Hi. How are you? Is conversation a lost art? I don't know but have read a lot in the last week about how lonely, shallow, and isolated we are. In the New Yorker, one about Couch Surfing . com and the other about that book about living alone. I gave the magazine away so can't quote from either article at the moment, but they both keep pointing to our strong desire to surround ourselves with people like ourselves. On the radio this morning a man spoke about the isolating properties of Facebook and the Sunday paper lead off with this article, about the fact that we don't talk to each other anymore. Talking about ourselves, talking about talking about ourselves. So, yesterday, I went for a hike instead. It was warm out and I got sweaty and there were pretty little blue flowers through the valley and up onto the ridge.
The good news is that my left thumb is much better. I took the slint/splint/sling off on Saturday, put it back on Sunday and am wearing it now. But it doesn't hurt like it did. On the road to recovery, though I won't be able to play basketball for some time, and the other thing, from the last knuckle up, my finger is rotated about five degrees counter-clockwise and I can't bend it more than a little. It's still quite swollen and looks like a prosthetic appendage, devoid of life attached to my hand. I should make another appointment but insuranceless, am hesitant. Watching the basketball game the other day, the announcer said, in reference to the player formerly known as Ron Artest, "Metta World Peace is going to do some damage in the playoffs."
Last, an excerpt from the introduction to Uncreative Writing, a book of essays by Kenneth Goldsmith about approaches to writing that involve anything but generating new material, from reappropriation to collage to sampling. I'm jealous of this assignment. He writes,
The good news is that my left thumb is much better. I took the slint/splint/sling off on Saturday, put it back on Sunday and am wearing it now. But it doesn't hurt like it did. On the road to recovery, though I won't be able to play basketball for some time, and the other thing, from the last knuckle up, my finger is rotated about five degrees counter-clockwise and I can't bend it more than a little. It's still quite swollen and looks like a prosthetic appendage, devoid of life attached to my hand. I should make another appointment but insuranceless, am hesitant. Watching the basketball game the other day, the announcer said, in reference to the player formerly known as Ron Artest, "Metta World Peace is going to do some damage in the playoffs."
Last, an excerpt from the introduction to Uncreative Writing, a book of essays by Kenneth Goldsmith about approaches to writing that involve anything but generating new material, from reappropriation to collage to sampling. I'm jealous of this assignment. He writes,
Each semester, for their final paper, I have them purchase a term paper from an online paper mill and sign their name to it, surely the most forbidden action in all of academia. Each student then must get up and present the paper to the class as if they wrote it themselves, defending it from attacks by the other students.
He sometimes holds classes entirely in Second Life, and when in a real classroom, encourages students to open their computers and plug in. I'm not sure if any of this is "good" but it's interesting. Hope all is well. It's overcast in Oakland today. Or better yet, check this out.
