The Image Game

on WordPress turns One

Early this year, I said Goodbye to the "Lo-Fi Project":  a year-long adventure in cell phone photography, playing around with different devices and moods.

My 'weapon of choice' in this regard has been, and still is, my trusty (and crusty) old Blackberry Bold.  This vaguely paperweighty object, despite needing an extra wide "extended" battery (held to the back of the device with black gaff tape), and having been dropped, and other things -- kicked, flushed, fogged, moistened, over and undercharged) dozens of times -- remains my baby.  Like the 35mm "moojy" it replaced, I rocked 'Triple B' until she bled from exhaustion:

Good pictures, great ones, a whole lotta crap ... Just like loving moments in a human relationship.  Sure, me and Triple B struggled sometimes; but in the end, we knew and felt each other ... had each other's backs, and were always up for a little action ;) ;) ;) ;-) !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, I've spent the past year or so flirting and dancing (deep-throating) with Google, trying to make my cream rise online ... and have more or less succeeded, with the help of phoneography ...

I have long been interested in visuality.  I appreciate architecture, composition ... perspective intrigues me ... I have studied photography, and been snapping and 'scrapbooking' photos for decades.   At first, I was appalled at the integration of optic and communication technology:  the first cell phone/camera combination repelled me, not only on a 'purist' (though decidedly amateur) photographer level, but on the obvious basis of privacy, also.

Ten years or so later, with privacy teetering on the brink of extinction ... Miley Cyrus now, somehow, exhibiting "artwork" ... and our collective threshold for shame and embarassment lowered, if not erased completely, by crass "reality" with no one caring ...

I see no reason not to play.

"Fat Unicorn"

Photo(s) by

Jeff Glovsky

Thoughts Aloud

"You are black and I am white

You are blind as a bat And I have sight"

- Ebony & Ivory (SNL version)

In the wake of the latest (over)played U.S. race card, the loutish, last century remarks of a set-in-his-ways old fool, hackles are raised again that, as a nation, the United States has made zero progress in terms of race relations (and/or cultural tolerance) over the centuries.

This is nonsense.

As is often the case, it's the secretly hating and seething themselves, the self-righteous, gas baggy, glass-housed souls, who heave the most aggrieved, loud stones.

To hear them tell it, these thought police -- these angry, directionless ministers beseeching their already converted choirs ... Donald Sterling is a Klansman.

Such extreme vilification of an old fool is not only also nonsense, it's a danger:  To shine a spotlight of any kind on extremism only feeds it.  Donald Sterling is no Cliven Bundy ... and he's not particularly extreme in his outlook.

Donald Sterling is an old man.

My dad, 80-something, is also 'up there' in age.  Stormin' Norm has been known to blow hard too, and -- unpleasantly -- reveals on occasion some of Sterling's, shall we say, irascibility ... This statement of fact does not excuse either of them.  It just is:  old boys will be old boys ... and old ladies and teenagers, Wall Street wolves, working women and children ... You get the idea.  There are segments, and often unpleasant behaviors which come with each territory, and within varied contexts.

A universal regulation of speech, of opinion -- no matter how unpalatable -- cannot apply.

Yes, there are laws, as of course, there should be.  There is hate speech, incitement ... Donald Sterling wasn't hating.  He was caught with his pants down, in an old man's moment.  The kind that I'm willing to bet you, and virtually everyone you know -- male or female, black or white, in fact, young or old ... with few, if any, exceptions -- has (had) on occasion.

Depending on how one defines the term, most of us are "racist", to some degree.  To dispute this is to deny the problem.  But the paradigm has shifted over the past fifty years, so that overt bigotry and non-tolerance is the exception, not the norm.  We should accept this fact as a glass half-full starting point, at least, and advance with it ... and not keep expecting, thereby creating problems.

Beyond this, there is a little matter of privacy, in the fact that Donald Sterling was recorded having his blathering, pants down, old man's moment ...

"Right" or "wrong", whatever Sterling (or I, or you) may think, and whatever words he (I, you) may choose, to express random thoughts as they form and present themselves, in private -- are his (mine, yours).

  

Why was this old man's private conversation being recorded?

And was he aware it was being recorded?  In the U.S., it's a crime in some states, including California, to record individuals without consent.  Did Donald Sterling know he was being recorded?

We'll leave that to the lawyers, for now.

I'm not defending Donald Sterling (nor my old dad, when he pipes up) ... and I'm certainly not defending any racial "privilege" Sterling thinks he might have; nor the toxic, old school attitudes which he apparently retains from his younger self, in a bygone era, towards women, money and the "ownership" of human capital ...

But I will say that I empathize, as an often wrong individual -- a human being -- whose reasonable expectation of privacy becomes violated.

Cold, War and Otherwise

Though spring has sprung in Deutschland, in the States, the cold weather's unrelenting and winter storms -- for some reason, christened like hurricanes now! -- keep howling and blowing.

