I currently have a problem viewing Comment's updates in Google Reader's. This is a test to see if the bookmarlet will post a shared item that I can view.
August 18, 2009
Fwd: Message via your Google Profile: Tag GR Notes
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Thanks for your question Damon, tagging notes is what I do most of the time in Google Reader. You can access your notes and tag them from several different tabs; Shared items, Notes, People you follow and from the bookmarklet ( the bookmarklet is at the top of each of the three pages in GR, just drag it to your bookmark bar ).
Thanks for your question Damon, tagging notes is what I do most of the time in Google Reader. You can access your notes and tag them from several different tabs; Shared items, Notes, People you follow and from the bookmarklet ( the bookmarklet is at the top of each of the three pages in GR, just drag it to your bookmark bar ).
With the bookmarklet, the tag window is obvious, just type the tag in the small window at the bottom of the pop-up window ( you also have a box that is selected by default to 'share' the clipping that you've highlighted, if you deselect this option the clipping will still be published but only on the 'tagged' feed ). Click Post and the item will be published. But how do you access the feed? I'll get to that.
In the other three options ( Shared items, notes and People you follow ) the tag window is hidden, and can be viewed after you left click in the module where you type your note. As in the bookmarklet, you will be given an option to share, and 'Show Options'. Click on the latter. A small window will appear where you can type your tag ( I am creative with my tags, and try to be intuitive as the tags mirror my own thoughts and help me organize a very long list ).
Go ahead and tag a item ( from a news feed, or one your contacts have shared ). It really doesn't matter what article, or what tag you use as both can easily be deleted later.
Here is a rss feed from the tag 'tech tutor'. Notice; at the top of the page you will see the title of the feed,
"TECH TUTOR" VIA WALLACE REID
All of my feeds have the suffix, 'VIA WALLACE REID'. Yours will have your screen-name as a suffix. Here's how to find, and publish your feed;
- Look to the bottom of your side-bar in GR for 'manage subscriptions'.
- Click there, and a new page will open in GR ( Settings, but not settings for People you share with ).
- Click on the third tab from the left at the top of the page; 'Folders and Tags'.
- Your page should display a list starting with starred and shared items. Tagged feeds are listed alphabetically below those two.
- Find the tag you made, and click on the box directly to the left.
- Now look at the header of the page for a little window displaying 'change sharing'. Click on the arrow ...
- A drop-down window will allow you to choose between public and private.
- Click on public, and then un-tick the box next to your tag. Three tabs ( hyperlinks ) should appear directly to the right of your tag; View Public Page, Email a Link and Add a clip to your sight.
- Click on View Public Page. This should display the clipping on a plain Google page. The you can copy the url to share it with friends.
Technically, all feeds that you make public are 'shared'. But only those that you mark as 'shared' ( it's default in all four of the pages ) will be available for comment. However, all items that are commented on are available to be tagged.
If you chose to publish this email as a shared note, I would be able to comment on that note and tag it as 'Google Reader Development'
April 17, 2009
When he got going again, he finished the lawn in short order.
Learning How To Mow From An Expert
The sun was out for two days in a row, so we finally had a chance to get the lawn mowed. We've been looking for a riding mower for weeks now, but have had no luck. So, we hired an expert ( that's her, standing next to the young man on the mower ), that is to say we talked to a neighbor lady who had a son that needed to earn some money ( he mumbled something about a hat that he really wanted at Walmart when I asked him what he would spend the $15 on ).
Mom was a patient teacher, and was standing close by from beginning to end.
Things got a little tough, that is to say the lawn wasn't quite dry yet. So like a good Mother, she gave her son a 'little boost'. Sometimes there's no better lesson than a little applied energy.
When he got going again, he finished the lawn in short order.
The young man is eleven years old, but big for his age. In another year or so I'm sure he'll be hiring himself out to local farmers. By then, he'll have developed the skills, and the confidence to handle much larger equipment. But I think he'll always remember this day, when Mom had enough confidence in him, to allow him to take his first step into a 'Man's World of Great Big Toys'....
April 13, 2009
A Story by Melissa
A Mother’s Reprieve
Lois heard the slam of the screen door as she finished up the breakfast dishes. She smiled to herself as she pictured Curt taking the steps two at a time and crossing the yard to his pick-up truck with his long, sure stride. He was getting an early start on another busy day. She probably wouldn’t see him again till well after midnight when she returned from work, but is sure was nice knowing that he would be there when she got home.
He hadn’t said much over breakfast. A quiet “yeah” when offered a third helping and a grunt instead of a “thank you” as she tipped the over-easy eggs onto his plate from the heavy cast iron skillet. She was getting used to his quiet signals, a rattle on the Formica-topped table for a refill of coffee and leaning back with a long sigh when done with his plate. She knew that any attempts at conversation would be met with brief answers; an “uh-huh” or a quick “nah” served more often than not.
That was fine, Lois told herself. Becoming adjusted to his ways had been easy. If "still waters ran deep" Curt must be the Mississippi River. His quiet manner may seem cold to some, but he was a welcome relief after what she had gone through with her first husband. Curt was a good man, and fine to look at too. He stood so tall and straight. She could look into the crystal blueness of his eyes all day long, those heavy lidded bedroom eyes that made her promises to be kept well into the night.
After the breakfast dishes had been cleared, Curt reached for a match and pushed back a bit from the table, crossed his ankle over his knee, then lit a Pall Mall. He picked up the folded paper from at his elbow and began circling a few of the listings under the column labeled Acreage for Sale, using an old pencil stub taken from the slot in his breast pocket. He exhaled slowly. Smoke curled up and across the table toward the open window.
“I’m headin’ over to Oakdale today, Lois.” He said. “Won’t be back till late evening, so don’t leave supper for me. Virgil Helbig’s got some property on the township road he’s wantin’ to show me. Then, I gotta run to the courthouse in Nashville, up there. So don’t be botherin’ with all that. Okay?”
“Oakdale? Up by your brother’s place?” She wiped at the table in front of him with a cloth from the sink.
“Yeah, about seven miles from there, north of town. Eighty acres. Helbig says
there's a small two-story and two big barns. Gonna go have a look, then check out these here, one place off 127, and, uh...this one sounds like it's past Ma Thompson's place, not too far." He put out his cigarette in the glass ashtray next to the matches.
Curt stood and checked his pocket watch. He stacked the paper on the far end of the table, on top of several letters from Lois' family back in Alabama, and this week's flyer from the Five and Dime. He looked up through the doorway toward the front door, obviously wanting to get started and on his way.
"Well, I guess I'll be headin' out." putting his watch away. Then, checking for his cigarettes, wallet, and keys to the truck, he turned to leave.
