Has Technology destroyed mystery?

An interesting article by author Matt Ridley:

http://www.rationaloptimist.com/blog/technology-will-not-destroy-all-jobs.aspx

...made me revisit the thinking behind The Bone Traders -- : for more visit The Bone Traders. When there is no future, all you have left is the past. Why? What happened? Look toward the sun.  

AN EXCERPT:

The once grassy plains have changed. All hint of greenery has gone. It is hot, dry and a lazy devil-wind spirals lethargically in the West.

The skyline of the city you named earlier has disappeared. Not even a shadow remains. Those people that survived have moved on to distant places.

The cause of The Event is simple. It requires no scientific explanation. Mother Nature has always walked with small steps, learning and progressing during her gradual journey through time. We humans have ignored that learning. We have outpaced our own, what should have been, measured strides. We have started running before we have truly learnt to walk.

Mother Nature has simply put the brakes on. She has shortened your stride. She has retarded life in the hope that we will learn to walk again.

The solar storm, you remember, lasted for eight months; in some areas, longer. The crust of the planet was left flecked like the hide of a spotted hyena; flecked with disaster zones, places where the few survivors, mainly the young, managed to migrate from. Some were fortunate, others not so.

The sun is now a white, hostile orb; iris burning.

Welcome to the town that your God, Law, Time, Nature and society has forgotten. A line of bungalows now stand brick deep in ever increasing mounds of shifting sand, their structures built from salvaged remains of brick, wood, plastic and metal. A shanty town that whispers of a past you may remember, but shouts of a sad present.

An army of salvaged wind-pumps turn angrily in the wind, their battle now to suck water from an unyielding soil. Three crippled wind generators turn in the stale air, probably creating enough power to light a bulb or two.

A hint of ill repaired solar panels can be seen perched on the crudely constructed roof tops.

A small Church offers its imperfect steeple to a cloudless sky. There is one shop, a general dealer. There are no cars, no gas pumps nor signs of children. The sight of a blossoming flower is rare. There is a monotonous twirling of dust and the ricocheting of bright sunlight off metal.

At the far end of the only street, outside a house, a group of people have gathered. There is also a cart and a donkey.

Inside the house, in a narrow bedroom, Reverend Dickinson, spectacled, stands looking out the window. He’s holding a Bible. Reverend Dickinson is stooped under God’s forgetfulness.  It is a heavy burden for him and the slope of his narrow shoulders demonstrates that.

Suddenly there is a woman’s scream from within the room and it scares the crap out of Reverend Dickinson. He spins on his heels.

“Well?” Reverend Dickenson asks the midwife that is bent over the prone body of the woman who is about to give birth.

The woman giving birth again screams. She is over the age of seventy and her wrinkled, sunburnt flesh contorts grotesquely. Rivulets of perspiration gather in the valley of her wrinkles.

The midwife, who is in her late sixties, glances quickly toward Reverend Dickinson. “It’s coming. Help me.”

“No!” The Reverend almost shouts his response.

The pregnant woman mumbles incoherently.

“I need light. Move away from the window.”

The Reverend Dickinson does, his glasses shining like mirrors in the heat. Through the small window, he can see the group of people gathered outside in the street. An elderly woman sits on a wooden stool. She is knitting a garment. It is pink and suited for a newborn child. The knitting needles click furiously in her hands.

The midwife works, her heavy face sweating profusely.

A bowl of bloody water is dipped into and out of.

“Please God,” whispers Reverend Dickinson, still hypnotised by the rhythm of the knitting needles. 

“Come on, Mary, come on...you have to push, Mary!  I can see the head!”

There is another scream and the tension shows in the Reverend’s shoulders. He wants to turn and look, but he cannot.

The midwife suddenly shouts. Her own breathing is heavy. “It’s out! It’s a...”

Reverend Dickinson spins on his heels. “It’s a what? Tell me.”

Reverend Dickinson makes eye contact with the midwife as he struggles not to look at the bloody mess that he knows the midwife must be holding.

The midwife holds the Reverend’s enquiring look momentarily, then she vomits.

Reverend Dickinson gulps in air and closes his eyes. He inhales and exhales and he tries to compose himself. He straightens his back, finding strength from somewhere.

“Wrap the...wrap it up,” he finally says with an edge of hostility.

Then he leaves the narrow room, the Bible clutched to his chest. 

Buying toothpaste - brain decay.

Read TWO FEET to realise how shopping was in those "good old days". There's a quick chapter about how we used to buy the week's needs. Enjoy!

