Undisciplined blogging on "e-waste" arts

James Joyce chose his path.

Maybe he was only discovered by a future group of readers.

Maybe he wrote for them and didn't care about his hit counts in the meantime.

You don't want to aggravate and alienate a current reader (though artists have done so).

But if they were attracted to you originally for being what you are being, maybe trying to be someone else to keep them isn't the right response.

I can't personally respond to comments from the future, though.  And I thrive on dialectic.  So I have to get my dialectic dialogue fix from the people spitting on my tinkerer friends.

My belief is that I cannot possibly write anything to change the hearts and minds of the planned obsolescence and shredding industrial complex.  They are money making tiger robots, burning bright.

But if I manage to penetrate a spouse or son or respected elder, someone with a soul and a personal connection to the people pulling the trigger of friendly fire, that I may, as one person, have an effect.

I'm taking my family to meet these men and women in South America next month.  They previously met geeks, tinkerers, techs, and good-enough debrillards in Egypt and Mexico.  My 3 kids don't have a hint in their minds that Africans or Asians or Latinos are lesser intellects.  They've seen engineering techs best me in trade and haggling, fixing things I couldn't, winning like friends across a tennis court.

That's finally it.  The Watchdogs kids will get images of primitives.  My kids have images of equals.  Stuff that in your turkey.

No comments: