Chasing the Future

I must admit, here and now, that I am no visionary. Even with knowledge of the current state and an awareness of past development in any given technology, I have never been able to foresee the evolution of it.
Growing up, I was fascinated by future visions.I loved The Jetsons, although even then I could imagine mid-air collisions of folks whizzing around wearing jet packs. Agent 86 and Inspector Gadget were my heroes. I longed for a Dick Tracy watch; how cool would it be to hear your friend's crackling voice coming from your watch!
A sci-fi nut from early on; I devoured novels by Jules Verne, amazed at his foresight. Some of the rocket man type fiction predicted in novels from the 50's had already been realized by the time I read them. By that time, hell; men were already leaving footie-prints on the moon!
Sure, I knew all about computers; my dad had used one at work. It filled a climate controlled room with mysterious metal cabinets, whirring sounds and spinning disks. Wearing the rose-coloured granny glasses of optimism, in the late sixties the future was now, with limitless possibilities. I watched "Here come the Seventies" eagerly and dreamed of living in my Domehome.
On a side note, it is interesting that, in researching this topic I have found that designers of futuristic cars through the last fifty years really have not changed up the vision. Their models all look like elongated drops of water, beautifully aerodynamic but 3 inches off the ground with zero trunk space. C'mon guys..
Anyway..You would think that all this attention I paid to it, that I would have my finger on the pulse of the emerging face of technology.
Yeah; not so much.
In a college advertising course in 1980,we were instructed to design an ad campaign for one of the following: a personal computer, a personal video camera, a compact disk player or a mobile phone. Admittedly that year was pivotal, with development at a peak in all those products which, unlike myself, my instructor was apparently aware of.
There I sat, shaking my head. You gotta be kidding, right? What would anyone want with a personal computer? Why do we need CD players; I mean look at the history there.. 8-tracks were a monumental failure, as evidenced by the stack of them I had collecting dust. My cassette player was just fine. A video camera would be great, but who is going to want to lug around 30 lbs of equipment?
And a mobile phone? Pfft..never!!
I do not at this point even remember which I chose, or how I promoted my product; but I am pretty sure the names PC, camcorder, CD or cellular never came up.
I hang my head in shame.
The upside of this is that I am continuously amazed and surprised at developments in science and technology, which is a wonderful thing. I cringe at my hindsight, and try to nurture my foresight.. but it sure ain't easy.

An Ode to Plus 2

I heard a whisper on the wind.
"Low tonight minus 15,
high tomorrow plus 2"

How can he stand there so blase, so unmoved; I am convinced that the weatherman has no soul.

Plus 2 is wonderful!
It makes me smile and it gives me hope.
I am excited to see an end to mittens and an end to scarves and scraping and sh-sh-sh-shivering and shoveling, and that other nasty "s" word.

The frozen city is slowly stirring, the magic is beginning.

Rock hard roadways and frozen convoluted sidewalks soften into squishy gritty slush. Grimy puddles conceal bone-jarring craters. Winter white snowbanks degrade into jagged grubby gravel heaps.

It is a mess perhaps, but a glorious mess.

On the sidewalks bundled and bowed figures transform, their shuffles becoming strides; their hunched isolation now turning faces towards the sun, and towards each other.

It shames me to say that I am fickle when it comes to the adoration of plus 2. Were it perhaps to show its happy little face in rainy June or balmy July, it would be properly shunned and loudly cursed. Then it would know how minus 25 feels. No-one writes an ode to minus 25.

A scent is on the breeze; take a frost free breath; breathe deeply. Spring is in the air. Sadly, the first waking smells are not crocuses and they are not daffodils.

I glance at the dog, and sigh.

Free to good home: 37 impenetrable pistachio nuts

You know them. They are either completely closed or have such a tiny crack that you will break your fingernails in a painful way if you attempt to do battle with them. I suppose I could try using my teeth, but my relationship with my dentist is a special one; he is a wonderful man that I never want to see.

Could a hammer win the day? Of course it could, but then you are left with a shmooshed pile of nut and shell that requires more patience to deal with than the whole exercise is worth.

