Monday, December 20, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
So, I’m Momo.
Why’s it say “So, I’m Momo?”
What? What are you doing Dad?
Dad, just go back, back, back back.
Delete, Delete – Dad! – You’re not meant to be writing this, Dad.
Back –uh – Do back!
(looks sad, but says nothing)
Why don’t you just delete all that?
And THEN we can do the story – if you delete it all.
Make all the letters go away!
Why not Dad? You’re just doing random stuff. This isn’t the story.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
I look down at his brown face. His big dark eyes, bulging slightly. His scruff of curly hair is tightly cropped, and his cheeks are slight, above full red lips. As soon as his eyes meet mine, He knows me.
In his hands, he holds some cheap horrid looking perfume in a glass bottle, that proudly proclaims itself to be “Drakkar Noir”
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Seated cross legged on the bed, typing these words into a computer, is Gordon Taylor. He yawns, stretches his toes and removes the blue hood from his head. What kind of a story is he planning to tell you? In truth, he doesn't know himself. He is inspired to begin writing only because he loves the way words sound when they are describing things, the way they can conjure a picture of reality using the abstract constructions of letters and phrases. In truth, such a notion is not the best reason to begin to write. The best reason to write is to share a tale, to amaze, affront, astound and challenge the reader (that's you). Gordon would dearly like to be able to construct such a tale. He has made several attempts, but each effort seems thwarted for various reasons.
The main reason that Gordon likes to attribute these failures to, is time. "Who has time to do such things", he wonders aloud. To his left, his wife Alison stirs, mutters an incomprehensible answer, and rolls over - trying to find a more comfortable position to settle down in.
Time, or the linear progression of events that we perceive it as, is a wonderful scapegoat. And yet, there are the same number of hours in a day as ever we started counting them. Any other person who ever achieved anything did it within the same structure of days, weeks, months, years. No, Gordon knows that his assertion, while comforting, is not correct. If you are inspired to tell a tale, or to write some music, to pursue some creative endeavour for which you have a flair, or even a fondness for, what you need is not more time, it is more passion. It is the ability to commit that is the real reason for manifesting anything into the world.
And so now, an inspiration to begin writing something beautiful has turned, for Gordon into an effort in self-chastising. He is not happy about this. Like many humans, Gordon does not appreciate the lens of reality being directly applied to his motivations, even by himself. He can feel a sense of resolve building within him - there are facets of his life that he knows need more commitment, and greater passion, if they are to be successful. There are, as he likes to say several "things he has been kidding himself about" that simply will not proceed unless substantial, concerted, wholehearted focus is given to them.
There are no shortcuts to be taken. There is no amount of re-scheduling, or time-blaming, or productivity hacks that will magically reduce the effort required. No, what he needs to do, is to convert this internal sense of resolve into a commitment. And then work on those commitments unfailingly and without relent, until they are real enough to be described in a story such as this.
That's all very well, thinks Gordon to himself, as he amends the title of this story.
But then he thinks that it might be time for breakfast.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Queensland Treasurer, a young politician looks bored and fidgets idly with his pen. It's not surprising. The topic bores us all, and I am forced to write down what I see in order to give the appearance that I am taking notes. I look up and nod periodically, as if to say "Yes, that's a good point" or occasionally with a furrowed brow - "I don't know about that..." Nobody notices. Secretly, everyone's mind is wandering. The Asian gentleman to my right is fighting sleep- his eyelids conspiring against his desire to be seen to do the right thing in this artificial social envionment.
"...This is an exciting time..." says the speaker. Oh no it's not. The blackberry wielding, hurried young businessman with the striped shirt rubs his eyes fiercely, and adjusts his position again on the uncomfortably hard hotel chair.
A question from a concerned participant changes the tone of the room for a brief moment, before the dull monotonous warble of the original speaker resumes. In a way, his voice is welcome, like a familiar blanket, returning the participants to their somnambulistic business daydream.
In my mind, I stand and announce loudly to the room:
"My God, this is Boring! I'm leaving. Enjoy your business jerk meeting, suckers!"
The speaker stops, aghast. The smirks hidden behind expressions of mock surprise turned my way all reveal the same inner thought - "Yes!"
The room errupts into hubbub, as everyone has an opinion to express at once. I can see Tammy, the meeting organizer frowning harshly at me. I slam the door as I gleefully depart to the freedom of my independent life.
...The Treasurer interrupts my fantasy. It's clear he's considering the same idea. Instead, he tells a joke, and asks a direct question in an effort to curtail the rambling. The rambling answer that's returned takes several additional minutes from our lives. Again, the Treasurer interrupts. This time to thank the speaker and politely insist that the meeting is over.
Smiling and nodding, I file out of the room into the bright lobby, adjusting my tie.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Seriously though, a few things struck me about Buzz that I wanted to share.
Google has, via gmail, been collecting a lot of my social capital. It knows who I talk to most, and presumably at least semantically, what I talk about with whom. In the back of my mind, I was vaguely aware that this was going on, but Google's "don't be evil" mantra kind of reassured me that this data wouldn't be exploited. With the launch of Buzz, it becomes apparent precisely the scope and scale of this profile mining excerise that Gmail has been. As a heavy Gmail user, buzz came pre-configured with all my friends, and had 75 interesting posts from them, at launch.
Compare this with Google Wave, which launched with an empty canvas. My Wave inbox still has 10 "waves" in it, all of which say roughly the same sort of thing: "wahoo! I'm on a Google wave..."
So is Buzz going to replace Facebook for me? - I hate to say it, but there's a real chance that it will. I live in Gmail, and only rarely visit facebook - mainly posting through my Twitter account. How is this going to affect workplaces? Will they begin limiting access to gmail, just as many today block Facebook? Will there be a Buzz for your Domain" feature, akin to Yammer for Google Apps? How would such a product fit in with the compliance and regulation governance rules around retention and records management?
As usual, more questions than answers. But I think this is really the most game changing thing I've seen from Google since Gmail itself. Crazy interesting times. Baa!