Clouds

One of the latest trends in high tech is “Cloud computing”—the idea that software, hardware and services are all available from a ubiquitous Internet "cloud" and companies or individuals can use them as they would utilities like electricity or water, paying only for what they need. All this without having to worry about buying the hardware and software, maintaining it, applying patches, worrying about whether it will continue to have the needed capacity, and so on. Amazon’s Elastic Cloud Computing (Amazon EC2) is one example.

Of course, all your data is also up there in the cloud somewhere, so security is a top priority, and there’s always the worry that somehow another cloud user or somebody outside the cloud will be able to get access to your valuable information--hackers don’t go away.

But this particular development looks like it might end up changing the whole landscape for software and hardware companies in the same way the Internet has done and as such it has lots of people in the industry pondering it with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Like any world-changing technology it has its pros and cons. Joni Mitchell had some wise words to say about clouds in a song she wrote back in 1969 and as I study the complexities of Cloud architectures, I hear her words:

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feathered canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way…

Oh yes, no worries, a thing of beauty, everything taken care of by the ice cream castle, I mean cloud provider, and you pay for only what you need and use. You can truly access your data anywhere, anytime, from any device.

But now they only block the sun.

They rain and snow on everyone.

So many things I would have done

But clouds got in my way…

It’s a game changer for companies, IT departments, end users – all trying to figure out how to manage their huge quantities of data and provide it anywhereanyhow – but keep it safe and secure at the same time. Like any game changer it can make you a little queasy--what will it all mean and how will it all unfold? Get out your crystal ball and think fast.

On this whirling planet change is constant, and there are always ups and downs. The new new thing can be a wave you ride or one that sucks you under.

I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now

From win and lose and still somehow

It’s cloud illusions I recall

I really don’t know clouds at all.

As usual I'm faking it til I make it--swimming as fast as I can to understand both sides—NOW

Let It Be

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me.
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.                  Paul McCartney

Last Sunday morning at 10:20 I found myself standing very alone on the corner of Pearl and 13th, filled with despair and grief about the illness of someone close to me. And I remembered seeing that there was a 10:30 am service at the First United Methodist Church a block away. I made it there with time to spare. The silver-haired gentleman greeting people at the door said, not unkindly, “Are you coming in?” “Yes, I am,” said I, and I took the program he handed me and walked on in with my backpack, jeans and tennis shoes, telling myself that God wouldn’t care, that God would be happy to see me in a Methodist church again for the first time in 42 years.

I found an empty pew near the front and sat in the middle right behind the familiar wooden rack holding the Methodist hymnal and a Bible. The program stated that all were welcome here regardless of gender, race, class, age, ability, religious affiliation or sexual orientation. One whole wall to the left emitted light through multicolored glass squares, and the church seemed very spacious and open.

Just as the service started a man of perhaps 33 slipped quietly into the same pew on my left, but at a respectful distance. He was also wearing jeans I noticed with mild relief, and wore a silver ring in his right ear. The service proceeded much as a remembered from long ago, the affirmations, the choir leading obscure hymns (I wanted to call out “Rock of Ages!” “Just a Closer Walk with Thee!” but I didn’t think they were taking requests), the prayers for those in the hospital or suffering a loss. The sermon was on the topic of seeing clearly, as blind men did after Jesus healed them, and truly recognizing that all we possess is really God’s, not ours (and despite these difficult times have you considered increasing your tithe lately).

As I murmured The Lord’s Prayer near the end along with the congregation, a tear rolled down my cheek and clung with some tenacity to my jaw until I finally brushed it away.

Toward the end of the service after a brief explanation that especially in this flu season it was okay not to shake hands, the “Pass the Peace” ritual occurred in which people turned to greet their neighbors. The man with the ring in his ear gazed at me with warm brown eyes, told me he was a regular attendee and had grown up in Boulder, that the ministers were great and the church was accepting of all who came and that he hoped I would find what I was seeking there.

