Map-reading postie finds address
A postman turned map reader to deliver a letter which was marked only with a name and a drawing. A map on the envelope had a dot drawn in north Cornwall and an arrow saying "Somewhere Here".
BBC News
Postal workers in Bude, north Cornwall managed to pinpoint the right address and deliver the letter.
The letter to Peter O'Leary, was from a long-lost work colleague who failed to enclose his own address so Mr O'Leary cannot write back.
Bude's delivery office manager Andrew Lake said post workers worked out from the map the intended address was in Bude and then asked each other if anyone recognised the name Peter O'Leary.
Postman Eric Seymour realised Mr O'Leary lived on his round and said the customer was astounded when he handed over the letter.
"The customer was very impressed indeed and we were delighted to be able to deliver the item," said Mr Lake.
"I have come across vague addresses on letters such as the house two doors down from the church, but never a map."
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Here's an interesting article....
Politics, Economics and Time Bury Memories of the Kazakh Gulag
New York Times
By ILAN GREENBERG
Published: December 31, 2006
Maria Sadina hunched over fading pictures of her parents, ethnic Germans who were deported in 1941 from the Volga region in Russia to one of Karaganda's many gulag camps.
Ms. Sadina's father was imprisoned for praising the quality of a German-made tractor, and for a decade he worked as a slave laborer in the nearby coal mines. Her mother was sent to the Karaganda gulag simply for her German heritage.
They had married and reared their daughter, Ms. Sadina, in a two-room brick house so low to the ground that visitors must bend over to avoid hitting the ceiling. Ms. Sadina, now a grandmother, continues to live in the same house, the walls now appearing to crumble, tending the same garden her parents once harvested to survive.
She pointed to the neighbors' homes through her kitchen window. ''These people are all children of the gulag,'' she said. ''Nobody talks about it anymore. Nobody even wants to look at their pictures anymore.''
The gulags once spread over the Kazakhstan steppe like a thick wreath. Eleven sprawling camps with names like Alzhir, a Russian acronym for the Akmolinsk Camp for Wives of Traitors of the Motherland, housed hundreds of thousands of prisoners and their families. The camps, built shortly after the creation of the Soviet Union, were partly emptied to provide soldiers and workers during World War II and were eventually closed, although not dismantled, after Stalin died in 1953.
In Kazakhstan today, a large percentage of people have parents or grandparents whose life trajectories were savagely rewired by deportation and imprisonment in the camps. But memories of the gulags are dying, fading like Ms. Sadina's photos.
''For younger generations the gulag is uninteresting,'' said Arest Savchak, a 61-year-old teacher whose parents and grandparents were exiled to Karaganda as political prisoners for the crime of supporting Ukrainian nationalism. ''After the collapse of the Soviet Union, when we entered market economy, the values and the views of people have changed. Unless the gulag can be linked to the present time, it is meaningless.''
For many Karaganda youngsters, the oppression the gulags stand for does not register. ''This was just a village for miners,'' said Sasha Talabaev, 12, who was riding a bicycle through the heart of what was one of the gulags. Some of the reasons for a quick and collective forgetting are obvious. The memories, after all, are painful. And since the fall of the Soviet Union and Kazakhstan's independence in 1991, there are more pleasant things to focus on.
Growing affluence is one of them. The economy is growing at about 10 percent a year, and with the aid of oil, the country has developed a sophisticated middle class and has nurtured to maturation a regional banking center. Its once dour towns have metastasized into modern cities.
But there are political aspects to a sidestepping of Kazakhstan's recent history, too, often born out of the government's determination to stay friendly with Russia.
To sustain support for a pro-Russia foreign policy, ''the Kazakhstan state has gone to great lengths to construct an ideology for its nation-state that glosses over its colonial and neo-colonial history with Russia,'' Sean R. Roberts, a researcher in Central Asia affairs at Georgetown University, wrote on Dec. 19 in his Web log about the region.
Although those efforts have not added up to a blanket ban on public remembrances of the gulags, the government has instead chosen to ignore the issue. And it has used its control of the education system to keep texts from dwelling on the topic.
In a more pointed example of control, the government forbade large-scale remembrances of a violent uprising in Almaty, the capital, that took place in December 1986. As many as 40,000 ethnic Kazakhs poured into Almaty's central square then to protest Mikhail S. Gorbachev's firing of the chief of the Kazakh Soviet state. Soviet security forces are estimated to have killed at least 200 protesters on the square.
The rebellion was a watershed for Kazakh identity. It resonated too strongly for the government to ignore this year, so in October, President Nursultan A. Nazarbayev quietly dedicated a statue to commemorate the event. But the gesture received little coverage in the Kazakh press, which is closely monitored and controlled by the government.
Opposition leaders and several thousand nationalists hoped to use the statue as a gathering point for an antigovernment rally on the anniversary, but the government moved swiftly to crush preparations for it.
With Kazakh nationalism having become mostly the purview of the anti-Russia opposition here, the government has had to use other avenues to promote a coherent national identity. That is no small challenge in this country of 17 million people who span 80 different ethnicities and nearly as many religions -- a direct legacy of the Soviet Union's use of Kazakhstan as a holding pen for prisoners, dissidents and people who did not fit in the Russian mainstream.
Popular culture has been one tool of choice, especially through the government-financed movie studio KazakhFilm, which has a near monopoly on the country's film industry. This year the studio released its biggest hit yet, a historical piece called ''Nomad'' that delved into distant history, telling the little-known story of an ancient battle to give an uplifting view of Kazakh identity. The film, a $34.5 million production, broke box-office records in Kazakhstan, grossing more than $1 million here and also doing well in Russia.
Despite the huge expense of such historical movies, KazakhFilm plans more. But the company's chief executive, Talgat Temenov, says that none will be set in the 20th century.
''The Kazakh people have a tragic history, but with a movie like 'Nomad,' people can feel a sense of pride,'' he said. ''Film is an art and should not be a political tool, but at the same time we need to respect what history can do to people's psychology.''
Steven A. Barnes, an assistant professor of history at George Mason University who has studied the gulags in Karaganda, insists that history's relevance to society is exactly why remembering Kazakhstan's painful gulag past is so important.
''In the post-Soviet space, the trip from remembering to forgetting has been remarkably swift,'' he said. ''Perhaps such public forgetting would seem less problematic if not for the fact that it enables strong, authoritarian rule that clamps down on basic human rights like freedom of speech and the right of assembly.''
New York Times
By ILAN GREENBERG
Published: December 31, 2006
Maria Sadina hunched over fading pictures of her parents, ethnic Germans who were deported in 1941 from the Volga region in Russia to one of Karaganda's many gulag camps.
