Internets,
This is a picture of our imaginary summer vacation. It's amazing here! White sand, clear water...sure beats being stuck answering phones, cleaning hotels, and our studied expressions of professional back pain. Thank you for all your well wishes. We expect a safe return to reality sometime later this week.
Be Awesome...
Pithy
if ever there was a time for laughter let it be now--this perfect hour--this infinite instant; let us laugh at the world around us whichever undying part remains--not verging on the lip of annihilation, poised for the eternal forgetting.
if ever there was a time to sing let it be now--these open windows, the throats from which music does not distinguish its notes--the wind, the echo in a canyon--these sunset waves splurging on the sand; let us tilt our ears leeward to catch it all and shake loose from our own knotty reserves some nameless tune that no one will remember but which will cling like a fine dust to everything it catches.
if ever there was a time to love let it be now--feel the easy embrace of the chair we grunt into each day--notice how the bedsheets part for our sibilant sleep, the night generous with its ticking hours, moon just so--discover how whole the body can be wrapping itself around an ice cream cone; the farewell we offer a friend going to Africa, the parting wish we leave at the airport's sliding glass doors--notice how unfraudulent the heart is whispering us closer to a baby boy who offers us his batting eyelashes; how easy we can cleave from the hard, lost day a fractured second of joy, eyes enraptured with the sight of a small breeze lifting plastic bags into an aerial dance just for us.
and if ever there was a time to pause and stand, broken, before God, weep at the sight of all that is beautiful and finite, our hands having cast their breadcrumbs, the birds scattering toward home, time impossible in its never enoughness, if ever there was a time to pause and to ache in the falling--light signaling our last, glorious view of the world, let it be now.
Maya Stein--official interpreter of the soul.
Pithy remembers a simpler time—a time when the world was defined through catchy, acronymic phrases. “Big I little i what begins with I? Ichabod is itchy and so am I.” The youngster of today, a product of the metro-techno generation, when met with this same question concerning I’s usefulness, would beg to differ with Dr. Seuss, or at least expand his vocabulary. What doesn’t begin with i? iPod, iPhone, iTouch, iTunes, iMobile, iMac…i…i…i.
An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but Mr. Job’s apple seems so superpowerful—so beyond the scope of earthly normalcy—as to banish the doctor permanently to the protoplasmal primordial atomic globule from which they sprang. Yep, there’s an app for that.
Pithy is secure—with ourselves, with our awesomeness status, with our gentle readers—we don't need a shiny, new phone to be cool and sophisticated. We don't mind (very much) our LG bricks with giraffe-neck antennae. But Pithy, as our internets know, is also very smart—smart enough to recognize that we live in an iWorld where iMage is everything—an image narcissistically mesmerizing, reflected in the “pretty, pretty, shiny, shiny.” Resistance is futile--we will all be assimilated.
So, we sport our apple products with pride--even now absentmindedly caressing the sleek surface of our iTouch, marveling at the futuristic beauty of touch screen technology and dreams realized—momentarily banishing the fervent hope to always avoid iCustomercare. That app still seems to be in the works.
