A Post-Midsummer Night's Fire Dance

Shredded tissue.  Crumpled silk.  Clouds moving across the face of the moon shimmering as though already full.

For audio, click here. 

Warm breeze on my face, the rustle of leaves. Laughter.  A country band on the River Parks pavilion, festooned with small white Christmas lights, the only backdrop an American flag painted on a wall constructed of somewhat warped 1 x 8 boards.

I walked toward the pavilion, wrapping up an evening walk on the river's edge, where magic and mystery prevail in the level of the water: today up on the banks, tomorrow almost gone except for stagnant pools between the mudflats. That's how it is for a river functions as flood control for an upstream dam and reservoir. Sometimes I spend time counting turtles on the rocks and logs. At other times, I observe homeless sleeping rough on the grass and residents of nearby half-million dollar homes walking their miniature dachshunds and coveted-breed dogs.

It's 8:30 pm. The days are getting shorter. It's warm, but it's already dark, and I feel a bit sad to usher in the end of the summer, although I love the autumn, with its heady temperature changes, gaudy leaves, and robin-egg football season skies.

Lights are flickering in my peripheral vision. I flash-wonder if I'm genetically doomed to lose my peripheral vision. My dad has fought a losing battle with glaucoma, and although my eye pressures are fine, my opthamologist has referred me to a glaucoma specialist, although he says I'm 20-30 years younger than most he refers. Oh. Well. Thank you.  I guess.  I have researched the items that cause eye pressures to increase, and I realize I already do everything I'm supposed to, except I could cut out all coffee and avoid yoga. I find avoiding the Downward Dog does not present too many problems. Coffee -- well, that's another issue.

So in my still-intact peripheral vision, I see flickering lights. I look toward what seems to be people juggling fire, and I mention them to a couple of people standing near.

"Oh yes -- there's a big group that comes out on Tuesdays. Almost 50. Tonight it's just a few. Real fire, except the light on the ground. The circle of light is an LED light."

I approach and I see two individuals -- a woman with what seems to be a hulu hoop with equidistant sources of flame, and a man with two flaming balls on the edge of what appears to be a long jump rope.  It's a chain with two fire sources, and it's called a "poi."  The woman is working with a fire hoop.

River Parks, Tulsa, Oklahoma:  Performer with Fire Hoop

Their movements are fluid, well-choreographed, and I feel I'm suddenly in the woods on the edge of the palace of Theseus in A Midsummer Night's Dream. I will never forget the Shakespeare in the Park evenings in Edmond, Oklahoma. My son, then 11, would go with me, and we'd sit on a couple of beach towels and watch the actors. By far, my favorite was their interpretation of A Midsummer Night's Dream, set far in the future, rather than in classical antiquity.

I ask one of the dancers how long she has been fire dancing. She says for 3 years and she runs workshops. I wonder if fire dancing is having some sort of resurgence, with Burning Man vibes.  It merits investigating.

In Chengdu, China, I had the opportunity to go to a Tea House, which was a place you could eat dinner and then see a variety show with acrobatic acts. Juggling was big, and juggling tea pots, ones that actually had water inside them was pretty amazing. There was also a bit of juggling items that could be set alight -- I often wondered what would happen if the flaming items in the air ever collided with the numerous silk scarves one was wont to see in the highly decorated locations.

Others are videoing the dancing, so I suppose it's perfectly acceptable. I take out my phone and capture a few performances, thinking how amazing it is to be able to stand 2 feet from the circle of light, and to be so close that I can smell the fuel, hear the flames. When the lead dancer says "Switch" I watch the movements with delight. I love the way that they incorporate the aleatory yet seemingly perfectly predestined musical accompaniment.

Fire Hoop and Flaming Poi: Performers in Tulsa, Oklahoma

This is not my first close-up encounter with fire and its arts. I will never forget the Novruz Bayram holiday, the first day of spring in Baku, Azerbaijan.  All throughout the city one could see small improvisatory fire art, as people shouted and then jumped over the flames.  The practice dated back to Zoroastrian days, with Mazda the god of light, and a competition between good and evil. In theory, each jump over the fire burned up one year of misdeeds. My curiosity got the best of me and I paid the interpreter to take me to a group with a tiny fire where they would let me jump (for a gift of vodka). I jumped numerous times, but probably not enough to clear the slate. Oh well. It was a start. While I was leaping, I really never felt any fear, or that I’d fall. Granted, the fire was small.

