Another illusion I came across via StumbleUpon. There’s a face hidden behind the lines. If you can’t see it, move back a bit. And watch what happens. I’m a sucker for illusions, I guess it says something about me. Sadly I cannot find the site where I first came across it, all I know is that I Stumbled there. [If you do find the original site then do let me know so that I can thank them properly].
I try and read every comment made on this blog, I try and follow up every time someone links to me. I want to know what readers are saying about the things I write about. That’s how I learn, through the agreements, the criticisms, the recommendations, the observations.
Recently I noticed that Ian Delaney had linked to me, commenting on something I’d written a week ago, and there was a phrase he used that I quite liked. The action’s in the actions. And that made me think, it made me crystallise something I’d been thinking about for quite a while. So here goes.
There’s been a lot said and written about social networking sites, so much so that there must be an entire branch of study focused on that subject alone. I don’t pretend to understand all of it.
What I do understand is this. There is something social about sharing news. That’s what friends do. How are you? What are you doing? How have you been? Did you enjoy your holiday? Are your children well? When was the last time you saw her? If you see her, say hello.
Sure, friends do many other things. They share many other things. But one of the things that friends do is share news.
What I do understand is this. There is something social about sharing experiences. That’s what friends do. What did you think of that film? I hated their new album. Love your new car, how does it drive? Read any good books lately? Would you recommend Morocco as a holiday destination? How was that restaurant?
Sure, friends do many other things. They share many other things. But one of the things that friends do is share experiences.
Sharing news and experiences. That’s what friends do. When I worked in investment banking, I was fascinated by what people did, for example, on Bloomberg. They shared experiences. They shared news. And they shared something else, they could see transactions. They could see prices. They could see the market. Other people’s transactions, other people’s prices.
What is important about the Bloomberg example is that everyone knew. You knew that you could see others’ prices and transactions, others knew that you could see theirs, you knew that others could see yours.
What is as important is that Bloomberg represented a community, with trust and with rules. Rules that governed relationships. And communications. Simple rules, but rules nevertheless.
Every community is built on trust. When you share news and experiences, you do so in an environment of trust. Trust in the relationship, and in the communications that make that relationship come alive. That’s what Cluetrain was about.
Ratings, recommendations and collaborative filtering have all been around for a very long time. Even in their electronic form.
Transparency. Openness. “Perfect information”. “Collaborative filtering”. Ratings and recommendations. So much we can do when we share. As long as we know who we’re sharing with, and what we’re sharing. As long as we share by choice rather than because we have to.
This is why I watch all the debates about “privacy” with interest, sometimes with alarm. Man is a social animal. Let’s keep it that way.
My 15-year old son told me about this site, SongMeanings. Love the idea. People commenting on lyrics and making connections that way. Just take a look at the discussions around A Day in The Life.
As with anything else 2.0, these things improve with time and increased “liquidity”, as people learn about the subtlety of the mashup. I can see so many ways to vary what I see at SongMeanings, having people come together with comments and views and ratings around a catalogue of “things”. And I am sure that most of them are being done already.
Those of you who know me well will also know that I love books. I read them. I devour them. I collect them. I love them.
At home, we had books everywhere, and I have many wonderful childhood memories built around reading. The way we lived, it was perfectly normal to hear harrumphs and guffaws as you wandered in and out of rooms, the sounds made by people enjoying what they read; there were times of day (and night) where all those who were awake were reading.
We read eclectically. And voraciously. We were the kind of people that would walk a mile for a Camel or a new Rex Stout; if we had to choose, then Rex Stout won. We quoted from poetry and from plays, from books as well as magazines. We were Walter Mittys and Holden Caulfields, we lived among Empresses as well as Queens, we moved from misty-eyed meanderings about “acres and acres of golden yellow pajamas glinting in the noonday sun” to equally misty-eyed meanderings about the liquefaction of Julia’s clothes.