It may be a commentary on my personality that I can chose to just consider these remnants to be write offs; an allowable variance. It's ok.. I expect that my purchase of a bag of pistachios will result in a proportion of waste, discarded without too much thought as part of the whole pistachio eating experience.

When first decanted into a bowl, it is easy to pick out the easy marks. They are everywhere, the rough meat peeking out through the split in their smooth hard shells; beckoning. The discovery of those few that have already completely left their shells is exciting, a bonus! Soon though, it becomes more difficult; poke around, find a good one, toss a dud back, flip, dig, flip.

At which point is it time to raise the white flag; to give in and accede that the remaining nuts will defeat you? For me it varies. Sometimes I just chuck the whole lot, having run out of patience. Sometimes the bowl sits for days, as I revisit the dregs, again and again, hoping perhaps that I will find something that I missed.

I no longer rail at the waste or feel cheated, having come to terms with this expectation years ago.
Life is short; too short to waste on lost causes.. You have to pick your fights, and you can't win them all.

Oh... and make that 35 impenetrable nuts.

Flash Fiction Submission

I rarely enter contests, but this one caught my eye. The premise is that the first and last lines, bolded below, were supplied, and the middle is to be filled in; 100 to 250 words.

http://www.cbc.ca/books/2010/12/cbc-literary-awards-flash-fiction-challenge.html

Should be easy, right? Not so much.

I did love the challenge of trying to dodge being led into a creepy snowman tale; it probably didn't earn me any points, but it was fun!


The Snowman

The snowman grinned malevolently as the early spring sun warmed the side of his face, shifting his handsome features, distorting his happy smile. His once jaunty hat sagged. His twiggy left arm, once raised in joyous greeting had already fallen, hanging loosely by his side, as if paralyzed. The baleful sun dipped behind the opposing mountain buying him some time, but he knew it would be soon, too soon.
It's not time yet.
Too soon.

He was born of a high country holiday celebration and then stood lonely vigil over the mountain all winter long. He had surveyed the valley below, watching the eagle soaring in lazy spirals, watching the shadows track across the mountainside. Time had been his friend, day following long day, but now it was poised to betray him. As the moon glittered on the icy white a thought slowly filtered into his frozen mind.
The shadows.
Cool shadows.


The sun climbed higher, warm beams slicing through the thin air, absorbed and reflected. They carved a melting tickle here and the snow shifted there, under the snowman's round form. Slowly he tipped, and rolled, and accelerated. Gravity met impetus as he triumphantly tumbled down and further down. The jaunty hat was lost. His handsome features were gone. None of that mattered in the shadows; he was alive.
Safely buried.
Alive.

The Chase is On

It was a glorious Thanksgiving Day; unusually warm, we can even call it hot. I took the opportunity to tackle a garden project I would normally have just left until spring, and was out in the yard enjoying the weather, happily puttering.

Two doors down, wearing shorts and tees that would normally have already been resigned to winter storage, two teen girls and a guy took advantage of the sunshine and warmth to wash the family's vehicles in the driveway. There was of course a spray hose involved, and pails and sponges . Inevitably, with happy squeals and giggles, a few water skirmishes broke out.

Then I heard a voice from the garage, where mom was working."Have you guys stopped being productive out there?"

I shuddered, and stopped dead in my tracks.

I am not even quite sure why this struck me as awful at all.Perhaps it was just the word "productive", lumped in my mind with the others that rule my world these days; "goals" and "expectations", that seems to have lost their companions - "achievable" and "reasonable".

Perhaps it was a flashback to times with my own kids at that age and stage, where non productivity made for the happiest and most wonderful of memories. Either way, it left me sad for the family's loss. For the loss of the exuberance of youth, the stifling of impulsive fun; for the loss of a future happy memory.

I just saw a billboard. The caption read "Chase unproductive moments". I am not sure why we now are required to chase what used to come so naturally, but I am sitting up and taking notice. You may want to as well.

Patience is the Key

I lost my keys.
Not lost exactly, but I did not know where they were.

They had to be in the house somewhere, the car was in the garage and that could only be if I drove it in there... with the keys. These things happen when you don't pay attention to the little details in life. There is a disconnect between the brain and the body.

Well my body put my keys somewhere and my brain was not impressed.