That was Curt. No "Have a nice day." or kiss on the cheek, just turn and walk on out. Lois reminded herself that it was the way it should be -- none of that movie stuff in this here house. She had given up those notions years ago, with her first husband. Percy had smacked them right out of her. But she wasn't going to even think in that direction now. That was over and done with.
Lois could still feel the sense of amazement she felt when she married him three years before. Very few men in their early thirties would be willing to take on a divorcee that was closer to forty than she liked to think about, one that had a grown son, besides. She considered herself damn lucky, despite all she had to offer. She had a good job, working the evening shift at the dress factory over in Sparta and she owned a fine house, free and clear, right on Route 157, Main Street in town. She kept herself well, had her hair done regularly, and wore tidy, belted shirt-dresses, crisply pressed. Lois made the most of her solid build and a plain coloring.
Once Curt found the right property they were going to move out to the country and start their own farm. They were going to use the veteran's benefits he had earned fighting in the sands of North Africa and the ruins of Southern Italy during the Second World War. Curt and her would settle down right and good. A person couldn't ask for better. Not at all like that other one, out drinking and whorin' around all night, and sleeping the next day through, missing his shift at the mine.
Best not to think about him, she decided. She had a good man. And her son, Wallace, was doing fine, despite the hell his daddy had raised when he'd found out about her getting the house and full custody. Heaven knows what he'd of done with them. Probably sold the property to drink up, she supposed, and raised Wallace like he had been raised, wild and no good for nothing. Percy had gone back to Alabama to live off his half-breed momma. She could have him and good riddance.
Lois used a bleached out dishcloth made from a flour sack to pick the teakettle up off the stove. She reheated the dishwater then emptied the rest of the scalding water into the enamel rinse pan sitting on the counter top. After refilling the kettle from the pump, she set it back onto the stove.
Wallace hadn't taken too well to Curt, at first. She guessed he didn't think his mother needed to be remarrying. He must have figured he was enough to fill the need for a man around the house. Her son had complained loudly about helping her out with the work and doing his chores, but he had always come through for her. They had been quite a team those years during and after the divorce, before she had met and married Curt. Sometimes she regretted that Wallace hadn't been able to accept him as his new father, but she hoped that at the two of them could grow to respect and maybe even to like each other a bit. Curt reassured Lois that it was the natural way of things for sons to move on and start a life of their own. He said that Wally was a man grown. She sure missed him, though, and all that racket he had raised. The house always seemed so quiet now. He is grown, she reassured herself, again. The U.S. Army certainly saw it that way. They considered him as grown enough to serve and fight for his country half way around the world.
Wallace had up and joined the Army at seventeen years old. She reluctantly signed for him, trying to understand his feelings that maybe three was a bit of a crowd. He got shipped out to Korea right after basic training. She got brief letters once in a while, complaining about the food and the bitter cold. He said he sure missed her fried okra and garden fresh tomatoes. He told her not to worry, even after her had completed his first tour of duty and wasn't sent home. They were going to keep him over there for another year, to earn a second Oak Leaf. He said that he'd be back home soon, God willing, and no North Koreans or Chinamen got in a lucky shot. How like a man, Lois thought, to tell you not to worry, then tell you about being shot at.
After the dishes were done, dried, and stacked neatly on their shelves, Lois pulled her apron up over her carefully arranged hair, and hung it by the back door. Better get busy. There was a lot to do before heading to work. Those beans she had picked yesterday needed to be snapped, blanched, and put into jars. The whole mess of them should make about six jars at least. First, better go fetch those cucumbers from the garden before the heat of the day set in.
Lois was bent over in the cucumber patch filling a tin wash tub. She had been in the garden long enough to have the pan filled and had laid out several dozen tomatoes on the back porch to ripen in the sun, besides. She could feel the sweat run down her neck from under her battered straw hat. The faded cotton dress, worn for gardening, was pasted to her back. Her legs straddled the vines in a half-crouching position, the back hem of her dress pulled forward. She clenched it loosely in one tanned hand while sorting through prickly leaves one more time, not wanting to miss the smallest cucumber. Occasionally she swatted at a gnat from the swarms that flew around her.
In the monotony of her work, Lois found herself thinking about her son and his bright, noisy assistance with her mundane chores. Wallace was a good looking young man, with dark hair and coloring that, no doubt, came from his daddy’s side. He was built solidly and had always been large. He had grown straight and strong down in Alabama. He had been such a happy boy, she remembered, despite his father's carrying-ons.
Coming up north had definitely not been Wallace's choice. A young boy didn't understand you had to go where the work was. Her brother had said that he could get Percy a job at the Peabody Coal Company, where he worked. She was desperate and futilely hoped that Percy would turn over a new leaf, make a new beginning. Lois had been eager to transplant her family. Up here though, Wallace had felt like an outsider. His dark, foreign-looking hair and eyes set him apart in the predominantly German community. Word had spread quickly about Lois’ black eyes and bruises and the pitying looks had only made it worse for her son. Lois knew the talk that had gone on and so did Wallace. He had felt the brunt of the gossip before and after the divorce.
"This mess ought to do it," she mumbled to no one in particular, bringing herself back to what she was doing. Finished, she set the pan in a bare spot, rose up, and released her dress to cover her legs. It almost reached the cotton stockings she had rolled down to her worn out gardening shoes. She groaned as she stretched with hands braced on her hips and elbows jutting out, straightening out her lower spine and her aching legs.
Across the yard she saw her neighbor's house. It was a wooden, clapboard structure like her own. Both houses had wide front porches and Lois' also had a large porch out back. Her neighbor's had a set of steps angling sideways from the back door.
That rear screen door opened and a large middle-aged woman in a housedress and battered slippers came out, turning to walk down the steps. The door banged shut behind her. She had a letter clasped in her hand and she waved it at Lois.
"Hey, Lois, look here, I got a letter from Bill Junior, dated the seventeenth of last month. Took nigh on a month to get here, but here ‘tis." Barb Porter's son was also in the service, stationed just outside of Seoul. He and Wallace had been friends of a sort, until Wallace had up and quit school and left the boys of his own age behind. Bill Junior had stayed on to graduate, getting through by the skin of his teeth. Though Wallace had been a good student, he said he had enough of all that. He said he had learned all he needed to know to get a job. Lois knew he hadn't wanted to quit though. He had liked school, but quit to help out his mother.
Barb made her way through her dried, overgrown backyard. Her steps were awkward and painful from the corns and bunions she suffered from and doctored daily, to no avail. She approached the edge of the garden nearest to Lois' tub of cucumbers.
"Looks like you're about done, Lois. D'ya need some help carrying these here up to the house? What're out in the noon day sun for, anyways?" She shoved the letter into one of the pair of large pockets on the front of her dress. Bending over quickly, she picked up the tub of heavy cucumbers as if it were empty. "You come on inside, we'll warsh these up, and I'll tell you about my boy. Did I tell you? He's comin' home."
