Yesterday's Land Of Dreams heads into the sunset. The implications contained in this economic set of shifts are massive, in just about every way.
http://news.yahoo.com/report-says-poor-moving-nations-164704252.html
The mining camp of Bodie, California, the Wasatch Front and the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill metro region either do, or soon will, stand to remind all of that by taking the irrational drive for a "nice paradise" a rough history of non-resolution, at best, or a crumbling pile of someone else's memories, is staring us in the face with every tank of motor fuels purchased.
Piling the family into the station wagon and heading off to Western Sizzler or Bob's Big Boys or piling the family into the station wagon and heading down to, say, Topsail Beach or Nag's Head was to be the happy fate of the generations born to traverse the heavens at hyper-light speed. Piling the family into a Chevy Suburban and heading off to Kolob Canyon was to be the happy fate of those generation born to go fly off to Kolob, flying at hyper-light speed. A cancer-free, hyper-light speed, it might be added...all done thanks to the Invisible Hand Of A Divinely Informed "Marketplace".
After all, we humans DID break the sound barrier when those suburban ideals were yielding up what seemed to be an endless vein of prosperity. Strolling the malls, even with consciousnesses ice skating on the rings of Saturn (or, as applicable, Kolob) would be one endless pleasure after another.
Like the supposed pleasures of the mining camp, the pleasures of the suburban build-out are for all of us no less than the sort of hang-overs experienced by those inhabitants of Bodie, with it's 200 plus saloons catering to the 8000 or so residents there at the peak of Bodie's population. Like the venereal disease rates recorded (however incompletely) by what scant public health offices Mono County, California, could arrange in the 19th and early 20th centuries, there's is that cold, morning light. Rosa May (born Rose, or possibly Rosa, Elizabeth White, probably in 1851 or 1852 somewhere in the Philadelphia area, probably to parents fleeing the Irish Potato Famine) and her sad stable of women echo into what those suburban dream homes of not so very long ago seem destined to become as the void spreads over what once was.
This is "Bodie" and "Salt/Wake" shaking us at a structural level.
Greg
http://news.yahoo.com/report-says-poor-moving-nations-164704252.html
The mining camp of Bodie, California, the Wasatch Front and the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill metro region either do, or soon will, stand to remind all of that by taking the irrational drive for a "nice paradise" a rough history of non-resolution, at best, or a crumbling pile of someone else's memories, is staring us in the face with every tank of motor fuels purchased.
Piling the family into the station wagon and heading off to Western Sizzler or Bob's Big Boys or piling the family into the station wagon and heading down to, say, Topsail Beach or Nag's Head was to be the happy fate of the generations born to traverse the heavens at hyper-light speed. Piling the family into a Chevy Suburban and heading off to Kolob Canyon was to be the happy fate of those generation born to go fly off to Kolob, flying at hyper-light speed. A cancer-free, hyper-light speed, it might be added...all done thanks to the Invisible Hand Of A Divinely Informed "Marketplace".
After all, we humans DID break the sound barrier when those suburban ideals were yielding up what seemed to be an endless vein of prosperity. Strolling the malls, even with consciousnesses ice skating on the rings of Saturn (or, as applicable, Kolob) would be one endless pleasure after another.
Like the supposed pleasures of the mining camp, the pleasures of the suburban build-out are for all of us no less than the sort of hang-overs experienced by those inhabitants of Bodie, with it's 200 plus saloons catering to the 8000 or so residents there at the peak of Bodie's population. Like the venereal disease rates recorded (however incompletely) by what scant public health offices Mono County, California, could arrange in the 19th and early 20th centuries, there's is that cold, morning light. Rosa May (born Rose, or possibly Rosa, Elizabeth White, probably in 1851 or 1852 somewhere in the Philadelphia area, probably to parents fleeing the Irish Potato Famine) and her sad stable of women echo into what those suburban dream homes of not so very long ago seem destined to become as the void spreads over what once was.
This is "Bodie" and "Salt/Wake" shaking us at a structural level.
Greg
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