I don’t need to know that

Just like you, everyday I’m flooded with information as I scroll through the screen looking for something to attract my attention. There is current weather, breaking news, crime updates, silly politics, healthcare trial and error, delicious meals delivered to your doorstep, terrible videos of man’s inhumanity to man, must have purchases promoted by critics and links to what the computer mind thinks you would prefer.

How much of what I see, do I need to know?

There are reports and stories about string theory, dark matter, quantum physics, etc. but do I need to know about this? There are folks out there examining things I couldn’t comprehend but that is how new innovation is created.

I went through all the proper steps of childhood to sit quietly in classrooms and some of it stuck. Math was logical for it had formulars, but science with the periodic table never caught on. History was boring and English never understood. What is the difference between adverbs, adjustives and what the heck is a dangling participle. Iambic pentameter was fine but no one talks like that.

Reading took a long time to become familiar, so books were not my source of information. In college I worked in the city’s main branch library with three floors of every conceivable book available for research and borrow (for free) and the librarian as our search engine. Hidden in the stacks were writings of dubious subjects that had to have an approved request. If a book, once ordered by reviewing best sellers was not suitable for our reading public, it was burnt. I built a library saving unacceptable books from such a faith.

I know there are things like fossil fuel combustible engines from my drivers ed classes, but I wouldn’t even know how to start an automobile now. Solar panels, cocker spaniels, climate change, mental derange, astral projection, science fiction, guns that kill to people who thrill to watch then pray that it will all go away until the next day are out of my control.

When I turn the facet, the water flows. If it is not brown, I drink it. When I turn on a light switch, if the 70+ year old wiring and the ungrounded plugs don’t spark a fire, I’m good for another day. If I can pedal to the Tummy Temple, purchase my nourishment and return without an encounter with a massive metal mobile machine, then I can relax and cherish my purchases.

Home assessment rising, natural gas prices rising, electrical fees rising I have no control over. Like town hall meetings or community gatherings, I’m not inclined to protest or participate. If acceptance is my faith, as long as I have enough money to maintain my current existence, I’m fine.

At this age, I probably ought to pay more attention to health, but there are so many ailments and potions and pills one can’t keep track of all the possibilities. If you read enough of the symptoms, you’ll start feeling the pain. If I go get an appointment, the doctor (to fulfill their oath and maintain their income) will diagnose some deadly unpronounceable name and prescribe a series of medicines that may/or may not work to reduce the pain (real or imagined).

Scanning several news sites can confirm what I’ve already heard on the radio while skipping over the fluff. I will avoid who is getting married or divorced, what is the latest fad, what movie to see or what book to read, political memes and videos of kittens.

If I’m missing out on something, AI will fill in the gaps.

Something’s Wrong

 

It has been a HOT summer. Maybe it is climate change, maybe it is no air conditioning, maybe it is age, maybe….

Whatever is the reason, this year has sapped my energy. My get-up-and-go has got-up-and-gone.

There is still a long list of ‘to-dos’ but they just are not getting ‘done’. It’s too blaming HOT!

The fans are running but they are just circulating hot air, so it is time to take naps and wander the yard in my skivvies. Hydration has changed from silver bullets to water from the tap.

This weirdness started at the beginning of spring. Started getting a pain in my left side. I wasn’t eating more, but I felt stuffed. Pressing the skin there was a resistant. Perhaps I was constipated? Take the little chocolate drops to clean out the system.

There was also a gas problem. Any carbonated drink would create a massive long belch. Even eating a cracker brings up an ‘Urp’. Check the tummy aisle at the Tummy Temple.

When the temperature soared to triple digits, even the simple ride to bring home my daily bread became a struggle. A few days had multiple stops to catch-my-breath and on some require dismounting and walking the way home with several stops in the shade for water breaks.

Arriving home, exhausted and soaked, there was nothing left to move. Go to the doctor?

Sleeping became a series of naps broken by bathroom breaks and hydration. Wild reem dreams would come between 3 and 5AM. Waking up was not refreshing. Several mornings were foggy and some days never got into focus.

Adjustments were made eating (and drinking) habits and the stomach extension seemed to lessen. Getting enough nourishment to function, with excretion of liquids and solids working, life goes on. To make it easier, the taste of food is not as enticing as it once were. A bowl of shredded wheat and milk is more appealing than a porterhouse steak.