Other fire art could include July 4 fireworks, but I’ve preferred to keep my distance. I, like all other young children, liked sparklers, which I now consider to be good for nothing but mutilations.

Again, my thoughts float back to Shakespeare in the Park and the actors portraying people in varying stages of enchantment. I wonder if someone will sprinkle pansy juice in my eyes and if I’ll be a helpless captive of the first thing I set my eyes on.

Moon higher in the sky. It casts a strangely orange glow. The waters of the Arkansas River (yes, there is water tonight) sparkle and glow with golden moonlight, while the park sizzles and sparkles with the white-light fire whirling in the tender night.

In the City Different: Santa Fe, New Mexico

I'm not sure what to think of a place that seems so light-drenched and enchanting one day, then shadowed with mystery and history the next. It's not the first time this has happened to me in Santa Fe, New Mexico.  It seems to happen to me each time I visit, and it always takes me by surprise.  

audio file here

I

Santa Fe, New Mexico, was officially established in 1607 by European colonists. Only St. Augustine, Florida (founded 1568) is older. It became the principal city for a large region belonging to the Spain. It was important as a center of commerce, culture and general adjudication. Later, after Mexican Independence, the Mexican-American War, and more, it became a territory of the United States. It was important as a part of the Santa Fe Trail and center of commerce, but it is far from the mining towns of Colorado, and also far from secure sources of water. The system of managing irrigation ditches (acequias) worked for centuries, and water rights were critical for ranching and sheep-raising. But, things declined, and in the late 1800s, visitors commented that it would be hard to imagine a more dismal place than Santa Fe; the people who lived there subsisted on little more than red chilis, onions, and mutton.

Sometime around the construction of the railroad and expansion, wealthy city dwellers discovered Santa Fe, and it became something of an artist colony. In 1912, when the town had only 5,000 inhabitants, visionary planners determined a "City Different" concept, and decreed that all buildings had to maintain architectural consistency, which included adobe and brick, with an emphasis on incorporating native flora, including cottonwood trees, mesquite, sage, and lupine. Pueblo Indians along with the various other tribes in the area contributed culturally unique weaving, beadwork, rugs, pottery, and more.

II

The result is a charming admixture of influences from Pueblo Indian, colonial Spanish, Mexican, and Old West / cowboy culture, and it feels a lot like an illustration from a 1890s Western dime novel.

That's the part that always charms me. The first day, walking around, feeling the light breeze, the warm air, the smell of sage and mesquite, never fails to captivate me and make me think of myself in the U.S., circa 1910, with a magical sense of expansiveness and freedom.

But, something happens. I'm now convinced it must be physical, but I'm not sure what. In my ramblings, I start to feel the thin, dry air's impact on my skin, and my face starts to feel like a crumpling piece of paper, and the exclusive art galleries and purveyors of artisan items start to seem to fall into mysterious shadows.

Ceramics galleries that should, by rights, appeal to retirees and vacationers who would like to decorate their own ceramics, are filled with hand-painted and fired mugs, plates, and vases. They are quaint, and their Grandma Moses primitivism is charming, but their price tags are not: $120 for a mug; $75 for a plate.  I suppose that one could consider them to be collectibles, but the quirky DIY (do-it-yourself ) and vintage-cowboy vibe is eroded. I can't imagine why the workshop does not let people have classes and then potentially sell stuff on consignment in a gift store.

On Guadelupe Avenue, the oldest sanctuary in the U.S. to the Virgin of Guadelupe is a lovely mission-style church. Unfortunately, it's locked. The statue outside, which is wreathed with with bouquets of flowers, is serene and calming. Across the street, Mexican men gather to seek work for the day. I suppose they're paid cash and under the table. It's a hard life.

