Computers: here to stay or just a passing fad?

Before you go betting the farm, the ranch and whatever else you've mortgaged on "computers are here to stay", think back about a hundred years. No computers, no cars, no facebook. But we had horses!

Everyone rode horses. Horses worked the farm. Whatever was around mechanical was measured in horsepower. I think some still do refer to it: "you know what this baby has under the hood?"

The calvary. Camptown races 10 miles long. It was a man and his horse, not his hand held device.

That era is, yes, gone. And it won't be another hundred years, nor fifty, before people will look back, saying to no one in particular, "Remember when everyone had a computer?"

In which case, we are left with having to define what a fad is. Less than fifty, thirty, twentyfive?
I think it depends on the context. In geologic time, a fad would be awesome in its length. In terms of our species, a fad could be a few thousand years. In terms of . . . I think you get the point. I mean, I'm just trying to adjust the spread to balance the action.

What's seems obvious though is that people can oooh computers without knowing what in hell they are ooohing about. It's hard to say what's going on exactly, harder yet to say what will be going on in a faddishly short time. If computers continue to grow smaller, so small that we don't notice them, then I think we could say they have gone away. Your guess may be as good as mine on that. So, are computers here to stay?

Back from Vacation!

Wonderful time was had by all.

Well, I see we are still in the Middle East. But now we're in five countries, authorized, sort of, to be in three. I consider that a bargain, five for the price of three. For those keeping score: Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Pakistan and Yemen. We won't touch Syria, but otherwise it's like "Clean up on aisle seven."

I try to find a poem that fits the current political or cultural concern but am thinking maybe it would be easier to find a scene in our world that matches a poem. In other words, start with a poem and search the world for some counterpart. It's not that difficult. Plus I just got back from vacation, rife with developed ideas.

I just can't recall any. But wait, wait. OK

Tony Hoagland writes in a manner I can understand and enjoy; yet further readings yield more. This poem turns on itself, which, I think, is natural. I wish we, as a nation, would turn on ourselves, ask ourselves what in the hell we are doing. I can't help thinking a lot of us a lot of the time are numb. Perhaps we're getting less numb.

A long poem, but middle readers should handle it fine.

Still Life

"I'm sorry,"

the novelist apologized—
"my story has a beginning,
middle and an end." Then she commenced
her explication of

the tapestry hanging on the wall.
Usually these large, time-faded rectangles
of textile
woven in the fourteenth century
depict some martial glory; two armies
bivouacked on a plain
beneath the fluttering pennants of their lords;
knights galloping on horseback, a sky
crisscrossed by arrows.

Or sometimes, a damsel and her maids are
picking flowers in a glen
while from the left, the fiend
disguised as an old peddler
approaches on a mule—

But in this case, a construction site
is what we get—
giant yellow bulldozers
and dirty trucks
arrayed around a squared-off hole
of scraped-out, reddish dirt—

Down in the pit, the foreman
is shouting into a shoe-box sized, old-fashioned
telephone—
He's telling the crane operator
to dump the thick grey porridge of wet cement
from the mixer
into a long chute
for the foundation—
It's a cool tapestry,
because you can see such detail;
the lines around the boss-man's eyes
and the half-crushed packet

of cigarettes in his front shirt pocket
that marks him as a proletariat
of another era.
A sort of young guy
considering the responsibility he has,
yet not too old
to take pleasure in the work,

and he likes this part,
where the grey oatmeal of the pour
gushes clumsily from the rough
gutter of the pipe
into the maze of
wooden troughs and molds—

As in a scene from Moby Dick,
the men, armed with poles and spades, are staged
around each trench and ditch
to herd the concrete into place
before it sets—
That's why this part is called "The Push"—

and one feels the beauty of these guys
engrossed in the alert companionship
of work
—laughing, cursing, joking in the sun—

I like this tapestry—
It's not that I know these men, or
know how to run one of these great blue
smokestack-belching tanks.
It's not that something bad is going
to happen
to teach us all a lesson. There is
no "behind" or "underneath"—

But in the background
your eye is drawn to
an iron ladder fastened to a wall,
which is strange until you see, high up
the narrow metal door it leads to,
and now I can explain

the anxiety I feel about
the time it took to get here—a shame
about the dreaminess I have indulged
throughout my life
that caused me to forget just what was happening—

Behind me in the distance
I can hear some people
who used to be my friends
saying something about the
problem of language in our time

but I don't care. For me
the story is
the feeling of the rungs, one by one,
pushing up into the arches of my feet,
the chilled bars of metal in my hands,
the dusty smell of morning
turning into afternoon,—

as I climb to see just what the world
has brought me to.