Sure, a doctor visit could possibly supply a diagnosis for my stuffiness with draining blood and camera scooping where it shouldn’t go of any number of cancers or ulcers or other frailties that could (or not) be treated and eliminated with concoctions and potions and constant check-ups to maintain a healthy existence until the final hour.

And so the story goes in this is Just Another Life.

Manufacturing

Look around. Everything you see was manufactured. Unless you are one of the guys on ‘This Ole House’ with MIT skills and years of experience with all the tools and unlimited funds, someone else manufactured everything you see. You may have some antiques that were crafted by an artisan to finely tool woodworking or metal work or glass blowing beyond the detail a factory could produce, but most of what fills our closets and tops our tables and cover our bookshelves and overrun every drawer and cabinet are mass manufactured.

Seems when we traveled over the pond, we were riding tiny wooden ships manufactured by craftsman with years of experience in bending wood and sealing with tar in hopes it makes it through the waves to the other side. Once in the land of plenty, there were no contractors or architects. There was a plot of land and trees and dirt. Shelter had to be constructed by hand and dirt tilled and seeded for there was no bodega at the end of the dusty road. Until others arrived, frontiers were self-sufficient.

Others did arrive and communities started to form. Everyone chipped in to barn raisings bartering time for food or fellowship. Religious groups constructed churches which doubled for schools and meeting houses.

Still the household was worked by family unless there was enough money to go to the river and buy some people from another land to chattel the family sublimit.

With the constant invasion of indigenous land, the military from the east were sent out to build forts and shelter for the settlers under attack from the native savage, the French, the Spanish and the English all contesting the rights to the property.

Some of these communities grew into townships. Located next to a water source, there was transportation for trading and renewing supplies. As the railroad expanded, other towns popped up along the way as hubs connected together by wires messaging morse code.

Farmers, plantation owners, land owners who manufactured more than their family could consume would take their crops, drive their cattle, herd their sheep to the towns for sale, slaughter and trade.

One of the first manufacturers were the spirits. Whether it was a homemade moonshine still or a distillery, saloons or taverns arrived to distribute a mug of the finest for a few. The hospitality industry was manufactured.

Demand for mass production of clothing, wagons, housing, food, education created manufacturing beyond the single. They are artisans who possess a high level of skill and expertise in a particular craft, often involving the creation of tangible, aesthetically pleasing objects to supply could not keep up with the demand.

Factories were assembled with craftsmen (and women) to sew the buttons, dig in the mines, cut the timber, slaughter the animals, provide the furniture for the expansion of townships.

Being fond of guitars, I think of the Martin factory that brought Ole World skills of making small guitars to the New World and adjusting to the new music since 1833. Each guitar was handmade construction from a luthier with knowledge of wood and sound reproduction who carved and bent the wood, bracing the pieces for resonator and final assembly was a prized procession to any musician who held one. I’ve been to the factory and watched years old techniques that still hold true. There is some automation and shortcuts but the final product is worth the price.

Not every pot and pan and chair and table can have this constant attention to detail, so the factories had to speed up the process while losing the quality. Henry Ford comes to mind of creating the assembly line where workers were separated to doing a particular task as the product moved on a conveyer belt. There wasn’t a lot of skill or craftsmanship in turning a screw every minute.

What brought this to mind was World War II. The machinery of war that was manufactured here and shipped overseas to fight the battle was amazing. The country got out of a depression to hire anyone who could be trained to weld a sheet of metal or pack ammunition or take oil and make tires for thousands of vehicles that would carry our troops to victory. The logistics of keeping track of all these items from uniforms to bullets alone was staggering. Those who didn’t pick up arms worked in factories manufacturing the weapons of destruction. There were limited educational requirements and the working conditions were minimal but the cause was right. After the fighting stopped there was plenty of surplus for the movies.

Labor unions worked for the masses who had no say in salaries or hours worked until factories moved to another country with cheaper labor. The factory of educational manufacturing grew to train generations in adapting to peacetime consumption. Tanks and jeep turned to automobiles and refrigerators, aerial runways tuned to strips of highways, cities spread out into suburbs with matchbook houses. Oil was king. Distilling crude to plastics changed everything.

Rooms full of accountants cooking the books in ledgers turned to cool rooms full of whirring computers. Coal mines were replaced by giant machines that stripped the mountains down from the top. Ships lost their guns to carrying stacks of cargo containers or floating hotels. Department stores morphed into shopping malls as office complexes reached to the heavens. Everyone had a car.

