Showing posts with label susan smith nash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label susan smith nash. Show all posts

Saturday, April 16, 2022

Moodle 4.0 Is Here! What's new about it?

Moodle 4.0 is here! I’m trying to determine just what the advantages are and how much of a step change it is from Moodle 3.11.  I don’t think that Moodle can change the basic architecture for a number of reasons. So, the changes have to come in things like user experience and efficiency.  

 

 If you've worked with Moodle for very long, you know that it can be a place of almost infinite complexity, but also almost Zen-like simplicity. It's also a veritable ant-hill of programming activity, as programmers develop productivity and design apps - some are available for free, others require a download fee.  Moodle and Moodle partners are likewise entrepreneurial, and you can quickly use pre-built templates and hosting and an integrated software-as-a-service solution.

 

Improved User Experience, with modules listed in an easy-to-follow design.

 

MoodleCloud is still in 3.11, so I can’t experiment with it as much as I’d like. However, the “sandbox” is still available, and one can select a role as student, teacher, or manager, to play around with it.  

 

Here are some of my initial thoughts:

 

PROS:

1.  Much improved user experience, in terms of navigation, layout, use of new thumbnails, and course construction (with drag and drop).

 

2.  The default theme being used in the Sandbox (probably either Clean or Boost) is very attractive and easy to use. 

  

3.  Fully responsive interface that works well with tablets, laptops, and phones.

 

4.  Improved navigation – you can tell where you are, and can go back to a previous screen very easily. There may be some AI-based plug-ins that can help refine "smart navigation."

 

5.  One can use the calendar as a dashboard. The "My Courses" screen can display in a number of different options. The “Card” option makes the interface look a lot like the way Canvas displays available courses. 

 

My Courses page

6.  The basic structure of the learning management system is the same, so the same names, arrangement, process and procedure works.

 

7.  Moodle 4.0 is available for download if you’d like to host courses on your own server. That PRO is also a CON if you’re not ready to be a Moodle Administrator.

 

8.  Outside Apps more easily integrate with Moodle 4.0.  Integrating apps has always been fairly easy by means of a link or embedded log-in.  I don’t know to what extent single-sign on is facilitated, and if authentication is otherwise streamlined.

 

9.  There is less content on each screen. Not only is it easier to see with your tablet or phone, it’s much easier to stay focused and avoid distractions due to a busy design. 

 

10.  Moodle is open source, which means that there is an entire industry dedicated to building plug-ins and other features that are useful and needed.  I would not be surprised if there will be machine learning-based apps that can detect patterns in student performance and help administrators and even teachers, see student preferences, gaps in knowledge, and collaborative strengths. 

 

CONS:

1.  If you have not worked with Moodle before, you may feel a bit discouraged. Moodle is not a very intuitive LMS, and one may not know where everything is without going through a pretty thorough training course. 

 

Courses and categories admin screen

 

 

2.  It’s not clear how much Universal Design for Learning was used with the new interface, dashboard, icons, etc.  I did not see multiple modes of content delivery on the sample classes in the sandbox site, but that does not mean that they are not available.

 

3.  Moodle 4.0 is not yet available in MoodleCloud, which is the most popular cloud-based Moodle.

 

4.  Moodle documentation is still at 3.11. 

 

An Initial Chat:

Relatecasts' Rick Zanotti and I have an informal conversation about Moodle 4.0, just hours after its release to the web on April 14.  Please click on the link to hear our conversation on E-Learn Chat.  I'm not as clear as I could be as I respond to Rick's questions -- I think my enthusiasm about the  arrival got the best of me :)  Please click and listen, then share your thoughts.

 

 
E-Learn Chat on the debut of Moodle 4.0 - speaking with Rick Zanotti

 Here's a link to the chat:

https://youtu.be/PqjHqLuWRqg

 

 Please note that an updated version of Packt Publishing's guide to Moodle course development will be published in July 2022, just in time to get courses and programs up and running.

 

 

****

Susan Smith Nash, Ph.D. 

 

 

Sunday, May 24, 2020

A CICADA’S LIFE

Listen to the podcast / poetry reading. 


Harsh buzz whine whir scream
blind illumination
You’re the perfect cicada
17 years of anticipation
a short sweet hot
moment of life
for life’s sake

I’m only here to breed
let’s get that straight
That’s why my hallmark sound is
of whip-sawed metal
and the concrete
you stroll down as though
summer would never die

If the night is sweet
the air damp and warm
the dog watering fountain splashy
with the sound of a collar and fur shaking
I may take a moment to stare into the stars
Imagine stardust under my incessantly vibrating wings

I saw you as you took that final fall
my pine needles will say nothing
As your wings turn to weeping
the night deepens
consciousness
leaves not a mark


August 24, 2019





Sunday, March 08, 2020

Brief Poems: Cattle on a Hill

Podcast: click here.

