Thursday, October 29, 2009
Place
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Winter wonder--what?
The couple seemed to belong together, a pair that had grown to look alike the way dog's begin to look like their owners. I watched as they drove up to my little car. (And when I say car-- I mean it in the broadest sense of the word. It's really closer to a skateboard with a motor is somewhat... sorta... affectionately called Rusty-ol'-Bastard... or Bucket-of-Bolts when I am really peeved with it. Since both ROB and BOB are derivatives of Robert they are fairly interchangeable, I guess. But I digress...)
Her accent was thick, only moderately mimicking english. "You need a jump?" was how it translated with the added signals that I was sitting in ROB with the hood open and a hopeful set of jumper cables at the ready.
"That would be great!" The kindness of strangers is always surprising but nevertheless welcome when it's 22 degrees, a smothering snow is falling and tromping around my car means wading in icy waters. "But I don't know how your going to get to where my battery is."
The man, with an equally dense accent, leaned out of the window. "Push it out."
Oh right! I'll just give it a little shove! I smirk inwardly. But before I can form any audible protest or objection, the elderly woman (is 60something elderly??) has jumped out of the incredibly American fully-loaded 4x4 Ford truck to position herself in front of my car. "You go..." she signals for me to get the car out of gear or steer or something. I swim over to the driver's side of the car, double check the break and gear so they will not prevent any attempts at moving it and position my feet so that I can pull while she pushes. We rock the car a moment or two and I sense the car relaxing and preparing for a nap. I was all prepared to tell her a regretful "thanks but no thanks" when another man exiting the grocery store sees our efforts and runs around to the front of the damn Bucket of Bolts to help. He digs in and gives us the impetus we needed to back the car out from between the two autos that sat silently grinning at our efforts.
"Thanks!!" I am again speechless with the kindness of the random good deed that occurs out in the big, bad, scary world. The man waves and jumps in his car and takes off, leaving me in the "helpful" hands of my new Russian friends.
At this moment, it suddenly occurs to me that the woman's husband is sitting cozily in the cab of the truck, watching our attempt to get the car out of the parking space, but I'm too intent on getting the car going to really give any serious thought-- sick? handicapped? The man's door opens and he lowers himself down to the ground, signalling something to his little wife. Hmmm... not handicapped...
Raise the hood. Get the jumper cables on the battery. "red negative, black positive" I say over my shoulder.
He attaches the cables to his battery and signals that I should jump in the car to start it. A miniature fireworks display goes on under the hood of ROB. A second later he holds up a melted cable line and the clamp falls into the snow. "Broken!" He looks at me expectantly like a child saying "you broke it!"
Right! Well, now we know what happens when you don't connect the cables positive to positive, negative to negative. Go in get new cables from King Soopers (Thank god King soopers believes in having a little bit of everything!). Rush back out to the waiting couple-- wait! waiting woman. No sign of her husband.
I hand her the cables thinking her husband will appear to connect the cables and I can start the car. "You connect" she says after unraveling them and quickly giving them back.
Okay, I'm a modern woman. I can take care of myself and if they don't mind my touching their truck, then I can make sure we don't burn through another set of cables. Connect red to red, black to black (Their battery is actually color coded- mine is not. Thus the confusion??? Maybe?? Whatever the problem, sparks are a bad thing.) Touch my clamp to the battery. No sparks-- shew. Engine starts. SHEW!!!
"Thanks so much for your help!" I give the pedal another nudge to ensure the car does't give up it's fingerhold on life again.
"It starts?" She peers under the hood surprised.
"Yup! We can take these off." now I can get out of here! I pull off the cables and wrench the hood shut. She waves over toward the dimly lit sidewalk where her husband stands... waiting... out of the snow and slush...?
He tromps over and peers in the car. "It works?"
"It works," I nod and give the engine a little gas to prove it's capable of a producing sound. "Thanks so much for your help!"
"Sure, sure" he nods and waves. I begin backing out of the spot we'd angled the car into and turn just in time to see the man lift his foot toward his wife. She bends down and brushes at his shoe and adjusts the King Soopers bag that apparently shields his foot from the damp. He stands erect and quiet, a hand gently on the woman's bent shoulder to balance himself, offended at the elements, proud of his sacrifice.
Her accent was thick, only moderately mimicking english. "You need a jump?" was how it translated with the added signals that I was sitting in ROB with the hood open and a hopeful set of jumper cables at the ready.
"That would be great!" The kindness of strangers is always surprising but nevertheless welcome when it's 22 degrees, a smothering snow is falling and tromping around my car means wading in icy waters. "But I don't know how your going to get to where my battery is."
The man, with an equally dense accent, leaned out of the window. "Push it out."
