What's the right term? I "twitted" the elected debate last night gives off a casualness that is unfair. To Twitter. But that's what I did. Instead of tuning in to the radio which aired live coverage, I turned to Twitter and followed the action there.
But the debate is not what I want to write about. Though I will say that though the leaders themseves did not inspire - same old arguments, same old tirade, same old mud-slinging - Twitter, more specifically, the reactions of people on Twitter, did and for the first time in years I found myself feeling hopeful about the state of Canadian politics.
One of the funny things about Twitter is that although I was focused on the debate, other things kept popping up. Like the friend looking for a highland dance outfit for her daughter. Or like the discussion around Jamie Oliver's TV show. And just like at a cocktail party, I found myself participating in one conversation but being aware of numerous others happening around me.
That's not what I want to write about either.
What interested me this morning was another Tweet giving a link to the Jamie Oliver show for all those who had missed it because of the debate.
It made me think. So many of us are busy. We know it, we feel it, we say it. Yes, we sometimes complain about it. And I wonder if we aren't all part of the problem. If our technology, rather than saving us time, actually enables us to get busier.
Last night for example, people had the choice between watching the election debate and watching Jamie Oliver. You make a decision, and maybe you make the wrong one. The point is that during that hour long slot of time you pick one thing. But with the internet and innovative TV scheduling, we no longer have to pick one. And so we can watch Jamie Oliver this morning. On our own schedule. Good news, right?
Hang on, but that means another choice that has to be made (and hopefully it's not nutritious breakfast or Jamie Oliver because that would be deliciously ironic) .
I'm not being particularly articulate, but I am in a rush to get off to class. What I think I am trying to say that if we see events as things we can manipulate, push around, watch, do, or participate in at our own convenience,we are at risk of trying to fit too many things into our lives. If we didn't have the option to watch Jamie Oliver another time, we would have a whole extra hour today. Instead, we are trying to borrow time from the future to get everything done.
It's like a line of credit that you just can't ever pay back.
Showing posts with label Public Speaking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Public Speaking. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Coffee shops
I am sitting here at The Grind, a downtown coffee shop that, incidentally sells great panini lunches and conveniently has wireless internet. I just finished making grammar fun (I hope - did you know ghoti spells fish?) for my college comms class, and normally I'd be heading home to edit. But Anna won her class speaking competition and is participating in the school competition today at 1:30, and she has invited me to go. Since I am not going home only to turn around and come back (the joys of living in the country), I thought I'd spend an hour editing here instead.
Except....that's not what I am doing, is it.
And why not? Because I am nosy, and I'm far more interested in the people around me than I am in working. It's very distracting. Those three in the corner...business colleagues, or old friends out for a long-overdue lunch. And the man by the fireplace...in for a coffee because he's retired and this is a nice place to get away for an hour, or because he has nowhere else to go? The two young girls in thigh high leather boots and short skirts...trendy entrepreneurs or best friends skipping class?
Oh, I don't eavesdrop - I am above that - but snippets of conversation do float across the rom from time to time, and it fascinates me, probably more than it should, to hear what people are talking about, and to try and piece together not who they are, but who they could be. There is potential in everyone. It is no wonder writers write in coffee shops.
I've always had this fascination with cafe's. The Green Bean in Halifax was the first one I was introduced to back when I first spent summers in that amazing city with the navy. People played chess in the corners, and there was organic fair trade coffee way, way, WAY before it was mainstream. And artsy or subversive student newspapers full of idealism. Loved that spot, though I was never edgy enough to really fit in. The Cave too - for late night coffee and cheesecake where we talked about philosophy and politics deep into the night by the light of dripping wax candles in ancient wine bottles. Do people still do that? It seems so long ago.
Or the little coffee house (can't recall it's name) on Duckworth STreet in Saint Johns, NFLD, where I went every morning for two weeks to drink their strong house blend, eat a blueberry muffin, and write while I was in the city on an exercise.
Cafe Du Monde in Quebec City. The Bagel place in Kitsilano, Vancouver (where I first had bagels covered in baked-in asiago cheese - Mmm!) So many great coffee shops. So many great places to sit and people watch.
And write.