When I was young my Dad and I went to the old limestone Methodist Church on First Street in Ellettsville some Sundays, the morning light streaming in through the old fashioned stained glass windows. For awhile I sang in the church choir. I never really considered myself a believer nor did he—but we sat together in the dark old pews sharing a hymnal, and I can still hear his deep voice singing the bass harmonies next to me.

At the end of the service everyone turned around in their seats and gazed up at a balcony where a bell choir played another hymn, the children from Sunday school standing by. And as I left the church that morning I felt a little closer to God and just a little more hopeful that no doubt events were unfolding as they should.

Letter to Falcon

Dear Falcon (what a cool name),

For some reason I had the rare urge at work on Thursday morning to check the 9news.com website, and so I caught the breaking story about a 6-year-old boy on board an experimental aircraft drifting higher and higher into the air and away from his family’s Fort Collins home, with news and military helicopters in hot pursuit.

I kept an eye on the story throughout the next several hours, hoping desperately that you were okay and safe, and fearing the worst when I heard the news that the craft had landed, with no sign of you inside or nearby. Later in the day we all learned that you were alive and well and had been hiding in the garage attic of your house for the previous five hours, fearing your father’s anger about the escape of the untethered silver balloon.

Now we have what we call a media frenzy and you’re getting your “fifteen minutes of fame.” Some people are very angry with you and your family.

And Falcon, let me tell you right now that despite whatever crazy complications may end up being revealed about you and your family (and all families are complicated, by the way), my main response on hearing the truth continues to be great happiness and relief that you are safe and sound.

Questions are being raised—was this whole thing a hoax? Did your Mom and Dad talk you into it? I heard your father’s voice when he said, “he scared the heck out of us,” and I don’t think so. I think you were scared and you hid.

The whole thing made me remember a story from my own childhood when I was about your age. My Dad was well known in our small Indiana town for his eccentric hobbies, one of which was kite making. He handmade beautiful multi-colored box kites from tissue paper and balsa wood, and entered them in contests. Sometimes he also made gigantic kites, taller than he was. When he flew these very large kites they had quite a strong pull, and even a grown man had trouble hanging onto them sometimes. Dad would fly the kites for many days at a time and sometimes he even attached a small light before sending one up, and the kite would emit a mysterious, UFO-like glow after dark.

One windy day some neighborhood kids and I were curious, playing around the way kids do, testing the cord strength of the latest large kite which had been up in the air a record number of days. We were pulling on the line just a little and then letting it go to hear a certain very satisfactory twanging sound. But then, right before my horrified eyes, the nylon tether broke, and the kite fluttered loosely to the earth.

I knew my Dad would be very angry when he found out—so I climbed a ladder in the garage and hid up in the attic for a few hours. Unlike your own experience, no one really noticed my absence at all (back then kids were a lot less supervised than they are nowadays). Later, when my Dad came home and I got hungry for dinner I had to climb back down the ladder, get yelled at and face the music. And it’s hard to get yelled at by your Dad—anger and disappointment can be scary. Even when he was yelling, though, I pretty much knew my Dad loved me very much, and I’m hoping that’s true in your case too. Somehow, like the son of a guy from mythology called Icarus, you flew a little too close to the hot sun, the waxed wings your Dad made for you melted, and you fell to the earth—all from your dark little hiding place in the attic.

But this too shall pass, Falcon. Hang in there.

I Dwell In Possibility

I stood in my backyard this morning and soaked up the Colorado sunshine, seeking a remedy for my continuing melancholy. Focusing on the present is a cure, as is Emily Dickinson’s suggestion: “Dwell in Possibility” per the black magnet with white script posted on the side of our refrigerator. Is the idea of dwelling in possibility in conflict with the idea of focusing on the present? Some say that the phrase reflects Emily’s reclusiveness and isolation; she lived her life isolated in her imagination, and had little contact with real people and situations. But I’ve always preferred to interpret it ultimately as an expression of the same kind of hopefulness and optimism expressed by Helen Keller: “When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”

The world always offers new possibilities for love, life, learning – we have to be open-minded enough to seize them.

