A Rain of Frogs

RFID

My awesome wife just gave me one of those slick Team Canada Olympic t-shirts that everyone (including me) thinks are so stylish and cool. Mine’s navy blue with a white Canada written across the chest. It’s a wicked cool shirt, made in Canada. A portion of the purchase price goes directly to supporting Canadian athletes. Overall very cool.

Except for the RFID tag I had to cut out of it.

It was sewn in to the side seam on the left side, in a little fabric pouch that said “Remove before wearing.” So I had to risk cutting my brand new shirt with scissors in order to get this stupid tag off. The pouch was so small there was literally a millimeter of space to get the scissors into position.

I read an article somewhere about some book that says RFID tags are the apocalyptic mark of the beast. I don’t know about that, but I do know they’re hell.

Water

I heard somewhere that a UN report, now admittedly old, slated the Southern Ontario region, and Toronto in specific, to become the largest city in the world. Proximity to fresh water was cited. It’s true that southern Ontario is in possession of most of the fresh water in the world, making it a logical place for growth.

Of course, the American’s are piping it to the midwest to irrigate their farm fields, despite International agreements not to do any such thing. It’s so hard for Canada to deal with the US, when the current administration just flips us the bird and tells us off every time they break a deal with us.

Nonetheless, it is apparent that access to fresh water is very important. While i am used to having huge amounts of it nearby, most of the world isn’t, and it becomes apparent that fresh water is the lifeblood of civilization.

Which is why I think its time we stop filling our toilets with clean, wholesome drinking water.

Men in childcare

In a conversation with my sister a few weeks ago, the topic of men in the childcare profession came up. She insisted that she would look at any man in the Early Childhood Education system as a pedophile. No ifs, ands or buts. He’s a child molester, because that’s the only reason a man would enter the field.

It’s sad that an entire category of employment, to which some men might be well qualified. While I do believe that women are naturally better than men at taking care of young children and educating them, I also believe that a balanced childhood requires both a male and female aspect.

The idea that any man who makes it his life work to educate young children is a pedophile is sexist, narrow-minded and wrong. If anyone tried to say something as ridiculous about women, say, that all women emasculate their sons by emotionally abusing them with guilt trips, feminists and human rights activists would tear up the streets in protest.

It is with a critical eye I have lately observed the state of the Internet, and more specifically my place in it.

The web sites I have are not at issue. The ‘flue, this site, and the newer Contessa 26 community site I have just taken over and revamped are all serving their purposes well, though all have room for improvement. What site doesnt?

At issue is the lack of innovation on the Internet. We’ve entered what idiots across the ‘net are calling “Web 2.0,” which is just another term for “Have VC, lack business plan.” Reminds me of 1997. The names (Worldcom, Netscape) have changed (MySpace, 6 Apart) but the game (vapor) remains the same.

Put up or shut up, they say.

Problem is, I have to rebuild my head before I can rebuild the world. I’m working on that, for sure, but that doesn’t mean I am ready to change the world. Frankly, I think i’ve outgrown that desire. I don’t want to be rich or have a fancy car. I’m not interested in “winning” because I know that nobody beats the trap. I am not courting power. I’m just courting my potential.

I see a correlation between myself and the Internet. Both are sadly underutilized. Both are being controlled by shadowy parties with hidden agendas.

I’m fairly sure I can fix me. I do wonder about the Internet though.

This weekend, after a six month battle with kidney cancer, the oldest family member of my generation died.

Steve Starchev had been an adult all my life, not so distinguishable from my father or my uncles. Only seven years younger than my father, he had always managed to somehow blur the line between my that generation and my own, and was always able to shed light on something from both above and below.

I know he worked for the CBC at one time, I know he was a relatively well known radio personality on one of the smaller Toronto radio stations, and I know he had, like most members of my family, a passion for music that transcended mere interest.

My cousin, like many members of my family, played many instruments. Guitar, piano. The hurdy gurdy. Yes, the hurdy gurdy. An instrument so unusual I had to look it up to find out what it really looked and sounded like. Steve not only played the hurdy gurdy, but apparently performed in public. Rumor has it he was one of the best.

I am saddened. I am saddened that any parent should have to bury their child, as my aunt now has to. I am saddened at the loss of a jovial and integral part of my extended family – a personality that occupied space that will now forever be empty. I am saddened by the loss of his music.

He regained consciousness as daylight heaved itself over the horizon. In the desert, the disc of the sun appeared large, but even more so as the boy lay leaning against the basalt tower. He looked up again, just in time to see the last star of the night shiver and wink out in deference to the sun.

The boy couldn’t remember how long he had been on this journey to the rock, and he wasn’t sure what he would find, but now that he was here, the months – centuries! – he had spent searching for this place receded, replaced with a deep dread of what he must do next.

He sighed and rose, dizzy for a moment from dehydration and fatigue, and set off to his left to circle the black column. Once, twice, three times he circled it before he spotted a crack just big enough for his withered and emaciated body to slip through. Heart pounding, he entered.

The crack grew tighter and darker as he pushed further into it. At one point, long after he had lost his sight to the darkness, he felt the rock squeeze him from front and back and he feared he’d be stuck forever, but panic, sweat and some earnest wiggling allowed him to slip past and into a space that felt very open.

It wasn’t as dark here as it was in the crack, and once his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could see clearly enough to be left breathless. The floor was the same black glistening rock that made up the whole tower, and the roof was so far above his head that he couldn’t see it. The entire place thrummed with energy and majesty – a cathedral to some ineffable, arrogant godling.

On a raised platform at the center of the chamber was a simple marble table, white and out of place. Curled up at its base were three black dogs, slumbering peacefully. The table he could have understood, but the dogs were inexplicable, more out of place than the table itself.

He had journeyed so long, always aware of his goal, and now that he was here, staring at the dogs in the dark, he felt for the first time uncertainty. There was no way he could get to the table without waking them, and he wasn’t sure he wanted them to know he was there.

Kill them. Fool them. Befriend them. Leave them be and go back. He doubted he could fool them, and killing them seemed as unlikely. The boy stood still as the rock he was buried in, petrified by his uncertainty.

The boy trudged through the desert. If you could have perched upon the back of the vulture lazily spiraling the skies above him, you would have seen that even from that height, the only things that broke the endless monotony of sand were the boy, the long, winding trail of his footsteps, and the dark rock outcropping that thrust its head skyward. At his present pace, the boy would reach it at sunset.

He had been walking the desert for months, never aware of the impossibility of his journey, never aware that he should have died from a lack of nourishment ages ago. Perhaps his ignorance was his salvation – after all, one doesn’t die until one believes they are dead. Sometimes he thought about this, but never too deeply, lest it become true.

Just as the sun touched the horizon, he arrived at the rock. He knew it was the only feature of the desert, which otherwise was sand forever in every direction. Oh, its not that there weren’t other sacred places in the desert. There were many. They didn’t matter though. This was the place where the answers truly were.

He tilted his head up, scanning its jagged black surface. It glistened with an almost oily sheen in the fading sunlight, twinkling like a precious black jewel as the terminator between day and night crept up its length. Eventually the last rays of warmth slipped off its tip high above him, and night fell in earnest upon the desert.

The boy set his back against the warm stone and pulled this scabbed knees up against his chest beneath the small blanket he had removed from his pack. Eyes skyward, he marveled at the brilliance and multitude of stars that pricked the black of night from horizon to horizon except where the rock blocked their cheerful light, imposing its mass upon even the stars in the sky. Eventually his eyelids slid shut, and he drifted off to sleep while worlds danced around his head.