OAK TREES


They cling to their dry crackly hopes and misplaced modesty:
Leaves that will not fall.

They endeavor to create an illusion of solidity and sempiternal life
Yet they simply transmit a message of never letting go.

Whether that is good or bad
I will never know.


Norman, Oklahoma
March 7, 2020

************************
CATTLE ON A HILL


They are eating the tough dry grass of winter.
It fills their mouths but perhaps not their minds
except to remind them what it does not have:
stick-to-the-ribs grains and blossoming flowers.

And on a beige carpet
Jackson Pollock working with weeds, not paint:
dribbles of cocklebur, butterfly milkweed, hoary alyssum
and a poke sallet banner bending in the wind --
Hail, Spring!

The greening of the fields
makes my heart beat fast with joy
but I must remember –
the first greens are always the most deadly.


March 6, 2020
Norman, OK

******************
BRADFORD PEARS 


The first few days of March
     come and go
         in a whirlwind of the mind
         when nothing seems to stick
               to the bare trees of memory
         until overnight white and curiously odorous
                                    flower clouds fly up

      punctuate the wordless
          timidly deciduous trees
          so that the idea of a message
                with its contradictions of beauty
                        and a noxious scent

      sends a message of reality
                rather than idealizing gazes


March 7, 2020
Norman, OK

Bradford Pear Trees in Oklahoma

********************************

THE WAGES OF LIFE


Cedars burned by a prairie fire
two or three years now gone by now

half-naked skeletons
draped in scorched rags

their ash quaffed by the wind

somewhere between
desire and fear


march 7, 2020
norman, oklahoma


****************************
WE, THE SHEEP


A field of sheep
A field of sleep

Those odd, square-shaped ponds
Storing oil pumped from shallow wells

The oil field below rumbling into a gusher
Men covered in mud and sweat

    Those were the days
    Oh yes, they were

Joy and infinite potential
Long before we knew –

    a lake of oil
    a lake of pain

From the highway, I see
   nubbins of wool

   knobs of cedars
          and a field

               drifting off to sleep

March 7, 2020
Norman, Oklahoma


I Will Keep You Safe

Podcast. Link to recording.

In 1887, a small woman with delicate features sailed with 14 families to Paraguay to establish the “Nueva Germania,” something that began as a grand utopian experiment, but in the end had fewer than 100 settlers. The doll-like charismatic leader was Elisabeth Forster-Nietzsche, the sister of Friedrich Nietzsche. Friedrich had already written The Birth of Tragedy, On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense, Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks, Untimely Meditations, Human, All Too Human, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Beyond Good and Evil, and On the Genealogy of Morality. But, almost no one had read the work. Two years later, Friedrich was to collapse, foaming language no one cared to hear. He was deemed mentally diseased due to tertiary syphilus (never actually confirmed) and treated with mercury, which did, in fact negatively affect his mind and his body.  Friedrich was essentially incarcerated in a mental hospital. He lived until the year 1900, the birth of the 20th century, which his ideas (mediated by Elisabeth, who edited, organized, and promoted) so deeply shaped.  When Friedrich collapsed, Elisabeth was still in Paraguay in her doomed utopian experiment.



*******
Her face, tender and sweet like a model in a Northern Renaissance genre painting depicting life in the home, gazed imploringly to the knot of true believers gathered in the building sturdily constructed of red quebracho, its tannins permeating the humid air with a pleasant, woody cologne.  They sat on benches made of the bottle-shaped samuú, and many held small cups carved from cow horns, from which they sipped through a metal bombilla a cool infusion of tereré, a mildly stimulating tea made from yerba mate.

Elisabeth was unrepentant. Nueva Germania was not thriving, but it had, at any rate, allowed the true believers to escape the foul miasma of Europe that was infecting most of the tiny German principalities with endless, internecine war.

“When the sickness has passed, we will go back,” said Elisabeth.  She had not intended the sojourn to be a temporary quarantine. She and her husband, Bernhard Forster, intended it to be a model for the world of racial purity and the supremacy of German culture. But, potatoes rotted in the soil and their innocence about sand flies resulted in terrible infections.

“Last year, before dear Bernhard, passed away,” said Elisabeth, solemnly euphemizing the death by suicide by her partner and fellow ideologue, “He told me that we must go back to Germany with the truth, and I made a sacred promise to share our truths with the world.”

Elisabeth had in her possession the few published copies of Friedrich’s work. Word had reached her that he was ill, and her heart ached to go back and make all his, her brother’s, and her true believers’ pain and sacrifice meaningful in the world.