We read Wodehouse all day as if our lives depended on it; at high noon it was Max Brand; in between games of Cluedo it was Perry Mason time; our Grishams weren’t Grisham, they were Desmond Bagley and Alistair Maclean and Hammond Innes. [An aside. We played a short-lived charade game where you had to guess “composites”, weird creatures that were portmanteau phrases merging a popular film with a popular song. And the worst one I can remember was “The Guns of Navarone A Sunday“, which should need no explanation. That one hurt].
We read Shakespeare as well as Pynchon, Dante as well as Rabelais, the Thousand and One Nights as well as George Mikes, Salinger and Mailer, Dumas and Swift, Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller. Hawthorne and Eliot, Whitman and Twain, Carroll as well as Castaneda, Sellar with Yeatman. We moved from Parker to Parker as if nothing was amiss. Leo Rosten kept warm alongside H Allen Smith. Somewhere in between we read a lot of comics as well, but that’s for another post.
We dwelt among many untrodden ways. We would talk to each other about the books we’d read, the books we were reading. [An aside, about “untrodden ways”. I remember a time when the men of the house were busy reading the oeuvre of Nevil Shute book by book, while the womenfolk were equally busy with …. Mills and Boon. It drove us crazy. So we the menfolk did the only thing possible, we started reading the Mills and Boons as well. Which drove the others crazy. Yup, I’m confessing to having read a horde of “Violent” Winspear (Violet’s heroes were always festooned with romantic scars) and Anne Mather and Janet Dailey and others of that ilk). We laughed and teased about Innocent Deceptions and long tall drinks with cubes of ice clinking at the bottom of the glass (sic).]
Yes, we read a lot. And we treasured books. So when I came to this country, I was unprepared for some of what I saw. People tearing chapters off books and throwing the “read” bits in the bin. People clearing houses and throwing hordes of musty mouldy books into skips. People actually destroying books.
I was aghast. And I’ve been collecting books ever since. Some strange collections, some very strange collections. For example, I have over 180 different first editions of just one book. Don Quixote. Just for the illustrations.
Bearing all this in mind, I had some mixed feelings when I first saw the works of Brian Dettmer, one of which I’ve used as an illustration above. I’ve decided I quite like his stuff. What do you think?
If you do like it, you can find out more at Aron Packer Gallery, which is where I found out about him. How did I get there? I Stumbled.
Thank God for the Web. How else could I have done what I did a few minutes ago?
It all started this morning. I was doing my snooze-awake thing, a critical technique practised and refined over years of really important business meetings. You know the one I mean. When your eyes are open, one ear is cocked attentively and tuned to the right channel, and the rest of you is fast asleep, ready to spring into action as soon as your name is mentioned. That’s what I mean by snooze-awake.
So there I was. Snooze-awake, with the cricket on in the background; India versus Pakistan at Eden Gardens; there was nothing really happening, India had just declared, and Pakistan had yet to come out. The expert commentators were out in their droves. And then someone said something. He said that it looked like VVS Laxman had scored a century consisting solely of ones and boundaries.
I sprang awake. And a part of me went “wow, could that be true?”. So I resolved to check it out, which, thanks to the web, I can now do. Easily. So I went to Cricinfo, got to this page containing ball-by-ball text commentary for the entire Indian innings, and laboriously went through every ball Laxman faced, all 178 of them. And it was true. VVS Laxman scored his 112 all in ones and fours.
I wonder how often that has happened before. And how I would find the answer to that question. Any budding Bill Frindalls or Wendy Wimbushes out there?
Incidentally, I understand that India managed to achieve an unusual sequence in this innings: 111/1, 222/2, 333/3, 444/4, 555/5. Again, I wonder just how often that has been done.
For those of you who don’t follow cricket, all I can say is it’s never too late. The sound of willow on leather. The sound of harrumphing moustaches and gentle snores. The sound of the Barmy Army and of calypso cricket. The sound of Eden Gardens in full cry.
Cricket. A game of sounds. And numbers.