Barb spoke in a loud, forceful voice. Her sentences came rushing together. She neither waited for, not expected a response.
Lois smiled, and allowed the other woman to lead her to her own back door.
"I've got to be getting ready to go to work in an hour or two, but you come on in, Barb. We'll have some lemonade. How's that?"
"Lemonade? Sounds just great. You got enough ice in that new icebox of yours for us? It's hot as hell out here." Barb pushed the letter back into the pocket of her house dress.
Lois had known Barb long enough not to be offended by her brisk, take-charge attitude. Lemonade did sound nice. She was glad for the small luxury of her new Crosby Shelvador ice box that Curt had splurged on and bought her. Lois knew though, that if she wasn't careful, her neighbor would stay visiting all afternoon and she wouldn't get those beans snapped or anything much done at all.
Barb was a widow. Her husband had been killed in a cave-in at the Zeiglar mine about five or six years before. She didn't work outside of the home, or much in it, for that matter, from what Lois could tell. She had raised her son and his sisters, Marge and Marylou with the pension check. All in all, she supposed Barb was doing pretty good, but was missing her son something fierce. She had told Lois that when Bill Junior came home he was going to fix the cracked and pealing paint on the house and that Bill Junior had always kept the yard all clipped and the chickweed in control. Lois smiled to herself. Yeah, sure, if that was the way Barb remembered it.
Barb, with the pan of cucumbers resting on one ample hip, minced her way ahead of Lois. As they approached the early afternoon shade at the back of the house she chattered on. "Now, mind you, Bill Junior will be gettin' me one of those nice new ice boxes, too, soon as he gets discharged and gets a job. His uncle says he's needed help all year 'round on his..."
She stopped in mid-sentence. Lois had only been minding her with half an ear, thinking of her tight schedule this afternoon and almost collided into the broad expanse of Barb's back, stopped in the path in front of her.
"What?" Lois looked to where Barb was staring between the houses at a young man on a bicycle slowly pulling up to Lois' front porch. Both women looked at each other and then back at the man.
He was not much more than a boy. With a closer look they recognized him as Danny Spinney, one of Lou Spinney's boys. His bright red hair and freckles, just like his dad's, shone bright in the sun from up under his cap in clashing contrast to the blue of his Post Office uniform.
The U.S. Post Office. The U. S. Army. The Department of Defense. Both women knew what his presence at Lois' front porch meant.
Barb set the pan of cucumbers down next to her in the grass. She reached out one hand and laid it on Lois' arm.
"Lois..." She didn't finish, suddenly at a loss for words.
The Spinney boy looked up at them, as he leaned his bicycle onto the side of the front porch almost into an azalea bush. He turned toward them, tugging at the bottom of his uniform shirt, and wiped his palms down the side of his trousers. The bike fell on the bush behind him.
"Good afta'noon." He stood as tall as he could, properly, for official government business. "Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Bradford, I mean...Mrs. Hoglan..." He stumbled over Lois' new married name. As he tried to quickly recover, he rummaged with gangly hands and wrists into his front shirt pocket. Lois absently noticed the way his freckles stood out against the back of his hand as he pulled out the yellow envelope.
The women stood with empty hands hanging uselessly at their sides. Neither said a word as he continued doggedly on through the brief routine that he had rarely had to actually perform in such a small town.
"I'm here on official business for the U-nited States of A-murica. Mrs. Hoglan, I have a telegram to deliver to you, from the Department of Defense." With his short speech completed, Lois watched him raise the telegram with his long arm outstretched in their direction, to where they stood silently in front of him. Neither woman showed any sign of responding or receiving it. Barb raised her hand to her mouth.
They stood and watched him make two steps, then two more toward them. Lois finally took the small paper from his hand as if it would scorch her fingers. It had been roughly bent to fit into his pocket. She looked up at Lou Spinney's freckled boy as if surprised that it didn't actually burn her.
Lois watched Danny look from her to Barb, then back at herself. He cleared his throat, and in his very best grown-up voice said, "I'm so sorry, Ma'am." He cleared his throat again, then suddenly reached up and removed his cap, part of the routine overlooked. He held it clenched tightly against his heart. Lois thought he looked like he was pledging his allegiance, right there on Main Street. He looked as if he couldn't think of anything else to say, so he turned in a quick about-face, tripped slightly from the unaccustomed length of his legs, and hurried back to his bicycle. He looked back up at them as they watched him pick it up out of the bush. Grimacing, he turned it around toward the Post Office down Main Street. He mumbled "I'm so sorry, ma'am." again.
. "Lois..." Barb broke into the silence growing between them. Then again, more firmly, "Lois. Let's get you back into the house. Come on." She impatiently brushed a tear from the side of her wide face with the back of her arm and, as if to disguise her motion, bent to pick up the forgotten cucumbers. With the tin basin perched against one hip, she led her friend, still unresponsive, to the steps. They entered into the relative coolness of the screened-in porch and passed through to the kitchen. The heavy smell of bacon and coffee still hung in the air. Barb hastily set the pan of cucumbers on the sideboard shelf, and then hurried back to Lois to seat her in one of the four chairs pushed in around the table.
Lois held the offensive envelope in front of her. It was unsealed. "Wallace..." She started, but stopped. "My boy..."
Barb came around beside Lois. She reached up and slowly took the telegram from Lois' hand. Opening the small letter, she pressed it flat in front of them and leaned on the table. Lois offered no resistance, so she took a deep breath and started to read it aloud.
"Dear Mrs. Bradford," it started, "We regretfully inform you that your son, Corporal Wallace R. Bradford is missing in action and is presumed to be dead." Barb stopped, and looked up at Lois, who watched her with unblinking eyes. Lois had raised her elbows onto the table, and was covering her ears, as if to block the words.
Barb raised herself to her full height. She pushed the piece of paper away and silently watched Lois for a few moments.
"We need that lemonade." She busied herself with searching out the glass pitcher and trays of ice, then located two large drinking glasses. Lois sat slumped in the chair, watching Barb. She started to rock forward and back.
Oh my God." She said. Barb set the cool drink in front of her. "Oh my God."
"Lois, you drink this. Now, come on." Gently pulling Lois’ hands down.
"Look here, you drink this lemonade. Do you hear me?" She placed the glass in Lois' hand and nudged it toward her mouth. Lois obediently took several swallows. Its coolness was harsh.
"Curt... Where's Curt?" She sat up in her chair.
"Where is Curt, Lois? Maybe we ought'a call him."
Lois set the glass on the tabletop. "He's out looking at some property. Won't be back 'till this evening." She tried to stand. "Work. I have to get ready for work. I'm not supposed to leave anything out for supper 'cause he won't be back till late. I gotta get ready for work."