Above all, her own.


Heinrich Raus took a long cooling sip of tereré, and as he did so, the afternoon rain began, with thunderclaps.

“I don’t think we’ll go back. Once we switched from potatoes to mandioca, and we learned to take a siesta during the heat of the day, and also to raise the floors up from the ground, things were good,” he said.

What he did not say is that his soul resonated with the ghost of the soldiers killed in the Triple Alliance War, and he, too, had felt the presence of the luisón, the werewolf creature who feasted on the dead, and he saw all around him the impact of the Pombero, the trickster creature, who loved nothing more than to sneak in during the siesta and have his way with young women.

Sex and Death. Eros and Thanatos.

The ideas were boiling in the zeitgeist even before Freud, and Elisabeth’s dear brother’s passionate writings about the Dionysian in literature. In Paraguay, in Nueva Germania, they were living, breathing, sweating, and streaming with the rain of an afternoon.

“The outside world has suffered from diseases.  The outside world IS a disease,” she said softly.  Her true believers paid more attention when she spoke in tones between a whisper and a lullaby.

Her eyes slowly filled with tears.  Was it her fault that dear Bernhard took his own life? She suspected it was so. Was it her fault that Friedrich had collapsed and was being considered mentally ill?  She suspected it was so.  She was altogether too weak, too undisciplined, and her ideas about a better world only ricocheted from side to side inside the skulls of those she loved.

“Come with me, or not. It is up to you. But you know how I kept you safe while the whole world around us roiled and twisted with a murderous disease. And so, I will keep you safe.”

********
Elisabeth sailed alone back to Germany.  Her true believers stayed behind in Nueva Germania, clinging to the safety of Bernhard’s beliefs in the superiority of the German race and culture, even as they planted mandioca and yerba mate, and slowly changed their language to a blend of Guaraní. Each succeeding “pure” generation was increasingly deformed and mentally impaired.

**********
“Oh, Friedrich!” cried Elisabeth when she saw her brother unable to get out of bed for days on end. “I will help you with your books, and we will make sure that you live on.”

Friedrich closed his eyes and imagined a self-designed modern Leviathan, many steps removed from the self-limiting monarch described by Hobbes. Elisabeth closed her eyes and imagined a Superman constructed from the building blocks of hate and fear, each block a chunk of a terrified citizen’s heart.

“Keep them afraid,” she said to herself.  She turned quietly to Friedrich and laid a soft, doll-like hand on his arm. Her other hand rested on a pile of his books and manuscripts.  What failed in Paraguay could prevail here in Europe, she vowed.

“I will keep you safe,” she said.

Somewhere in Paraguay in the light of the full moon, the pure evil of the luisón, the werewolf devourer of souls, glowed cool blue eyes.



Monday, February 16, 2015

NAPE 2015: Euphoria in the Year of the Vulture

Welcome to a Road Trip of the Mind, as you accompany me in a visit to the North American Prospect Expo (NAPE) 2015, which took place in Houston, TX  (February 9-10, 2015).
NAPE 2015 in Houston, TX
Background:
NAPE is the North American Prospect Expo, and it takes place the second week in February in Houston. Although the event is organized by the AAPL (American Association of Petroleum Landmen), it's also attended by geologists, engineers, and people involved in finance. NAPE is the place to buy and sell oil and gas properties, mineral rights, royalty interests, and to find partners and financing. Properties range from tiny little packages in East Texas to massive resource plays that can involve hundreds of thousands of acres.  The properties are onshore and offshore, and there are booths from companies and even countries all around the world. It's an action-packed two days at the George Brown Convention Center, which is across the street from the Hilton Americas, where many of the receptions, meetings, and meet-and-greet events take place.  Last year, it was icy and cold. The year before that, the weather was rainy and cold. This year, the weather was spectacularly beautiful, and the more than 17,000 attendees and exhibitors had an opportunity to walk to the many different restaurants in downtown Houston, ranging from the House of Blues to Massa's Seafood Restaurant. The energy is just absolutely electric. You can feel the racing pulse of Houston, which is the heart of the oil industry.


susan smith nash at NAPE
Susan Nash getting ready for NAPE.
Ready for NAPE
I'm making my way along third floor of the Hilton Americas, getting ready to participate in an all-day meeting of the AAPG Executive Committee.  Because the AAPG is one of the partners behind NAPE, it is important for the members of the EC to attend. So, like clockwork, the events unfold: dinners, meetings, receptions, and more meetings. There is some science and some engineering, but mainly, it's business. If you have a property to sell, this is the place to be because you'll get it out in front of a lot of people. At least that's the hope. There is a lot of competition for mind-space, though.  I'm not sure I've ever met anyone who actually ever closed a deal at NAPE.  But, it's where you connect and initiate communications. I'd like to make a lot of money at NAPE, but I've never had anything to sell. That said, I do find it to be a great place to promote AAPG's activities. I think that my activities at NAPE, when I'm really aggressive and proactive, probably result in additional business to AAPG.  That's in a good year. This year is shaping up to be not merely bad, but potentially fatal to some companies and projects. Nevertheless, I think I need to push myself and try to do whatever I can to find out what people want and need, and then see how AAPG can meet the demand. 