Ms. Sadina's father was imprisoned for praising the quality of a German-made tractor, and for a decade he worked as a slave laborer in the nearby coal mines. Her mother was sent to the Karaganda gulag simply for her German heritage.
They had married and reared their daughter, Ms. Sadina, in a two-room brick house so low to the ground that visitors must bend over to avoid hitting the ceiling. Ms. Sadina, now a grandmother, continues to live in the same house, the walls now appearing to crumble, tending the same garden her parents once harvested to survive.
She pointed to the neighbors' homes through her kitchen window. ''These people are all children of the gulag,'' she said. ''Nobody talks about it anymore. Nobody even wants to look at their pictures anymore.''
The gulags once spread over the Kazakhstan steppe like a thick wreath. Eleven sprawling camps with names like Alzhir, a Russian acronym for the Akmolinsk Camp for Wives of Traitors of the Motherland, housed hundreds of thousands of prisoners and their families. The camps, built shortly after the creation of the Soviet Union, were partly emptied to provide soldiers and workers during World War II and were eventually closed, although not dismantled, after Stalin died in 1953.
In Kazakhstan today, a large percentage of people have parents or grandparents whose life trajectories were savagely rewired by deportation and imprisonment in the camps. But memories of the gulags are dying, fading like Ms. Sadina's photos.
''For younger generations the gulag is uninteresting,'' said Arest Savchak, a 61-year-old teacher whose parents and grandparents were exiled to Karaganda as political prisoners for the crime of supporting Ukrainian nationalism. ''After the collapse of the Soviet Union, when we entered market economy, the values and the views of people have changed. Unless the gulag can be linked to the present time, it is meaningless.''
For many Karaganda youngsters, the oppression the gulags stand for does not register. ''This was just a village for miners,'' said Sasha Talabaev, 12, who was riding a bicycle through the heart of what was one of the gulags. Some of the reasons for a quick and collective forgetting are obvious. The memories, after all, are painful. And since the fall of the Soviet Union and Kazakhstan's independence in 1991, there are more pleasant things to focus on.
Growing affluence is one of them. The economy is growing at about 10 percent a year, and with the aid of oil, the country has developed a sophisticated middle class and has nurtured to maturation a regional banking center. Its once dour towns have metastasized into modern cities.
But there are political aspects to a sidestepping of Kazakhstan's recent history, too, often born out of the government's determination to stay friendly with Russia.
To sustain support for a pro-Russia foreign policy, ''the Kazakhstan state has gone to great lengths to construct an ideology for its nation-state that glosses over its colonial and neo-colonial history with Russia,'' Sean R. Roberts, a researcher in Central Asia affairs at Georgetown University, wrote on Dec. 19 in his Web log about the region.
Although those efforts have not added up to a blanket ban on public remembrances of the gulags, the government has instead chosen to ignore the issue. And it has used its control of the education system to keep texts from dwelling on the topic.
In a more pointed example of control, the government forbade large-scale remembrances of a violent uprising in Almaty, the capital, that took place in December 1986. As many as 40,000 ethnic Kazakhs poured into Almaty's central square then to protest Mikhail S. Gorbachev's firing of the chief of the Kazakh Soviet state. Soviet security forces are estimated to have killed at least 200 protesters on the square.
The rebellion was a watershed for Kazakh identity. It resonated too strongly for the government to ignore this year, so in October, President Nursultan A. Nazarbayev quietly dedicated a statue to commemorate the event. But the gesture received little coverage in the Kazakh press, which is closely monitored and controlled by the government.
Opposition leaders and several thousand nationalists hoped to use the statue as a gathering point for an antigovernment rally on the anniversary, but the government moved swiftly to crush preparations for it.
With Kazakh nationalism having become mostly the purview of the anti-Russia opposition here, the government has had to use other avenues to promote a coherent national identity. That is no small challenge in this country of 17 million people who span 80 different ethnicities and nearly as many religions -- a direct legacy of the Soviet Union's use of Kazakhstan as a holding pen for prisoners, dissidents and people who did not fit in the Russian mainstream.
Popular culture has been one tool of choice, especially through the government-financed movie studio KazakhFilm, which has a near monopoly on the country's film industry. This year the studio released its biggest hit yet, a historical piece called ''Nomad'' that delved into distant history, telling the little-known story of an ancient battle to give an uplifting view of Kazakh identity. The film, a $34.5 million production, broke box-office records in Kazakhstan, grossing more than $1 million here and also doing well in Russia.
Despite the huge expense of such historical movies, KazakhFilm plans more. But the company's chief executive, Talgat Temenov, says that none will be set in the 20th century.
''The Kazakh people have a tragic history, but with a movie like 'Nomad,' people can feel a sense of pride,'' he said. ''Film is an art and should not be a political tool, but at the same time we need to respect what history can do to people's psychology.''
Steven A. Barnes, an assistant professor of history at George Mason University who has studied the gulags in Karaganda, insists that history's relevance to society is exactly why remembering Kazakhstan's painful gulag past is so important.
''In the post-Soviet space, the trip from remembering to forgetting has been remarkably swift,'' he said. ''Perhaps such public forgetting would seem less problematic if not for the fact that it enables strong, authoritarian rule that clamps down on basic human rights like freedom of speech and the right of assembly.''
Friday, January 12, 2007
This is a great spoof and I thought people might enjoy this. I hope to read Absurdistan soon.
By Gary Shteyngart
October 1, 2006
New York Times Book Review
DAY 1: At 11 in the morning, while I am still savoring the last moments of a fruitful sleep, a messenger brings to my doorstep a new translation of “Oblomov,” the famous 19th-century slacker novel by Ivan Goncharov, whose eponymous hero, a member of Russia’s lazy landed gentry, spends most of his time luxuriating in bed. “Looks like I came at the wrong time,” the courier says with a wink, mistaking my usual dishabille for interrupted coitus. I return to my bed and gaze unhappily at the thick tome in my hands. Right away I’m feeling sleepy.
DAY 2: “I asked for mayo on the side,” I scream at the woman who takes my phone orders from the local diner. “I have cholesterol issues. You want me to die.” The half-eaten turkey sandwich rolls off the bed, leaving me with my trusty, sweet-smelling comforter and the very thick volume of “Oblomov,” the famous 19th-century Russian slacker novel by Ivan Goncharov, newly translated by Stephen Pearl and published by Bunim & Bannigan. I leaf through it while looking at the ceiling. That reminds me, the light bulb in the bedroom needs to be changed. Maybe tomorrow. “Oblomov” consists of 443 pages of small type plus another xxiii pages taken up by the foreword and introduction. I sit up and cross myself several times. How in the name of Anton Pavlovich Chekhov did I get myself into this mess?
