I was watching a sales pitch from a company I use and whose products I generally like. I pay a good sum of money to them in licensing each year.
They started badly by introducing their new product with the line “Built by developers for developers” and I immediately recoiled. Not only is it a cliche but it is a promise which invariably leads to devlopment being turned into a messy, over-engineered product trying to follow “paradigms”.
Sounds like a great idea to a marketing team.
I have been reading the “views” of Liz Truss with increasing concern. Her response to questions from journalists is infantile. She seems incapable of being an independent and mature person. Every reply is a cheap sound bite aimed at the demographic of Tory Party member and flag-waving scoundrel.
An AI Engine could possibly do a better job of providing her answers – and I do mean that literally.
This snap cheered me up. There is a world out there, I just keep forgetting.
“Ode to a Bear” is not a serious attempt at some prose poem. It was written in under 10 minutes while in bed on a Saturday morning. I could not sleep.
I was reading T.S.Eliot. Particularly Ash Wednesday and The Hollow Men.
There were accompanying notes. The notes are what captured my interest. Had Eliot worked today would we know everything there is to know about them? Even things he may have been unaware of. I shall explain, shortly.
So, truthfully, I decided to scribble something of my own feelings after a fashion. “Bear”, as it shall become known to future generations, was the result.
Prior to reading Eliot I had been reading about the wealth of the Boston Brahmin and a short news article on a wealthy man disinheriting his children so they would have to work as hard as him to achieve wealth.
The Boston Brahmin were a group of families united in attitude and wealth who dominated much of the education, business and real-estate around Boston (and beyond). Eliot was of Brahmin stock. They thrive in the same fashion as all elite, white families seem to thrive through self-preservation. Walled communities of teaching and access. I am avoiding the “C” word since this is an American Tale and such systems do not occur in the US. It is a meritocracy, after all.
It struck me that I would read some achievement and then, immediately, read how it was translated into wealth. I realised all achievement was ranked by the wealth which flowed from it. Political wealth was a real favourite because the power which came with the association was like an Insurance policy. Politicians, many of whom only achieved office and offered no real social or financial legacy, head the list of “Notables”. Undeservedly, in my opinion.
They soon become nothing. Just dustless rows of musty, meaningless men with little to inspire or say. My hero, Thomas Stearns Eliot, ran from his heritage and even rejected his American citizenship in later life.
And I thought and I reflected.
Then I realised that I could check how long I had been reading. Why could I not sleep. How long had I been writing? How many words had I written?
And then I wrote this, in the dark, in bed.
All is material All is matter Is the phrase “does it matter” pertinent? How does the silly poem exist An existential question I was reading Ash Wednesday And in 10 minutes I threw out some parody verse Yet it feels very real to me It is nonsense A middle aged man’s juvenilia Yet it matters. That word again. In Eliot’s case the words have authority and subtlety and they convey an elevated communication. In his case a God. Where did that "God" word come from - literally. Did he write on paper by hand? Did he type? Biographers will know. Perhaps. For me - I am using gestures on a small keyboard on an iPad. An iPad Pro might I add. More value. That is recorded since I sync to the cloud. Also the time. It is irrefutable. The duration. The edits. But before that the record will show that I also read Eliot on my device. I have an electronic collection of all his works. The context can be ascertained. So can my location. Perhaps it does not matter since this writing has no value. Digestible by the bear.
And I realised that, in that moment, my location was recorded. Who was near to me. Literally which room I was in. A map could display my location as I gesticulated every word into existence.
I realised the time was preserved. And the reading material prior to the writing. It is to be found, easily if you have the influence required.
Also, had I drunk wine the night before? Had I stayed in? Did I go to a pub? Was my insomnia due to wine being bought at tea time? The wine I did buy seems likely to have been a Friday night relaxant.
What movies did we watch as we supped the wine? I streamed “‘allo ‘allo” – Series 7. That is recorded. No doubt I shall receive an advertisment for a box set (which I already own).
What had others around me read? Who was around me? When did I finish work? Which iPad did I type onto? DId I make any edits?
And that is a fraction of what is available, at the discretion of others.
My shopping history will show that I once bought, and read, this book:
http://www.jaronlanier.com/tenarguments.html
I recommend it.
All is material
All is material
All opinion is equal
No opinion is unequal
We shall bow our heads
Gaze upon the watch face
Preserve the receipt
Display the receipt
Without a price tag
Is anything real
How can we prove existence
Without price then chaos
How can we have order
A great bear escaped
He ate a whole man
A rich man festooned in jewels
He ate him and all he wore.
Now until all the gold has passed
Every diamond has, too.
Also his cane handle
Much less his fob watch
(Which may still tick)
Are recovered, until then
We shall revere beast not man.
What of the digestible?
The tweed and the silk
The flowing coat of Gore
Such a delicious irony.
For how else should we appraise the man
He has become bear but the material survives
Perhaps his tissue holds value and a price?
He was an older man and of little value.
Such novelty. The auction shall make legend