Isabel Allende: She's the Best!

She is so good at TED. Have you seen this?

What?! You're Not Lost In A Book?!

This morning I got to work early, so I decided to grab coffee, a bagel and do my favorite thing ... read. People are straggling into the coffee shop where I'm reading quietly and they are complaining loudly about the Boston traffic, the weather, their mother-in-law, you name it and I'm at the Santa Anita racetrack on a beautiful spring day, watching the horses get ready to race. Why, because I'm lost in Jane Smiley's Horse Heaven.

The weekend weather features another massive rainstorm and I'm jumping for joy. Why?! Perfect weather for reading! I check my bookshelf for the weekend, be sure it's full and ready, the way many people check the fridge to be sure they have enough beer, salsa and chips for a party weekend.

I jump on my library's website to see if any books I've reserved are ready to pick up. I plan every trip around having the right books with me. I really get upset if I finish a book too early and don't have the next one ready to go.

But worst of all, I can't believe how few people around me take the time to read for pleasure like I do. It is one of life's great pleasures. My neighbor, an avid reader and wise old lady of 11 years of age, loves to read like me. At the beginning of the summer, we both happened to say the exact same thing about the new season -- "Great weather for reading!" and then started laughing since we both know any weather is great weather for reading. If it's too cold to go out, stay in and read so you can visit warm beaches and dig up buried treasure. If it's too hot to go out, stay home and read so you can visit icy Everest with an intrepid team. It's always a good time to read.

Some people chose expensive self-destructive escape methods like drugs, drink, racing fast cars, whatever your poisin. But why aren't people getting lost in books the way I love to? It's so easy to hop on a boat for France with John Adams and his son John Quincy in his bio. Or maybe you'd rather be on a pirate ship in Treasure Island? Or maybe Mona Simpson's Anywhere But Here is your vehicle of choice.

Try it this weekend, get lost in a book. It's a great place to escape. And please don't tell me that old excuse, I just don't have time. Ridiculous! Make the time.

Holy Hellish Boston Weather!

Okay, okay, today I have no right to complain. It's a beautiful 60+ degrees out there, but -- hello! -- two days ago we were battling a full-in-your-face blizzard with serious snow nearly pushing us off the Mass Pike. How are you supposed to get used to this crazy weather?

I remember as I growing up in Connecticut, wishing/hoping/praying/begging the heavens to keep the snow away until Thanksgiving.

In Boston, you're lucky to dodge the snow bullet by Halloween. So this year really takes the cake -- one of those snowy ones like white layer cake with thick drifting shreddy coconut frosting -- we had snow last Friday morning, October 16th!

Please, please, take it all away. I am NOT ready!

Wonderful Concert: Sylvia Berry, Fortepiano

Lovely to hear Sylvia Berry this afternoon at The Taylor House in Jamaica Plain. The fortepiano she played was similar to the ones you would have first heard Haydn and Beethoven played on. The special pedals put a piece a fabric between the strings and the hammers to give a muted, creamy effect. In fact, they aren't actually pedals, they are knee-levers. You can't hear the same soft rendition on a modern piano.

Her website is here and she's terrific.

Splish, Splash I Was Taking A Swim

I went swimming tonight after work and the pool has an interesting ... enhancement ... I guess you could say. That is, they have underwater speakers blaring rock and roll.

I know many people who would NOT consider this a good thing. In fact, it would probably keep them from swimming at this pool entirely. They like one noise when swimming -- the whoosh whoosh of water and silence -- and that's it.

Now, I have to admit I do like listening to pop music and so Beyonce calling out to all the Single Lady mermaids underwater is okay with me. It had a different but dangerous effect on me. I found I was staying under water too long, beyond my breathing capacity to listen to Beyonce. NOT a good idea. Blub, blub, blub!

F-R-I-D-A-Y

It really is strange. Absolutely crazy and bizarre. The way we think about time. The way we think about a day ... a day like Friday. A day feels like a thing you can hold in your hand, but it's not. A word that starts with "f" like freedom and fun and fish and forget. Friday has weight. It tastes good, this "Friday." It has noise to it, it goes out late and makes happy noise. It smells good, exciting, romantic. We love Friday.

