The Breaking Time

Hibernation Time

In the meantime, have some cute

Hello dear readers. As usual, I'll offer my apologies for the dearth of content here lately, and to let you know it will be a bit before more is forthcoming.

I've titled this post "hibernation" because it's going to be a little longer than an intermission. There's a number of really key posts I've struggled to get done for months. These range from explaining a little more what I mean by a Breaking Time, and "There Is No They" to why exactly I focus on power so dang much.

Life hasn't been accommodating. I write here aside from putting in 50-60 hours a week as a working journalist and sadly, that means I don't always get the time to devote to this that I wish.

Also, the lack of time (and resources) has similarly infringed on improvements I've wanted to make here, so I'm going to try to get at least a few of those straightened out too. Here's hoping.

Important things are worth doing right. So I'm going to take several weeks, try to get at least a few of those key posts done, tweak the site a bit and return.

I'll be back,

David Forbes

Bracing for the Storm

"Don't worry, we're all battened down here."

That's my grandmother, assuring me that she and my grandfather are prepared for Hurricane Irene. They're survivors, and weathered worse than this, and with far less warning.

Up the coast, New York is preparing frantically, in part because it's extremely unusual for a hurricane to head straight for it, the way Irene has. But North Carolina is first in its path and in the farm country where I grew up, bracing for storms is old habit.

I grew up accordingly: the northeastern corner of the state sticks out into the Atlantic Ocean like a nose ready for a punch. Hurricanes rolling across the long, flat horizon were a matter of when, not if.

Personally, my family never got the worst of it: our homes stayed intact and we never suffered any injuries, but they made an impression. On the cusp of 17, I waded through flood waters for hours to reach a friend's house. Years earlier, we huddled in the living room while trees fell and the metal roof of a neighboring farm shed flapped like paper.

When hurricanes approached, darting over the weather maps like angry specters, regular life ground to a halt and everyone fell back into old rituals: the thousand steps honed over generations to save lives and calm nerves. We had no monopoly on this: compare how West Coast denizens react to earthquakes. It's human nature.

In less terrifying form, storms were even entertainment. My parents would patiently explain the science behind lightning — both as edification and warning — while we watched distant bolts from our porch, thankful for the temporary gusts of cool air. My sister and I played in fallen trees.

I'm not there now, and on an odd level, it creates a sense of visceral discomfort, because a lot of people I still love are, in South Mills, Elizabeth City, Currituck and Norfolk. Before everything else, I hope they weather this safe and sound. I hope the same thing for everyone in the storm's path.

Storms are also a reminder: for all we plot and plan, there are things beyond our practical control capable of great devastation. Chaotic eras like ours are even more rife with them. From time to time, it's good to take a cue from facing natural disaster.

Keep perspective. Prepare. Stay calm. If hit, get back up. Even storms end.

Want to help spur a dark age? Close a library

My hometown library, thankfully not shuttered yet.

I woke up this morning to this heartbreaking post by Charles Simic:

All across the United States, large and small cities are closing public libraries or curtailing their hours of operations. Detroit, I read a few days ago, may close all of its branches and Denver half of its own: decisions that will undoubtedly put hundreds of its employees out of work. When you count the families all over this country who don’t have computers or can’t afford Internet connections and rely on the ones in libraries to look for jobs, the consequences will be even more dire. People everywhere are unhappy about these closings, and so are mayors making the hard decisions. But with roads and streets left in disrepair, teachers, policemen and firemen being laid off, and politicians in both parties pledging never to raise taxes, no matter what happens to our quality of life, the outlook is bleak.

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I don’t know of anything more disheartening than the sight of a shut down library. No matter how modest its building or its holdings, in many parts of this country a municipal library is often the only place where books in large number on every imaginable subject can be found, where both grownups and children are welcome to sit and read in peace, free of whatever distractions and aggravations await them outside.

I've written here before about the decay of public infrastructure for some similar reasons, though it focused on nuts and bolts like roads and street lamps. Libraries are just as vital a piece of infrastructure.