Also howling and blowing is western media, every time there's a new "global conflict".  Usually so ridiculously narrow and self-interested, reporting breathlessly the "breaking" news of Oscar night parties, celebrity deaths (all too often, self-inflicted) ... and/or imperious, like dolts in a small town, poking fun at perceived foibles: "Sochi problems", for example, or an "inept" investigation (or the opposite: escalating random acts of breathing -- those naturally occurring, every day things we all do because we're supposed to, and most of us are wired that way -- into newsworthy, larger than life acts of "heroism") ...

Where was I?

Oh, right.  So usually the media, particularly in the US and UK, is carrying on this way, perpetuating its curious combination of smug isolationism and Big Stick condescension, the whole time relying on unpaid contributors to file "i-reports", in order to fill all the 24/7 content platforms) ... but Vladimir Putin "takes" Crimea, and suddenly, hot.cool.Sochi gets forgotten; the meaningful Paralympics all but ignored, and CNN and the US start clucking, 'What to do about UKRAINE?'.

Geopolitically speaking, the US should have nothing to do with Ukraine.  The people of Crimea are speaking, and they seem to prefer not to be part of 'the west'.  This (so far) peaceful expression of self-determination should be recognized, in fact, allowed.

Beyond this simple statement of what seems, to me, obvious, I offer no public opinion.  My thoughts on politics, like religion and like my home address, telephone number, love and sexual doings that actually matter to me, are private, and will remain that way ... at least until they matter less, and/or I am ready to "share" them.

Does this mean, though, that I can't opine?  I don't have a politcal thought, or opinion?

"Gloaming Looming", ©Jeff Glovsky

Once I was sitting outside a jazz club where I used to mix sound.  It was a beautiful spring night, and I stepped out of what was, at that time, the stereotypical smoke-filled room to gulp in some fresh air.  It was during a bass solo ... These always tended to go on forever anyway, so I figured I had a few minutes, at least, before the singer would come in again and start gesticulating (wildly) toward her ear, suggesting (none too subtly) that she wasn't able to hear herself, or the piano.

As I was sitting there, pleasantly digging the gloaming, this homeless guy shuffles up to me and says, "Nice night, huh?"  He sits down on the brownstone stoop beside me, and offers up something about the second Gulf War ...

Well, I'd always been taught, and took pains to adhere to, the common sense adage about not talking to strangers.  I took this literally, and to this day -- fast-tracking to fifty (!) years old -- I struggle with its application.  Innately shy, to the point of awkwardness, if not coming across as 'differnt' (as in, 'that boy ain't right!') in most social settings, I was struck even dumber by my new companion's next and final communication.

After commenting about G. Dubya Bush, our troops in Iraq and September 11th -- all still very fresh wounds at the time -- and receiving zero response from me, this homeless guys says, "Man, I thought you were an asshole, but you might just be stupid."

Then sneeringly, he shuffles off.

I go back inside the jazz club, not offended or defensive, but really struck by what the homeless guy just told me: that I was an asshole, but I might also be stupid.  I'd never thought of myself as "stupid".  Throughout my academic career, with the exception of some shaky punctuation, Geometry in high school and five years of college, it was always the opposite!

But as I made my way back toward my sound booth that night, noticing that not only had the bass solo ended but the first set as well ... that the house lights were on, the stage was empty (though an amp was buzzing) and people were standing up to leave ... it occurred to me the homeless guy was probably right.

I Belong?

Hey, thank you, Nina, for the reblog.

So I've just joined Goodreads, which on the surface would seem to be an excellent fit for me and my online networking needs.  While admittedly not an "avid" reader, I read a little ... I love words and literature, and relate psychologically to numerous authors, if not (necessarily) to some classic characters.  I'm well-rounded enough to appreciate "dead white authors" and "negro music", and can easily find on Goodreads all the titles I've read (many of which I still own, proudly, dog-eared, physical copies) and the hundreds of other like-minded souls who have come before me in reading and "sharing".

But then the question becomes, "Now what?"  Now that I've arrived and stepped into the party, I'm not really sure what to do with myself.

Just like in real life ... I become a wallflower.  Too shy, or indifferent, to try to "engage".  In the same way that musically, I'm not a "creator", so technically, don't belong on SoundCloud ... to me, Good Reading -- not to mention, good listening -- is something to be appreciated silently, privately.

No offense, but I don't care to "share" with you, the books I've read ... or when I've read them, as Goodreads disturbingly prompts me to do.  The 'pride of ownership' which comes from slogging through Ulysses, or the vague whiff of pretension earned from being able to discuss intelligently Céline, or Milan Kundera, or Amiri Baraka's acclaimed Blues People, dissipates in the communal trough ... becoming meaningless, to everybody.

Simply put, what makes me special?

It's my tired old saw about individualism, and how Personhood seems to be going going, gone the way of Privacy in our "sharing culture".  If everybody's doing something, what's the point, why bother?

I have no idea how to "use" Goodreads ... No idea which one's the Mayor, right?  Who's the hostess, or who to be mingling with ... but it seems to be a noisy party.

I suppose the night is young.

I Rate (Inspiration)

"In a controversy the instant we feel anger, we have already ceased striving for the truth and have begun striving for ourselves." - Buddha

"Disturbing," she says to me, assessing my writing.  "Obviously, you're very angry." 