Year of the Vulture?
Because of the the collapse of the price of oil during the second half of 2014 and the first few months of 2015, I fully expected the atmosphere to be utterly apocalyptic. Layoffs at major companies were happening, and the ones I read about already totaled around 50,000.  Worse, Citibank was predicting $20 per barrel oil.  Most companies need $85 per barrel to be profitable. So, I expected fear and avoidance of pain as the dominant or informing weltanshauung, the fundamental cognitive orientation of society. I, myself, have already suffered a number of sleepless nights, or at least nights in which I wake up at 3 am, my mind racing with ideas and possibilities. To my surprise, aoocalypse was not really the overall mood. The mood was enthusiastic, even euphoric. Why?? Clearly it's all about opportunities, and if one is positioned well, it's possible to buy at a price that is favorable. There are short-term, medium-term, and long-term profits to be made. Some of the opportunities could form the foundation of a new, successful company. 
Susan Nash at the NAPE IceBreaker, Feb 2015
Breaking the Ice
The Icebreaker is a great place to hear yourself be utterly drowned out by background noise. I do not have much to say this year, but I would like to listen. I generally attend the Icebreaker out of curiosity, just to measure the mood and to see if I run into anyone I know. This year, I saw at least 20 people I knew, which surprised me, given that it's really a landman's event, and not so much for geologists. This year's color was purple.  Is it always purple?  I do not think so.  This year's signage seemed particularly elegant and compelling, and the knowledge that this will be a year of dramatic changes, and that change means opportunity gave me a huge surge of adrenaline.



Mini Hot Dogs
The lines were really long for the mini-dogs and sliders. They were also long for the chips and queso / salsa. I always feel relieved that I'm not a fan of hot dogs or hamburgers.  But it's really interesting to me to see what people like and how enthusiastic they are about what is being offered. The convention center food service types are great. None of the food stations ever seem to run out of the food.  I wonder how they chose the items. I know that they're convenient and easy to eat. They also seem ideal for sporting events (basketball games, football games).  Metaphorically, it's perfect. Selling deals and deal-making -- yes, it's a sports event.  How could it not be?  The game requires one to be smart, nimble, and quick. It's also good if you've been practicing diligently, and with an eye for how your competition has been making changes to their tactics and strategy.  It's perfect!

Life is a candy jar ...
Well, not this time. I did not see anyone digging into the candy.  Instead, they waited patiently in line for the chips, queso, nachos, hot dogs, and mini-hamburgers.  Perhaps it was too early for "dessert." This was the first time I had noticed jars of candy, and I wondered why they were there. Candy jars are a staple of the booths. Perhaps it was a way to set up a resonance with what would be taking place tomorrow -- what people would be seeing. It was a smart move, in my opinion.  It was an unconscious reminder of what would people would be seeing in the booths - generally big candy jars and other give-aways (pens, etc.).  So, it helps whip up excitement (and a sugar high) for the next day.



Drink the KoolAid
The lines were very long to the ION / TGS booth where fur-hatted baristas handed out purple "on the rocks" something-or-other served up in giant plastic martini glasses. I was offered one, and I took a photo of it. I was afraid to drink it. What was in it? There were absolutely no indications.  I know it has been more than 20 years since Jim Jones,  but is there really so little memory of the purple KoolAid? I recalled reading about the "white nights" when the followers drank KoolAid they fully expected to be laced with cyanide, meaning that they would most certainly die. I had to ask myself, have we forgotten the entire impulse behind the different Doomsday cults that suffused our culture with horror and a realization that uncertainty drives people to security, no matter how insane....?  My dissertation was on the use of the apocalyptic narrative to manipulate people (including in doomsday cults), and so I was quite impressed by the elements of this booth. It was very stylish and laden with multiple interpretive possibilities. In times of dramatic change and uncertainty, there is a tendency to create cultural enclaves of "true believers," usually headed by a charismatic leader who offers his followers security and a sense that they will be protected from the battering waves of change. So far, I have not seen the emergence of a charismatic leader. I believe that the oil industry is too cyclical for the formation of cults and mad messiahs. Further, it's possible that a short-lived downturn could actually lead to improved overall health of the industry. It's too early to tell. At any rate, I appreciated the multi-level semiotics in this booth. It strikes me as quite intelligent. Later, after reviewing my photos, I wished I had taken the drink. I would not have drunk the purple brew, but the enormous plastic martini glass was dramatic and it made me smile.