DAY 3: Overslept. One p.m. But not to worry. Today the earth will shake! Today I will tackle “Oblomov,” the famous 19th-century Russian slacker novel written by Ivan Goncharov. And then I will write the most insightful essay ever written on the subject — a short, funny, but oddly moving meditation (“This short and funny meditation oddly moved me,” important people will say over breakfast) on Russian laziness that will somehow tie in with the Internet-addicted, short-attention. ... To the devil with this apartment! And now the light bulb in the hallway is out as well!
DAY 4: I’m not making any promises to myself, but today might be the day. The day I change the light bulb. And read “Oblomov,” the famous book by you-know-who. The delivery boy brings a proper turkey sandwich, mayo on the side, and a monumental cup of black coffee. I fluff up the comforter to support my gentle behind, prop up my pillows in such a way that they won’t leave a red imprint upon my neck, and open the book. “There is something deeply Russian in the character of Oblomov,” Tatyana Tolstaya writes in the book’s foreword, something that “lies in the seductive appeal of laziness and of good-natured idleness.”
DAY 5: What time is it? My laptop has been purring urgently, distracting me from that famous Russian slacker novel by Ivan Goncharov, which seems to have gotten lost somewhere within the folds of my elephantine comforter. What’s this on my screen? Breaking news over the A.P. wire: “Boy George Reports for N.Y.C. Trash Duty.” The 1980’s pop legend has been nailed on drug charges and is being forced to collect garbage just a few blocks away from me on the Lower East Side. “You think you’re better than me?” the octogenarian-looking singer is shouting at members of the media. “Go home. Let me do my community service.” I should crawl out of bed this very instant and lend my support to Mr. George. As a young Russian immigrant, I learned a great deal of English by listening to his happy bisexual crooning (“Karma, karma, karma, karma ...,” I would stutter along). If only all that damned “Oblomov”-reading hadn’t made me so sleepy.
DAY 6: I wake up in a state of agitation and throw on my dressing gown. There’s no time for coffee or the Internet. I grab “Oblomov” and start to feverishly highlight all the relevant passages. Only 400 pages to go! And when I finish with this essay, I will screw in new light bulbs. And I will clean the windows, which are as dirty as my soul. I will forswear the turkey sandwich from the diner. I will buy a house in the countryside upstate like I’ve always wanted. I will learn how to drive. Yes, I will drive up to my little country home in a leased Prius and there I will raise serfs and radishes and real fresh turkeys to put between my rye bread. My whole being is on fire! I sit up in bed and start to breathe heavily. Then I fall asleep.
DAY 7: I dream I am urgently rowing a boat to a house that appears to be drowning in the middle of the Gulf of Finland, a faded mansion in the Russian rococo style. I clamber up the waterlogged stairs, and on the top floor, recumbent upon his divan, I find Oblomov. He looks just as the book has described him, “flabby beyond his years,” with “small pudgy hands, and soft shoulders.” His equally indolent servant Zakhar is asleep on top of the stove, snoring rhythmically.
“Ilya Ilyich,” I say to Oblomov. “We must get out of this house before we drown. The water is gaining the stairs and soon we will be done for.”
Oblomov shrugs, but looks at me good-naturedly. “Take me as I am and love what is good in me!” he says, per the book.
“Don’t you see, good sir!” I say. “We are blessed to live in fascinating places in momentous times. You in 19th-century St. Petersburg, and I in early-21st-century New York. We should bestir from our beds and take heed of what surrounds us. In your day there are great thinkers such as Friedrich Nietzsche and Fyodor Dostoyevsky; in my day William Bennett and Condoleezza Rice.”
“I hardly ever read,” Oblomov says, much as he does on Page 19 of Goncharov’s novel. “What is there for me to be curious about? You know why they write that stuff — it’s just for self-gratification. ...”
DAY 8: According to the Internet, Boy George is collecting trash under the Williamsburg Bridge, less than 200 yards away from me. Perhaps I should telephone A., who occasionally contributes to S— Magazine, or D., who does something or other media-related, and we can form a little investigatory posse. I picture A. and D. and R. and T. and all the rest of us soft-spoken, liberal-college-educated youngish people lying in our queen-size beds, the glow of our all-forgiving laptops lighting up our disheveled bedrooms. Scattered about us are torn underwear, the stubs of plane tickets issued three years ago, half-eaten turkey sandwiches, spent light bulbs, ironic “vacuum tube” radios from the 1950’s, and books. Not the books that used to sustain us when we first fell in love with words but piles of freshly minted ones that demand to be read and loved and blurbed and reviewed. Where do they all come from, these books? Why do so many people need to jot down their imaginings in bursts of sophisticated English? Why all these new translations of long-forgotten texts? Why can’t I finish this essay, put on some real clothes and walk out into the summer sunlight where Boy George and the rest of our civilization await me?
DAY 9: Maybe if I clean the windows there will be a great deal of natural light and I won’t have to bother with the light bulbs. The real estate broker had told me the windows in my building “pop right out for easy maintenance” but what if they “pop right out” and kill a passing pedestrian? I fall into a deep melancholic trance. The diner completely screwed up the order. The turkey sandwich turned out to be ham. The mayo is hardly on the side. Oblomov has lost the love of his life, Olga, to his best friend, the industrious half-German Stoltz. Rapscallions have taken advantage of his good nature and robbed him of his last kopeck. He has died in his own bed of a stroke.
DAY 10: “What is it that’s doomed you?” Olga asks her beloved Oblomov before she leaves him for good. “Oblomovshchina,” he tells her — the state of being Oblomov, a term that in Russia may as well connote the state of the entire country. Some, like Tatyana Tolstaya, believe Oblomov’s immobility is rooted in the influence of Eastern philosophy upon Russia and proclaims him “one of nature’s Buddhists.” Others point the finger at Oblomov’s overprotective mother, or at a quiet, indolent, utterly thought-free childhood spent at a Russian country estate. My analyst claims his passivity is most likely rooted in depression. Who knows? One thing is certain. All this thinking takes up precious time, and the late summer sun is no longer trying to break into my bedroom and grab me by the collar. The alarm clock glows deep red in the dark. Midnight. As the members of Oblomov’s household would say: “Well, that’s another day over, praise God!”
Gary Shteyngart’s most recent novel is Absurdistan.
