking I was still there, in Massachusetts.

I miss seeing their little faces--I, J, and V--hearing them laugh and watching them play. I miss breakfast talks with S. I wish I had had more time to visit with A. I miss the daily morning walks to the school.

Here, there, here, there, it’s all a big tangled mesh.

Now, four days later, it’s as if I’d never left. Almost. Time and physical distance are such disorienters. So many images/perceptions accumulated, I don’t know where to start—or even if I will. I’ve missed reading and writing. The arrival of Spring in the back yard.

The small notebook I took has not a single space available. It contains to-do lists, budget projections, telephone numbers, grocery getables, hastily scribbled recipes, herbal formulas, contact reminders, overdue library book dates, bus schedules, rideshare references and occasional “jottings” of a more creative nature. Not even one space left even in the cramped margins.

Getable, as a noun. Not "It is getable" (able to be gotten) but "It's a getable" (i.e., a thing that you can get). It sounds like something Abu's creator would say. [Abu is a fictional character created by another fictional character in an unpublished short story, sitting in my desk drawer, begging for revision.]

Back.

Morning Randoms

The leafless cherry
old as a toothless woman,
blooms in flowers,
mindful of its youth.
-- Matsuo Basho


La recherche de l'absolu ne doit pas sacrifier ce qui la fait vivre.
-- Robbert Fortin (1946-2008)


The day when homeowners devote an entire room in their houses to a library is probably a thing of the past.
Paul L. Martin

Only the hand that erases can write the true thing.
-- Meister Eckhart


A cappy hamper descends
on the cocky roast of Maine,
falling, in one swell foop
into the prior batch.
-- an unapologetic wordplayer, unable to stop :)

REMINDER TO SELF:
Live simply
Love generously
Care deeply
Speak kindly

Wheatgrass is indigestible to humans--
you have to juice the blades and drink it.
It's dark green and it tastes awful
but has an abundance of vitamins, minerals, enzymes,
protein and chlorophyl & contains every
amino acid, vitamin and mineral necessary for
human nutrition. My cats love chomping on it.
Personally, I can't get past the taste.

Some people seek to profit from any disaster.
Last month, the housing crisis.
This month: the swine flu 'epidemic'
"How to Profit Off Swine Flu"
What a mindset. :(


Notes for next week:
uprootedness in culture;
chosen ideological homes;
soil analysis for the veggie garden.
Traduire le livre d'Ani Choying Drolma;
get my energy back!

Good news. S. will come home from the hospital tomorrow!
Yay!
Yay!
Double Yay!!!

Haydn Orgy!!!

Rain today, under gloomy Boston skies.
S. is still in the hospital, 10 days now. We wait for her return.

Meanwhile, during a quick run to the market, from a car radio, such beautiful music, it suddenly surrounds me, it transforms Everything, makes everything bearable. All the gray and gloom and anxiety--for some hours at least--disappeared!! A thousand, hundred thanks for the reminder, from Dr. G., that this is Harvard's Haydn Orgy week, and had I not heard it on his car radio this morning, I might have missed it!!

For anyone who is interested, from Tuesday, May 6 (today) at 5:00 AM through midnight Friday, May 8th and next weekend will happen WHRB's Spring (musical) Orgy. Listen to 175 hours of continuous music, airing most of the complete surviving works of Franz Josef Haydn (1732-1809), in chronological order. [For the complete schedule, click here.]

Harvard Radio Broadcasting Co., Inc. is a private, non-profit corporation operated on a volunteer basis by undergraduates at Harvard College.

Legend has it that the WHRB Orgy® tradition began over fifty-five years ago, in the Spring of 1943. At that time, it is said that one Harvard student, then a staff member of WHRB, returned to the station after a particularly difficult exam and played all of Beethoven's nine symphonies consecutively to celebrate the end of a long, hard term of studying. The idea caught on, and soon the orgy concept was expanded to include live Jazz and Rock Orgies, as well as a wide variety of recorded music.