The Booths Are Big
So you want to know what NAPE looks like?  Here it is. Check it out. Lots of large booths by companies who want to make a statement and also open the floor for new ideas and opportunities. Devon is from Oklahoma City, and they've been a huge presence. So has Oklahoma City-based Chesapeake and America Energy Partners. Linn Energy and SandRidge were solid this year. It's all very strange for me to realize that after Houston, Oklahoma City is probably #2 in terms of US oil centers. I would not be surprised if OKC has eclipsed Denver. If so, that's interesting -- why? I attribute it to environmental issues in the Rockies and the fact that the cost of doing business in Colorado is very high. And, it's very clear that OKC's entrepreneurs are bold, visionary, and even messianic. I like it. I think that there is a very good chance that Oklahoma City's entrepreneurial spirit will help weather the storm. Let's hope the price rises to something reasonable soon, that Europe's economies find a way to recover, that China transitions from an investment-driven economy to one that can sustain itself on its own markets.  Let's also hope that new investment capital becomes available.


Where Deals Happen
NAPE is for the big guys. It's also for the little guys. So, NAPE also looks like this: lots of maps, lots of terms of trade. If you're exhibiting, you've got to find a way to capture the interest of the passersby within about three-tenths of a second. Then, you must communicate your value proposition within a space of 3 - 5 seconds.

Here are my favorites:

Theme 1: The Bargain.  Buy low, really low, and sell high. The message is that the property is being sold because the company is in a distressed situation, or consolidating their approach / properties / focus. The message is palpable: "We are a bargain. Buy low, and in a year or so, you'll sell high."

Theme 2:  Revitalizing Mature Fields.  Usually, there's an opportunity cost in taking a producing field offline. Now, with the price of oil at a 7-year low, there's no opportunity cost. Here is the message:  Buy this field. Take it offline. Waterflood it. CO2 flood it.  Drill the stranded pay. Buy the time you've done all that, the price will have gone back up. Of course, there are risks with mature fields, which include tricky production problems and potential environmental issues. 

Dreams of Flying High
Another smart and vivid "tactile metaphor" of NAPE.  All the guys who were touching the small plane were talking more or less in the same vein. "You know, the last time the industry went in to a tailspin and extended downturn, I was in my 20s and I did not have any experience or any access to capital. So, I saw big opportunities pass right in front of me. I tried to grab them, but because I had no capital, they slipped through my fingers. However, this time, it will be different! I'm smart, or at least, experienced, and I know how to work within the industry! I'm going to jump right into the game this time, and I'm going to win. I will win big. I know it. I will be flying high!" I listened, felt their enthusiasm, but decided that I would not try the same approach. I'm very conservative, so although I could understand the narrative, I still could not help but think of some of the challenges.

Snakebite Kits
These are actually business card holders. However, it was not at all clear what they were, and as people wandered in and out of the Southwestern Energy booth, they all had the same question: "What are they?"  I could not resist. I said, "They are snakebite kits." This response never failed to elicit a laugh -- often a pretty loud horse laugh. I even approached the engineers manning the booth, held one out in my hand, and then politely inquired, "Are these snakebite kits?" They laughed and had a great response: "We did not think so, but who knows? However, we do not warrant their efficacy in combatting the consequences of being bitten by a snake."  I loved it. So, I went back to lurking next to the pile of mysterious blue packages, and I continued to be helpfully responsive to all the passersby who posed the "What are these?" question. One guy had a great comeback: "Whoa - that's perfect," he said. "After all, we are ALL feeling a little bit snakebit these days!"  I liked his response.

susan smith nash
Offshore Nova Scotia
It's not the best time in the world to be promoting a very high-risk venture in drilling offshore Nova Scotia. But, what can you do? You have to think long-term. The government of Nova Scotia has invested in a massive study, which includes geophysics, geology, and a petroleum systems study, which was positive enough to entice a few super-majors to obtain concessions and to file intents to drill. If they have positive results, the entire world will be turned upside down -- at least offshore Nova Scotia. The beauty is that this is a great time to be drilling. Prices of services are leaping off cliffs and plunging into really low territory, just to keep people busy with the hope of riding out the storm, and the emerging stronger than ever, like a lizard after accidental exposure to radiation. We all know what that is: GODZILLA! Perhaps we do not think of Nova Scotia in the same mindspace as Godzilla, but it's high time that we open our minds to power in unexpected places. I know that I like thinking that underdogs can emerge as major players. 


Wells Fargo
There's magic in this artifact, and seeing the replica of the "Wells Fargo Wagon," brings a number of thoughts immediately to mind. First, it's the perfect symbol for Wells Fargo financial services, which are based in San Francisco. One can't help but think of San Francisco's gold rush and the eagerness of people to move west, especially after the Civil War, when Wells Fargo offered it's "Best of Class" transportation system from 1866 - 1869.  The wagons were the best around, and were constructed in Concord, New Hampshire, where they had springs and suspension systems which gave them a great ride. Even fully loaded, the averaged 5 miles per hour, with a team of 6 horses. I have to say though, the idea of having to travel from, say, St. Louis, to San Francisco, at 5 miles per hour, is a bit scary. How many days, or months is that?  1500 miles / 5 miles per hour means 300 hours. Let's say you can travel 10 hours per day, that's 30 days. Good grief! How tough our ancestors were! And, when I think of the lyrics from the Broadway play, The Music Man, I can understand the energy and enthusiasm with the arrival of the Wells Fargo Wagon, laden with packages.  Here at NAPE, Wells Fargo delivers valuable financial services, and they've made many of the capitally intensive resource plays (mainly shale) possible.


The Decameron and Waiting out the Plague / Low Oil Prices
I was a bit shocked to see a booth that had nothing but antiquarian books and comfortable leather seats. It was provided by Frost and Associates, an investment banking firm, and my sense was that the old books were supposed to provide an "old school / old money" sort of cachet. I think that is good. However, did they actually take a look at the books they included? I was amazed to see a Charles Reade volume -- I have an extensive collection of antiquarian books and Charles Reade is one of my favorites. I do not have a single volume of Griffith Gaunt, but I think I have it as a part of a set. It's a psychological study, and it probes the most extreme of emotions. In the case of Griffith Gaunt, it's jealousy.  I was also amazed to see a 19th-century printing of Boccacchio's Decameron, the collection of stories which are a bit like those told by Sheherazade, not only in the fact that that it's a collection of short stories, but also in the fact that they are all about telling stories to stave off death. In A Thousand and One Nights, Sheherezade has to tell stories to buy a new day of life. In the Decameron, it's all about a group of people thrust together because of the horror of plague, and the strategy of doing a self-imposed exile in the countryside to distance oneself from the walled cities where plague, desperation, and random death created a toxic miasma of desire, horror, and rage. Is that what this small little "reading island" within the current chaos of the oil industry reflects?


My Buddy, the Brontosaurus
Yes, you guessed it. This was the Sinclair booth. They were giving out blow-up dinosaurs - the kind we used to call brontosaurus, but now, I think have been renamed as apatasaurus. I ask myself, "Why?? oh, why, oh why???? I love the "brontosaurus" sound in a way that "apatosaurus" just does not do anything for me. The Sinclair dinosaur is very "Old School" and a symbol of individual creativity and entrepreneurship. This dinosaur is the same size as the ones you'll encounter all across the western U.S. in the front of locally-owned gas stations that purchase their gasoline from Sinclair, and also offer oil changes and basic maintenance. In this booth, the big "give-away" is a blow-up miniature Sinclair dinosaur.  I remember taking a small green Sinclair dinosaur home a few years ago. I inflated it and put it on my mantle, where it stayed as a cheerful reminder of the power of ideas and hope for the little guy.   


No Unauthorized Photography
I had already taken 20 or 30 photographs by the time I left the NAPE exhibition floor, when I encountered this sign and became aware that my smartphone snapshots might have been "unauthorized." I quickly retraced my steps and pondered whether or not I had taken photos of anything that could possibly be considered confidential or proprietary, or even potentially embarrassing. The answer was an unequivocal "no," so I emitted a sigh of relief, and proceeded on my way.  The positive energy of the event continued to envelope me, and I wondered how many of the individuals who stated that they were determined to "profit this time" or "buy low, sell high," would be successful. I am sure that many would be. On the other hand, some could soon be unemployed, and a certain percentage would prefer a steady paycheck. 

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Fruit from the Tree



There is nothing like eating fruit picked from the tree. I have always felt that way, regardless of the potential wormholes and wasp bites on the fruit. I was happy to find I'm not the only one.

For example, there's my friend who lives in Guadalajara.  He was the fruit he had for breakfast -- mango, apples,"tuna" from cactus, oranges, plums, and all kinds of wonderful fruits. At first I thought that he had purchased them in the town near his "rancho" near Guadalajara, Mexico. But, he said he picked them himself -- that several years ago he put in a little orchard, and that for him, there is no greater pleasure than strolling through it in the morning and picking fruit that is still wet with dew.