III

My sister believes there are restless spirits in New Mexico. I have to say that it could make sense if it is arising from a violated earth and environment. It's one of those dark edges, a "resource curse" - in Grants, lots of uranium ore, and then, north of Santa Fe in Los Alamos, figuring out what to do with it. We all know the story. Today, the Albuquerque baseball team is named the Albuquerque Isotopes.

For me, Santa Fe offers an icy plunge into wish fulfillment.

Do you think you like nature? A laid-back Bohemian life? Time to write, sculpt, paint? Welcome to Santa Fe. What happens to the flash drives you fill with digital manuscripts?  What happens to the canvases stacked unframed in your garage studio? Or the shelves of painted ceramic mugs, plates, bowls? What happens to your weavings, embroidered pillowcases, cross-stitched guest towels?

The future is unknowable. The midnight-blue shadows behind the pale yellow cottonwood leaves suggest that the present is likewise so.

Do you want to grab onto the American Dream?  In the park across the street from the oldest sanctuary (still locked) in the United States for the Virgin of Guadelupe, the group of Mexican men seeking work has swelled to 40 or 50.

"I'm lost," I say in Spanish. "I just arrived, and I'm looking for downtown."

It's a weak conversational gambit, but it works. I manage to have a nice conversation with a small group, and I learn that work is scarce, and they're worried about having enough earnings to eat and to pay rent.  I thank them for their efforts and tell them I admire their drive and hard work. Several thank me for speaking in Spanish, and I apologize for my accent. I suppose that having an Oklahoma accent makes it clearer that learning Spanish has been a matter of choice, of passion, and of years of dedication (although I've been intermittently dilatory, which I attribute to the fact I have not had the opportunity to travel very extensively, or to live in a Spanish-speaking country.)  Plus, although one might not believe it to see me now, I'm a bit shy about talking to people.

I wander around the church and try to find an open door. All are locked. I encounter younger males - -probably around 18 or 20. They are thin, appear to have a very hard life. One comes up to me later and speaks to me in a combination of Spanish and English, and tells me that he has just washed his shirt. Now he is hungry. I do not know quite what to say to that. His friend talks about the importance of having a stick and a blanket. I think the younger one has probably huffed a lot of glue in his life. Tears come to my eyes. I chat a bit. I do not have any money with me so cannot help them. I'm reminded of the homeless who spend time on the banks of the Arkansas River in Tulsa. They make quite a contrast to the Mexicans across the street who, on the whole, exude a much more positive "can do" attitude. I realize that with these homeless adolescent males, tragic stories abound. It is heart-rending.

IV

It's close to 11 am. I'm feeling a deep gnawing that is partially hunger (I have only had water so far today) but the feeling also has something else. I slept rather late, lost in a world of disturbing dreams and persona from my past and in different time periods.

I want to explore the depths of the shadows behind the leaves.

I am fascinated by this place. Its beauty, pungent aroma, and the quality of light seduce me within the first few minutes of arriving. But, almost as quickly, I'm forced to listen to questions I can't block or eliminate from the voice in my head. What is happiness? That one is too cliché, and it is too easily silenced with endorphins from exercise or a high-pressure presentation. 

The dark, hard questions are the ones that creep in around the edges of consciousness. What happens when the things you've been working toward all your life turn out to be trivial and/or meaningless, or, you're simply not very good and your output is worse than forgettable, it's awkward and embarrassing? What do you do when, compelled by a sense of duty, you assume family roles that are extremely self-destructive? How and why does every goal or desire seem to contain built-in contradictions?

I look at the clock and am secretly relieved that I will need to head to the airport in a few hours. I can flee the light and the thin air before I've had to really probe my inner thoughts, and to hash over the same old turf of self-analysis. If I stayed for a few weeks or a month, perhaps I'd be able to work through the archeoliths of my unconscious.  I must leave, and so will not have time to do so. I have the option to continue to resist change and true transformation.


V

Perhaps I'm not quite ready to confront my own depths.  Perhaps transformation still gives me pause. Although I do not like to think so, transformation can cut both ways. Instead of ascending to a higher level of consciousness, I can always sink into an abyss; mire myself in a Slough of Despond of my own making.

In my heart of hearts, though, I do not want to stay at the same point. I want to journey between the inner and outer worlds, and I perceive Santa Fe as precisely the place that opens dimensions.