Except....that's not what I am doing, is it.
And why not? Because I am nosy, and I'm far more interested in the people around me than I am in working. It's very distracting. Those three in the corner...business colleagues, or old friends out for a long-overdue lunch. And the man by the fireplace...in for a coffee because he's retired and this is a nice place to get away for an hour, or because he has nowhere else to go? The two young girls in thigh high leather boots and short skirts...trendy entrepreneurs or best friends skipping class?
Oh, I don't eavesdrop - I am above that - but snippets of conversation do float across the rom from time to time, and it fascinates me, probably more than it should, to hear what people are talking about, and to try and piece together not who they are, but who they could be. There is potential in everyone. It is no wonder writers write in coffee shops.
I've always had this fascination with cafe's. The Green Bean in Halifax was the first one I was introduced to back when I first spent summers in that amazing city with the navy. People played chess in the corners, and there was organic fair trade coffee way, way, WAY before it was mainstream. And artsy or subversive student newspapers full of idealism. Loved that spot, though I was never edgy enough to really fit in. The Cave too - for late night coffee and cheesecake where we talked about philosophy and politics deep into the night by the light of dripping wax candles in ancient wine bottles. Do people still do that? It seems so long ago.
Or the little coffee house (can't recall it's name) on Duckworth STreet in Saint Johns, NFLD, where I went every morning for two weeks to drink their strong house blend, eat a blueberry muffin, and write while I was in the city on an exercise.
Cafe Du Monde in Quebec City. The Bagel place in Kitsilano, Vancouver (where I first had bagels covered in baked-in asiago cheese - Mmm!) So many great coffee shops. So many great places to sit and people watch.
And write.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Third Little Pig
Le troisieme petite cochon dit: je ne suis pas fou, fou, fouGrace did a great job in her first french play at school. Loud and clear and sooo adorable in her little pink snub piggy nose as she told off that Big Bad Wolf.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Smug to Satisfied
At 9 pm last night I was standing in the kitchen with a glass of shiraz. Still in my heeled boots, grey skirt, and artfully draped scarf, I gazed out the window into the night feeling ever-so-slightly smug at the success of the historical presentation (on Richard III) I had delivered earlier in the evening.
There is something about living on a farm though that nips smugness in the bud very effectively.
At 9:12 last night, Andrew walked in the door after doing his nightly walk out to the barn to see that all was well, and in his arms he carried a lamb that had been injured.
By 9:15 last night, I had forgotten about the presentation and the glass of shiraz and was bedding down the lamb while Andrew gathered a syringe and painkiller. We spent the next half hour or so making the lamb comfortable while splinting what proved to be a broken foot.
This sort of thing is why all my clothes – even the good ones – are machine washable.
The dog was piqued. I had used her bed beside the fire for the lamb, and with a sniff of disgust she trotted into the living room with a look that clearly said “Fine, I’ll sleep on the couch then.”
But at the end of the night, as I finished my wine, and watched the lamb peacefully sleeping, it struck me that the public recognition I had got for my presentation was nothing compared to the private knowledge that we had made this tiny creature feel better. There was no guarantee – shock or infection might still kill him – but for the time being he was safe, and I was content.
There is something about living on a farm though that nips smugness in the bud very effectively.
At 9:12 last night, Andrew walked in the door after doing his nightly walk out to the barn to see that all was well, and in his arms he carried a lamb that had been injured.
By 9:15 last night, I had forgotten about the presentation and the glass of shiraz and was bedding down the lamb while Andrew gathered a syringe and painkiller. We spent the next half hour or so making the lamb comfortable while splinting what proved to be a broken foot.
This sort of thing is why all my clothes – even the good ones – are machine washable.
The dog was piqued. I had used her bed beside the fire for the lamb, and with a sniff of disgust she trotted into the living room with a look that clearly said “Fine, I’ll sleep on the couch then.”
But at the end of the night, as I finished my wine, and watched the lamb peacefully sleeping, it struck me that the public recognition I had got for my presentation was nothing compared to the private knowledge that we had made this tiny creature feel better. There was no guarantee – shock or infection might still kill him – but for the time being he was safe, and I was content.
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