Now that I run into a 'paywall' when I click a newstory, it makes me wonder whether disruptive technologies are just that, and may not be appropriate replacements for what they disrupt.  Newspapers are going down the drain because of 'free news' websites, or at least, those used to be free.  Now instead of subscribing to a paper of chosen scope and journalistic temperament, which has all the news I want to read, I am left to be an internet-squirrel digging about the web in search of acorns on once-free news websites.

It pushes forth the 'Blockbuster' effect, as I've named it.  Once, there were many, many locally-owned video rental stores.  Those all were 'disrupted' by national chain stores, like Blockbuster, and the mom-and-pop video stores could not stay in business.  Then, Blockbuster got wedged under a pile of large-store lease payments, and internet competition, and it has been on deathwatch for some time.  It supplanted the smaller stores, but when it's gone, there'll be no video stores.  Yeah, I'm up on the Netflix and RedBox business models, so let the analogy end.

Free internet news killed paid newspapers, but now, those disruptive news sites want to start charging.  If I have to pay, then I'd just as soon pay for a paper to be at my door daily.

A year ago, I clipped and put by the coffeemaker a quote from the eminent Professor Irwin Corey (FYI for you youngsters, Corey had a comedy act).  Corey's quote instructs that: "If we don't change direction soon, we'll end up where we're going."  My idea was to encourage myself to change, for the endpoint otherwise was predictably less than desirable.

Now, the quote is still there, and I still am autopiloting to a destination that will not meet my expectations.  The Prof. was genius, but when you're on a paved road, it tough to turn hard to one side and drive off into the unknown.

The planks were sawed and nailed, corners cut and joined, and decorative paint added. It was a fine place for a farm stand. Along a generous width of road, visible from a distance, and framed with pastures extending behind it. Each day, farmer Matt and a familymember picked the fresh and ripest produce, carefully basketed it and carried their harvest to the stand. Placing the produce in rows, and turning each piece to show its size and color, was an act no different than when the Zen acolyte lays out the stones in his garden. That early task completed, Matt would sit on his garden chair, and read through seed catalogs, plan the next season's plantings, and go over his finances.

As the day darkened to dusk, farmer Matt would close up, separate the too-ripe or dated produce into brown baskets, and deliver the contents to one or another food bank. There, he'd talk with the volunteers, many of them retired from farming or factory work.

A new day would dawn, the fields would be gleaned, and Matt would put out for sale the finest of the yield. The sun would move from the pasture behind across to the hill beyond. Plans and efforts would be made, all to the end of providing - providing produce for others, and providing means to support his farm and family. Yet as each day of the growing season came to its sunset, most of the produce was unsold. The farm stand was a way station on the path from the field to the food banks. Promotion and word of mouth caused no change, and each day the produce went unwanted. Farmer Matt put forth a cornucopia of offers, but got only a thimblefull of acceptances. Those who stopped at the stand most frequently, came to say how much they appreciated Matt's donations to the food banks or who his gifts had helped.

The season ended. Matt moved the stand back from the edge of the road, and took his garden chair back to his house. On the next day, he went with his sheaf of seed catalogs and planting calendars to the chair and looked out over the fields from which the produce had been stripped. In columns and lines, the dormant fields were shades of browns and greys. Browns of cutoff stalks, bronze-tipped winter grasses, greys of dying plants, chalk lines of some morning frosts, and even as then seen, the field reminded Matt of what came before. His mindseye was urged back two seasons, and to bags of seeds opportunistically sowed, rains heaven sent at the time most needed, weeds excised, pests driven out, flowering and pollinating, and how within the fold of leaves the harvestable produce had emerged. His mind, filled with the possible, connected with his eyes seeing the actual.

We too are but some seasons passing, producing as we can, offering what we can make, hoping that it will join with others needs.

Then, the farm stand, which Matt built and tended, between those pastures laid out by the Great architect, was no more. It passed into memory. Many recalled it fondly, and often mentioned their high regard for Matt and how the produce he grew and offered was near perfect and perhaps the best they ever had seen.

And, it all is in different rooms.

Every scene and every dream

With disjunct views

of implausible and

impromptu things.

And, the views we each see

may free our way forward.

Yet long walls can divide

and pull back our reach.

We then are but dust

left on ledges

of rooms as we left them.

When I become so old that I wither into strands and shadows, then tie me to a kite, from which the air and my guardian angel might lift me into the wind, and bury me behind a cloud.

Let's recap.  I have: an account number on my charge card, a mag strip with encoded data, a CVV code, a unique username & password & PIN; I've disclosed mom's maiden name and that of my favorite pet.  Now, after all that, I need to get my charge account 'certified' or 'verified' before I can finish the transaction.  Oh, and did I mention that the vendor also required a username and passwork, with a specific nomenclature.

Is this for my protection or is it due to the feeble security provided by each component of my secure profile?

Insular puddles from the revolution's industrial rains

Brick totems at each crook in the river

Tarpaper rooves angulate from longnarrow houses and chimney towers

Cultures, still emerging from age-old subjugation,

Run relays from timeclocks to alarm clocks.