We Don’t Use Technology—It Uses US

 

We Don’t Use Technology—It Uses US

Thoreau said, “We do not ride on the railroad; it rides upon us.”  As I lift the couch cushions searching for the television remote, I’m missing my show. I could just as easily walk to the TV and push the buttons.  But I resist; not sure why.

Our dependency on technology must be the same reason why I don’t know anyone’s number by heart.  My phone remembers numbers for me.  We all used to remember a bunch of numbers.  I still remember my grandparents’ number, Pilgrim, or PI 4-2426. And, the exchange in Manhattan was Murray Hill.

I don’t have to be home to watch my favorite show I can TVO it.  I can begin to watch the World Series or the Super Bowl, go to the bathroom—even if I have food poisoning and stay in there for hours and not miss a second, except the commercials. Which reminds me, poison and poisson, which I think is French for fish, sound and look so similar.  Is that a fair warning that fish can be poisonous?  And, pollo is Spanish for chicken.  Do the romantic languages begin the spelling of all their meats with P? 

The reason why all these ideas float in my head is because of technology.  I spend too much time playing X Box, and I’m on my cell phone all the time. My cell phone makes it impossible to hide from my friends, or the government.   Sure, the GPS helps you find places, but it helps them find you.  Plus, I carry my laptop everywhere I go—especially at Starbucks. I have to look like I belong, don’t I? All this has caused my brain to have a critical mass meltdown.  

So, maybe Thoreau was right—perhaps I should go to the woods to live deliberately. But then again, I don’t have the servants to bring me breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Damn all my youthful idols, Ginsburg, Dylan, Cleaver and Lichtenstein are phonies.
                                                                                          

 

Don't Postpone Joy

Don’t Postpone Joy

It’s instinctively natural when you’re a kid for you to lay on your back, look up at the sky— grayish animals, ashen castles, and ephemeral people drift by urged by an imploring, inconsistent breeze.  When you get older you tend to only look up at the sky to see what the weather is like—do I need an umbrella? There’s even less of a need to look up towards the Southern California sky when every day is sunny and warm. 

When you’re a kid walking home you might kick a can for blocks, and if you’re with your friend it can turn out to be a competitive game.  As an adult if you’re seen kicking a can down the street you’re probably imagining someone’s head as being the can.  Most adults have to schedule joy, usually it’s birthdays, anniversaries, or vacations.

I’ve always found the phrase wake up and smell the roses ridiculous, but that’s probably because I had horrible hay fever growing up. My eyes had to be pried open with hot compresses in the summer; the gooeyness was so overwhelming.  Sometimes I’d have a nightmare, go to open my eyes but I’d be stuck there with whoever was chasing me. But smelling roses first thing in the morning is so languidly la-de-da.  You’d have to be a kid to wake up with that attitude; a kid, or in Barbara Streisand’s bedroom from On a Clear Day. The room was filled with flowers, the sheets, the comforter, the wall paper--Yuck. Wake-up and smell the coffee—now that makes sense. Get up, get going, and where’s my cigarettes?

Regrettably as adults, especially in the West, we find most of our joy from things—big square things; primarily TV’s, cell phones, cars, and houses.  I think we should look for joy in more round things—the sun, the face of someone you love, their eyes. 
     But more importantly it’s the things you don’t readily see that should bring you joy; the circle that love traverses to get back to you. You give it out and it travels around the country, around the world, through lifetimes because it had to come back to you where God originally planted it.  My friend Bobbi prattled on forever about this book You Can Heal Your Life, and 10 years later someone gave it to me as a present.  And, both she and the book have been an eternal stream of joy and inspiration ever since.  Joy isn’t postponed; you just need to be more aware—it’s usually right in front of you.

Politeness, A Bygone Era

 

 

 

Politeness, A Bygone Era

I live across the street from a karate school and an insurance company.  It’s a red brick building, ostensibly an ecological, green construction.  I’m not sure what makes it that other than the fact that it has a green leaf on the black awnings that hang from the structure.  There was, however, a sign when the 1 ½ story building went under construction that hailed its ecological virtues.  It was a fairly large sign with a lot of writing that also acknowledged the political forces behind the financing, whomever office’s purview the construction fell under.  I love how politicians like to be celebrated for merely doing their job.  When I worked for R. R. Donnelley I’d love to have put on every Time and Newsweek magazine that came off my 13 pocket stitcher: “Saddle Stitched by Howard Gardner.” At 10,000 an hour I’d get much more publicity than any state senator, assembly man, or county executive.

            I hadn’t moved back to Montclair that long before the property across the street was developed.  The construction couldn’t have been that disturbing because I don’t remember loud motors, hammering, or the shouting of workers barking back and forth.  I do remember them erecting the roof, but that’s all.  I could go off on a tangent about my views on immigration, but that’s not my point.  I want to discuss politeness or the lack thereof in our modern society. 

The insurance company is very polite.  Of course, our house is insured by them as well as one car.  The head guy, the one who has his name on the letter head, business cards, and refrigerator magnets waves to me from time to time.  And, there is a young man that works for the insurance company who’s been there since the beginning.  He’s also very friendly. 

The owner of the karate school is nice enough, but the parents of the kids that attend are more than just annoying.  They’re often downright rude.    They express their impoliteness by constantly blocking our driveway.   I don’t mean just having the tail of the car or its front bumper hanging over a bit.  I mean literally they park right in front of the driveway while they wait for their kids to come out of karate class, or when letting them out for class.  What’s amazing to me is that they’re rude to unknown person(s) instead of blocking in their fellow parents across the street.  And, despite the fact that there is usually another space or two available to the left or right of our driveway, which maybe technically illegal because it’s too close to the stop sign, it is certainly less rude. 