The Orgy® tradition lives on even today at WHRB. Each January and May, during the Reading and Exam Periods of Harvard College, WHRB presents marathon-style musical programs devoted to a single composer, performer, genre, or subject. The New York Times calls them "idealistic and interesting," adding, "the WHRB Orgies represent a triumph of musical research, imagination, and passion."[1]

What magical music--it soothes, it heals, it makes it seem like everything will, finally, be all right.

Wordbreaks

Root Collections

I'm down in Boston this week, visiting the bubs. Ten days ago there were still little piles of snow in my backyard in Quebec, and a sizeable mound of the hardened, dirt-encrusted stuff still perching on the front lawn. It's all gone now (yay!) but what a strange thing, to go, in a matter of days, from brisk, chilling winds and biting frost to almost 80-degree weather, daffodils and cherry blossoms everywhere, and luscious green grass.

Lots of people in town last weekend for the Bruins/Canadiens game and the Boston Marathon on Monday. It's been raining, off and on, for three days. I've not yet had a chance to revisit some of the neighborhoods here that hold a store of memories of my time here for so many years. It's always strange, walking past a house we'd once lived in, seeing the changes (or that it has remained EXACTLY the same), unable to imagine myself, today, still living there. Times change, situations change--people change. But those memories hold a special place, they come flooding back, in waves of little nostalgic nudgings, evoking surprising turns of reflection.

The word "roots" always signified to me the place of one's birth. But then you leave home and go out in the world and set down new roots somewhere else. You can live in a place 20 years, happily re-rooted and comfortably acclimated, then one day discover a place you immediately fall in love with, feel completely at home in, and dream about living there forever. Not just as a tourist daydreamily musing "I'd LOVE to live here" but something deeper--a great, sincere longing to really always BE there, as in "I BELONG there."

It sometimes happens that you land in a place not by choice but by circumstance, fully intending it to be temporary, definitely not a place you normally would have chosen--in fact, you might at first really hate it. But in time you become accustomed, what was once strange is now familiar; you find, much to your surprise, when you're away from it, that you actually start missing it. You've put down new roots again. It is that way for me now, with T-R.

Home is not a place. It's what I take with me, wherever I go. The memories of past places, the dreams of future places, the nowness of my present place.

Yesterday at the park I overheard a father pushing his little boy on the swings, speaking to him in French. I asked him where they were from and he said, "Senegal." We had a mini-conversation, en francais, and I realized, somewhat to my surprise, that even though it'd only been four or five days that I've been here, I miss hearing French.

Tomorrow I'm going to visit old friends, some of whom I haven't seen for many years. And breakfast in my favorite kitchen in the whole world--S's kitchen--with the domed Turkish ceiling and from whose plant-lined windows one can watch squirrels traversing the limbs of adjacent trees; the smell of warm toast, hot coffee and the hum of a lively conversation, news to catch up on, projects to discuss. I love his house, nestled in a hidden cul-de-sac, the booklined walls, book-filled (from floor to ceiling) hallways, subterranean study, the thousands and thousands of books--everywhere and everywhere; paintings, artifacts from journeys abroad, my most favorite house in all of Cambridge, in all of Massachusetts! Then a train ride out to Concord, Thoreau's old stomping grounds, then back to Cambridge and drop in at the Tibetan store (can a place be an "old friend" too?).

I am unable to post any Boston pictures to the blog until I return because my camera is one of those ancient digital ones that uses floppy disks, and the computer here doesn't have a drive to support them. Pictures to remember a former life, a present-day visit, a thread in a continuing journey.

It was Earth Day yesterday.

Ah, Spring!

Enfin, vous êtes arrivés!!

Anyone Got a Vowel?