"Now you just sit yourself down. You hear me? I know how you are, Lois, but you are not going to work today, you hear? You and I are going to sit right down and drink our lemonade. When your husband gets home he can help you take care of things, but until then...we have cucumbers to warsh." She added the last bit in a hurry.
Lois looked around at the clock over the kitchen curtains. "Curt may be at his bother, Douglas’ house, for lunch. I want to call Curt."
Barb looked relieved. "Good. We'll call his brother's place and try to catch him there. Mean-whiles, I'll stay here with you. You'd most certainly do the same for me." She walked over to the phone mounted on the wall next to the door to the hallway. "Now, what's that number, over there?"
* * * * * * * *
Curt was frying the side pork the following morning. His sister-in-law had called him to the telephone from out her back door as he got into his pick-up truck, the day before. He spoke on the phone to Barb briefly. She only told him that Lois had received a telegram. Her briefness told him more than anything else did. He had caught Virgil Helbig, the realtor, on the phone just as he got back to his office from lunch. Curt told him he'd reschedule, and headed home.
He didn't know exactly what he had expected as he came into the house -- two women in tears, maybe -- but what he didn't expect was the two of them sitting quietly at the table, snapping beans. The sink was full of washed cucumbers; draining and two rinsed out glasses had been set on the countertop next to them.
The night before, as she lay next to him in their bed, she had stiffened and turned away when he laid his hand on her shoulder. He had wanted to hold her, but he let his hand fall to he cool sheets between them. They had lain awake in the darkness, separately, for a long time.
Lois hadn't objected when Curt started breakfast. Her short brown curls were uncombed and she hadn't washed or dressed yet. She sat at the table in her light summer robe with slippers on her feet. She took sips of coffee at regular intervals. He noticed the rhythm of her movements in the quiet of the morning. Sip, tilt the cup forward, set it in the saucer, look at Curt, and reach for the cup again. He had expected her to cry, but other than the tight lines between her eyes, he could see nothing readable in her expression. Maybe anger, by why would she be angry? It was confusing. He wanted to say something, but nothing seemed right, so he turned the bacon and cracked the eggs, one at a time into a saucer, then slipped them into the skillet to fry.
He refilled her cup, then his own, and set the plates on the table. "Lois, we have to call Oscar and Blanche, and your family in Jasper. Do you want me to do it? I can take care of it, if you want."
"Yes, we have to call..." There was a loud knock at the front door. They looked at each other. Nobody knocked in Coulterville, just stuck their head in and hollered out if anybody was home. Surely visitors weren't making their obligatory calls this early, even if word had already spread around town.
Curt pushed back from the table. "Now, who could that be this early?" Lois sighed, but got up with him, following close behind as he walked down the short hall to the door. He opened it to find Danny Spinney standing with the screen door ajar, hat in hand.
"Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Hoglan..." The young man spun his hat around in his hands. He cleared his throat to start again, this time addressing Lois directly. "Mrs. Hoglan, there's another telegram for you." His words came out quickly. "It came in first thing this morning. I'm supposed to deliver it to you immediately." He had no short speech to rely on, this time. While trying to maintain hold on to his hat, Danny reached into his right breast pocket and struggled to remove the yellow envelope. He tried to leave another identical one still in it. Curt and Lois watched as his knobby fingers became tangled and one of the telegrams fell to the gray painted floor of the porch.
"Pardon me. Sorry, ma'am..." The screen door pulled against his back. He knelt to pick up the paper. Tucking the hat under his arm, he rose and unfolded it, glanced at it quickly and held it out to Lois. Jus as the day before, she made no move to take it from his grasp.
Curt reached across her and took the telegram from Danny. He turned the envelope, opened it to read, first meeting Lois' eye. She nodded, giving silent consent.
He read to himself for several seconds.
"What's it say, Curt?" She asked him,
Danny, still standing in the doorway, smoothed his red hair flat and set his cap snugly on his head. "Well, I guess I'll be goin' now. Mornin', Mr. Hoglan." He dipped his chin at Curt, "Mornin', Ma'am." and nodded toward Lois. He turned toward the front steps, remembering to not let the door slam.
Curt looked up from the telegram. "Say hi to Lou and you ma, Danny. Ya hear?"
Danny grinned, relieved of his duty for a moment. "Sure thing, Mr. Hoglan." He took the steps in pairs of twos.
Curt finished reading the telegram. Lois looked at him expectantly. He reached out and drew her into his arms. She held herself rigidly against him.
"It's all right, Lois. He's alive. Wallace is alive." He said.
She inhaled sharply and looked up at him, as if afraid to interrupt. She waited for him to go on.
"Them damn fools made a mistake. Two boys from Coulterville. A mix up. It's not Wally."
She released the breath she had been holding. Her head fell to his shoulder. He felt the stiffness leave her body as it sagged into his. "Oh, my Wallace, my boy..." He rocked her slightly as they stood in the open doorway. Sobs began to shake her small body. "A mistake." She repeated after him.
She pulled away and looked up at him with tired, reddened eyes. "But, if Wallace is alive..." She pushed the screen door ajar and looked out to where Danny had parked his bicycle. It was gone. She quickly looked over to Barb Porter's house.
The postal delivery boy had leaned his bike against the steps leading up to Barb's house. He was standing at the door, hat in hand.
Lois heard the slam of the screen door as she finished up the breakfast dishes. She smiled to herself as she pictured Curt taking the steps two at a time and crossing the yard to his pick-up truck with his long, sure stride. He was getting an early start on another busy day. She probably wouldn’t see him again till well after midnight when she returned from work, but is sure was nice knowing that he would be there when she got home.
He hadn’t said much over breakfast. A quiet “yeah” when offered a third helping and a grunt instead of a “thank you” as she tipped the over-easy eggs onto his plate from the heavy cast iron skillet. She was getting used to his quiet signals, a rattle on the Formica-topped table for a refill of coffee and leaning back with a long sigh when done with his plate. She knew that any attempts at conversation would be met with brief answers; an “uh-huh” or a quick “nah” served more often than not.
That was fine, Lois told herself. Becoming adjusted to his ways had been easy. If "still waters ran deep" Curt must be the Mississippi River. His quiet manner may seem cold to some, but he was a welcome relief after what she had gone through with her first husband. Curt was a good man, and fine to look at too. He stood so tall and straight. She could look into the crystal blueness of his eyes all day long, those heavy lidded bedroom eyes that made her promises to be kept well into the night.
After the breakfast dishes had been cleared, Curt reached for a match and pushed back a bit from the table, crossed his ankle over his knee, then lit a Pall Mall. He picked up the folded paper from at his elbow and began circling a few of the listings under the column labeled Acreage for Sale, using an old pencil stub taken from the slot in his breast pocket. He exhaled slowly. Smoke curled up and across the table toward the open window.