Oh right! I'll just give it a little shove! I smirk inwardly. But before I can form any audible protest or objection, the elderly woman (is 60something elderly??) has jumped out of the incredibly American fully-loaded 4x4 Ford truck to position herself in front of my car. "You go..." she signals for me to get the car out of gear or steer or something. I swim over to the driver's side of the car, double check the break and gear so they will not prevent any attempts at moving it and position my feet so that I can pull while she pushes. We rock the car a moment or two and I sense the car relaxing and preparing for a nap. I was all prepared to tell her a regretful "thanks but no thanks" when another man exiting the grocery store sees our efforts and runs around to the front of the damn Bucket of Bolts to help. He digs in and gives us the impetus we needed to back the car out from between the two autos that sat silently grinning at our efforts.
"Thanks!!" I am again speechless with the kindness of the random good deed that occurs out in the big, bad, scary world. The man waves and jumps in his car and takes off, leaving me in the "helpful" hands of my new Russian friends.
At this moment, it suddenly occurs to me that the woman's husband is sitting cozily in the cab of the truck, watching our attempt to get the car out of the parking space, but I'm too intent on getting the car going to really give any serious thought-- sick? handicapped? The man's door opens and he lowers himself down to the ground, signalling something to his little wife. Hmmm... not handicapped...
Raise the hood. Get the jumper cables on the battery. "red negative, black positive" I say over my shoulder.
He attaches the cables to his battery and signals that I should jump in the car to start it. A miniature fireworks display goes on under the hood of ROB. A second later he holds up a melted cable line and the clamp falls into the snow. "Broken!" He looks at me expectantly like a child saying "you broke it!"
Right! Well, now we know what happens when you don't connect the cables positive to positive, negative to negative. Go in get new cables from King Soopers (Thank god King soopers believes in having a little bit of everything!). Rush back out to the waiting couple-- wait! waiting woman. No sign of her husband.
I hand her the cables thinking her husband will appear to connect the cables and I can start the car. "You connect" she says after unraveling them and quickly giving them back.
Okay, I'm a modern woman. I can take care of myself and if they don't mind my touching their truck, then I can make sure we don't burn through another set of cables. Connect red to red, black to black (Their battery is actually color coded- mine is not. Thus the confusion??? Maybe?? Whatever the problem, sparks are a bad thing.) Touch my clamp to the battery. No sparks-- shew. Engine starts. SHEW!!!
"Thanks so much for your help!" I give the pedal another nudge to ensure the car does't give up it's fingerhold on life again.
"It starts?" She peers under the hood surprised.
"Yup! We can take these off." now I can get out of here! I pull off the cables and wrench the hood shut. She waves over toward the dimly lit sidewalk where her husband stands... waiting... out of the snow and slush...?
He tromps over and peers in the car. "It works?"
"It works," I nod and give the engine a little gas to prove it's capable of a producing sound. "Thanks so much for your help!"
"Sure, sure" he nods and waves. I begin backing out of the spot we'd angled the car into and turn just in time to see the man lift his foot toward his wife. She bends down and brushes at his shoe and adjusts the King Soopers bag that apparently shields his foot from the damp. He stands erect and quiet, a hand gently on the woman's bent shoulder to balance himself, offended at the elements, proud of his sacrifice.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Strong words
If I wrote down all the abuses of my childhood, you, dear reader would say something like: "I'm so sorry that happened to you. What a terrible thing! I guess I was lucky." Well, you were. But that aside, my story is just one in a million. Perhaps one in a billion. There are many, MANY other women who were and are being raised in homes where religious fundamentalism is the way that life is ordered. Many of them would read my blog and become angry- defend their upbringing and their faith. Some of them would try and cajole me into believing that they are happy and their faith gives them a better life. I am not going to argue with someone who has been fed lies by the people that a woman loves and trusts the most and I have no animosity toward such a person.
But I would and do argue with those that have chosen to hold their faith more lightly, to have it be a peripheral part of their existence all the while ignoring the abuses that occur in the guise of god's love. Let's not talk about the actual documented abuses of the church: priests who bugger boys, pastors who have affairs with women they are counseling, church leaders who rile their congregation up to such an extent that they will vote against the actual human rights of another. Those issues we all look at and shake our heads, a little confused by the extremes and helpless to know how to change it.