Ten Days With Oblomov
By Gary Shteyngart
October 1, 2006
New York Times Book Review
DAY 1: At 11 in the morning, while I am still savoring the last moments of a fruitful sleep, a messenger brings to my doorstep a new translation of “Oblomov,” the famous 19th-century slacker novel by Ivan Goncharov, whose eponymous hero, a member of Russia’s lazy landed gentry, spends most of his time luxuriating in bed. “Looks like I came at the wrong time,” the courier says with a wink, mistaking my usual dishabille for interrupted coitus. I return to my bed and gaze unhappily at the thick tome in my hands. Right away I’m feeling sleepy.
DAY 2: “I asked for mayo on the side,” I scream at the woman who takes my phone orders from the local diner. “I have cholesterol issues. You want me to die.” The half-eaten turkey sandwich rolls off the bed, leaving me with my trusty, sweet-smelling comforter and the very thick volume of “Oblomov,” the famous 19th-century Russian slacker novel by Ivan Goncharov, newly translated by Stephen Pearl and published by Bunim & Bannigan. I leaf through it while looking at the ceiling. That reminds me, the light bulb in the bedroom needs to be changed. Maybe tomorrow. “Oblomov” consists of 443 pages of small type plus another xxiii pages taken up by the foreword and introduction. I sit up and cross myself several times. How in the name of Anton Pavlovich Chekhov did I get myself into this mess?
DAY 3: Overslept. One p.m. But not to worry. Today the earth will shake! Today I will tackle “Oblomov,” the famous 19th-century Russian slacker novel written by Ivan Goncharov. And then I will write the most insightful essay ever written on the subject — a short, funny, but oddly moving meditation (“This short and funny meditation oddly moved me,” important people will say over breakfast) on Russian laziness that will somehow tie in with the Internet-addicted, short-attention. ... To the devil with this apartment! And now the light bulb in the hallway is out as well!
DAY 4: I’m not making any promises to myself, but today might be the day. The day I change the light bulb. And read “Oblomov,” the famous book by you-know-who. The delivery boy brings a proper turkey sandwich, mayo on the side, and a monumental cup of black coffee. I fluff up the comforter to support my gentle behind, prop up my pillows in such a way that they won’t leave a red imprint upon my neck, and open the book. “There is something deeply Russian in the character of Oblomov,” Tatyana Tolstaya writes in the book’s foreword, something that “lies in the seductive appeal of laziness and of good-natured idleness.”
DAY 5: What time is it? My laptop has been purring urgently, distracting me from that famous Russian slacker novel by Ivan Goncharov, which seems to have gotten lost somewhere within the folds of my elephantine comforter. What’s this on my screen? Breaking news over the A.P. wire: “Boy George Reports for N.Y.C. Trash Duty.” The 1980’s pop legend has been nailed on drug charges and is being forced to collect garbage just a few blocks away from me on the Lower East Side. “You think you’re better than me?” the octogenarian-looking singer is shouting at members of the media. “Go home. Let me do my community service.” I should crawl out of bed this very instant and lend my support to Mr. George. As a young Russian immigrant, I learned a great deal of English by listening to his happy bisexual crooning (“Karma, karma, karma, karma ...,” I would stutter along). If only all that damned “Oblomov”-reading hadn’t made me so sleepy.
DAY 6: I wake up in a state of agitation and throw on my dressing gown. There’s no time for coffee or the Internet. I grab “Oblomov” and start to feverishly highlight all the relevant passages. Only 400 pages to go! And when I finish with this essay, I will screw in new light bulbs. And I will clean the windows, which are as dirty as my soul. I will forswear the turkey sandwich from the diner. I will buy a house in the countryside upstate like I’ve always wanted. I will learn how to drive. Yes, I will drive up to my little country home in a leased Prius and there I will raise serfs and radishes and real fresh turkeys to put between my rye bread. My whole being is on fire! I sit up in bed and start to breathe heavily. Then I fall asleep.
DAY 7: I dream I am urgently rowing a boat to a house that appears to be drowning in the middle of the Gulf of Finland, a faded mansion in the Russian rococo style. I clamber up the waterlogged stairs, and on the top floor, recumbent upon his divan, I find Oblomov. He looks just as the book has described him, “flabby beyond his years,” with “small pudgy hands, and soft shoulders.” His equally indolent servant Zakhar is asleep on top of the stove, snoring rhythmically.
“Ilya Ilyich,” I say to Oblomov. “We must get out of this house before we drown. The water is gaining the stairs and soon we will be done for.”
Oblomov shrugs, but looks at me good-naturedly. “Take me as I am and love what is good in me!” he says, per the book.
“Don’t you see, good sir!” I say. “We are blessed to live in fascinating places in momentous times. You in 19th-century St. Petersburg, and I in early-21st-century New York. We should bestir from our beds and take heed of what surrounds us. In your day there are great thinkers such as Friedrich Nietzsche and Fyodor Dostoyevsky; in my day William Bennett and Condoleezza Rice.”
“I hardly ever read,” Oblomov says, much as he does on Page 19 of Goncharov’s novel. “What is there for me to be curious about? You know why they write that stuff — it’s just for self-gratification. ...”
DAY 8: According to the Internet, Boy George is collecting trash under the Williamsburg Bridge, less than 200 yards away from me. Perhaps I should telephone A., who occasionally contributes to S— Magazine, or D., who does something or other media-related, and we can form a little investigatory posse. I picture A. and D. and R. and T. and all the rest of us soft-spoken, liberal-college-educated youngish people lying in our queen-size beds, the glow of our all-forgiving laptops lighting up our disheveled bedrooms. Scattered about us are torn underwear, the stubs of plane tickets issued three years ago, half-eaten turkey sandwiches, spent light bulbs, ironic “vacuum tube” radios from the 1950’s, and books. Not the books that used to sustain us when we first fell in love with words but piles of freshly minted ones that demand to be read and loved and blurbed and reviewed. Where do they all come from, these books? Why do so many people need to jot down their imaginings in bursts of sophisticated English? Why all these new translations of long-forgotten texts? Why can’t I finish this essay, put on some real clothes and walk out into the summer sunlight where Boy George and the rest of our civilization await me?
DAY 9: Maybe if I clean the windows there will be a great deal of natural light and I won’t have to bother with the light bulbs. The real estate broker had told me the windows in my building “pop right out for easy maintenance” but what if they “pop right out” and kill a passing pedestrian? I fall into a deep melancholic trance. The diner completely screwed up the order. The turkey sandwich turned out to be ham. The mayo is hardly on the side. Oblomov has lost the love of his life, Olga, to his best friend, the industrious half-German Stoltz. Rapscallions have taken advantage of his good nature and robbed him of his last kopeck. He has died in his own bed of a stroke.