“I’m headin’ over to Oakdale today, Lois.” He said. “Won’t be back till late evening, so don’t leave supper for me. Virgil Helbig’s got some property on the township road he’s wantin’ to show me. Then, I gotta run to the courthouse in Nashville, up there. So don’t be botherin’ with all that. Okay?”
“Oakdale? Up by your brother’s place?” She wiped at the table in front of him with a cloth from the sink.
“Yeah, about seven miles from there, north of town. Eighty acres. Helbig says
there's a small two-story and two big barns. Gonna go have a look, then check out these here, one place off 127, and, uh...this one sounds like it's past Ma Thompson's place, not too far." He put out his cigarette in the glass ashtray next to the matches.
Curt stood and checked his pocket watch. He stacked the paper on the far end of the table, on top of several letters from Lois' family back in Alabama, and this week's flyer from the Five and Dime. He looked up through the doorway toward the front door, obviously wanting to get started and on his way.
"Well, I guess I'll be headin' out." putting his watch away. Then, checking for his cigarettes, wallet, and keys to the truck, he turned to leave.
That was Curt. No "Have a nice day." or kiss on the cheek, just turn and walk on out. Lois reminded herself that it was the way it should be -- none of that movie stuff in this here house. She had given up those notions years ago, with her first husband. Percy had smacked them right out of her. But she wasn't going to even think in that direction now. That was over and done with.
Lois could still feel the sense of amazement she felt when she married him three years before. Very few men in their early thirties would be willing to take on a divorcee that was closer to forty than she liked to think about, one that had a grown son, besides. She considered herself damn lucky, despite all she had to offer. She had a good job, working the evening shift at the dress factory over in Sparta and she owned a fine house, free and clear, right on Route 157, Main Street in town. She kept herself well, had her hair done regularly, and wore tidy, belted shirt-dresses, crisply pressed. Lois made the most of her solid build and a plain coloring.
Once Curt found the right property they were going to move out to the country and start their own farm. They were going to use the veteran's benefits he had earned fighting in the sands of North Africa and the ruins of Southern Italy during the Second World War. Curt and her would settle down right and good. A person couldn't ask for better. Not at all like that other one, out drinking and whorin' around all night, and sleeping the next day through, missing his shift at the mine.
Best not to think about him, she decided. She had a good man. And her son, Wallace, was doing fine, despite the hell his daddy had raised when he'd found out about her getting the house and full custody. Heaven knows what he'd of done with them. Probably sold the property to drink up, she supposed, and raised Wallace like he had been raised, wild and no good for nothing. Percy had gone back to Alabama to live off his half-breed momma. She could have him and good riddance.
Lois used a bleached out dishcloth made from a flour sack to pick the teakettle up off the stove. She reheated the dishwater then emptied the rest of the scalding water into the enamel rinse pan sitting on the counter top. After refilling the kettle from the pump, she set it back onto the stove.
Wallace hadn't taken too well to Curt, at first. She guessed he didn't think his mother needed to be remarrying. He must have figured he was enough to fill the need for a man around the house. Her son had complained loudly about helping her out with the work and doing his chores, but he had always come through for her. They had been quite a team those years during and after the divorce, before she had met and married Curt. Sometimes she regretted that Wallace hadn't been able to accept him as his new father, but she hoped that at the two of them could grow to respect and maybe even to like each other a bit. Curt reassured Lois that it was the natural way of things for sons to move on and start a life of their own. He said that Wally was a man grown. She sure missed him, though, and all that racket he had raised. The house always seemed so quiet now. He is grown, she reassured herself, again. The U.S. Army certainly saw it that way. They considered him as grown enough to serve and fight for his country half way around the world.
Wallace had up and joined the Army at seventeen years old. She reluctantly signed for him, trying to understand his feelings that maybe three was a bit of a crowd. He got shipped out to Korea right after basic training. She got brief letters once in a while, complaining about the food and the bitter cold. He said he sure missed her fried okra and garden fresh tomatoes. He told her not to worry, even after her had completed his first tour of duty and wasn't sent home. They were going to keep him over there for another year, to earn a second Oak Leaf. He said that he'd be back home soon, God willing, and no North Koreans or Chinamen got in a lucky shot. How like a man, Lois thought, to tell you not to worry, then tell you about being shot at.
After the dishes were done, dried, and stacked neatly on their shelves, Lois pulled her apron up over her carefully arranged hair, and hung it by the back door. Better get busy. There was a lot to do before heading to work. Those beans she had picked yesterday needed to be snapped, blanched, and put into jars. The whole mess of them should make about six jars at least. First, better go fetch those cucumbers from the garden before the heat of the day set in.
Lois was bent over in the cucumber patch filling a tin wash tub. She had been in the garden long enough to have the pan filled and had laid out several dozen tomatoes on the back porch to ripen in the sun, besides. She could feel the sweat run down her neck from under her battered straw hat. The faded cotton dress, worn for gardening, was pasted to her back. Her legs straddled the vines in a half-crouching position, the back hem of her dress pulled forward. She clenched it loosely in one tanned hand while sorting through prickly leaves one more time, not wanting to miss the smallest cucumber. Occasionally she swatted at a gnat from the swarms that flew around her.
In the monotony of her work, Lois found herself thinking about her son and his bright, noisy assistance with her mundane chores. Wallace was a good looking young man, with dark hair and coloring that, no doubt, came from his daddy’s side. He was built solidly and had always been large. He had grown straight and strong down in Alabama. He had been such a happy boy, she remembered, despite his father's carrying-ons.
Coming up north had definitely not been Wallace's choice. A young boy didn't understand you had to go where the work was. Her brother had said that he could get Percy a job at the Peabody Coal Company, where he worked. She was desperate and futilely hoped that Percy would turn over a new leaf, make a new beginning. Lois had been eager to transplant her family. Up here though, Wallace had felt like an outsider. His dark, foreign-looking hair and eyes set him apart in the predominantly German community. Word had spread quickly about Lois’ black eyes and bruises and the pitying looks had only made it worse for her son. Lois knew the talk that had gone on and so did Wallace. He had felt the brunt of the gossip before and after the divorce.
"This mess ought to do it," she mumbled to no one in particular, bringing herself back to what she was doing. Finished, she set the pan in a bare spot, rose up, and released her dress to cover her legs. It almost reached the cotton stockings she had rolled down to her worn out gardening shoes. She groaned as she stretched with hands braced on her hips and elbows jutting out, straightening out her lower spine and her aching legs.
Across the yard she saw her neighbor's house. It was a wooden, clapboard structure like her own. Both houses had wide front porches and Lois' also had a large porch out back. Her neighbor's had a set of steps angling sideways from the back door.