No, I am talking about the more subtle, personal abuses that occur in the guise of trying to live according to a book that originated two thousand years ago and has been modified by thousands of theologians to try and keep it relevant so that they can maintain their religious structures. What this produces on an individual level-- on a family to family to family basis, is a delicate system of maltreatment that goes on without so much as a pause by onlookers. To please god, missionaries will move to rugged and dangerous parts of the world, and then put their children in boarding schools, thus abdicating their responsibilities as parents and is plainly and simply neglect. To fulfill the mission for "love" and "forgiveness", people will leave their children among family members who are abusive-- sometimes physically but even sexually. So that they can be righteous, they will follow the co-called moral "guidelines" of the church and turn their back on their own children if they are gay. Or worse they'll put them in a program to "fix" them. In the name of religious purity and piety, honor killings occur at a frightening rate.
And these are still the more overt and obvious abuses that occur--. And once again, you can shake your head at the extremities, feeling a bit helpless and concerned. But here's the reality: these extremists are protected-- shielded by their less zealous counterparts.
But we have not even begun to talk about how all mainstream religions maintain a patriarchal system that destroys even the most cherished of daughters. When god is a man (and god is always a man), there is simply no way to keep from raising your little girls without a sense of alienation and strangeness. Before the little one even begins to form Personhood, she is given an innate sense of her own devaluation. And boys... well, what are they not entitled to having been made in god's own image? And if, as a boy, you don't meet the standard of the cultural code for what god expects you to be... (i.e. gay) then you really are not worth much more than a woman. And let's not even talk about lesbians!
I don't care how well intentioned you are. When you look the other way at the kind of abuse that is committed in the name of religion ( and it doesn't matter what religion you are talking about), you are part of that system. And whatever small amount of good you receive from your occasional spiritual massage, you are getting it with blood on your hands as surely as the extremists who commit the actual act.
But I would and do argue with those that have chosen to hold their faith more lightly, to have it be a peripheral part of their existence all the while ignoring the abuses that occur in the guise of god's love. Let's not talk about the actual documented abuses of the church: priests who bugger boys, pastors who have affairs with women they are counseling, church leaders who rile their congregation up to such an extent that they will vote against the actual human rights of another. Those issues we all look at and shake our heads, a little confused by the extremes and helpless to know how to change it.
No, I am talking about the more subtle, personal abuses that occur in the guise of trying to live according to a book that originated two thousand years ago and has been modified by thousands of theologians to try and keep it relevant so that they can maintain their religious structures. What this produces on an individual level-- on a family to family to family basis, is a delicate system of maltreatment that goes on without so much as a pause by onlookers. To please god, missionaries will move to rugged and dangerous parts of the world, and then put their children in boarding schools, thus abdicating their responsibilities as parents and is plainly and simply neglect. To fulfill the mission for "love" and "forgiveness", people will leave their children among family members who are abusive-- sometimes physically but even sexually. So that they can be righteous, they will follow the co-called moral "guidelines" of the church and turn their back on their own children if they are gay. Or worse they'll put them in a program to "fix" them. In the name of religious purity and piety, honor killings occur at a frightening rate.
And these are still the more overt and obvious abuses that occur--. And once again, you can shake your head at the extremities, feeling a bit helpless and concerned. But here's the reality: these extremists are protected-- shielded by their less zealous counterparts.
But we have not even begun to talk about how all mainstream religions maintain a patriarchal system that destroys even the most cherished of daughters. When god is a man (and god is always a man), there is simply no way to keep from raising your little girls without a sense of alienation and strangeness. Before the little one even begins to form Personhood, she is given an innate sense of her own devaluation. And boys... well, what are they not entitled to having been made in god's own image? And if, as a boy, you don't meet the standard of the cultural code for what god expects you to be... (i.e. gay) then you really are not worth much more than a woman. And let's not even talk about lesbians!
I don't care how well intentioned you are. When you look the other way at the kind of abuse that is committed in the name of religion ( and it doesn't matter what religion you are talking about), you are part of that system. And whatever small amount of good you receive from your occasional spiritual massage, you are getting it with blood on your hands as surely as the extremists who commit the actual act.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Quantum gods
Some years ago, I watched the movie "What the bleep do we know?" and was interested in it like many were. In the past few weeks I have been doing a lot of research on quantum physics for a project I have been working on ("Death and Politics at the end of the World"). I began by reading the Einstein biography that I blogged on some time ago and moved from there to listening to a lecture series presented by Richard Wolfson. I also read "Quantum: a guide for the perplexed" by Jim Khalili. I've learned a great deal about the world of the quantum-- not that I am now ready to give a lengthy lecture on it, but as I read, it became clear that some of the science that was used to make the movie seemed legitimate but was-- well fuzzy at best, wrong is closer but probably it is more accurate to say that the presenters were inaccurately making statements to purposefully mislead (i.e. lying). I went about my research the long way (for a purpose), there is a new book out called "Quantum Gods: Creation, Chaos, and the Search for Cosmic Consciousness" which deals with this topic more extensively. I think it will be on my Christmas list!
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