Strč prst skrz krk is a Czech and Slovak tongue-twister meaning "stick your finger down your throat." It is sometimes used to judge whether or not a particular person is drunk.[1]

Wearing a T-shirt displaying a script in a "foreign" language is definitely an attention getter. People will come up to you and ask: "What language is that? How do you pronounce it? What does it mean?"

Assuming the person wearing the shirt knows and gives you an explanation, you may pass along and never again encounter another instance of that particular language in print, but some part of you will probably make a mental note of the diacritically marked letters and remember the sounds they're connected to. For example, with this t-shirt message pictured at the right, the letter "c" with a little check mark at the top (called a háček) is pronounced "ch" (as in "chomp")--as opposed to, say, the "c" that has a little tail underneath (the cedilla) in the French language, that's pronounced as a soft "s" (as in "cedar").

This T-shirt can be ordered from Typotheque, a graphic design studio/type foundry located in the Netherlands.

Commenting on the fact that the number of native English speakers is less than the number of native Hindi and Arabic speakers, Typotheque founder Peter Biľak,, suggests that "we should pay as much attention to Greek, Cyrillic, Arabic, Armenian or Devanagari scripts as we pay to Latin."[2] He has acted on that belief, in founding a company that specializes in creating custom type solutions for a variety of applications and languages.

Cool t-shirt!! One day I'm going to get one!

Is Anyone Listening?

This month is National Poetry Month, and I would like to contribute my small part by bringing certain poems here to share with whoever stops by.

Sometimes you stumble upon an arresting image, a compelling metaphor, a memorable phrase, a well-written story (or even--a REALLY interesting word), and make note of it. Sometimes it's good to share these finds with others--you never know when even the most random reference might, for someone, turn out to be particularly meaningful.

In that vein, I would like to highlight a poem I found yesterday morning, written by Charmaine Cadeau, a Canadian poet currently living in Albany, NY. (The word cadeau, in French, means "gift." Merci, Charmaine, for the permission to post your poem here.)

HUMAN NUMBER

If I could fling
open windows painted
shut or charm your second-hand
jeans into forgetting
the shape of someone
else’s body, I would.
Leeward, the northshore, our street’s
melting, park oaks
curved through icycle glass, always
springtime. We’re surrounded by
cloudacrylic, bare
picture hooks.
The apartment floor’s camber:
breastbone, wishbone. Aerial,
corridors are drenched with burnt
toast, furred thuds of mice
somersaulting from pipes
behind plaster walls.
Air pockets caught in the radiators
cry like small-throated birds room to room.
Living here, we rely on gravity and that backstair
force that leads the body to sleep,
draws smugness,
out of love as though it’s venom.
Toys left overnight on the lawn,
next door, ragstrewn, tumbledown,
but at least a yard. Blocks
away, the laundromat and no one makes
eye contact. Before all the neighbors, before
cycles of yelling and silence, we believed
absolution wasn’t meant to be
bittersweet. Our building’s nocturnal,
gargoyled. I sleep in late. Overcast
days, mud-gray mirrors, we shut ourselves
in like a toy that when
spun opens its fists, is all bright tin petals.
For the hooks, I should paint what a boxer
sees when he’s down, spindrift, hard
riversmooth shapes.[1]

-- Charmaine Cadeau

Ms. Cadeau has stated that her book What You Used to Wear is underscored with the question, "Is anyone listening?" [2]

To which I would answer: Yes. Definitely.

Two Little Ladies, All Dressed Up

J. and V.

Easter Sunday, 2009

Daniel Hudon's Life of Dreams

One day, a dream had a dream.
It split off from the collection and went to speak to a man.
It wanted to make the man a deal:
if the man would let the dream inhabit his life,
then the dream would become real.
In return, the man could live the life of a dream ...

Now and then, some dreamers dreamed of such exquisite delights,
and so vividly, that they knew they were dreaming.
They even said so to themselves, "I must be dreaming."
Each time, in this lucid state,
the dreams repeated their offer to the dreamers.
But the dreamers couldn't be convinced to take it seriously.
They awoke saying to themselves, to their loved ones,
to anyone who would listen,
"I had the strangest dream last night ...

