Me and the Goldfish

A recent news item on NPR stated that technology is making idiots of us all. To be more precise, the story claimed that humans--because of all the technology we depend upon each day--now have an attention span of 8 seconds. To put this in perspective, goldfish top out at about 9 seconds.

I am not going to quarrel with the science here. I am sure that someone somewhere had a behavioral science grant from NIH that allowed them to measure goldfish attention spans, and I am sure there were proper controls in place and that no goldfish were harmed in the course of this study.

However, in our 140-character Twitter-verse, with our ever-dwindling grammar, spelling, and reading skills, I'd think that most posts would require more than 8 seconds to decipher. Writing those posts would perhaps consume less time, because total disregard of the above would certainly speed the typing of the message right along--particularly when one allows for the fact that the message need not require any thought (as witness the inanities posted on almost any public website.) Even averaging the writing/reading/typing times together, 8 seconds of focused attention seems to be a little low. Now if one were comparing, say, the relative intelligences of human vs. goldfish in this arena, I might be willing to give the advantage to the goldfish. At least he thinks an added second before responding.

In yet another area of human behavior/attention-requiring acts, one could consider TV watching. While you might have to add in a factor for the convexity of the bowl, one might be able to compare attention to television programs. I fear that here, I would be with the fish, turning away from the screen again and again--only I would lack the excuse that he has of confinement in a circular bowl. In fact, I often turn on the television, then turn away in disgust well before my 8-second attention span has elapsed. Perhaps I need a little china castle to explore in my family room, or a field of gently-waving water plants...or maybe a book. Perhaps a scientist might come up with a reading goldfish, and measure his/her attention span. I think I might be able to win that one.

Favorite Things --and the Disposal Thereof

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...Ah, if it were only that simple. My favorite things encompass far more than Maria von Trapp's list. Though they may not be as hard to store as those cream-colored ponies, my collections do seem to take up an inordinate amount of space. I have nightmares about the aftermath of my passing: estate sale agents pawing through closet after closet, consigning box after box to a yawning dumpster, wondering all the while why on earth anyone would have saved this stuff.

So this week, I begin yet again. I have located an Upcycle store. What a marvelous idea. They collect all the dribs and drabs and pieces of projects and project materials (corks! fabric! scrapbook paper! CD cases!): all those things that might come in handy in that never-to-be-realized "someday" we all know is just around the corner--and put them in one place and make them available to artists of all kinds. I have come to the realization finally that when 'someday' comes, I won't be able to find whatever it was I'd saved. So..upcycle. Somewhere, someone is looking for that exact something that I have squirreled away and would be delighted to find it cheap. Some grandma will have her grandchildren visiting and will need craft supplies. Some teacher (oh, yes, the teachers) who are buying supplies out of their own (too-slim) pockets may find an inspiration that doesn't cost too much. I must have a store-ful of this stuff, all on my own. It is going, going, almost gone. And I can't feel bad about letting it go because all this stuff will be used by someone.

Books. Books. Books. How-to books. Mysteries. Thought-provoking books. Poetry books. Books I should read. Books I want to read (and they are not exactly the same..) Cookbooks. Travel books. If I started reading now, I MIGHT work my way through a fraction of them, but, more likely, I will have bought more books along the way and will still have an overflowing nightstand, coffee table, shelf. Set aside the reference books and the one-of-a-kinds (my autographed Ogden Nash, my inscribed Billy Collins, my Laurie King signed copy, the possibly-belonged-to-Thomas-Jefferson (but probably not) autobiography of Benjamin Franklin in its original French) and then...make someone else happy with a deluge of Dick Francis and Margaret Maron and Bill Bryson and all the other treasures I've collected.

Pick a cookbook each week and make three recipes from it to justify its long-ago purchase. If nothing else, I'll get some new menus out of the attempt. Throw away all the scraps of paper and magazines I've saved. When my mother-in-law died, did I save her clippings? No. What I saved were her hand-copied cards that referenced names I knew or dishes I remembered.

Clothes. Nope. I don't even want to go there right now. But I am entertaining the idea of a bag swap. I collect purses and tote-bags and computer bags in the hope of finding the perfect one, Which I do on a regular basis--at least until the next version of perfection makes its appearance. Is there anyone else out there like that? Maybe my 'imperfect' bags are your 'more-nearly-perfect' ones. Maybe we should throw them all in a pile and find out. I volunteer my living room floor.

I am also not above reading about organization (though I have discarded many a book on the subject..) My latest read has been "The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up"--or something like that. While I don't advocate talking to my socks (she does...) or clothing, I DO like one aspect of her approach. She rationalizes (oh, we must be sisters) discarding things by reflecting upon the pleasure she received from buying or receiving the item, and saying that that is enough, that the thing has served its purpose by providing that moment of pleasure. You go, girl. Shopping is its own reward? Maybe it is. Maybe it is. If only getting rid of stuff offered the same irresistibility.

Night Prayers

Drifting into sleep’s  oblivion  

my final conscious thoughts  

are my promised prayers

lifting, lifting

in scudding clouds of supplication

like homing multitudes of birds

bent on heaven.

I imagine their bird-bright colors—

red for the cancers, newly-diagnosed,

brown for earthquake victims,

blue for the addicted…

yellow for the non-specific requests,

(keep them in your prayers)

and for those facing hopeless causes, 

a thing with (green) feathers;

flashes of orange for the random thank-yous,

purple wings for the hopes and fears

bedeviling us all, 

and the black requiems

for train wrecks and shootings and accidents,

for murders, and wars, and riots, and suicides.

This is my flight of prayers

that joins with all those lifting

from the throats of God’s people on earth—

or maybe the universe--

a rainbow of prayers rising each evening

as reminder of Your promise not to destroy the world--

at least, by water.