They Eat Trees in Canada

I think this John Stewart quip from yesterday's Daily Show must have prompted one particular part of my dream last night. In it, I stood on a bridge overlooking some body of water, trying to ward away a trio of anthropomorphized beavers. They wore wigs or hats, and faded tags that warned people to hum or maintain eye contact in order to avoid being attacked. So I stood on that bridge, staring down these beavers while striving to hum them away.

Dreams as bizzare as this occur so frequently that they no longer warrant a "Wtf?" moment upon waking.

The Upwellings of Memory

I like when memories take you by surprise, that sudden recollection of smell or sound or sight that comes unbidden. You again possess knowledge of what was perhaps lost, another piece of yourself has returned to you.

Today I was doing some research on David Sedaris, and how he had gotten his big break reading his "SantaLand Diaries" essay on NPR back in 1992. The description triggered a memory, though I didn't even know who Sedaris was at the time - I had heard this broadcast. Christmas week, 2004. A hotel room in New York City, my first visit there. I'd turned on the radio, tuned it to NPR, a holiday broadcast. I specifically recall Sedaris singing a carol in the style of Billie Holiday (I didn't know who she was then, either).

Just to be sure, I found the broadcast online, and listened to it. Yep. David Sedaris, singing like Billie Holiday.

I remembered.

Street Talk

Snippets gleaned from the street.

Morning - a hoarse, moderately low male voice with a New York accent:
"She was a real looker back in her day."

Morning - brisk weather, a woman with sharp gestures and punching delivery:
"In general, stagehands are assholes."

Letdown

My coffee has failed my expectations. Or perhaps it was my senses that let me down.

To fight off the post-lunch, middle-of-the-afternoon lethargy, I'd fixed myself a cup of joe. Two creams, two sugars, nothing fancy. Coffee nonetheless, with its inimitable smell: nutty, rich, a slight hint of vanilla - something with depth and nuance. At least, that's what my nose promised me. My taste buds, however, were unimpressed.

Just savor that bouquet - this is amazing! enthused the olfactory.

Don't know what you're talking about, retorted my mouth. It's sweet and a little watery, very blah.

But smell it, insisted my nose.

But taste it, my mouth mocked back.

When the coffee's only half-enjoyed, the glass is definitely half-empty.

Lucky

In the current revival of Waiting for Godot, John Glover's Lucky reminded me of a blown racehorse wrecked by too many times round the track with a rider who didn't spare the whip. With stringy hair and reddened eyes, he wheezes and coughs most pitifully, cheeks working like a mad puffer fish. His voice echoes his spindly limbs, reedy and trembling, yet capable of enduring....and rambling.

Quaquaquaquaqua.

Poor wretch.

Twitter Knockoff

In the absence of a decent amount of time for me to sit down and formulate proper blog posts (or proper writing of any sort - this whole 9-to-5 thing really throws a spanner in the artistic works), I've decided to resort to short, Tweet-like statements. My own version of Twitter, if you will, with only my time and demands to limit the characters.

Better a trickle of words than a drought.

Hazy Boundaries

I like writing poetry, on the occasion some thought inspires me to weave my thoughts and feelings into a word-painting. I'd also like to share them with an audience, get some feedback and provoke discussion, but something always holds me back: the risk of someone stealing my work.

On the Internet, people play fast and loose with rules, bending them, breaking them with impunity, relatively safe within the anonymous mass. Unless you're a serial downloader on the RIAA's hitlist, or on the federal hitlist for other things, there's plenty you can get away with.

I speak mainly of copyright laws, though the same sort of incursions on other individual rights also frequently occur. Music, movies, books (look no further than leaked versions of the last Harry Potter book), and art all become so vulnerable, once placed in the vast unregulated reservoir of the Web. And regulation, or lack of it, is the key point. (The Founders must've thought that the commerce clause was pretty clever in dealing with boundaries- what a headache the Internet would have given them). The absolute freedom of this decentralized medium is what makes it great, but it also puts the intellectual property of many at risk.

With a click, you can share your ideas with the world; but with another, you can also share someone else's without attribution. That's not to say this doesn't happen in the world of print and hard copies. After all, plagiarism and accusations of plagiarism have long plagued scholars, artists, musicians, and other thinker-creators. Still, the scope of such unlawful copying is more limited than what it would be on the Internet.

So the main reason for this post comes down to a plea, an appeal to the good nature of the Internet audience, an argument for attributional responsibility. (I may be wasting my breath, I know, but at least I'm trying): Please. Don't pass off as your own what is not yours. Think of the artist, the poet, the scientist, the analyst who labored to create what it is you're enjoying, and give them their due, be it proper payment, or simply a citation.

And if you share this with someone else, please give me credit.