My parents had fruit trees, and I loved eating cherries, peaches, apples, pears, and persimmons. But, hands down, the fruit I like to eat most from the tree is grapefruit. What I like about grapefruit is that it's such a random thing; you never know what you'll get. The fruit can be really sweet, or really bitter, or somewhere in between, and you can never tell by its color, size, or even firmness.

The first time I picked a grapefruit was on New Year's Eve when I was 15 years old.  I was in Palm Springs, California, accompanying my dad on a trip. He was the head of a contract mining company, and one of the companies, Atajo Mining (short cut mining!), was not performing, and he was going to have to enter in some rather difficult conversations. He had told me all about it as we drove across the desert from Phoenix to Palm Springs. 

While he was in negotiations, I was riding bicycles and horses at locations near the hotel where we were staying. Nothing was going as planned. I was seriously saddle-sore from riding a horse for 4 hours instead of the 1 hour, and I felt very alone. It was late afternoon and I had a few hours to kill before my dad came back to the hotel to go to a New Year's Eve celebration. I decided to sit outside, relax, and read a book. My room was perfect for it, because it had a small patio shaded by a grapefruit tree that was bursting with bright yellow fruit, and many felt soft and ripe to the touch.  I picked two grapefruits and tried them. They were wonderfully bitter (I love bitter things), as was the time itself or perhaps, let's say, bittersweet...

But, that's another story and one I'll save for another time. Another story would be based on the saying that fruit never falls far from the tree where it grew, referring to characteristics of a child and his or her parent. That's a saying that fills me with angst and dread, but again that's another story. 

In the meantime, every time I think of a grapefruit tree, I think of that amazing time with my dad, who, interestingly enough, sends me off with a small bag of grapefruits each time I see him.

I'm aware that age and time are linear, but memory is not. Thank goodness for that. If memory were linear, we would lose everything -- there would be some sort of expiration date, I guess, and I'd lose the things I love most -- picking grapefruits, eating them from the tree, while on an unforgettable trip with my father when I was 15.

This photo does not have much (or anything) to do with picking ripe grapefruits and eating them straight from the tree, but it does bring a smile to my face. I'm at the 2014 AAPG-PAPG-PPG Marcellus-Utica GTW. In this picture, there I am (Susan Smith Nash) on the left, looking about giddy after facilitating all day. We're standing in front of a poster on XRD. That's Randy Shannon of PMET in the middle, and Dawn Snyder, an attendee and presenter, on the right.
This photo does not have much (or anything) to do with picking ripe grapefruits and eating them straight from the tree, but it does bring a smile to my face. I'm at the 2014 AAPG-PAPG-PPG Marcellus-Utica GTW. In this picture, there I am (Susan Smith Nash) on the left, looking a bit giddy after facilitating all day. We're standing in front of a poster on XRD. That's Randy Shannon of PMET in the middle, and Dawn Snyder, an attendee and presenter, on the right.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

I, Vampire: Part III

Podcast: http://www.zenzebra.net/podcast/i-vampire-part-3.mp3


Angoisse / Anxiety: One can define these terms in many ways. One awkward, but revealing way is to say it’s the tension one feels when one realizes they’re always running the risk of being abandoned or existing in a state of revulsion – just after they’ve felt the glorious moment of engulfment or, well, the myth of total unity. Absolute unity is a condition reserved for the afterlife. No one really wants it in the here and now, no matter how they profess a desire for it.

The road to Wal-Mart was barricaded by police cars cordoning off the rural hospital so a med-evac helicopter could land on the two-laned asphalt street leading to the emergency room. Tinguely turned the corner as a deputy sheriff waved angrily at her, and a man with a headset spoke and looked at his watch.

Tinguely’s stomach clenched. She averted her eyes. Her pulse raced. She did not want to think about what might happen next. She felt anxious.

As the automatic doors slid open, Tinguely felt herself calm. The smell of grilling hotdogs mixed with disinfectant.

The Wal-Mart greeter said hello to Tinguely. Another offered her a glistening hunk of sausage on the end of a toothpick. When Tinguely shook her head “no” she moved on to the next guest. Tinguely did have a chance to ask the greeter if they carried Roberto Bolano's final book, 2666, in Spanish. She half-expected to find it in the original Spanish, since at least 60 percent of the population spoke Spanish. It used to be more, but Burmese and Somalian refugees had been brought in to fill the slaughterhouse jobs that had once been filled by illegal Mexican immigrants.

At the very least, she'd be able to find the English version. She felt sure of that.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. There were no books in Spanish. There were a few Spanish language tabloids, and a few DVDs featuring black and white "clasicos" of "el cine mexicano." She recognized Cantinflas, a populist everyman who rivaled Charlie Chaplin in popularity. Cantinflas had a bit more "chispa" or spark. At least, that was Tinguely's opinion. She had only seen one Charlie Chaplin movie, and she disagreed with its politics.