...many full moons ago I posted a Blog about buying hair shampoo (I've attached below to rekindle your memories) which was well supported. But, I ask, what about toothpaste? Here, the mind boggles and the dentures clench. With shopping cart or basket in hand, you will soon discover yourself rooted to the supermarket floor as you ponder dental cleansing as if you have just happened upon the answer to the Meaning Of Life and do not have an effing clue what it means. Understandably so. ( If, per chance, you do KNOW the answer, please, please comment.)
Okay -- teeth are important -- give a rusty, denture crooked smile and all could be misconstrued, but give us a break Colgate and the rest of you --
Ultra shine -- sounds good to me...but now I'm brushing laboriously and  I'm frothing at the mouth with something akin to that of a distressed Praying Mantis's shit -- and in BLUE -- it's everywhere. Staining the basin, staining the towel. What's with the blue? I'm after white...and now there are frothy bubbles, as if I'm popping cheap, fake caviar...my hand on the brush is now swamped in froth and I'm seriously wondering if my teeth are receiving any of this paste.
Sensitive teeth, non-sensitive,capped or uncapped,smile or glum,mint and apple freshness,triple coloured like a barber's pole, halitosis friendly(?),your dentist's favourite,herbal topped (what the heck does that mean?I'm brushing with Jasmine?)...48 hour lasting freshness (that's not what we were taught at school)...kills all plaque (why do I need a dentist?)...Ultra Ultra shine which I gather means that after a few years brushing with this stuff I'm going ivory...or maybe I should just take a quick visit to the herb garden and chew on a few roots? Not a problem I'm thinking -- chomp a bit of basil, floss with some lavender and maybe stick a mint leaf or two under the tongue --
And the flavours? Mint..okay...but what the F is zesty Mint ?? Chemically induced? Zesty Mint -- sounds like a teenage pop group still looking for a garage to rehearse in.
I just want to brush my teeth -- pure and simple.
I remember squatting at many a fireside in Africa and remembering the folk I was with simply sticking their fingers into the grey of the charcoal and finger brushing their teeth...and believe me, their teeth stood out like corn on a cob. And there was nothing wrong with their smile.
....and talking about brushing and tooth brushes?
When did you last buy a toothbrush and have a clear idea of what you wanted, and what you ended up buying???????????
I don't even want to go there for the moment, anyway!!!


THERE'S A SALAD ON MY HEAD.

Had a quiet chuckle a few days ago. Stumbled into the local supermarket come pharmacy to purchase a bottle of shampoo. Soap in a bottle it used to be. Not any more -- surveyed line upon line of misshaped bottles -- green, yellow, amber, gold, dark...upright and not upright. Bulbous and lean. Started reading the ingredients and that's when I chuckled.
Avocado and passion fruit, honey and almond, wild herbs and strawberry, lemon zing with a dash of grapefruit (natural no less!), raspberry with mint and selected herbs from India, (mint??) rose petal and, wait for it, tea. Give me/us a break here -- we are talking about washing our hair, not dumping the veggie garden on our head, are we??
So maybe this doesn't surprise you. Does me -- as a farm kid I grew up with all those ingredients so imagine if I'd wandered off into the orchard, into the fields, mashed up a few strawberries, squashed an avocado or two, and dumped them on my scalp? Then rinsed.
It would have been straight jacket time, I tell you. Or I'd be quickly associated to smoking the same green stuff the tractor driver was hourly participating in -- Back in those days, a bar of Lux soap did just fine even though it may have just been used to clean one of the mutts. I'm still showing a full crop of hair just in case you are wondering.
P.S. I bought the green one -- I think it is lime something or other. Not sure, but it seems to goad well with the bees out in the garden -- I'm a fair attraction.
Bring back them old days.

So here's an extract from TWO FEET about shopping -- hope you enjoy. Comments appreciated.

EXTRACT FROM THE NOVELLA, TWO FEET:
This was a good road. It had a few hills and a few potholes, but pedalling was easy especially on the way to the Store. I’d park the bike outside the Store where the hulking overhead diesel drum was positioned, and then walk across the dry patch of red earth where the chickens fed, and climb the few concrete steps onto the porch of the building. Here, a Cobbler and a tailor worked. The tailor had a milky eye and his left leg would furiously pump the plate on the floor to make the sewing machine rattle. He looked as though he was riding a bicycle to nowhere. The Cobbler, who wore a white shirt and a tie, had a tiny anvil and a mouthful of little black tacks that protruded from his lips like snakes’ tongues. Beside him were heaps of shoes that I thought would never cover a person’s feet or tread on a road again. But they did.
There is always a group of people gathered on the porch. A mother feeding her baby on her bosom, her head bent low over the infant to keep away the flies, an old man leaning on his cane peering from beneath the brim of his recently purchased hat, and another woman tying up her cash in a piece of cloth that she would thrust down her blouse for safe keeping.
The business of shopping was a muted, respected affair by customers in the Store. An aisle was approached with caution, almost in awe, bare feet scuffing on the concrete floor. Canned goods were held carefully in both hands, and the picture on the label was studied with the intensity of an art scholar. A bar of wrapped, Lux soap was sniffed and smiled at, and the bulky bag of Hullett’s refined, white sugar, stroked and prodded.
At the rear of the store, alongside gardening implements and paraffin lamps, shoes for men and women, made in Taiwan, beckoned. The shoes were never tried on for size but measured against the foot, the brightness of the shoe’s plastic alluring. The appearance of high heeled shoes would cause much stifled giggling.

The weighing of maize meal, sugar or flour by the Store’s owner was a solemn affair, the customer having ordered it, not by weight, but by what he or she could afford. As the grocer’s scale shifted on its fulcrum, so would the head of the customer, as if mentally trying to balance the brass contraption by telepathy. When the scale righted itself, the customer would do likewise with his or her head. Then the maize or flour would be poured into a paper bag and fastened with cello-tape. Whatever money the customer had was offered to the store owner as payment. It was accepted that the store owner would count out what was needed, and the balance be returned. A sticky sweet or two always concluded the transaction.