One night a poet dreamed that he went to heaven
and saw a strange and beautiful flower.
He was dazzled by its color and intoxicated by its perfume.
The poet loved the flower with all his heart and plucked it.
And when he awoke, he held the flower in his hand.

-- Daniel Hudon

Excerpted from "The Life of Dreams", a short story that first appeared in the Avatar Review (Summer 2008, Issue 10), reformatted and reprinted with the kind permission of the author. Daniel Hudon is a Canadian, now living in Boston, where he teaches science.

Dreams that can dream, what an interesting concept. Dreams, not as a random collection of images and abstractions divorced from reality, streaming forth like a rambling, unedited film while we sleep but as a conscious entity seeking enactment. Here the dream chooses the dreamer, not the other way around. (Not that we really "choose" our dreams; it's more like we go into the movie theater of dreamhood without a script and exit surprised, baffled, delighted or horrified, depending on what transpired in the dream.)

A lovely story, from an interesting writer! It really got me thinking. (And dreaming...) Thank you, Daniel.

But really, you should read the story in its entirety! Also check out his new book just out this month, The Bluffer's Guide to the Cosmos.

[If you are interested in reading more of Daniel Hudon's writings, you can find them listed on his web page here.]

*Artwork by krystiedawn

Farewell old tree

Our neighbors had their tree cut down today.

"Do trees feel pain?"

Some random responses collected from the Internet:

The "No" Group:
-- Absolutely not. Trees do not feel pain.
-- No central nervous system means no pain as we know it.
-- We cannot anthropomorphize trees; they are not humans! Humans contemplate death, trees do not. [Source: I teach Botany and have a master's degree in Biology]
-- No, trees can't feel anything.

The "No ... But" Group:
--I'd have to guess that trees don't feel pain. But somehow they ARE aware of their environment.

The "Yes" Group:
--Pain, not as you understand it. All life responds more to our intent rather than our actions.
-- Yes. If you hurt them, they cry.
-- Yes, and they bleed, too. The sap is their blood.
-- Yes, they also talk to God. They are living beings.
-- Trees do bleed, their sap weeps out when they are cut, so to seal a wound they have sap. It is probably buried right at their core because you always count the rings on inside of their trunks to find out how old the tree was before it was cut down. So maybe their brains are attached to their roots.
--Just because a tree cannot talk does not mean it cannot feel.
-- If I put a cut on the stem of a tree, it will perceive it, as a physiological disturbance or distortion ... then it will try to heal itself. Think about it. If the tree never "knew" or "felt" that it was cut at some place, how would it heal itself?
--Well, once a teacher told me that every time we pull a leaf out of a tree we should pull out a hair of our head, so yes I believe they feel pain.
--If you're pagan or Christian there are spirits in trees that may be able to feel pain.
--I believe that everything that grows must feel some sort of pain.
--Of course they do, but their bark is worse than their bite, so just leaf them alone.

The "Not Sure" Group:

--Well they don't have any nerve cells, so probably not. But then again ... we may never know.-- Strictly speaking, since they have no means of communication with humans, and to paraphrase Wittgenstein, 'if a plant could talk we would not understand it,' we cannot definitively say whether they do or do not feel pain.

The "Define Pain" Group:

--Firstly, you have to think about what our definition of "pain" is. Really, it's just a perception by our brain of an electrical signal sent through our nervous system.
--Pain is very subjective. The only way we can guage pain is to ask the subject, "How much pain do you feel?" This fact pretty much limits pain research to humans.
--The value and deep meaning of pain, emotions, pleasure, etc. are nothing more than the creation of an active human imagination. The reality is that they are simple chemical reactions to stimuli.
--There might be a completely alien concept of pain that applies to trees and plants, but it would probably be outside human understanding.

Comments from a tree cutter:
I've realized something when it comes to cutting down trees:
1. Trees are bigger than they look.
2. Chainsaws are very hard to start.
3. When the neighbor kids come out and see you with a chainsaw and fallen tree and say "Holy [expletive]", it's quite possible you've impressed them.
(Oh and before any tree huggers freak out and email me about killing a tree, it had to go because its roots were growing into the foundation of the house.)

That was not the case with the tree they cut down in my neighbors' lot this morning. It was not too near the house. It was also not diseased, as far as I know. Nor, despite what it looks like in the photographs, was it interfering with the electricity or telephone lines; it stood a good 5 feet behind them. My guess is, they simply wanted the land the tree occupied--for parking or to add to their garage. It appears to be a case of eviction, pure and simple. Terminal eviction.

If a tree fell in the forest, and nobody was there to hear it ... would it make a sound? Philosophers have been arguing this for centuries.

(Does a tree, being chainsawed down and pulverized into a wood shredder, silently scream? NO! (they say), it cannot "feel" anything like pain, much less communicate, silent or otherwise. Sentience, sapience, qualia--all I know is, this tree did not scream. But a passerby almost did, judging from the expression in her eyes on witnessing the chopdown. Me, I just felt sad. It was a nice tree. Definitely dignified, and the home of many feathered creatures.)

I don't know if our little tree out front--"Maurice"--is "aware" or not. We certainly do our best to protect him till he gets a little bigger and stronger, make sure to dig him out of the snowbank in March so he can breathe, etc. The neighbor dog pees on his trunk, the bugs chomp his leaves, his tiny branches are too fragile yet to support the birds, but every year he gets taller and more interesting. I know, I know--I'm anthropomorphizing, but since I planted him (I mean "it") and have been watching, from twigdom on, I feel kind of like his mom. (I mean its.)

"Maurice"

Old trees whacked and mulched; baby trees waving in the breeze ... they come, they go. Just like us. The sea isn't "aware" either. The clouds can't talk. (They spit rain, though.) As for the poor old tree (former tree) across the street -- I know the birds, for sure, are going to miss it.

As will I.

Goodbye Snow

It's going .... slowly. Two days of rain and by next week there'll be only small piles of it left, sinking into the mud, making way for spring grass.

Gray sky, gray day, Wayagamack pumping out its pluffy plumes, a barge groaning its way down le fleuve St. Laurent.

Spring in Cap-de-la-Madeleine.

Who's Who on Whohub

Hi, Awyn

We are contacting you because we have seen references about your work online.

We would like to include you in our directory of interviews with creative professionals and artists.

We invite you to take part in this interview. It is free.
You will also be able to include any web links to samples of your work on the internet.

To start the interview just go to this web address and start responding to questions:
http://www.whohub.net/interview/WRITING

Here, you can find some examples from other professionals:
http://www.whohub.net/en/authors.php

Elsa Wide

Whohub is a directory of interviews with professionals in the fields of communication, arts, technology, and marketing.

I received the above email yesterday from Whohub. Last time I checked, my blog rank was number 12,532,802. Less than 15 people dropped in to read my postings this entire week. So how these people found me to invite me to be interviewed is a complete mystery.

Who the heck is Whohub and why do they want to interview me? I checked it out and basically what happens is, you actually interview yourself. You just pick a category that applies, choose the questions you want to answer, submit them--along with a photo--and they'll post it, in English, Spanish, French, Italian or Portuguese, your choice.

Interesting to see what other writers say about creativity, fictional characters, manner of working, experience with publishing, self-discipline, etc. Some interviews show 14 "views"; others 200. Hmmm. Each time you click on your own interview (to see how many views you have accumulated), that will also count as a view. So conceivably you can work your total up to, say, 400-500 views--if you were so inclined--making it appear you are far more popular than you really are. I'm just saying ... :)

I am a little leery of the proliferation of these social networking blogs. I once joined a temporary blog set up for a specific human rights event and was delighted to see people from all over the world as concerned as I was about this particular issue. But then it got weirdly a little too ... myspacey. Other members immediately invited me to be a "Friend", which meant their photo would then appear on my page. Some members had dozens and dozens of these little photo-boxes attesting to their vast collection of "Friends". I started getting personal email messages having nothing to do with human rights. So-and-so sent me a cutesy card with a mushy poem declaring his affection, inviting me to be his "Special Friend." I began to get spam mail from another member EVERY SINGLE DAY exhorting me to "Check out these songs! Check out this movie! Check out my other web sites!!" and almost weekly from yet another to "Subscribe to my online lecture series". Sigh.

I tried to unmemberize myself, to no avail. "Hi awyn," the website proclaimed whenever I clicked on it, recognizing me immediately. It noticed that I had neglected to include a photograph of myself and reminded me I hadn't put anything into my Recent Activity section--and that I had yet to reply to Member X's invitation to be a Friend. Several months later--the event having long since passed--out of curiosity, I checked back. The website now had another theme--but my personal page was still there, as if set in stone, unremovable.

A whois of the Whohub site shows that it's registered to Jerni Web Development of Miami Beach, FL and so far, the site has collected over 10,000 interviews. Assuming at least half of those interviewed will definitely mention, in person or on-line: "Check out my interview on Whohub!", that'll send a steady stream of a potential 5,000 future Whohubbers to the site who will also want to get interviewed and included as well. (Note though: "Interviews without photos are ranked at the bottom of Whohub's list.")

Can one find kindred spirits on Whohub? Imagine my delight in finding that an Indian blogger at her blog "The Abyss of Non-Being" in listing some of the things that bring her happiness coincidently names the same kind of things I might have chosen if asked that question:

"The smell of burning logs on a cold wintry night"
"the soft rhythmic sound of wind chimes in my balcony"
"the rain soaked breeze entering my bedroom window"
"Smell of freshly sharpened pencils..."
"A deeply satisfying kiss!"
"Buying books, reading books, touching books, and smelling books.
Entering a bookshop ..."
"A loving glance, from the one I love"
"Hearing a child’s squeals of delight" [1]

Of the several biographies I read of Whohub interviewees, the most unusual and intriguing seemed to be that of a countess on the Italian Riviera ("of noble lineage, an author, child prodigy, composer, performer, entrepreneur, former model, head of marketing and PR for Gucci, former advisor to government of Mozambique, arranged more than 20 major Joint Ventures with China, knows 9 languages, visited more than 80 countries, produced movies for Fellini, hosted a radio show called 'Ciao Baby', knows Gore Vidal, writes 6-8 hours a day, has 5 blogs, teaches an Italian course on-line"-[2]--Good grief, how does one top THAT eclectic set of experiences!).

As interesting as they were, however, in the end it was not the authors' mini-bios and responses to the questions but their referenced writings that either maintained or completely squelched my initial interest. Interviews show personality, method, process, and motive. But if the writings themselves disappoint, or the words and/or images fail to resonate, the presentation and packaging, to me, are irrelevant.

Whohub, the Who's Who of webdom. Whohubbing with other Whohubbers in NetHubburbia.

Connection, connection, ...connection. (Or not. All depends on what you want out of the experience. If you've written a book and need to market it, being listed in the Whohub directory might gain additional Internet exposure. It could also put you in touch with other writers who share the same habits, experience, or personal and professional dilemmas, struggle with the same questions, enjoy the same pleasures, admire the same writers, etc. What the creators of Whohub have recognized is that people generally like talking about what they do and what they love. So they've produced a public forum where anyone can tell everyone who cares to listen: "Hey, LOOK at me, look at who I am, what I do/create/write/produce/sell".

