A Slave's Revolt

Yesterday I went downtown for a meeting with an idea in my head.

That idea was to carry my broken sunglasses in the pocket of my suit coat and hope to find an eyeglasses place that could fix them.(*) I had about 15 extra minutes in my travel plans to make this happen.

Why only fifteen minutes?

Because that is, sadly, in this modern world of ours, about as much padding as a busy urban professional can ever spare for something so...unprofessional.

Many people, I suspect, find themselves looking at a broken pair of sunglasses as an opportunity to try their basketball moves, you know, a hook shot to the trash can.

Fewer, probably, when the sunglasses are prescription models (as are mine) but even then, given that everything is made of plastic these days, it's arguable whether you are better off tossing the crap once it breaks vs. replacing it with a new style the cute Asian girl at your eye doctor's office will inevitably recommend to you.

Tradeoffs.

In the middle of all of this drama, or at least what passes for drama in my little life (as Monte Python would say), I started recalling an exercise I once participated in at a teachers' retreat. The predication for the exercise was John Hersey's classic book, Hiroshima, which if you have never read, you simply must.

As I recall the work, he posits that six people who survive that horrific bomb find themselves in a raft or small boat, bouncing around the ocean, and suddenly realize their complete inter-dependence on one another for their continued survival.

In the intellectual exercise I participated in, all of us were newly sensitive to how valuable those of us with concrete skills -- like plumbers, carpenters, electricians, nurses, farmers, welders -- are when our very life depends on them being here for us.

I do not recall any role, however, for story-tellers, photographers, comedians, painters, poets, or technicians, which actually puts a huge proportion of us in our modern culture at risk of being eaten, should calamity strike, once you begin to think about this in any determined way.

Me and myself, the son of a working class man, have both always been modest in our heart(s) about what (we) have to offer you, our fellow occupants of that metaphorical boat. The very best I, for instance, can ever do is to tell you a story. Every time I keystroke in words here, at this virtual space, that is what I am trying to do.

I have no other value to you. If you like the story, you will feel better for the experience. Maybe you will even come back. Maybe you will even comment, or (God Forbid!) take a more useful action, those actions that must not be spoken, according to the terms of being a blogger with ads on his site.

The Blog Police are watching. If I even hinted at what would help me to keep doing this work, I would be exterminated.

Such is what the world of a marginal member of that vulnerable human raft is, circa 2009. We are not even allowed to suggest what others could do to help us keep going, even as one of the richest companies in the world benefits from our content work.

If this blog ever disappears, that will be why. Or else that I have died. I am just one of many slaves of the 21st Century, and only you, dear visitor, can cut our chains.

(*) Assuming I do not forget, which is a major assumption, I will soon tell you how my sunglasses got fixed, not at an eyeglasses company, which in turn is a very relevant conversation we all should be having...

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