This one hits home for me. The main family heirloom, passed down by my great-grandfather, is a set of 1912 Harvard classics. My mother, a schoolteacher, found ways to make sure that what ever else went on in our lives, whatever lack of money we were struggling with, there were always books around. Frequently, that was possible because of a public library.

For the short-sighted, it's an easy target. Books, after all, will still exist and, besides, goes the dismissal, there's the internet.

Yeah, no shit. Undoubtedly even the occasional Victorian street urchin had some access to books and outside knowledge, but that misses the damn point.

Libraries' greatest service isn't for the well-off, who can get education and information relatively easily in any era. Instead, its crowning achievement is opening up knowledge to those large parts of society — the unfashionable neighborhoods, the rural swaths — that the tastemakers and futurists usually ignore.

Ignored doesn't mean nonexistent, of course, and for those populations, libraries are a major resource. One, that unlike a lot of other services, doesn't lecture. We're open, read what you want. 

It is the best kind of egalitarianism: available to everyone, relatively cheap, and rewarding initiative. Libraries don't require the upfront cash or monthly bills that internet access does, and are open to non-tech savvy parts of the population. Often, they include local collections or obscure texts that the internet has, for the large part, ignored. Hell, they even open access to that same new media to those who can't afford it.

As if all that wasn't enough, libraries complement the education systems in place, because even if those are magically reformed, tomorrow, there's inevitably things their curriculums will leave out.

Even at points in my childhood when public education was lacking, access to a library took up some of the slack. Thanks to them, I first learned about dueling political theories, Alexander the Great, Chinese history and evolution, to name just a few.

If you think I'm drawing too much from my personal past, consider that there are millions out there who owe the same debt.

The presence of a library, even in the smallest community, is a reminder that the world is more than what's right in front of you, and that ideas aren't just the province of the rich.

History, from one view, can mark catastrophes by the destruction of libraries. For the power-hungry and zealous, the rooms full of books were a threat, or expendable.

Today, we don't need invaders. Just a smug belief in our own advancement, and a blind refusal to pay the bill.

Flowers in the Rubble

That is the first picture I ever took with a cellphone. My ancient, brick-like Nokia, survivor of two runs through a washing machine, had finally died, and I was still getting used to a handheld device that did anything more than take phone calls.

Muttering as I navigated the strange new features, I saw the above scrawled into the powerbox of an abandoned building. There is no lack of graffiti on the streets of Asheville — some brilliant, most of it terrible.

But this struck me. This was not one of the usual tags. There was a calligraphy to it, just a touch of style to enhance the words.

It's gone now, painted over as the same building is slowly renovated. I've switched devices several times since, and the first thing I do is set this picture as the background. It is a rebuke to the old, frenzied shouts of "no future!" Something is growing, always.

Phone breaks

The Metro does not approve

Something interesting happened the other night. Out for a low-key evening with a good friend, we were enjoying drinks when, during a lull in conversation, I heard the text message sound. Making a quick, polite apology, as I saw it was from a family member at an unusual hour, I checked it. She proceeded to do the same with her own phone. After about a minute, the phones went away and conversation continued without a hitch.

No one was offended, and later it occurred to me that I'd seen this process before: there's a socially convenient opening for someone to check their phone, and everyone else in the gathering then does the same. It had amused me as an example of human crowd behavior on a micro-scale.

But it's also an adaptation. Something new and useful comes in — in this case technology that leaves people connected even when out of their homes — that collides with some existing thing people also find important. In this case, that's the need for relatively undivided attention during social time, backed by a widespread perception that intrusions upon that are impolite.

For awhile, the collision is uncomfortable, because the existing social rules don't really have any way to accommodate the new intrusion. While scolding diatribes heralding a new era of vulgarity are inevitable when this sort of collision happens, the new development's here to stay, for the very reason it became an intrusion in the first place: it's useful to enough to become widespread.