That rear screen door opened and a large middle-aged woman in a housedress and battered slippers came out, turning to walk down the steps. The door banged shut behind her. She had a letter clasped in her hand and she waved it at Lois.
"Hey, Lois, look here, I got a letter from Bill Junior, dated the seventeenth of last month. Took nigh on a month to get here, but here ‘tis." Barb Porter's son was also in the service, stationed just outside of Seoul. He and Wallace had been friends of a sort, until Wallace had up and quit school and left the boys of his own age behind. Bill Junior had stayed on to graduate, getting through by the skin of his teeth. Though Wallace had been a good student, he said he had enough of all that. He said he had learned all he needed to know to get a job. Lois knew he hadn't wanted to quit though. He had liked school, but quit to help out his mother.
Barb made her way through her dried, overgrown backyard. Her steps were awkward and painful from the corns and bunions she suffered from and doctored daily, to no avail. She approached the edge of the garden nearest to Lois' tub of cucumbers.
"Looks like you're about done, Lois. D'ya need some help carrying these here up to the house? What're out in the noon day sun for, anyways?" She shoved the letter into one of the pair of large pockets on the front of her dress. Bending over quickly, she picked up the tub of heavy cucumbers as if it were empty. "You come on inside, we'll warsh these up, and I'll tell you about my boy. Did I tell you? He's comin' home."
Barb spoke in a loud, forceful voice. Her sentences came rushing together. She neither waited for, not expected a response.
Lois smiled, and allowed the other woman to lead her to her own back door.
"I've got to be getting ready to go to work in an hour or two, but you come on in, Barb. We'll have some lemonade. How's that?"
"Lemonade? Sounds just great. You got enough ice in that new icebox of yours for us? It's hot as hell out here." Barb pushed the letter back into the pocket of her house dress.
Lois had known Barb long enough not to be offended by her brisk, take-charge attitude. Lemonade did sound nice. She was glad for the small luxury of her new Crosby Shelvador ice box that Curt had splurged on and bought her. Lois knew though, that if she wasn't careful, her neighbor would stay visiting all afternoon and she wouldn't get those beans snapped or anything much done at all.
Barb was a widow. Her husband had been killed in a cave-in at the Zeiglar mine about five or six years before. She didn't work outside of the home, or much in it, for that matter, from what Lois could tell. She had raised her son and his sisters, Marge and Marylou with the pension check. All in all, she supposed Barb was doing pretty good, but was missing her son something fierce. She had told Lois that when Bill Junior came home he was going to fix the cracked and pealing paint on the house and that Bill Junior had always kept the yard all clipped and the chickweed in control. Lois smiled to herself. Yeah, sure, if that was the way Barb remembered it.
Barb, with the pan of cucumbers resting on one ample hip, minced her way ahead of Lois. As they approached the early afternoon shade at the back of the house she chattered on. "Now, mind you, Bill Junior will be gettin' me one of those nice new ice boxes, too, soon as he gets discharged and gets a job. His uncle says he's needed help all year 'round on his..."
She stopped in mid-sentence. Lois had only been minding her with half an ear, thinking of her tight schedule this afternoon and almost collided into the broad expanse of Barb's back, stopped in the path in front of her.
"What?" Lois looked to where Barb was staring between the houses at a young man on a bicycle slowly pulling up to Lois' front porch. Both women looked at each other and then back at the man.
He was not much more than a boy. With a closer look they recognized him as Danny Spinney, one of Lou Spinney's boys. His bright red hair and freckles, just like his dad's, shone bright in the sun from up under his cap in clashing contrast to the blue of his Post Office uniform.
The U.S. Post Office. The U. S. Army. The Department of Defense. Both women knew what his presence at Lois' front porch meant.
Barb set the pan of cucumbers down next to her in the grass. She reached out one hand and laid it on Lois' arm.
"Lois..." She didn't finish, suddenly at a loss for words.
The Spinney boy looked up at them, as he leaned his bicycle onto the side of the front porch almost into an azalea bush. He turned toward them, tugging at the bottom of his uniform shirt, and wiped his palms down the side of his trousers. The bike fell on the bush behind him.
"Good afta'noon." He stood as tall as he could, properly, for official government business. "Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Bradford, I mean...Mrs. Hoglan..." He stumbled over Lois' new married name. As he tried to quickly recover, he rummaged with gangly hands and wrists into his front shirt pocket. Lois absently noticed the way his freckles stood out against the back of his hand as he pulled out the yellow envelope.
The women stood with empty hands hanging uselessly at their sides. Neither said a word as he continued doggedly on through the brief routine that he had rarely had to actually perform in such a small town.
"I'm here on official business for the U-nited States of A-murica. Mrs. Hoglan, I have a telegram to deliver to you, from the Department of Defense." With his short speech completed, Lois watched him raise the telegram with his long arm outstretched in their direction, to where they stood silently in front of him. Neither woman showed any sign of responding or receiving it. Barb raised her hand to her mouth.
They stood and watched him make two steps, then two more toward them. Lois finally took the small paper from his hand as if it would scorch her fingers. It had been roughly bent to fit into his pocket. She looked up at Lou Spinney's freckled boy as if surprised that it didn't actually burn her.
Lois watched Danny look from her to Barb, then back at herself. He cleared his throat, and in his very best grown-up voice said, "I'm so sorry, Ma'am." He cleared his throat again, then suddenly reached up and removed his cap, part of the routine overlooked. He held it clenched tightly against his heart. Lois thought he looked like he was pledging his allegiance, right there on Main Street. He looked as if he couldn't think of anything else to say, so he turned in a quick about-face, tripped slightly from the unaccustomed length of his legs, and hurried back to his bicycle. He looked back up at them as they watched him pick it up out of the bush. Grimacing, he turned it around toward the Post Office down Main Street. He mumbled "I'm so sorry, ma'am." again.
. "Lois..." Barb broke into the silence growing between them. Then again, more firmly, "Lois. Let's get you back into the house. Come on." She impatiently brushed a tear from the side of her wide face with the back of her arm and, as if to disguise her motion, bent to pick up the forgotten cucumbers. With the tin basin perched against one hip, she led her friend, still unresponsive, to the steps. They entered into the relative coolness of the screened-in porch and passed through to the kitchen. The heavy smell of bacon and coffee still hung in the air. Barb hastily set the pan of cucumbers on the sideboard shelf, and then hurried back to Lois to seat her in one of the four chairs pushed in around the table.
Lois held the offensive envelope in front of her. It was unsealed. "Wallace..." She started, but stopped. "My boy..."
Barb came around beside Lois. She reached up and slowly took the telegram from Lois' hand. Opening the small letter, she pressed it flat in front of them and leaned on the table. Lois offered no resistance, so she took a deep breath and started to read it aloud.