The Whohub interviews show you the "who". You have to follow their links and search a bit further for the "what"--their product. So there's something for everyone here: 10,000+ examples of the creative process in motion--first-hand reports detailing origins, influences, difficulties, successes, motive, process and outcome. A treasure trove of material for an inkling as to, for example, how writers write, or painters paint, or teachers teach, or marketers strategize; the thinking that goes behind their choices, the obstacles encountered, the rewards reaped, etc.

Who doesn't like talking about themselves?! Give someone an opportunity and off they go! Whohub has cleverly tapped into that desire by offering a public forum for people to say who they are and what they do and invite everyone to take a look. Their stated goal is to create a social network. One of the interviewees, in discussing the potential of social networks for marketing on line, mentions the advantage of creating backlinks from as many social networks as possible, to one's own site.[3] And while Whohub enables interviewees to connect with one another and encourages their self-promotion, its own site also gets traffic sent to it every time an interviewee alerts anyone to "Go look at myinterview on Whohub!", in turn building Whohub's net presence. What does Whohub do with all the data collected from these thousands and thousands of Whohubbers? (It mentions Datacenters located in Chicago and in Maidenhead, Berkshire, UK.)

Unlike some social networks, you don't actually have to become a member to view the entries on Whohub. And if you're unemployed and looking for work, it's another venue to consider announcing your availability--for example, tweaking the questions and answers presented in such a way as to become your online resume for a particular position (in the event a hirer happens to be looking in). .

The downside is that the site could eventually become so Who-heavy that the urge to be listed as a Who's Who in Cyberland might seem less important than actually getting back to doing what it is you love to do. (The jury's still out, it seems to me, as to whether posting a personal self-interview will bring the type of connections or results one desires.)

Now, although the responses to some of the questions were interesting, few compelled me to actively follow all the links to their respective writings/blogs/web pages, etc., many of which turned out to be unimpressive, rather pedestrian word churnings (this was in the Writing category), or the interviewees themselves were downright off-putting (e.g., an unabashed, self-professed narcissist who plainly states he doesn't care about you, the reader of his Interview, or what you think, reminding you it's really all about HIM). And one interviewee, I noted, took as many as 35 paragraphs to answer a single question, confirming my observation that people really, REALLY like an opportunity to express their opinion about something!

That is not to say there weren't some others whose writings (or links) led me to fascinating places with even more interesting discoveries--they did, and in fact, I plan to revisit--but it occurred to me that this whole exercise (in showcasing people's little histories of themselves, what they think, how they work, who they feel they are) may be just another example of rampant (or inadvertent) ME-ism.

Not that self-promotion is a bad thing. It isn't. It's what some people are promoting that makes me pause. Generally, I suppose, one would go to the category that fits one's profile (although some overlapping is unavoidable here). In my case, I went to "Writing". Oddly (or perhaps not), I sometimes found information or suggestions of more compelling interest in a category I normally wouldn't frequent: for example, Programming (of which I know nothing--but techies advising you on how to protect your computer from viruses provided me a variety of solutions I hadn't before considered. So in that sense, these Interviews can be extremely helpful.)

Okay, so that's my General Impression of Whohub after a cursory glance and a bit of trekking among the postings. But as a programmer from India remarked "Think before you dive in sea, it is not swimming pool."[4].

Also of note: When you try to post a message to any of the interviewees without joining and getting an account set up--a little box pops up with the message: You cannot send a message beacuse you are not a registered user or you are not logged in."

And so, what to think about Whohub? Again, guess it depends on what you want from it. Social connection, self-promotion, marketing potential--all possible. Then again, viewers may drop by, read the interviews, maybe even check out the referenced sites or blogs, and then move on, never making contact. The Whohubber would never know what such viewers thought of him/her or the interview. But it will be there for all to see (at least until the site expires or the domain is bought out by someone else, meaning their name is there forever, so to speak, for anyone to find. All they have to do is google them. Neat, eh?