I contemplate a cottonwood branch with its light yellow leaves glistening in the pale yellow light. I see the shadows dancing on the cool white trunk of the tree.

I am ready.

Miners, Burros, Disobedient Robots and Our Cortical Homunculus

We were at the end of the tourist part of the 17th-century silver mine in Guanajuato, Mexico, and the guide would not answer my question: “What kept the enslaved miners from simply running away?”

I repeated it in a simpler way, spoke clearly and slowly to compensate for my accent and potentially odd usage.

He still skirted the issue. A guy next to me commented to me that he liked my question. I did, too, and I wanted it to be answered.

Mine in Guanajuato, Mexico 

“Now, I’m going to turn off the lights so you can experience absolute darkness.” Virtually every cave tour I’ve ever been on has featured this supposedly compelling experience.  I felt impatience stirring deep within me. How on earth did the overlords maintain so much social control. The conditions in the mine were horrific and people were deeply in debt to the mining company / company store. In fact, the same situation had certainly been replayed in Cornwall, Newcastle, Appalachia, and the gold mines of the western United States.

Was there really no spark of resistance or rebellion? Did rights only emerge when competing mines decided that having a peasant uprising (in the form of union rabble-rousers)  would be a great way to destabilize the competition (aka, the mine next door)?

In Isaac Asimov’s world, a good, self-respecting robot with outstanding artificial intelligence would disobey. The logic in the software in its controller would eventually find it impossible to continue a series of behaviors that are self-destructive (if it truly has artificial intelligence), and the commands going to the servo would eventually result in the servo will change its positions and with its little motor, trigger “disobedient” behaviors.

I also wondered why the burros in the mine never resisted or rose up against the cruel conditions. I have also wondered that about the big horses that have to wear blindfolds in bullfights. The blindfolded horses are used to run the bull in circles; surely if they could see the bull and the danger of being gored, they would opt for self-preservation. The horse wears padding, but if the bull is able to get his horns underneath, it is a grisly, bloody end.

The obvious answer is that they have no choice, and they are influenced by pain and a knowledge of the futility of escape. It breaks their spirit.

So, there we have the difference between a “wet” brain (human, animal) and a clean, electric brain. Again, to think of Asimov’s rules of robots, the programming that controls the servo in a robot is logical and never fails to be so. Any inner conflicts or logical impossibilities immediately surface because, and the cognitive dissonance can make for amusing, often absurd scenarios.

Robots in a mine or robot horses forced to participate in a robot bullfight that could result in destruction to the robot would not be tolerated. Robots do not know intimidation, servitude, nor do they embrace the concept of sacrifice and/or glory.

And, well, there’s that pesky self-destructive drive, which Freud called “thanatos.” It’s a “death drive” and while one can hardly take Freud at face value any more, the concept / metaphors manifest themselves every time we go to the news and see examples of seemingly senseless violence.  Hooliganism, random attacks, and shear truculence displayed for no better reason than a generalized pique or overstimulation brought on by sleep deprivation or ingested chemicals – all are so common that they no longer surprise, except when yet another talk show host interviews yet another sociologist or medical researcher who claims to have a solution.

I tried to put myself in the place in the miner working in Guanajuato. Life expectancy was low. In fact, one could expect to have silicosis of the lungs by age 30-something. It reminded me of the 19th century English factory conditions described by Elizabeth Glaskell in North and South. Before one’s spirit is broken completely, or the idea of being bonded in a kind of community of fellow-sufferers, one is able to envision freedom, at least in the sense of variety and self-determination.

Even without the idea of shaming, extreme physical punishment, and potential reprisals to family, it’s easy to keep the miners in the mine. At least that’s what I observe. If the doors to the prison are suddenly open, how many people will leave? All, yes, but their mental prisons will stay with them forever.

To really experience freedom, we need to study the programming of the controller of robots. We need to experiment with including behaviors that are mutually damaging and create inner conflict.

For example, we could program a computer to do a task, but at conditions that are too hot or too cold, to automatically shut down. We could also include a random trigger of certain behaviors that would always overheat the robot, and that the task must be done without responding to automatic turn-off subroutines. Which would win? It’s a battle between a digital scorpion and a digital tarantula.