"Dear Mrs. Bradford," it started, "We regretfully inform you that your son, Corporal Wallace R. Bradford is missing in action and is presumed to be dead." Barb stopped, and looked up at Lois, who watched her with unblinking eyes. Lois had raised her elbows onto the table, and was covering her ears, as if to block the words.
Barb raised herself to her full height. She pushed the piece of paper away and silently watched Lois for a few moments.
"We need that lemonade." She busied herself with searching out the glass pitcher and trays of ice, then located two large drinking glasses. Lois sat slumped in the chair, watching Barb. She started to rock forward and back.
Oh my God." She said. Barb set the cool drink in front of her. "Oh my God."
"Lois, you drink this. Now, come on." Gently pulling Lois’ hands down.
"Look here, you drink this lemonade. Do you hear me?" She placed the glass in Lois' hand and nudged it toward her mouth. Lois obediently took several swallows. Its coolness was harsh.
"Curt... Where's Curt?" She sat up in her chair.
"Where is Curt, Lois? Maybe we ought'a call him."
Lois set the glass on the tabletop. "He's out looking at some property. Won't be back 'till this evening." She tried to stand. "Work. I have to get ready for work. I'm not supposed to leave anything out for supper 'cause he won't be back till late. I gotta get ready for work."
"Now you just sit yourself down. You hear me? I know how you are, Lois, but you are not going to work today, you hear? You and I are going to sit right down and drink our lemonade. When your husband gets home he can help you take care of things, but until then...we have cucumbers to warsh." She added the last bit in a hurry.
Lois looked around at the clock over the kitchen curtains. "Curt may be at his bother, Douglas’ house, for lunch. I want to call Curt."
Barb looked relieved. "Good. We'll call his brother's place and try to catch him there. Mean-whiles, I'll stay here with you. You'd most certainly do the same for me." She walked over to the phone mounted on the wall next to the door to the hallway. "Now, what's that number, over there?"
* * * * * * * *
Curt was frying the side pork the following morning. His sister-in-law had called him to the telephone from out her back door as he got into his pick-up truck, the day before. He spoke on the phone to Barb briefly. She only told him that Lois had received a telegram. Her briefness told him more than anything else did. He had caught Virgil Helbig, the realtor, on the phone just as he got back to his office from lunch. Curt told him he'd reschedule, and headed home.
He didn't know exactly what he had expected as he came into the house -- two women in tears, maybe -- but what he didn't expect was the two of them sitting quietly at the table, snapping beans. The sink was full of washed cucumbers; draining and two rinsed out glasses had been set on the countertop next to them.
The night before, as she lay next to him in their bed, she had stiffened and turned away when he laid his hand on her shoulder. He had wanted to hold her, but he let his hand fall to he cool sheets between them. They had lain awake in the darkness, separately, for a long time.
Lois hadn't objected when Curt started breakfast. Her short brown curls were uncombed and she hadn't washed or dressed yet. She sat at the table in her light summer robe with slippers on her feet. She took sips of coffee at regular intervals. He noticed the rhythm of her movements in the quiet of the morning. Sip, tilt the cup forward, set it in the saucer, look at Curt, and reach for the cup again. He had expected her to cry, but other than the tight lines between her eyes, he could see nothing readable in her expression. Maybe anger, by why would she be angry? It was confusing. He wanted to say something, but nothing seemed right, so he turned the bacon and cracked the eggs, one at a time into a saucer, then slipped them into the skillet to fry.
He refilled her cup, then his own, and set the plates on the table. "Lois, we have to call Oscar and Blanche, and your family in Jasper. Do you want me to do it? I can take care of it, if you want."
"Yes, we have to call..." There was a loud knock at the front door. They looked at each other. Nobody knocked in Coulterville, just stuck their head in and hollered out if anybody was home. Surely visitors weren't making their obligatory calls this early, even if word had already spread around town.
Curt pushed back from the table. "Now, who could that be this early?" Lois sighed, but got up with him, following close behind as he walked down the short hall to the door. He opened it to find Danny Spinney standing with the screen door ajar, hat in hand.
"Uh, Mr. and Mrs. Hoglan..." The young man spun his hat around in his hands. He cleared his throat to start again, this time addressing Lois directly. "Mrs. Hoglan, there's another telegram for you." His words came out quickly. "It came in first thing this morning. I'm supposed to deliver it to you immediately." He had no short speech to rely on, this time. While trying to maintain hold on to his hat, Danny reached into his right breast pocket and struggled to remove the yellow envelope. He tried to leave another identical one still in it. Curt and Lois watched as his knobby fingers became tangled and one of the telegrams fell to the gray painted floor of the porch.
"Pardon me. Sorry, ma'am..." The screen door pulled against his back. He knelt to pick up the paper. Tucking the hat under his arm, he rose and unfolded it, glanced at it quickly and held it out to Lois. Jus as the day before, she made no move to take it from his grasp.
Curt reached across her and took the telegram from Danny. He turned the envelope, opened it to read, first meeting Lois' eye. She nodded, giving silent consent.
He read to himself for several seconds.
"What's it say, Curt?" She asked him,
Danny, still standing in the doorway, smoothed his red hair flat and set his cap snugly on his head. "Well, I guess I'll be goin' now. Mornin', Mr. Hoglan." He dipped his chin at Curt, "Mornin', Ma'am." and nodded toward Lois. He turned toward the front steps, remembering to not let the door slam.
Curt looked up from the telegram. "Say hi to Lou and you ma, Danny. Ya hear?"
Danny grinned, relieved of his duty for a moment. "Sure thing, Mr. Hoglan." He took the steps in pairs of twos.
Curt finished reading the telegram. Lois looked at him expectantly. He reached out and drew her into his arms. She held herself rigidly against him.
"It's all right, Lois. He's alive. Wallace is alive." He said.
She inhaled sharply and looked up at him, as if afraid to interrupt. She waited for him to go on.
"Them damn fools made a mistake. Two boys from Coulterville. A mix up. It's not Wally."
She released the breath she had been holding. Her head fell to his shoulder. He felt the stiffness leave her body as it sagged into his. "Oh, my Wallace, my boy..." He rocked her slightly as they stood in the open doorway. Sobs began to shake her small body. "A mistake." She repeated after him.
She pulled away and looked up at him with tired, reddened eyes. "But, if Wallace is alive..." She pushed the screen door ajar and looked out to where Danny had parked his bicycle. It was gone. She quickly looked over to Barb Porter's house.
The postal delivery boy had leaned his bike against the steps leading up to Barb's house. He was standing at the door, hat in hand.