As a duly deserved punishment, the body then had to wander the house, looking first in the likely places, then the less likely. I am pretty good at this, I even pick things up and look under them. Round and round the body goes, exhausting first all the probabilities, then on to possibilities, stopping short of the impossibilities because that means looking under the furniture.

Nothing. Hmm.
The world does not end, no sleep is lost, they are somewhere.

By morning however, the brain began to feel some frustration and took the body for yet another loop for a second and third look at all the places I already looked. Round and round. Is this a waste of time? Of course it is.
Checking pockets of coats I wasn't wearing, looking in drawers that I hadn't opened; any observer would note that the body is now in automatic; having learned the routine. The brain revs up trying to remember the exact events following my arrival home.

Ok.
Enough.

Just before the panic began to set in I remembered that there is a spare set to get me out the door and to work, because even a primitive life form eventually learns from past mistakes. Another thing this life form has learned is not to try and force the memory, it is a fragile and sensitive thing and does not respond well to pressure. I left it to percolate for the day, convinced it would eventually spit out the answer I was seeking.

It is very easy, once you begin to get older, to stress forgetfulness; to become concerned that if you continue at this rate you might want to tattoo your own name on your arm, just in case. I prefer to view it simply as a very full mind, like a large room stacked with boxes all stuffed full of memories and information. It is all there, it just takes a bit more effort to dig through it all to find what you are looking for.
Some folks, I think, have nice orderly minds, with alphabetized information, possibly colour-coded memories. Mine is a mess; childhood memories interfiled with useless trivia, old phone numbers and a truly frightening hoard of song lyrics. It may need more time, that's all.

Anyway.
A full 24 hours after my arrival home the answer finally meandered in, and it made perfect sense. My keys were in the trashcan in the garage; dropped there along with the road trip refuse in an uncharacteristic fit of tidiness. The real bonus here is that today was garbage day, and if I had not wasted all that time running around looking for them, I would have had the time to take that can to the curb.

City Streets Part 2

I had opportunity to test my road bemusement today, and failed, miserably.
The geography of this account will be easier for local Winnipeggers to comprehend, but the rest of you are welcome to follow along, as long as you sit quietly and don't rustle papers.

Coming off Disraeli towards Main St; already late for work but expecting a bit of a slower commute during rush hour, the traffic slows to a dead stop.
There is a closed lane. I see a sign, some pylons and a barricade.
Sigh.
It is 4:45

I move over to the still moving lane and roll down the window to enjoy the spring sunshine. I am only about a dozen cars from Main St. Shouldn't be too long, right? The folks in my lane are polite and begin to let the trapped cars in to make the turn, as do I.
The traffic light changes, once twice, five times, and I move ahead one car length.
Sigh.
Beside me have appeared another set of trapped drivers, all eager to get to where they are going. And the polite folks let them in. I have a certain amount of tolerance for these sneaks, I have resorted to this tactic myself on occasion, when in a hurry.
Sigh.
It is 4:55

This is about where the bemusement begins to change to irritation, but the sun is warm and the tunes are blasting; life is good. I have now not moved an inch in 10 minutes. One or two cars get through every light change, but I seem glued to the road where I sit.
Beside me appear another set of trapped drivers. And the generous folks ahead let them in.
Growl.
My relaxed pose is begins to leave me, my irritation is steadily morphing into anger. I glue myself to the car in front of me; inching forward one more car length. I am done being polite.
Growl.
Mutter.
It is 5:00

A few impatient cars leave the turning lane to seek an alternate route, but each is replaced by those goddamn sneaks! The lights change, and again, and again.
I could not see far back, but in 20 minutes I guessed the traffic was likely backed up at least to the middle of the freeway if not all the way back over the river.
Growl.
Mutter.
Curse.
It is 5:05

Finally! I reach the barricade, dying to see why we have been held back for; what monumentally important construction or event has held us all back all this time.

Nothing.
There is nothing, no construction, no event.

I thought about all the irritation yet behind me; all those poor people, waiting, growling, muttering, cursing. For nothing.

On went a big grin and the super cape and out the door I flew.
First the sign,
then the pylons,
then the barricade.. I dragged them all up on the sidewalk;
before the light turned green.

And I didn't feel angry any more.