The last time somebody parked in front of the driveway I was walking the dog.  I saw the orange Jeep blocking the driveway and I knew my 86 year old mom was about to come home.  Yes, she still drives. Gawd help us all. I attempted to ask the person sitting behind the wheel if they would move their car.  As I approached the vehicle I realized no one was in the car.  It wasn’t idling the car was shut-off.  The couple were across the street looking at my neighbor’s flowers—hosta and daisies or something equally pedestrian.  Ironically, at the other end of the building is this exquisite garden that has something new blooming practically all year long. Now why a toddler needs karate school or anything so structured at such a young age is beyond me—but that’s why some elementary schools have begun hiring a staff member whose job is to teach kids how to play.  Gosh, when I was in elementary school I could amuse myself with a stick, or kicking the can for hours.  Meanwhile, back at the ranch or in this case the  horticultural admiring couple; when I mentioned something to them about their car blocking the driveway, their response, which I’ve heard 100’s of times was, “We were just picking up our son; we’ll just be a few minutes.” It’s often that or some variation.  I told them generally how many times I’ve heard that excuse—I didn’t have a specific number. 

The husband gruffly loaded his kid and the kid’s paraphernalia in his orange Jeep and snipped, “Very neighborly of you.’ 

You park, not idle your car, in front of my driveway then you have the nerve to chastise me about being neighborly?  I guess when it’s all about you—that’s the way one thinks.  If you don’t have manners because your parents never stressed how important it was to be polite—how could you not be myopic?

            Another incident was when my mom, still 86, was in her car about to back out the driveway and yes some karate school parent was parked in front, blocking it.  My mom waited, she tooted, finally got out and walked down the end of the driveway, spoke to the lady, mom got back in her car and the lady still didn’t move until she finished her text.  Really? But we’ve all had that experience with cell phone users.  Our electronics have caused us to live in our own self-contained little bubble.   Our private world has its own music and our own public, what should be private, conversations on our cell phones.  When I’m in line at the bank I don’t want to hear your personal spiteful gossip. But then again, I don’t watch reality TV which seems to reward those who can be the bitchiest to the most devious.  Impoliteness is celebrated in our society.  When did it become classy for a woman to proclaim she’s a brat? But, as usual I digress.

            I am, however, happy to report that people haven’t parked in front of our driveway in a while.   Originally, eight to nine months ago I went over and spoke to the owner—a nice enough guy.  He seemed genuinely embarrassed, and sympathetic to my issue.  I’m sure he spoke to the parents as he said he would, and no one parked in front of the driveway for at least 2.5 weeks, but then it started again.  Less than two months ago I went over and spoke to an instructor who happened to be the owner’s wife.  She was very sweet and has been ever since.  I didn’t know the owner was married or I’d have gone to the boss right away. No one has parked in front of our driveway since. But look what it took.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Picture Perfect

Wow it’s picture perfect

another family portrait. 

Now let’s dissect  it.

To look at those pics now

makes me kind ‘a shutter,

to talk about it could make me stutter.

It’s ironic how puns and coincidences

just run amok in our lives

and it’s really no surprise.

It’s like the adverb amok

I’m so struck how I can’t hear that word

without being floored

let me be completely aboveboard

I learned that word from reading the Incredible Hulk

that ain’t no joke

nor the memories it evokes

what  I’m about to say will give you heatstroke.

I first encountered that word when I was in 4th grade

and  I’m afraid I learned so many words from Marvel Comics

so many words they swim in my head like a painting from  Jackson Pollack

back when the age was newly atomic

not one word did  I learn from D.C. comics

they should’ve been abolished

they were almost moronic

but back-in-the-day when I had comic books

strewn all over my room

those same comics today are as valuable as heirlooms

back when Jack was behind the counter at Jack's on Fullerton,

back when all our lives were so homespun

before I even knew Jack  had a daughter named Nancy

back when having a Cadillac was so utterly fancy

we would go on these family picnics on Saturday’s ,

sometimes Sunday’s.    

If someone wanted to take our picture

 I’d sit on my mom’s lap

That was the only time mom ever held me as a kid

whether I was good that day—no matter what I did

back before time-outs

when discipline was carried out with a switch or the strap 

if we were getting our picture taken

she’d only let me sit on her lap so I could fit in the frame

it’s as if I her youngest she didn’t want to claim,

other than those times she rarely even touched me 

let alone held me. 

But when she did hold me,

 and my mom clasped her hands around my waist

I remember rubbing her fingernails

That’s the one time her love I could taste.


 

Silk City

I didn't mean to post this poem.  I'm not sure it's done but I did want to be able to post work that was in the process.

Silk City
 

There’s nothing special about a red wheel barrel.

We try to make it so

but it isn’t all that special;

rain drips from it

big deal.

That scenery is dreadful,

but maybe that’s just cuz

I’m thinking of Paterson now

not Williams’ Paterson of the 20’s & 30’s.

Now, to think of a red wheel barrel

           in Paterson,

it would have to be hidden

amongst other forgotten metal clutter,

car fenders,

         broken sinks,

                   a dilapidated tire.

Now, to see a red wheel barrel in Paterson

the fact its redness could still be noticed

among the trash—

the garbage strewn in the gutter;

that one could even focus enough

to see a red wheel barrel

while the music blares out of people’s cars,

screams out their windows,

 curtains seem to wave the notes out

the 2^nd story apartment

above a bodega. 

If I could find and see a red wheel barrel

thru all that cacophony

of  any American city,

that’s seen its better days

—that’s beautiful.