On our walk this morning M shared the shocking news that “carpe diem” does not mean “seize the day” at all in strict Latin translation, but instead means “pluck the day,” as in plucking a flower.  Who knew? But now that I know the truth, it seems that “pluck,” as in “enjoy, make use of,” is perhaps better than “seize,” which has a rather militaristic, possessive, muscling-others-out-of-the-way ring to it.

Today I feel a weariness and lingering sense of lost purpose after a week-long business trip to the Emerald City in the Valley of Silicon looking for heart, brains, courage and a path homeward. My next magical trick is to focus on the present, and pluck the day.

Little Old Lady Ninja

The blues come on little rat feet…apologies to Carl Sandburg. I have been pondering new ways to avoid the Sunday night blues after a particularly bad bout with the Sunday night blues last weekend.

The other night I was vegetating on the couch with my feet up reading junk fiction after a long day fighting dragons and tilting against windmills at work.  I was wearing my black satin pajamas, and as I rose smoothly (hah!) to get myself a cup of tea my husband remarked that I looked like a “little old lady ninja” in those black pjs.

Okay, I’ll take that. My goal as I get older is to remain strong in body and spirit, at the ready to fight the demons and dragons found mainly in my own imaginings. Better this than a feeble old lady in a flannel nightgown.

The Sunday night blues is one of my demons. Every Monday morning at work when I ask people how their weekends went they say “Great—but too short.” (I am excepting of course those who have worked all weekend).

I’m pretty sure many people of all stripes fight the Sunday night blues. There are many blogs and articles with tips on how to beat them, from distracting oneself with non-stop activity, to planning some special treat for Monday morning, to meditation, to sunshine and exercise. As a matter of fact, it’s a gorgeous, sunny, September Sunday here in Boulder. Revel in it, I say! The ultimate trick I have is pure determination—to just be hell bent on wringing every last drop of joy out of each moment, Sunday or no. So - fight back against the Sunday blues like a little old lady ninja—and if it helps, imagine me: black-clad, feet planted, hands raised, staring down the demon blues in mock ferocity.

Synecdoche

I saw Charlie Kaufman’s film “Synecdoche, New York” last night – a complex, image-rich movie about a playwright in a severe mid-life crisis, trying to find truth in his work and relationships. The term “synecdoche” is interesting: it is a type of metaphor in which either part of something is used to refer to the whole thing, or a general class of thing is used to refer to a part or a sub-class of the whole. One example of synecdoche is the usage of a single characteristic to distinguish a fictional character—e.g. calling a character “Bright Eyes” or “Brown Shoes” – usually done when the observer doesn’t know or care what the name of the other character is. Other examples might be “suit” for a businessman, or worse “empty suit” for an incompetent businessman, or “gray hair” for an older person. I remember once at work recently talking to a large financial customer about their mainframe applications and requirements and asking who in their company could tell me more about their current needs. “You mean the gray hairs?” responded the brash young New Yorker. Ah well.

Another example is Shakespeare’s “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players."

Anyhow, as I apply this to the film, the main character Caden Cotard (played by the gifted Philip Seymour Hoffman) is a playwright who has had some level of success in regional theater in Schenectady, NY (get it? Schenectady/Synecdoche). He is suffering from a mid-life crisis in which everything seems to be falling apart including his own body and his relationships with his wife and daughter. By the way, Cotard’s Syndrome is a mental illness in which a person has the delusion that he is already dead. Although his wife takes their daughter and leaves him, Caden ends up winning a monetary award that lets him work on his masterpiece play. As the film progresses there are more and more dream-like sequences—he hires actors for his new play, but then seems to be hiring actors to play the roles of important people in his real life. Eventually he finds an actor to play his own role, and with greater insight than he himself seems to have.

The love of Caden’s life is Hazel, who lives in a house that is always smoke-filled and burning. Even when we see her purchase the house she thinks aloud with the realtor about whether she will end up dying in the fire—strolling contemplatively from room to room as flames flicker through a window or in a corner.