DAY 10: “What is it that’s doomed you?” Olga asks her beloved Oblomov before she leaves him for good. “Oblomovshchina,” he tells her — the state of being Oblomov, a term that in Russia may as well connote the state of the entire country. Some, like Tatyana Tolstaya, believe Oblomov’s immobility is rooted in the influence of Eastern philosophy upon Russia and proclaims him “one of nature’s Buddhists.” Others point the finger at Oblomov’s overprotective mother, or at a quiet, indolent, utterly thought-free childhood spent at a Russian country estate. My analyst claims his passivity is most likely rooted in depression. Who knows? One thing is certain. All this thinking takes up precious time, and the late summer sun is no longer trying to break into my bedroom and grab me by the collar. The alarm clock glows deep red in the dark. Midnight. As the members of Oblomov’s household would say: “Well, that’s another day over, praise God!”
Gary Shteyngart’s most recent novel is Absurdistan.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Well, I'm still in California after I was supposed to leave this afternoon to ring in the New Year with Symi in Chicago. After 3 hours in the Palm Springs airport, my flight was cancelled and after several more hours, I finally got a spot on a direct flight tomorrow. All this because of bad weather in Dallas (through which I was transferring).
At least I have somewhere I could stay here. Some people ended up renting a car and driving to LAX or being routed through 4 or so cities while not having it guaranteed that the would even be able to leave from their subsequent destinations.
Crossing my fingers for good weather tomorrow.
At least I have somewhere I could stay here. Some people ended up renting a car and driving to LAX or being routed through 4 or so cities while not having it guaranteed that the would even be able to leave from their subsequent destinations.
Crossing my fingers for good weather tomorrow.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Turkmenbashi Dead!
Colorful Turkmen Leader Dies
by BURT HERMAN, Associated Press Writer
No matter where you went in Turkmenistan, there was no getting away from President Saparmurat Niyazov.
He's on every banknote and coin, his name proclaimed on billboards lining every main street. Golden statues of him are a landmark in every town. He was on TV and in newspapers, in schools and offices — his portrait even graces the cabin in planes run by the state airline.
Across Central Asia after the Soviet Union's 1991 collapse, signboards proclaiming the teachings of Vladmir Lenin were painted over with slogans preaching the newfound nationalism of the former local Communist leaders who held on to power.
But Niyazov, who died Thursday at age 66 of heart failure, had an exceptional flair for showmanship and put himself on display like few other authoritarian leaders. In a way, his regime was ironically transparent, allowing the public to see their leader in action on a regular basis.
Before the nightly news in Turkmenistan, a clock bearing the image of Niyazov glancing at his watch counted down the seconds for the latest bulletin.
The lead news item was always about the man called "Turkmenbashi," or "Father of all Turkmen," heading to villages for the harvest or meeting with visiting businessmen eager to get a cut of the country's energy spoils.
News broadcasts often lasted more than an hour — with the state-run channel's editors apparently wary of trimming anything about the president.
A typical newscast would be a virtual "day in the life" of the president, starting with Niyazov driving his black Mercedes to work, then perhaps hopping on a helicopter to a village to watch farmers in action.
Residents would sing and dance to the delight of the rotund Niyazov, who would regally wave his burly hands decked with golden rings and clap softly. There would be speeches by elders, and perhaps the president himself would take a scythe to a wheat stalk.
No matter what else was on TV, a golden profile of Niyazov beamed from the corner of the screen — the logo of his self-proclaimed "Golden Century" for the country.
In case you missed it the night before, government newspapers would always report the president's doings as their top story the next day.
In the capital of Ashgabat, the central landmark is a golden statue of Niyazov that rotates slowly during the day to face the sun. A grand cape flowing behind him had some residents joking privately that he looked like Batman. At night, lights make the statue visible even to planes landing at the city's airport. Across the city, are the beloved water fountains he erected despite the country's parched landscape.
All offices and schools are required to have rooms dedicated to studying a pseudo-philosophical tome authored by Niyazov called "Rukhnama," or "Book of the Soul."
The book has its own monuments, with a giant version of the pink-and-green covered volume gracing a central park that is home to yet more statues of Niyazov. Every evening, the book's cover mechanically opens.
The incessant propaganda doesn't mean the people of Turkmenistan are isolated from the world. Even though Niyazov sought to sever access to foreign media and travel, forests of satellite dishes sprout from apartment balconies where Turkmens turn to outside channels, often Russian, to get a relatively broader world view.
They are now watching to learn the fate of their country, where the omnipresent president gave few hints of a possible successor and the face that will be greeting Turkmens daily in the future.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Whew! Symi and I are finally seeing the floor of our new apartment after the movers showed up bright and early 8:00AM Monday morning to move us out of our great apartment in Cleveland Park to our cozy apartment on the Upper West Side. Since then, it has been quite a ride-- drilling holes in the walls (for mounted shelves) and being given a hand saw, pencil and measuring tape and told to cut our own shelves to size in the corner of Lowe's hardware store in Brooklyn.
We're making some progress now, though, now that we've got most of the shelves up. Hopefully we can get everything set before I have to go to my MIA orientation Monday morning at Columbia.
In the meantime, I got the following link from my friend Tricia with the subject line:
"Hi, I'm Trish and I'm a bibliophile!"
To which, I say "Hi "Trish! It's good to see you as part of the group!"
But you don't have to be a bibliophile to appreciate this link:
Red-Hot Library Smut
Enjoy!
We're making some progress now, though, now that we've got most of the shelves up. Hopefully we can get everything set before I have to go to my MIA orientation Monday morning at Columbia.
In the meantime, I got the following link from my friend Tricia with the subject line:
"Hi, I'm Trish and I'm a bibliophile!"
To which, I say "Hi "Trish! It's good to see you as part of the group!"
But you don't have to be a bibliophile to appreciate this link:
Red-Hot Library Smut
Enjoy!
Thursday, July 27, 2006
I've recently been enjoying reading this series of articles written by "The Frugal Traveler," aka Matt Gross of the New York Times, as he travels east through the Balkans, the Caucasus and now into Central Asia. This week, he is writing from Kyrgyzstan and he's heading into Xinjiang Province, China.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
A bit of poetry that I've always thought was great-- a propos of nothing...
