Something ironic about reporting my quitting social media on a blog.
Today, I deleted my accounts on
Because of all the privacy concerns? It certainly made me rethink my usage.
I am not looking for work. I have not been on Pinterest in five years. I certainly don’t need to curate my reading online.
Is Facebook next? Not sure.
Twitter is it for me.
If there ever was a song I didn’t expect to hear twice in one day, on two different radio stations, it’s Andy Williams’s rendition of the theme from Love Story. (He sang it on The Muppet Show, though not with Kermit, I don’t think.)
Time for my old Juliette digital (!) clock radio wound down. Maybe purchased in high school (70’s)?
There used to be an urban legend about well-made technology being built on a particular day of the week. This radio must have been made on that day- 40 years ago.
Last Rites were given before sending it to the digital graveyard.
A good thing about taking on more than you usually handle is discovering that you can do it.
That doesn’t mean you want to keep handling it all. It’s just comforting to find out that you can.
So long as it eventually ends.
Started cleaning my overstuffed office. (The before picture is shown.) Among the buried treasures (both, interestingly, to assist with navigation):
Most outmoded item- paper roadmaps.
Most useful item: my still valid boating license (“Pleasure Craft Operator Card”).
I love Andrew Wyeth’s painting “Christina’s World”. It tells a story, and yet the viewer gets to fill in so much about that big landscape that we see, and the landscape of Christina’s mind.
I probably first saw it in an art book. My mother framed a print of it for the family den. It formed part of the landscape of my youth, always there in the background. It now hangs in my apartment.
When I go to the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) in New York, I always pay homage to the original. Of course the original is impressive, but a funny feeling struck me the first time I saw it. Along with the sheer delight in locating it (the MOMA is a big museum, and they move the artwork around), there was an almost deflated feeling of- “Oh yes, there it is. I recognize it.” Almost as if the copy I had grown up with were the original, and this version in front of me was a copy- because the copy on my wall was my original. I was used to it.
The dimensions are different. The original is 82 cm by 1.21 m. About twice as big as the framed poster on my wall (45 by 68 cm).
The detail of the original, of course, cannot be rendered in a printed poster. On close inspection, the fine lines of Christina’s hair and the blades of grass in the field stand out distinct, as if raised from the surface of the canvas. As with most original paintings, the colours, though inherently muted in this farm portrait, stand out more vividly.
This idea of what had more value for the viewer- the first created work or its facsimile- was confirmed as I roamed around the gallery, captured in the endless cell phone picture-taking of Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” and countless other classic works. People are more interested in creating their copy (sometimes as a “selfie”) than in simply taking in the original with their eyes.
Original or copy- the images are indelible.
Our parents built our cottage in 1962- an alternative to building a bomb shelter, a real choice during the Cold War. Our mother predicted my brother and I would sell it after her passing. She didn’t think we were interested, we took it so much for granted all our lives.
We kept the cottage, and the land it is on. Just this week, we were busy replacing a dock our parents installed in the past.
Easy to see what we took for granted. The trees that have stood stalwart, never moving, only growing bigger in place.
The trees are still there. We’re grateful for them now. They represent a piece of the earth we get to borrow while we are here, all because our parents had the foresight to buy the land the trees and the cottage are on, fifty-five years ago.
A teacher emerges from the end of term into March Break exhausted, relieved, stunned. When the dust settles, it’s dust that gets noticed. Taxes, dust bunnies, tabletops strewn with papers that were never as important as students’ papers midterm. One hardly knows where to begin.
It’s daunting but it’s a curiously welcome change….