Caden’s four-year-old daughter Olive, who he loves dearly, remains four in his mind long after his wife and her lesbian lover have spirited her off to Germany and she has grown up to be a tattooed erotic dancer whose flower tattoos are dying as she does and who has, inexplicably, a German accent. In the end, each character including Caden himself is defined by a particular characteristic (here’s one of many cases where synecdoches seem to come in) but at the same time we see how limiting and artificial those definitions are, and that in reality each character has layers and depths that we can only begin to understand. A few words in shorthand from the director to tell the actors who they are or how to be seem more and more inadequate.

I think Caden in his mid-life crisis feels trapped by these limitations he has applied to himself and others around him. In the end of the movie when he’s much older as is Hazel, there is a beautiful, golden scene in which they are briefly able to move beyond these limitations and their love shines through. But of course life is short and there is a price to pay for choosing to live in a smoke-filled house afire, or loving someone who does. They only grasp what is truly important and real at the last possible moment.

Eventually, Caden takes on the role of his ex-wife’s cleaning lady Ellen, and the actress who was playing this role becomes the director, guiding his actions through a small earpiece he’s been provided. The last instruction he gets is simply, “Die.”

Let me make it clear that these observations only touch the surface of what is going on in this very complex film – it is definitely worth seeing and will generate some good conversation.

Smoking

“Mad Men,” a TV show about a male-dominated Madison Avenue advertising firm in the early 60’s, is true to the era with many of the characters perpetually smoking—in the office, in bed after sex, in restaurants. In modern day this pervasiveness of cigarettes is jarring. But back then it was totally acceptable to smoke pretty much anywhere: in the car, in elevators, in small conference rooms or offices at work, after dinner with your children, on airplanes, even in hospital waiting rooms.

As kids we used to suffer riding in the smoky family station wagon in winter with the windows cracked just a little to “let out the smoke.” Sparks would fly out the front side windows and into the back side windows and our eyes.  My sisters both ended up in the hospital more than once with pneumonia, heart ailments and other complications that were surely exacerbated by secondhand smoke. My parents and practically every other adult we knew in the 50’s and 60’s didn’t know any better. They smoked all their lives. During World War II my Dad, in his early 20’s, smoked to help calm his nerves and garner some measure of comfort in a place where one of his jobs was defusing landmines. After dinner each evening my parents sat out back smoking and talking while the kids did the dishes, the orange glow of their cigarettes all you saw in the darkness on the back porch. It was so much a part of them that today with both of them gone now for many years, the smell of cigarette smoke, while onerous, also makes me remember and miss them.

But I also remember my mother often saying that smoking was “a nasty habit,” one she wished she had never started; she was talked into trying it by her best friend Nell when they were in their early teens, and it hooked her immediately. Right after her retirement Mom found out she had emphysema and quit smoking; the next 7 years before her death she suffered a great deal, struggling more and more for each breath she took, puffing medications from a machine to help clear her bronchial tubes, volunteering her time to educate others on how to quit smoking and why they should. She did not complain, and attributed all her suffering to the terrible mistake of taking that first puff.

My father never did give it up—the addiction was too strong—even though the doctor told him repeatedly it was killing him and that smoking around my mother, whom he loved dearly, was also killing her. He once told me after a failed attempt to quit that resulted in a serious depression that quitting was like losing his best friend.

In February 2001, as Dad sat outside in a wheelchair on the hospital loading dock while we waited for the ambulance to come and take him to the nursing home where he died a few days later, he had a single request: would I give him a smoke. Awkwardly (since I never in my life even touched a cigarette, my mother having taught me well), I pulled a Camel out of the pack, managed to light it, and handed it over so he could take a few puffs. His look of pure relief and gratitude made me feel like we were sharing a moment’s respite in some cold Belgian foxhole in the winter of ‘45, and perhaps in one part of his mind we were.