This state of flux will often result in some fairly rude bullshit and some angry (even appropriate) backlash, like in the following situation:

So what happens? As with the phone breaks, after much awkwardness, arguments and occasional phone smashing, the rules shift to accommodate. After awhile, social circles develop something like the phone breaks I just described, accepting a greater deal of connectivity than before with some preservation of existing etiquette (i.e. not just any call/SMS is worth breaking conversation for, an "excuse me" is expected). The solutions spread or people end up coming up with largely similar ones on their own. There will still be environments, like movie theaters, where using the new inventions is perceived as completely unacceptable.

This is one reason why I'm often loath to believe statements like Google is making us stupid or cellphones are destroying all politeness. Social fabrics tend to be pretty damn resilient over the long run, and instead of widespread cultural destruction, what usually happens is some broadly acceptable compromise.

Cultures experience some very real, radical changes and the fact that there are a multitude of new devices and shakeups assailing us at once is one of the reasons for this blog's title, but small things like this remind me of how adaptive humans are, and often in the right direction.

Poems for Friday: the Approaching Hour

Full moon over Los Angeles, by Marcio Watanabe

Hello there, readers. I know we've been on hiatus here for some time, as I was first writing every waking moment and then romping around the Los Angeles area for a long-awaited break. Contrary to popular reports, I was not engaged in journalistic derring-do or running gun battles in the Bradbury Building. Really.

However, Along with some much-needed de-stressing time, I got to geek out on art deco era civic architecture and the irreplaceable thrill of exploring a new area. I got to meet Zoetica and the famed Vivacious G in person, finally see an old friend and push my own boundaries a bit. Of course, by the end I wanted more time and there were things I wanted to do that I didn't get to, but at its core, except for a bout with nasty illness at the very end, it was everything I could have asked for and more. Thank you to everyone for your amazing hospitality and general awesomeness.

After that much-needed mental cleansing, I've returned looking forward to more writing and no longer quite as frustrated about a number of stalled pieces. More here, and soon. In the meantime, it is Friday, and so you lovely, patient people get a poem. Here's a classic from William Carlos Williams:

You Communists and Republicans!

all you Germans and Frenchmen!

you corpses and quickeners!

The stars are about to melt

and fall on you in tears.

 

Get ready! Get ready!

you Papists and Protestants!

you whores and you virtuous!

The moon will be bread

and drop presently into your baskets.

 

Friends and those who despise

and detest us!

Adventists and those who believe

nothing!

Get ready for the awakening.

 

I Do Not Believe in Collapse

Know Hope's work in Tel Aviv. Photo by Maya Newman.

It's time to answer this once and for all, because it gets asked a lot, and because it matters.

I do not believe in Collapse.

I do not believe in Apocalypse.

I do not believe in The End.

I believe in turmoil, I believe in death and despair. I believe in greed and hate. I believe in conflict and power. I believe in random chance and stupid mistakes. I believe in problems. All these things exist and the only way to deal with them is to face them head on.

But I do not believe in Collapse, not now and not tomorrow. We look at our own age in isolation, and forget that fifty years ago, or a century, or before, our ancestors were faced by terrors which to them seemed invincible. But there is nothing inevitable about a man hanging from a tree because of his race, there is nothing eternal about illiteracy or absolute monarchs. Concentration camps can be liberated, tyrants overthrown, forests replanted. People can learn. Despite all our multiple failures we do, and we have.

In nigh-every era previous, especially Breaking Times, people saw themselves surrounded by encroaching dooms on all sides, rather from above or from other people. But the world did not end. Even in dark ages, humanity survived and began the bloody trek up to something more, without even realizing it. Hell, we managed to come back from a damned Ice Age.

People believe in Collapse because the world is a scary, complicated place and now, more than ever, we're aware of how scary and complicated it is. So there's a yearning for a final cleaning, something that will wipe all the shit that vexes us away so we can finally sleep off the binge known as modern times.