Deep inside the mine in Guanajuato, I feel myself thinking about the gardens, flowering trees, music, and fountains on the surface. The town itself is charming, and it must have been equally so in the 18th century. Living on the surface would be infinitely preferable to working underneath. I would run away.

To do so, I’d need to consult with my little homunculus (as in Goethe’s Faustus) and ask the “little human” to guide me and direct me to resist when things are destructive / self-destructive.

I’d also like to examine the functions of the cortical homunculus, the neurological map of the brain in which the different parts of the brain are connected to the parts of the body. There are two kinds of cortical homunculus: there is the motor and then the sensory. What happens if we rewire that part of ourselves? What if we somehow re-wire the connections between our sensory and motor cortices and our bodies?


I’d like to think that we can start to have different perceptions, and then arrive at different opinions about what is likely to happen to us. I like to think of a possibility for cognitive and motor freedom.

But, I could be wrong.

A few days ago I saw a man fall to the hard pavement in a convenience store parking lot. He hit his head on a car parked at his side, and then began having a very intense seizure. It is possible that his brain rewired itself, and the seizure was the result. It was very sad to watch, and I moved as quickly as I could. First, though, I went inside the store to make sure that someone had called 911. In fact, I was going to call 911 myself, but then realized that too many calls for the same situation could be counterproductive.

We live inside our own minds, which mediate reality by imposing fantasies, thoughts, aspirations. Plus, we think simultaneously in the past, future, and present. A robot is not going to suffer from such messy and distracting algorithmic “junk.”

But, those contradictions are perhaps what make our lives sweet. But, to really experience the best our minds have to offer, we have to deliberately go about defeating our own minds and mental processes. We have to beat our brains at their own game.

It’s the only way to be a disobedient robot, or be a bullfighter horse recently relieved of his blindfold.

Run! Resist!
In other words, Think! Innovate! Reshape! Recreate!

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

Juxtapositions -- enchanted garden on the surface above the Inquisition torture chambers below. Fascinating history in Guanajuato, Mexico.

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 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.

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. 

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 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.

Good-bye, Johnny Winter: Renaissance Angel and Texas Blues and Slide Guitar Genius

It was partly his music, but it was mainly that he looked like an angel with his pale blonde hair, his porcelain skin, and his light amber eyes. When he burst onto the rock and roll / blues scene in the early 1970s, John Dawson Winter III (Johnny Winter) often dressed in Renaissance-inflected loose, flowing shirts and shiny slacks along with elegant platform shoes -- he could have stepped off the canvas painted by Botticelli, Tintoretto, Caravaggio, or other Italian Renaissance artist. His younger brother, Edgar, was also an albino and a musician. Edgar, however, was not beautiful, nor was he the least bit angelic, despite the fact that he adorned himself with chunky women's necklaces and you had to wonder who came first - Edgar Winter or David Bowie. I remained unmoved by Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. However, when it came to Johnny Winter, I was utterly transfixed.


 I loved Johnny Winter's music because it was so expressive, although I did not even like the blues. His slide guitar work was mesmerizing, especially when I could watch him perform at a concert recorded for television.  I liked it also that Johnny Winter was a man of few words; he spoke through his costuming and also through his music. When Johnny Winter died, he was no longer beautiful in the same way that he had been when he was in his 20s and 30s. Years of heroin addiction will do that to you. However, there was still something in his stage presence that pulled in the ineffable, and at 70, he had the same heart-stopping phrasing and his voice the same forceful growl; a sound utterly at odds with his frail, often other-worldly appearance. He was still an angel, albeit one whose appearance tugged your heartstrings because he still did what angels did, which was to be in touch with the divine, and bring the music of the spheres to our own mortal coils.

George Gissing's In the Year of Jubilee (1894): Mini-Lecture / Learning Object

Late Victorian writer George Gissing and his works are not well known, but they are emotionally gripping, psychologically realistic, and ultimately both destabilizing and reinforcing of how we come to understand the world around us vis-a-vis rapid cultural and technological change. To correct the fact that his works have slipped into invisibility, The Fringe Journal is launching a series of learning object mini-lectures.