Friday -- often as not, it is preceded by "THANK GOD IT'S ..." because it's become conventionally the day we

LET DOWN
LET LOOSE

It's just a neutral twenty-four hour period. Nothing more. But say the word, "Friday" and it's explosive. "See you Friday night!" It's a late dinner in a sexy little restaurant with someone you like or hope to love, with wine, candles, red checkered tablecloth. You do the amorous math. If you get lucky and end up in bed, staying up late, being silly, a little feral, no need to rush tomorrow, it's Saturday, slouchy, slow, sweet, satisfying Saturday.

Passwords: Who Goes There?

I've been thinking about passwords from way, way back. We have so many passwords in our modern lives but what passwords or authenticity measures did people employ even before most of us were able to read and write?

The use of passwords is known to be ancient. Sentries would challenge those wishing to enter an area or approaching it to supply a password or watchword. Sentries would only allow a person or group to pass if they knew the password. -- Wikipedia

When you think of the surveillance systems we have in place, to be surprised by someone walking up to your gate is inconceivable now, but it didn't used to be. I went to a conference in France a few years back on Security and Identity where the word "firewall" was tossed around and about a great deal. The week after that conference in Paris, I went to the south of France on vacation and found myself literally walking through firewalls in what was left of fortifications from centuries ago.

The easier a password is for the owner to remember generally means it will be easy for a hacker to guess. Passwords which are difficult to remember will reduce the security of a system because (a) users might need to write down or electronically store the password, (b) users will need frequent password resets and (c) users are more likely to re-use the same password. Similarly, the more stringent requirements for password strength, e.g. "have a mix of uppercase and lowercase letters and digits" or "change it monthly", the greater the degree to which users will subvert the system.-- Wikipedia

I love reading about this stuff in spy novels or historical novels. Imagine designing a security system and secret service for a queen in say, ... 1492. What password could she remember? How would you protect her when travelling? If you were to travel across an ocean with the royal court, how the hell did you even know where you were when you got there? (They didn't.) Of course, thinking that far back gets you in the mood to imagine the opposite scenario, to boldly go put your Treky velour shirt on and watch 6 straight hours of wacky sci-fi movies chockful of "Take Me To Your Leader" stuff.

The Matrix movies played ideas out in this arena of identity and "who can you trust?" -- asking, "Do we even know who we are or in what realm we exist?" Note to self: back-burner time -- good Saturday afternoon stuff to think about, no more time this morning. Now I need to remember my passwords to check email, online banking, get back to reality and go to work, swipe my entry card and do my thing.

I'm Having An Affair

I'm having an affair with the forest, this wild weather, in the sunny autumn clearing, the leaves are rushing past an empty park bench in a hurry, my trenchcoat caught up, blown wide open like a fall flower bloom, bold and happy, but these moods swing and leave the leaves stewn on asphalt and puddly, this park in tears.

These affairs of the heart are tumultuous, full of operatic rise and fall. The leaves are being wrenched off the fingers of summer branches bleeding splashes of yellow, and crimson shock and orange smoky silk scarf shades, mine tied tight around my blond hair, still can't keep the emotional howling Fall wind out of my ears.

You were any man I'd see, in Central Park or Jardins de Luxembourgh, newspaper tucked up under your arm, long straight legs scissoring to the end of the park, turning your gaze suddenly towards me, only to get slapped by a sassy, impertinent wind. I was breezing by in the other direction, but wished I could have said, Jibe Ho! and wheeled my little ship around and sailed your way, make a mooring with you in a cafe with coffee and maybe later fall under sheets, under rain on the roof, look up at the panes, look over at you. Five o'clock shadow, I like you sir. Until I hear that wind again. That wild wind inviting me out to play.

Vous Voyez Monsieur, I'm afraid I like you less than the leaves. If I rose from your bed, I'd wrapped fast in a wrapper, make it a shimmer of faded oaks and red maples, adorned with acorns, a fringe of sycamore. They do a far more passionate dance, these leaves. They lure me, to love me, to ultimately leave me. I won't completely forget you, sir. I'll pause again in the park after they've had their windy way with me and wonder what you look like ... in the morning shaving. Should have stayed for that. But sorry, they look better, fresh from morning rain, they start blowing up the boulevard, bewitchingly. I tear after them.