Am I?  I wouldn't say very angry.  "Very" being the overused word of a pre-teen, or twit waking up to an AOL homepage:  'This star's dress was very awkward' ... 'What happened next was very cute!' ...

Verily, I pray, forsooth, spare me your limp and impotent adverbs!

"The new German one is weird," she says smartly ... failing (not deigning) to elaborate.  "What do you hope to achieve with this?"

"With what?"

"Your writing.  Little stories."

"My 'little stories' comprise the pieces, and piecing together, of a life."

"I see."

"However bent, misspent, or insignificant ... small.  I write with a big mouth!"

"You talk like you write," she says, again smartly.

"Vice versa.  But thank you."

I swallow a toothpick -- the gnawed, wet remains of one -- by mistake.  "Holy shit ..."

"Want some water?"  She hands me a glass of wine. 

I started this blog (to answer the question) with one goal in mind:  to stop, at the very least, counter, the Ripoff Reports and other libelous public defecations on my name ... which have been my scarlet letter, my Jogi Löw moment, my 15 minutes of internet infamy, since 2010.

In the disgusting, un-private glass sphere that our globe, and each of our lives, have become, I refuse to relinquish control of my name ... my life, my potential for livelihood ... because one individual -- in his own mind, running around with cape and red underpants, thinking he was doing something Super and righteous ... and others then, blindly, hysterically piling on, compounding the damages inflicted and delaying, if not preventing, (re)solutions -- campaigned to defame, "name and shame" and destroy me.

No.

That won't happen.  Nothing like it.

Again.

"I'm very angry.  You're right," I say.

Get over it, Jeffrey ... my mom used to say, when I'd petulantly refuse to do something or other if things didn't go, from the get-go, my way; then my first 'real' job in New York, as a light and sound engineer at a theater/cabaret called The Ballroom ...

Eventually, I quit The Ballroom, and I was at this party when The Doors came on:  "Five to One", and the line, "Your ballroom days are over, baby" ...

Having just left a job at a place called The Ballroom, I bellowed and blustered along with that line, in my best and loudest, drunk Jim Morrison.

"No one cares, Jeff," my then-girlfriend told me.

I went home from the party that night alone.

My point being, I know.  I get it:  No one does care.  And I've already made my belabored points, in writing and publicly flailing away.

But I care.

My goal will be achieved.

My voice in a cape, and my pen in red underpants ... Saving my name and reputation.

Rape and Privacy

In light of the Edward Snowden revelations, which ended up forcing the hand of President Obama and the NSA (indeed, "a victory of sorts" for Snowden) -- and in fact, because of the acknowledgment and now, legitimization, of the government's dumpster diving on not only American but global citizens -- there should no longer be any expectation, reasonable or otherwise, of privacy in human existence.

We have crossed that bridge, and there is no looking back.  Data mining, marketing "preferences", "targeted" advertising being "served" ... cameras everywhere (and in every hand): mounted on dashboards, hanging from street lamps, hidden in ceilings, hats and eyeglasses ... capturing, then "sharing", our every pain, our every shame, our every vainglory, assigning blame ...

Photo(s) by Jglo

In many ways, we've become a much better, cleaner, safer, more responsible world:  all performing as model citizens now, caring Samaritanism, the norm - No longer every man, woman and child a solo act, but performing with our best stage voices and collective foot forward, because all of us know that the cameras are on.

Of course, banks still get robbed ... identities stolen, people get assaulted on quiet streets still.  Nigerians and others still try to get over, and handbags and gladrags still get heisted (recently, from directly beneath an ostensibly upturned corporate nose).

In many ways, we're stalled the same.

Perhaps the most discernible difference between our world pre-1984 and now, is that in today's world -- our world of the hard sell; of crass and obnoxiously mass consumerism ... a world where Christmas "season" begins after Labor Day and "Back to School" is already being shoved down our throats in July (mere weeks after the kids are set free from one school year, they're told to start saving and spending for next!) -- it's not surprising to see every website I visit demanding I "join" it; or being instructed on every website to "follow", "share", "like" (or see what my "friends" like) ... or "log in using Facebook" or some other "service" ...

We don't care what you use to log in, just LOG IN.  So we can mine your data, target your preferences and know where you go online, what you do, so that in the end, we know what to do with you!

Go ahead, "opt out" (if you can find how to do it) - it doesn't matter:  we still know you've visited youporn before coming here, and we appreciate your business!  Or "Yay" ... or "Let's have some milk with those cookies" (or "Don't be evil") ...

See what we did there?  We just allayed your valid concerns about privacy with a cute little word thing, and lulled you into a soft zone of comfort.  Dropped a roofie in your browser refreshment, so now you'll give it up to us.

In the real world, offline, the identity of rape victims is shielded.  In the privacy-sucking world of the wide web, there's no such protection.  We're all exposed, subject to further penetration and perpetual abuse.

But wait ... It's consensual.  We're giving it up, and giving in.  There's no such thing as consensual rape (Is there??) ... In the real world, offline, it may be poor form to blame the victim.  But for most of us, online, we ask to be raped.

And we're getting exactly what we deserve.