In the Year of Jubilee (1894) is the first in this series. You may click the link, or the graphic to access the interactive learning object. The full text transcript appears below. You may access the full text of the book at Project Gutenberg. There is an audio recording of In the Year of Jubilee at Librivox.org.

George Gissing: In the Year of Jubilee  (1894)

TEXT TRANSCRIPT:  In the Year of Jubilee (1894) by George Gissing

Mini-Lecture by Susan Smith Nash, Ph.D.

Introduction

In the Year of Jubilee (1895) is, as other novels by George Gissing, extremely sympathetic toward women. It takes place in the late Victorian world where there is more access and communication with far flung regions, and where the British Empire has enriched the nation.

However, Gissing's is also a complex word where one step outside the norms results in a loss of marriage prospects, a loss of inheritance, loss of social standing, and the potential for disease and literal starvation.

About "Jubilee"

Jubilee refers to the 50th anniversary of Queen Victoria’s reign, and also to the biblical concept of “Jubilee” a year in which property reverts to its proper owner.

Gissing’s novel starts with the Jubilee celebrations, which usher in disruptions.

The old order is turned upside down, and new enterprises are built upon false appearances, short cuts, and vanity.  They replace what came before.

Nancy Lord: Trapped in a Social Caste System and Gender

At the center of the narrative is Nancy Lord, the daughter of a successful piano dealer. She has been raised to a higher level than what might be expected, with the idea that education ushers in social mobility. Thus, she aims higher than previous generations may have dared to do, given that her father was in "trade," and not a gentleman (by Victorian standards).

Despite the fact that her father is in trade, Nancy's mother, who abandoned the family when Nancy was a toddler, was in fact, born of gentry. The mother, however, displays little innate nobility is a shallow woman who it seems will do anything to live in luxury.

Nancy’s mother rather hypocritically condemns the sisters, Fanny and Beatrice French, daughters of a wealthy builder, and their lives in a large home in a new suburb of London. 

Fraud and skill fakery are keys to success in this new world where mass production, advertising, distribution, and credit make it possible for women and men to achieve the appearance of the upward mobility as they do what they can to actually achieve higher places in society.

Jubilee: Restoration with Resignation

The restoration of money to rightful owners takes a long, convoluted path in the narrative of the novel, which includes attempts to hide Nancy’s marriage (and baby) in order to avoid losing her inheritance, and the ultimate unmasking of unsavory business practices on the part of spiteful, vindictive members of the sisters French.

At the same time, the energetic and entrepreneurial-spirited self-invented Luckworth Crewe, achieves wealth in the newly emerging business of advertising and public relations.

Apocalypse and the Jubilee

Jubilee is, at its heart, deeply apocalyptic, because it suggests a new order, or at least a return to natural distribution and order. Apocalypse is a theme that is a theme that occurs throughout Gissing’s work. Change refers the destruction of the old and a replacement of the new.

The purpose is to either rid oneself of old inequities or to create a vibrant world of technology (trains, telegraph, newspapers, gas lights).

At the same time, however, the world to be replaced already contains the consequences of change, including poisonous, lung-searing fog, dark, crowded urban landscapes, and hunger, both physical and psychological.

Women and Education: New Access, but to what end?

Gissing rails against the useless schooling that is bandied about as women’s “education” and the socially-encouraged destructive in-fighting, competition, dependence on others, enslavement in marriage, and lack of self-determination.

Gissing also suggests that when a friend of Nancy who works as a governess, Jessica suffers a nervous breakdown as she tried to pass an exam in order to matriculate at London University.

As Gissing depicts the situation, Jessica does not collapse because she is intellectually incapable, but because it is too difficult to work full-time as a governess and try to study all night (instead of eating and sleeping).

Further, Jessica must combat the ridicule and negativity of the men who scoff at her goals.

Summary

George Gissing’s late Victorian naturalistic novel, In the Year of Jubilee (1894) concerns itself with both people and property, and how both are both lost and gained in both material and metaphorical senses. 

Using people and property as a point of departure, the novel also addresses change in society: the changing roles of women, the impact of technological and commercial innovations, and about education’s form and impact in late Victorian times.