Every place you go has a factory. Whether if it is the local restaurant or filling station or grocery store, they are all mini-manufacturing factories. They all have logistics of receiving, inventory, staff, accounting, distribution, sales, profits, security, insurance….

I never thought of myself as a factory worker, but on reflection I worked in manufacturing as everyone else. I worked from a newspaper. A communication factory manufacturing the news on a daily basis. A 24/7 operation delivering  a new multi-page book filled with sports, politics, local and national news, fashion, stocks, weddings, obituaries, classified pages and even comics 365 days a year. I was a white-collar clog in the machine. I was in the ‘creative’ department that was supposed to assist sales staff persuade clients to pay for their message to be printed in a defined space to be viewed by an audience in hopes that some will see their advertisement and react with calls and request and profits.

The bell rings and we clock out.

Where do you get the news?

 

Reports, studies, test, articles, journals, evaluations, investigations, conclusions, teachings, polls, questionnaires, editorials, opinions, research, observations, results, sermons, declarations, announcement, statement, communique, pronouncement, proclamation, statistics, social media, influencer, gossip, rumors…?

What keywords do you look for?

“Weather”, “Sports”, “Traffic”, “Crime”, “Health Tips”, “Recipes”, “War”, “Guns”, “Education”, “Kids”, “Animals”, “Politics”, “Obits”, “Weddings”, “Births”, “Fashion”, “Protest”, “Homes”, “Money”, “Social Security”, “Jobs”, “Celebrity”, “Relationships”, “Space”, “Economy”, “Best bargains”, “Books”, “Movies”, “Stage shows”, “Concerts”, “Restaurants”, “Energy”, “Philosophy”, “Photography”, “Science Fiction”, “History”, “Ancestry”, “Legacy”, “NSFW”, “Mystery”, “Adventure”, “Economy”, “Emergency”, “Global affairs”, “Secrets” …

Do You Want to Know a Secret?

Remember middle school? Our social communication skills were refining in who we wanted to associate with. Puberty also assisted our curiosity in one another. What drew us together was sharing our secrets.

The word "secret" refers to something kept hidden. Personal diaries had locks on them to keep what was written a secret except to the author. Bedroom and bathrooms have doors with locks so whatever activity that occurs is kept a secret from others.

Secrets, when hinted at, cause mysteries that need for others to solve. Once a secret is shared, it is no longer a secret.

“Mary has a crush on Tommy.” “Jenny is wearing Todd’s sweater.” “Sally is pregnant.” Secrets revealed or gossip? If heard second hand, who does the fact check? The secret can now be expanded upon and become someone’s perceived personality and reputation, true or false.

Everyone has a story. The clothing you wear, your hairstyle, where you live, what you drive, where you went to school, your children are all on your resume for anyone to see. Like getting a business card or an online profile, either to be adjusted for the best appearance, we present to the public who we think we are.

When meeting a stranger and getting beyond the physical appearance and you find the conversation interesting and wanted to know more, whatever they say may be the truth or a lie. If you know a friend who could verify the stories, you build the relationship on trust. You can only bond when you share secrets.

Some secrets shouldn’t be shared. Some secrets will be regretted to the grave. Some secrets may be discovered long after life and never confirmed.

I’ve tried to be forthright with my history and philosophy, but realize there are still a lot of secrets I never knew. I lived with a woman for eight years and never asked about her father. I lived with a woman for twenty-five years and we agreed not to dwell into the past relationships. She told me stories I didn’t want to hear that were later detailed by strangers who knew more than I did.  Some have been hinted at from one point of view in this blog. Intimate specifics will not be discussed. I kept my promise.

At a certain age, say being a senior citizen, we can bypass the blah-blah of the last vacation or a new purchase or even what the family who you don’t know are doing. We shouldn’t wait until the death bed to share our secrets. This is what you will pass on to your heirs.

“When was your first kiss?” “Who deflowered you?” “Did you ever get arrested?” “Did you want to get married?” “Did you plan on a family?” “How far did you do drugs?” “Did you ever stray?” “Why did you break up?” “Did you ever kill anyone?” “Did you ever steal?” “Do you have a legacy?”

These are the questions that should be asked at reunions. This is what people really want to know.

Ask me no secrets. I’ll tell you no lies.