Fuck that. Realize for a second that there is no Collapse waiting to conveniently remove from us the responsibility for adapting to the consequences of our world. Instead the complexities will multiply and mutate. Instead of oblivion we're actually going to have to deal with these challenges — risks and all — one by one, until something better arises in the process.

We're actually going to have grow up. Ain't that far, far more terrifying?

Yes, but it's also amazing. Because humanity is brilliant as we are stupid, stubborn as we are weak, resourceful as much as panicked. We create so many damn problems, but we can't help ourselves in trying to solve them. Sometimes, we even succeed.

And look at what we have: a more literate populace than ever before, a greater lifespan, the ability to draw inspiration and take warning from a dizzying array of cultures and histories. If ever we had the tools, it's now.

There is nothing certain about tomorrow. But I do not believe in Collapse. We have a future ahead of us, like it or not, and it's past time more of us started dealing with that, instead of expecting an end that will never fall.

A lesson from boiled peanuts

The intruding dish

Growing up, I barely knew what boiled peanuts were. While not unheard of in the sliver of northeastern North Carolina where I was born and raised, they were extremely uncommon. We ate plenty of peanuts, but they were usually salted or whole (which are delicious). I think I may have seen boiled peanuts twice in the entire 18 years before I departed for college.

Last weekend, I traveled back to my home area. On a long drive down to the beach, I saw an unfamiliar site: signs reading BOILED PEANUTS were at every gas station and plenty of restaurants.

You see, while not really a fixture of local cuisine, when Yankees and people from elsewhere visit the Southern Coast, they expect boiled peanuts. So, because there's money to be made, boiled peanuts rapidly spring up everywhere.

In 20 years, they won't just be something sold to tourists, but will have become a fixture of local cuisine. Odds are, a bit after that, few people will ever remember it was otherwise, and many will proudly swear that it has always been thus.

Why am I rambling about this? Because this a very minor example of a process that goes on all the time, everywhere, and often with more important things than cuisine. In fashion, politics, culture, music, religion and every other field we set our mind to, something new and alien comes in, often for mundane reasons.

If the circumstances are right, it takes root, and becomes an accepted part of how we live our lives. If it lasts long enough, people even start rewriting the past to fit it in. What was once a handy invention, an irrational dislike, an easy compromise or an improvised solution becomes a ferociously defended tradition, and few people remember —or, importantly, want to remember— why it came there in the first place. It is more comforting to believe that some things around us have always been there, because that assures us that whatever else happens, they always will be.

So yes, peanuts. Get some whole, break them open, and eat what's inside. Good night.

Intermission, with oysters

Yum

First off, a special thank you to Adriel Hampton and Tim O'Reilly for the kind words via Twitter about my Durable Infection post. That's set off some interesting insights and brought in some new readers. I should offer a welcome to anyone reading over this blog for the first time. For those of you who left comments or sent me your thoughts on the piece, I'd also like to thank you: I'll respond in the next few days and try to give them the attention they deserve.

Because amidst the President arriving in Asheville, I was traveling the opposite direction, to a long-planned mini-vacation in my homeland, the North Carolina coast, where I plan to devour plenty of tasty seafood (including my personal favorite, raw oysters) and relax. Much as a part of me misses the energetic chaos, you have to occasionally set journalism aside, just for a bit, to stay sane in this job.

Posting resumes on Monday. Have a lovely weekend everyone.

Intermission

A Nanga Sadhu, or naked Hindu holy man with his face smeared with holy ash exhales smoke after puffing marijuana at a transit camp on the way to Gangasagar, in Calcutta, India, Saturday, Jan. 9, 2010. Photo by Bikas Das. Via riotclitshave. See this photo in its full majesty here

I'm going to leave you dear readers in the care of this kindly old mystic, as I'll most likely be gone from this space for the next few days. I have to travel out of town to help a friend, and combined with the amount of work facing me when I return, it will leave precious little time for blogging, and I'll probably be mostly gone from Twitter too. Plenty to come upon my return and keep leaving questions, I'm loving 'em.

Take care, everyone.