April 10, 2009
How does real change occur: P2P Theory vs. socialist theory
via P2P Foundation by Michel Bauwens on 4/9/09
Marxism, and other forms of socialism based on a ‘a priori’ political struggle to take power and achieve change ‘afterwards’, are in my opinion wrong in their understanding of how fundamental social change can be achieved.
I would summarize my interpretation of their key ideas as follows: capitalism creates a new class, which, due to its structural position as workers, can become aware of its interests, organize themselves politically, and achieve political power in order to take over the means of production. So the image is of one class, eventually with allies, to take over political and economic power, from another class that was previously dominant.
But is there any historical precedent for such a form of change. What I know of history does not square with such an interpretation.
Fundamental change is only achieved by a congruence of change, both from the bottom, and from the top, a double reconfiguration of classes to a new system.
For example, faced with an increasing crisis of extensive globalization, the Roman Empire could not longer afford the same kind of extensive militarization and coercive power which could maintain a slave-based system. Faced with structural crisis, and probably combined with a pressure from below in the form of slave revolts, some slave owners started their slaves into coloni, the earliest form of serfdom (a different process is also mentioned by historians, that of freeholders converting to serfdom). For slaves, this was undoubtedly an advance, as they could now have families, construct local communities, and only had to give part, instead of the totality, of their produce to the new domain lords. This new system, which created enhanced motivation, more autonomy and interest for innovation, was more productive than slavery. Hence a dynamic whereby former slave-holders could see the advantage of moving towards the new system of production. The main idea here is that, faced with a crisis of the old system, populations started experiment with alternative patterns in different fields, that those patterns started integrating with each other to the point of forming a viable alternative, and by the year 975, year of the “First European Revolution’ driven by the Church, coalesced into the new feudal system. The change could only occur because of the congruent interest of both serfs and domain holders, who both had advantage in changing, therefore conferring legitimacy to the birth of the new system.
The change from feudalism to capitalism occurred in a very similar fashion. When feudalism entered in crisis mode beginning in the 16th century, a series of changes had started occurring (some starting at least in the 12th century, such as the invention of modern accounting), creating new patters of social activity. Enlightened self-interest in parts of the ruling class (nobility and royalty), would have led an increasing number of them to invest and engage with the new capitalist practices, and coopt successful merchants as well. Thus, change started occurring because the congruent interest of both the new bourgeoisie, and parts of the nobility, creating ever more integration of new patterns, slowly forming a coherent alternative. Just as with the previous change from slavery to feudalism, it is only after a long period of maturation, that political revolutions such as the French or American Revolutions could occur, and that the previous meta-system could be replaced.
Socialist proposals cannot account for this. The owners of capital have zero interest in such a radical change of ownership, while the workers cannot point to any successful alternative patterns that could form the basis of a new society, instead having to opt for radical but unproven social experiments. In my view, this can account for 200 years of failure of the socialist movements to achieve successful transitions.
The key problem therefore was that it could not point to any other proven alternative that would be more productive, and elicit congruent change both from the top and from below.
However, peer production changes this equation. We now have a hyperproductive alternative based on peer production, peer governance and peer property, that is superior to the traditional practices of industrial, and even informational, capitalism. It is because of the hyperproductivity of open and free input, participatory production processes, and universally available output in the form of the commons, that, just as in the previous two meta transitions, sections of the former ruling class are changing into netarchical capitalists, and investing into new types of open business models, ‘enabling and empowering sharing’, or associating with commons-based peer production. So as the Google’s, eBay’s, YouTube’s and Flickr’s are morphing from the top, so are workers morphing into peer producers. Both are them are congruently engaging in new patterns, that are slowly learning from each other, integrating, and maturing into a wholly new way of conceiving of production and civilization. Political revolutions can only be the result of such maturation, and of the crisis of the previous system.
Peer to peer theory therefore, has a much more realistic chance of being correct, because the changes it is predicting, and the process it is advocating, is consistent with what we know about previous phase transitions.
All of the above of course does not mean that there is no role for the social and political struggles of social movements. What it means is that the peer to peer movement, as expression of the new successful patterns that will form the core of the new post-capitalist civilization, need to work on a policy platform, that can inspire the social movements to a set of demands that no longer signify the status quo, a return to no longer operable models of the welfare state, or destructive despair. It also signifies that while we work on the autonomy and social reproduction of sharing and commons-based communities, we need to critically ally ourselves, based on common interests (while also be aware of differential interests) of the new netarchical forces that are converting, and thereby strengthening the emergence of the P2P alternatives.
The specific historical conjuncture demands a certain acceleration of these efforts.
- The financial crisis is a deep long-cyclical slump, definitely burying the neoliberal model, but not necessarily the class power configuration which created it
- The Obama administration signals the coming to political power of that fraction of capital which is aligned to peer production. The Obama coalition represents the conjunction of Wall Street, hence the doomed-to-fail attempts to restore the old predatory financial system; the high tech sector most conducive to P2P-influenced economic models (hence the ‘open’ nature of theother aspects of the Administration); the social-media induced P2P mobilization of the most dynamic social forces that were instrumental in creating its victory.
- At the same time, the forces of the old order of vectoral capitalism (the forces living from IP monopolies and mass media control), being in the panic that they are, are stepping up aggressive measures against the further emergence of peer to peer practices, as witnessed by the attempts in the EU Parliament, to abandon net neutrality.
- The financial dislocation and breakdown of the previous globalized order of neoliberalism, will lead to increasing expressions of social rage, and waves of mobilization, but that do not have adequate policy proposals.
- Populations living in increasingly bankrupt and hollow states, and desperate public authorities facing infrastructural breakdown, will increasingly look to measures to protect themselves from the global meltdown, to resilient community formation, and distributed infrastructures that can reboot their disintegrating social order.
The P2P movement is therefore at a historical juncture, where it has to start developing the ability for policy formulation and connect with social mobilizations.
Usually a new social movement goes to three broad stages: it starts with transgressive, ‘subcultural’ behaviour that ignores the constraints of the larger society, such as filesharing; it starts to develop social forms to insure its own social reproduction, i.e. creating the new patters within the old, as the free software community has done, now being followed by open hardware and distributed manufacturing communities, and the drive towards open money; but the next step is changing the old institutional order itself, and this crucial step has barely started.
In order to birth the new, an integrated set of alternative patterns and institutions must have been created, so that when the old metasystem breaks down, the new subsystem is sufficiently robust to serve as an alternative template for the phase transition.
All of this is of a tall order, and we are far from ready for this. Nevertheless, it is what we must do.
(I am indebted to Franz Nahrada’s lecture at Oekonux 4, for a clearer understanding of the import of pattern language integration, for successful social change)
Video presentation on the same topic, in Helsinki´s Pixelache festival:
Alternative Economy Cultures PART 2 from pixelACHE festival on Vimeo.
xxx
