Distracted walking and the ode
by Bob on February 12, 2007
What a time we live in. Or should I say, in which, dear reader, all one of you, that you live in. I think I presently fail the Cartesian test in his Six Discourses on Philosophy. I pinch myself and am not sure I am dreaming or in reality, like the Australian aboriginal dreamtime would assert implicitly. There's no Deus ex Machina. Ah, well. Onto the show.
So, it seems now cities and municipalities are trying to pass a "Distracted Walking" bill and legislation. If someone is listening to an iPOD, for example, whilst walking in front of a bus, they can be found in violation of the proposed law.
The Telegraph of London reported on it: "Legal Move to Ban Earphones in Street" by Tom Leonard reporting in New York, February 9, 2007 issue.
Writer Tom Leonard calls it "iPOD oblivion" whilst walking with one on.
Has our world come full circle ? As I reported in an earlier blog entry, I personally witnessed the world when it stopped conversing with its mouth when the Sony Walkman was invented and I walked a lot in NYC every day.
Now it seems one might have to remove the headphones ... to what end ? To talk in reality again ? I doubt it. No, just to satisfy this proposed law. I think people have forgotten how to converse. Text messages everyone now knows how to do. It's impersonal. And who really knows with whom you are truly 'talking' ? Or should I have said "txt msgs evry1 nw nos how 2 do" ... in neo-Morse code talk and neo-old ham radio transmissions ?
I just don't know anymore. Maybe I am not supposed to, despite having studied higher maths, been a musician, been with computers more or less since they were invented, studied architecture, a bit of medicine, written poetry, etc. etc. etc. I thought I had poked my head out of the known universe into The Truth and Beauty and Spirituality.
Time to think of Beauty is Truth and Truth is Beauty and that is all ye shall ever know -- John Keats said that in his "Ode on a Grecian Urn". Funny, I think if you said "Grecian Urn" to someone these days (daze) they would likely think that you were talking about a paycheck in Athens. I've stared at an ancient painted Grecian urn. It transfixed me. Unlike "The Apprentice" or "Survivor" (oxymoron) or "American Idle" [sic]..
Okay, now for something not completely different. The world is yours. I recuse myself.
* * *
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN
By John Keats
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
1820