THE CREMATION OF SAM McGEE
by
Robert William Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales that make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen strange sights, but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge when I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam Mcgee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the south to roam round the Pole God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Through he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze, till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and, "Cap," say he, "I'll cash her in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'taint being dead, it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on the streak of dawn, but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror driven,
With a corpse half-hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake LeBarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum:
Then, "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked," ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close the door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales that make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen strange sights, but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge when I cremated Sam McGee.
by
Robert William Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales that make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen strange sights, but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge when I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam Mcgee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the south to roam round the Pole God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Through he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze, till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and, "Cap," say he, "I'll cash her in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'taint being dead, it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on the streak of dawn, but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror driven,
With a corpse half-hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake LeBarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum:
Then, "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked," ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close the door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales that make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen strange sights, but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge when I cremated Sam McGee.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
This is a really cool image from a postcard from around the turn of the last century. In the middle of nowhere in central Maine, Mt. Kineo was once one of the largest hotels on the East Coast. Take a look at the whole page on Mt. Kineo at http://www.baharris.org/historicpolandspring/MtKineo/MtKineo.htm
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
This was just too good not to share with people:
From a British Parish Magazine:
After his cat got stuck in a tree, a minister in South Africa decided to mount a rescue operation. He climbed a ladder as far as he could, tied one end of a piece of rope to the tree's narrow trunk and attached the other end to his car bumper.
As he drove forward, the inevitable happened. The rope broke, catapulting the little kitty into space.
A couple of weeks later, the minister was in the supermarket where he saw one of his parishoners buying cat food. "I didn't know you had a cat," he told the parishoner.
"Minister--it's quite a miracle, really. About two weeks ago, I was having picnic on our lawn with my daughter. She said, 'Mummy, I'd really like to have a cat.' I told her she'd have to ask Jesus for one.
At that very moment, this cat came flying through the air, and landed on the lawn. It has been with us ever since."
From a November 1998 episode of The News Quiz, produced by the BBC.
From a British Parish Magazine:
After his cat got stuck in a tree, a minister in South Africa decided to mount a rescue operation. He climbed a ladder as far as he could, tied one end of a piece of rope to the tree's narrow trunk and attached the other end to his car bumper.
As he drove forward, the inevitable happened. The rope broke, catapulting the little kitty into space.
A couple of weeks later, the minister was in the supermarket where he saw one of his parishoners buying cat food. "I didn't know you had a cat," he told the parishoner.
"Minister--it's quite a miracle, really. About two weeks ago, I was having picnic on our lawn with my daughter. She said, 'Mummy, I'd really like to have a cat.' I told her she'd have to ask Jesus for one.
At that very moment, this cat came flying through the air, and landed on the lawn. It has been with us ever since."
From a November 1998 episode of The News Quiz, produced by the BBC.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
The other night I dreamt of a parallel world where American cowboys from the great plains and Kiwis (New Zealanders) had discovered a portal to an uninhabited largely old west/badlands-style parallel universe and had gotten themselves into a nuclear standoff with material stolen from the "real world" and assisted by the former-Soviet Russian nuclear engineers everyone is speculating is now working for terrorists.
It sounds like the plot for a c-level sci-fi movie or book. But I scratch my head as to what it means for my psyche.
Maybe I should lay off Cold War military strategy as a subject for bedtime reading.
It sounds like the plot for a c-level sci-fi movie or book. But I scratch my head as to what it means for my psyche.
Maybe I should lay off Cold War military strategy as a subject for bedtime reading.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Symi, who sent this article to me, had only one thing to say about this-- "Wow!"
I'm inclined to agree with her.
Tale of a Lost Cellphone and Untold Static
The New York Times
June 21, 2006
I'm also surprised to see that there wasn't any real discussion about people purchasing stolen property. How many people can honestly say that something they purchased on the subway platform isn't stolen?
And this Ivanna comes across as quite clueless, too. This line at the end of the article sums it up:
"People are not nice," she added, referring to Sasha. "Why?"
I'm inclined to agree with her.
The New York Times
June 21, 2006
I'm also surprised to see that there wasn't any real discussion about people purchasing stolen property. How many people can honestly say that something they purchased on the subway platform isn't stolen?
And this Ivanna comes across as quite clueless, too. This line at the end of the article sums it up:
"People are not nice," she added, referring to Sasha. "Why?"
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The Chester Zoo in the United Kingdom recently celebrated the hatching of a pair of critically endagered Egyptian Tortoises. The baby tortoises are tiny, weighing only about 7 grams each and extremely cute!
Friday, May 26, 2006
I just got this from Arnie Witt, a friend of mine, via Symi. It's great!
US Presidential Position Outsourced to India
Congress today announced that the office of President of the United
States of America will be outsourced to India as of April 15th, 2006.
The move is being made to save the President's $400,000 yearly salary
and also a record $521 billion in deficit expenditures and related
overhead the office has incurred during the last 5 years.
"We believe this is a wise move financially. The cost savings should be
significant," stated Congressman Thomas Reynolds (R-WA). Reynolds, with
the aid of the Government Accounting Office, has studied outsourcing of
American jobs extensively. "We cannot expect to remain competitive on
the world stage with the current level of cash outlay," Reynolds noted.
Mr. Bush was informed by email this morning of his termination.
Preparations for the job move have been underway for sometime.
Gurvinder Singh of Indus Teleservices, Mumbai, India, will be assuming
the office of President as of April 15th, 2006. Mr. Singh was born in
the United States while his Indian parents were vacationing at Niagara
Falls, thus making him eligible for the position. He will receive a
salary of US $320 a month but with no health coverage or other benefits.
It is believed that Mr. Singh will be able to handle his job
responsibilities without a support staff. Due to the time difference
between the US and India, he will be working primarily at night, when
few offices of the US Government will be open. "Working nights will
allow me to keep my day job at the American Express call center," stated
Mr. Singh in an exclusive interview. "I am excited about this position.
I always hoped I would be president someday."
A Congressional spokesperson noted that while Mr. Singh may not be
fully aware of all the issues involved in the office of President, this
should not be a problem, because Bush was not familiar with the issues
either.
Congress today announced that the office of President of the United
States of America will be outsourced to India as of April 15th, 2006.
The move is being made to save the President's $400,000 yearly salary
and also a record $521 billion in deficit expenditures and related
overhead the office has incurred during the last 5 years.
"We believe this is a wise move financially. The cost savings should be
significant," stated Congressman Thomas Reynolds (R-WA). Reynolds, with
the aid of the Government Accounting Office, has studied outsourcing of
American jobs extensively. "We cannot expect to remain competitive on
the world stage with the current level of cash outlay," Reynolds noted.
Mr. Bush was informed by email this morning of his termination.
Preparations for the job move have been underway for sometime.
Gurvinder Singh of Indus Teleservices, Mumbai, India, will be assuming
the office of President as of April 15th, 2006. Mr. Singh was born in
the United States while his Indian parents were vacationing at Niagara
Falls, thus making him eligible for the position. He will receive a
salary of US $320 a month but with no health coverage or other benefits.
It is believed that Mr. Singh will be able to handle his job
responsibilities without a support staff. Due to the time difference
between the US and India, he will be working primarily at night, when
few offices of the US Government will be open. "Working nights will
allow me to keep my day job at the American Express call center," stated
Mr. Singh in an exclusive interview. "I am excited about this position.
I always hoped I would be president someday."
A Congressional spokesperson noted that while Mr. Singh may not be
fully aware of all the issues involved in the office of President, this
should not be a problem, because Bush was not familiar with the issues
either.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
This is an interesting article if only for the social commentary and criticism of the "self-help culture."
from In These Times Magazine -- March 24, 2006
By Jessica Clark
Can I resign as the CEO of Brand Me, Inc? While profits and productivity are up, and product recognition is on the rise, the worker is complaining of long hours, tension headaches and job insecurity. Please advise.
Since early January, to the horror of my inner artist, slacker and cynic, my “inner executive” has been consulting a personal productivity advisor. David Allen, the mastermind behind Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity, which recently hit No. 1 on the Business Week paperback bestseller list. Allen sports a tie and wire-rimmed glasses, and spouts a brand of management-speak that would set most lefties’ teeth on edge. Yet, his hippie past peeks through—Allen defines the goal of implementing his persnickety efficiency tactics as achieving a “mind like water.”
To help you reach that crystalline consciousness, GTD (as the book is known to acolytes) employs a bottom-up approach to dealing with all the junk that’s bugging you now—the crap on your desk, the nagging voices in your head, your closet clutter and your unrealized ambitions. Each of these unprocessed items, says Allen, represents an “open loop,” a commitment that your unconscious will hound you about until you record or reckon with it.
Once collected, this crud must be molded and sorted into categories: “trash” (the most satisfying), “reference” (sort of soothing) and “projects” broken down into “actionable items” sorted by “contexts” like home, office or phone. Allen then prompts devotees to review this project list—the backbone of the system—each week. Performed religiously, this routine transforms an adrenaline-fueled daily grind into a game of strategy that reformats dead time into do-time. By emptying your “psychic RAM” into this system, Allen argues, you free your mind for creative thought and arm yourself for rapid response to the changing exigencies of life.
With clients ranging from the U.S. Air Force to Lockheed Martin to the American Red Cross, Allen has hit it big in the business-consulting world. He’s also attracted a slew of less-conventional followers. The self-proclaimed “geek” world is enraptured by GTD; cult metaphors abound in the dozens of blogs, Wikis and software projects devoted to dissecting each phase of his method (check out http://del.icio.us/tag/gtd for a sampling). Wired writer Robert Andrews calls Getting Things Done, first published in 2001, a “holy book for the information age,” while blogger Anil Dash praises Allen for delivering an “aspirational digital lifestyle.” The GTD-infused word “lifehack” has become so popular that the editors of the New Oxford American Dictionary selected it as a runner-up for the 2005 Word of the Year.
Why has GTD generated such adulation? Merlin Mann, whose blog “43 Folders” has become a hub for the GTD community, provides some insight.
“Geeks are often disorganized or have a twisted skein of attention deficit disorders,” he writes. They also “crave actionable items and roll their eyes at ‘mission statements’ and lofty management patois,” and “have too many projects and lots and lots of stuff.” Sound familiar?
It should. In many ways, “geeks” are the canaries in the New Economy’s coalmine. Programmers and knowledge workers often operate as free agents in the digital economy—self-employed or contract workers with little job security and a constant need to reinvent themselves for new employers. Working at home or remotely, they are overwhelmed by a barrage of e-mails and media inputs, lack the structure and community provided by conventional offices, and must erect or erase hard boundaries between their personal and professional lives. Such a vacuum of external supports and structures means that such workers must find new systems for setting goals, defining next steps, and managing the “project” of life.
In 1950, sociologist David Reisman noted a major cultural shift in his influential book, The Lonely Crowd. He argues that over the years, Westerners’ social character has gone through three stages: the tradition-driven mode of the pre-modern era, the “inner-directed” style associated with industrialists and pioneers, and the mass-society “other-directedness” of the peer-driven consumer and office worker. GTD is a system that supports the emergence of yet a new character—what one might term the “self-directed” global creative.
Increasingly missed by social safety nets, unbound from traditional familial and cultural ties, atomized by free-market philosophies and awash in a sea of niche-defined consumer and lifestyle choices, the “self-directed” are wracked with anxiety. GTD supplants what Reisman described as the “gyroscope” of the inner-directed—an internalized set of values inculcated by society—with an inner index of individualized choices, projects and goals. This portfolio can then travel with you across jobs, cities, families, subcultures and life stages, absorbing anxiety along the way.
As Allen puts it, GTD trains your “inner committee”—providing “organization development from the inside out.”
Now, usually, at this point in a progressive critique of a business book, my inner satirist would be mocking Allen and his readers as bourgeois, work-obsessed drones lacking the requisite class consciousness to understand their plight. But such a critique is both facile and unimaginative.
The personal empowerment genre does present real dangers, as NYU sociologist Micki McGee points out in her recent book, Self-Help, Inc. “The capitalist demand is that one ‘be all one can be’: human capital, as with any other natural resource, is to be developed and exploited,” she writes. Yet, at the same time she continues, “The democratic demand—and promise—is that one will get to ‘be all one can be’: a human being reaching his or her greatest potential in association with others.” She goes on to note:
If one imagines self-help culture not only as a means of social control but also as a symptom of social unrest that has not found a political context, then, given the exponential growth of self-help reading, there is no shortage of unrest or dissatisfaction. Understood in these terms, self-help culture could potentially offer an enormous opportunity for cultivating social change.
It is this promise that attracts me to GTD, and to helpful and optimistic lifehackers like Mann and Ethan J. A. Schoonover, a freelance photographer and global gadabout who has come up with his own GTD twist at kinkless.com. While Allen’s system might read like a hybrid of soulless corporate disciplines like Total Quality Management and the deracinated Zen of stress-management retreats, it is surprisingly effective, and often fun. As a recent article in the Guardian notes, the initial “mind sweep” of projects “can be both traumatic and oddly liberating.”
These are tools not just for creating new ways to work, but for carving out time for leisure, action and reflection. As a self-proclaimed geek who straddles two increasingly volatile and insecure vocations—journalism and progressive politics—how can I resist? And then, there’s the lure: “mind like water.”