There were a few shiny best-sellers and a wall of Harlequin romances. A middle-aged woman looked up, startled, as Tinguely walked by.

Tinguely experimented with telepathy. She directed thoughts directly to the woman: "I know what you're after. You're hooked on the raunchy hot scenes! We all know what's in those books!!"

If the woman could hear Tinguely's thoughts, she gave no indication of it. Tinguely peered into her shopping cart. A twelve-pack of Fanta Grape. An eight-pack of Charmin toilet paper. Cheerios. Doritos. Salsa. Needle-nosed pliers. Cat litter. Bunion pads.

***********************************

The Wal-Mart book section was next to the in-store McDonald’s. A young Hispanic woman sat with her two children. They were eating French fries and drinking a Coke. The woman was examining a bottle of nail polish. Tinguely thought she would enjoy 2666. But, perhaps she would not.

Je t’aime! It had the same sound as a meadowlark’s song, or a crow or a raven. It is the sound one makes when one is flying in one’s dreams, or simply with eyes closed, gripped in a fatal embrace. (For the lonely spirit, that fatal embrace is also known as “life.” For the vampire, that fatal embrace is also known as “blood”).

Back to the books. The latest vampire series was next to the section marked Inspirational. Nowhere was there the award-winning masterwork of a thoughtful Spanish-speaking writer (translated to English), whose noir Touch of Evil for the 21st century explored what, exactly, lived in the border between states of being. This time the work of art would focus on Ciudad Juarez and not Tijuana. In both cases, the emphasis was on appetite. At least that's what Tinguely wagered. She had no idea, but wanted to know.

If Wal-Mart could sell vampire fantasies to middle-schoolers, why couldn't they sell a novel that confronted the way people prefer to go subterranean when they feel their core identity is at risk? Why is it they go underground when what they really are could make them vulnerable?

Go subterranean when your core identity is compromised.

Go underground. Invest in a human trafficker. Move north, south, east, or west. Believe in reinvention.

Reinvent & wrap your their fingers around the throat of hope. Touch it. Then run from it. It is the only logical way to live.

The woman seated at a bench table at McDonald’s with her two children took out the nail polish, shook it, then deftly applied the tip of the tiny brush to her younger daughter’s index finger. The girl was wearing a pink hoodie and wore a pink bow in her dark, wavy brown hair. Her ears were pierced. She wore pearls.

It was easier to keep the vampires in lightweight fiction written by a conservative Mormon virgin, whose creatures of the night were innocuous prom-goers and paragons of faux-Goth fashion.

***********************************************

I love you! Je’taime! Te amo! It makes no difference how one says it. The words simply reflect the inadequacy of language to express something that probably should stay ineffable. After all, if you stripped love of its ineffability, you’d probably strip it of its power.

Disappointed to not be able to buy the book, Tinguely roamed through office supplies. She decided to buy a pack of multicolored file folders and index cards. For reading material, she grabbed "The Worst Celeb Diets" issue of the National Enquirer. Cellulite and shots of celebrities who had packed on 50 or 60 pounds reassured her that yes, we're all ordinary mortals.

The sound of an ambulance distracted her as she walked through the Wal-Mart parking lot. Love and death had been united since the time of Dionysus, perhaps even longer.

Death, life, and the sacred.

A north wind brought the smell of the stockyards to her. The acrid smell burned her eyes. A Burmese man wearing a long fold of cloth like a skirt walked pushed a bicycle. A Catholic nun stood in the corner of the parking lot. A small, sand-blasted, sun-faded van looked to be filled with folded lawn chairs. Tinguely saw a small box filled with small plastic rosaries -- the ones you'd receive as gifts at a first communion.

Tinguely thought of the Tibetan prayer flags she had purchased in a small store near Lark Street in downtown Albany, NY. Would a refugee set up a small Buddhist shop here in the Texas Panhandle? Would the Somalis set up shop, start small enterprises here on the prairie?

Unlike the seething dynamism of the Mexican-American border, the Somalis and the Burmese were clumped together. Islands? Dollops of humanity plopped onto cracked caliche? Immiscible cultures, at least for a generation or so. That was the impression that was given.

It was a kind of protection.

At least, that is what it seemed in comparison to the cultures that did knot, twist, stream, and flow together (and apart). Helicopter rotors. A man shouting. Blood on a gurney. A man taking notes, writing. A woman searching for a book to explain it all.

And that same woman walking back to her car forced to satisfy herself with a tabloid and the realization that the only one who had any solutions at all in the entire 10,000 square mile expanse was the lone nun with a van full of lawn furniture and rosaries.

Pray if you can.