“Before GTD I used to have a really hard time getting to sleep,” says Schoonover. “My head would hit the pillow and my brain would start cycling through all these ideas. With GTD I do a much better job of capturing ideas as they come to me throughout the day. The improvement in sleep alone is worth the price of admission.”
Jessica Clark is the executive editor at In These Times.
Dear Postindustrial Capitalism
from In These Times Magazine -- March 24, 2006
By Jessica Clark
Can I resign as the CEO of Brand Me, Inc? While profits and productivity are up, and product recognition is on the rise, the worker is complaining of long hours, tension headaches and job insecurity. Please advise.
Since early January, to the horror of my inner artist, slacker and cynic, my “inner executive” has been consulting a personal productivity advisor. David Allen, the mastermind behind Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity, which recently hit No. 1 on the Business Week paperback bestseller list. Allen sports a tie and wire-rimmed glasses, and spouts a brand of management-speak that would set most lefties’ teeth on edge. Yet, his hippie past peeks through—Allen defines the goal of implementing his persnickety efficiency tactics as achieving a “mind like water.”
To help you reach that crystalline consciousness, GTD (as the book is known to acolytes) employs a bottom-up approach to dealing with all the junk that’s bugging you now—the crap on your desk, the nagging voices in your head, your closet clutter and your unrealized ambitions. Each of these unprocessed items, says Allen, represents an “open loop,” a commitment that your unconscious will hound you about until you record or reckon with it.
Once collected, this crud must be molded and sorted into categories: “trash” (the most satisfying), “reference” (sort of soothing) and “projects” broken down into “actionable items” sorted by “contexts” like home, office or phone. Allen then prompts devotees to review this project list—the backbone of the system—each week. Performed religiously, this routine transforms an adrenaline-fueled daily grind into a game of strategy that reformats dead time into do-time. By emptying your “psychic RAM” into this system, Allen argues, you free your mind for creative thought and arm yourself for rapid response to the changing exigencies of life.
With clients ranging from the U.S. Air Force to Lockheed Martin to the American Red Cross, Allen has hit it big in the business-consulting world. He’s also attracted a slew of less-conventional followers. The self-proclaimed “geek” world is enraptured by GTD; cult metaphors abound in the dozens of blogs, Wikis and software projects devoted to dissecting each phase of his method (check out http://del.icio.us/tag/gtd for a sampling). Wired writer Robert Andrews calls Getting Things Done, first published in 2001, a “holy book for the information age,” while blogger Anil Dash praises Allen for delivering an “aspirational digital lifestyle.” The GTD-infused word “lifehack” has become so popular that the editors of the New Oxford American Dictionary selected it as a runner-up for the 2005 Word of the Year.
Why has GTD generated such adulation? Merlin Mann, whose blog “43 Folders” has become a hub for the GTD community, provides some insight.
“Geeks are often disorganized or have a twisted skein of attention deficit disorders,” he writes. They also “crave actionable items and roll their eyes at ‘mission statements’ and lofty management patois,” and “have too many projects and lots and lots of stuff.” Sound familiar?
It should. In many ways, “geeks” are the canaries in the New Economy’s coalmine. Programmers and knowledge workers often operate as free agents in the digital economy—self-employed or contract workers with little job security and a constant need to reinvent themselves for new employers. Working at home or remotely, they are overwhelmed by a barrage of e-mails and media inputs, lack the structure and community provided by conventional offices, and must erect or erase hard boundaries between their personal and professional lives. Such a vacuum of external supports and structures means that such workers must find new systems for setting goals, defining next steps, and managing the “project” of life.
In 1950, sociologist David Reisman noted a major cultural shift in his influential book, The Lonely Crowd. He argues that over the years, Westerners’ social character has gone through three stages: the tradition-driven mode of the pre-modern era, the “inner-directed” style associated with industrialists and pioneers, and the mass-society “other-directedness” of the peer-driven consumer and office worker. GTD is a system that supports the emergence of yet a new character—what one might term the “self-directed” global creative.
Increasingly missed by social safety nets, unbound from traditional familial and cultural ties, atomized by free-market philosophies and awash in a sea of niche-defined consumer and lifestyle choices, the “self-directed” are wracked with anxiety. GTD supplants what Reisman described as the “gyroscope” of the inner-directed—an internalized set of values inculcated by society—with an inner index of individualized choices, projects and goals. This portfolio can then travel with you across jobs, cities, families, subcultures and life stages, absorbing anxiety along the way.
As Allen puts it, GTD trains your “inner committee”—providing “organization development from the inside out.”
Now, usually, at this point in a progressive critique of a business book, my inner satirist would be mocking Allen and his readers as bourgeois, work-obsessed drones lacking the requisite class consciousness to understand their plight. But such a critique is both facile and unimaginative.
The personal empowerment genre does present real dangers, as NYU sociologist Micki McGee points out in her recent book, Self-Help, Inc. “The capitalist demand is that one ‘be all one can be’: human capital, as with any other natural resource, is to be developed and exploited,” she writes. Yet, at the same time she continues, “The democratic demand—and promise—is that one will get to ‘be all one can be’: a human being reaching his or her greatest potential in association with others.” She goes on to note:
If one imagines self-help culture not only as a means of social control but also as a symptom of social unrest that has not found a political context, then, given the exponential growth of self-help reading, there is no shortage of unrest or dissatisfaction. Understood in these terms, self-help culture could potentially offer an enormous opportunity for cultivating social change.
It is this promise that attracts me to GTD, and to helpful and optimistic lifehackers like Mann and Ethan J. A. Schoonover, a freelance photographer and global gadabout who has come up with his own GTD twist at kinkless.com. While Allen’s system might read like a hybrid of soulless corporate disciplines like Total Quality Management and the deracinated Zen of stress-management retreats, it is surprisingly effective, and often fun. As a recent article in the Guardian notes, the initial “mind sweep” of projects “can be both traumatic and oddly liberating.”
These are tools not just for creating new ways to work, but for carving out time for leisure, action and reflection. As a self-proclaimed geek who straddles two increasingly volatile and insecure vocations—journalism and progressive politics—how can I resist? And then, there’s the lure: “mind like water.”
“Before GTD I used to have a really hard time getting to sleep,” says Schoonover. “My head would hit the pillow and my brain would start cycling through all these ideas. With GTD I do a much better job of capturing ideas as they come to me throughout the day. The improvement in sleep alone is worth the price of admission.”
Jessica Clark is the executive editor at In These Times.
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