As someone who’s spent her entire career and the majority of her life at THE FUTURIST, I smile when I think of myself as the “new” editor. So let me first thank Edward Cornish, our Founding Editor, for his mentorship and for having confidence in me.
Longtime readers will see few significant changes in the approach that this magazine takes in dealing with important issues. We aim for diversity of subject matter and neutrality in coverage. We rely on contributors who volunteer their expertise and work closely with our staff editors to present ideas to our readers in a way that is engaging and thought-provoking.
Our goal will be to ensure that each issue of the magazine covers the following four general areas:
Regions, with a focus on a place, be it Haiti (page 46) or the Moon (pages 34 and 39).
Resources, examining any of a number of critical physical resources, such as food (page 43), water, or energy.
Sectors of the economy, such as health care, education, or technology (page 16)
Methodologies for studying the future, which very often will include conversations with or profiles of foresight pioneers such as the late Daniel Bell (page 63).
Toward that end, we have enhanced the Future Active section (see page 66), edited by Aaron M. Cohen, to cover news for the futurist community. More such stories about news and events are also featured on our Web site. Additionally, Rick Docksai covers the latest future-oriented literature in his Books in Brief column (page 56).
We are also dedicated to delivering more content to members electronically via our free monthly e-mail newsletter, Futurist Update and via our Web site. World Future Society members may now read the text of all articles online and download a PDF reproduction of the magazine.
I hope THE FUTURIST will continue to be a welcome guest in your home, office, school, or wherever else you may be when you are inspired to journey to the future with us.
----- Cynthia G. Wagner is Editor of THE FUTURIST.
On solutions to the nuclear crisis in Japan: If the decision is made to entomb the entire Fukushima complex, as has been most recently recommended by physicist Michio Kaku, at least one constituency needs to be informed: The future.
In the 1990s, the concern among American nuclear physicists was over nuclear waste and how to warn future generations of its existence. What signage would be required? What barbed-wire fence would last for 10,000 years?
From "The 10,000-Year Warning: Alerting Future Civilizations about Our Nuclear Waste" by Gary Kliewer, in the September-October 1992 issue of THE FUTURIST:
"How could you label Pandora's box so that on one would mess with it for 10,000 years?
"The U.S. Department of Energy recently asked a panel of experts to design a marking system that would warn people against digging into the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP) in southeastern New Mexico, where radioactive materials from U.S. nuclear defense operations will be permanently entombed. The markers need to last as long as the danger, and this waste will pose a threat to human health for 300 generations.
...
"The panel confronted a number of challenging questions: How do yoo make a sign that will never fade away? What languages do you use? What surface do you write the message on? How do you relay a clear message to an audience so distant in time that you cannot know its culture, politics, level of technology, or religion?"
One of the answers to those questions drew from ancient wisdom: using symbols like the hieroglyphics carved in Eygptian pyramids, so the messages would convey our warnings pictorially.
Kliewer wrote:
"By setting down in granite symbols the contradictory messages of the creative and destructive powers of our technology, perhaps we are leaving a far better message in the desert than we intend. Our descendants will see that we, a civilization lost in their distant past, cared for their safety. Perhaps they will also see that we understood both the natural world and our place in it. Our warning will imply the hope that they too will look ahead for the well-being of their descendants."
Back from The Trip to Bountiful at Round House, and the pleasure of participating in a standing ovation for lead actress Lizan Mitchell as Carrie Watts, the geriatric runaway who's more than a Helen Hayesish caricature of a spunky little old lady. I love when standing ovations happen, especially on a Thursday night with a theater roughly half full, mostly comprising invalids like me--a not-so-spunky little old lady.
Photo of Lizan Mitchell and Howard W. Overshown by Roger Mastroianni
Interesting that this is the second Horton Foote play for me this year, the other being The Carpetbagger's Children at Ford's. The two are set in roughly the same geo-temporal and emotional space, using similar stagecraft (kudos to Tony Cisek, scenic designer, and Christopher Studley lighting designer, for the gorgeous quilt patterns on the stage walls and, in the Bountiful scene, on the stage itself, conveying the home-ness of the landscape: "We are all a part of this," Carrie says wistfully).
"Bountiful" did what I kept expecting "Carpetbaggers" to do, which was to draw me into a slice of life that I could witness for myself as the actors acted with each other, rather than have to listen attentively to like a radio show. So on that basis I give "Bountiful" the theatrical edge. Just a matter of taste, I guess.
A happy surprise was the use of a glorious piece of background music to provide the aural expression of Carrie's emotional climax: it was "Amazing Grace" as interpreted by Hubert Laws on jazzy flute, one of my all-time favorite pieces of music (I once imagined I would wed with that music playing). It was just perfect for the moment in the play when Carrie's wish is, as much as it could be, fulfilled. It made me smile.
love, hosaa with a bountiful heart
(P.S., I'm more than a week late reporting on the second of my two Clay Aiken concerts from the Tried and True tour, but I did post my videos on YouTube (here) if anyone is interested. Clay Aiken is in a whole different category of my artistical blogging, IYKWIMAITTYD.)
Back from Clay Aiken's concert (a week ago; I've been busy and gobsmacked) on Feb. 22 at Kraushaar Auditorium (Goucher College in Towson, Maryland).
I can give no better description of the concert experience than by posting the videos I was able to take, though mine are not the sweet close-ups that so many others are getting. Enjoy the show, and I'll talk below the embeds...
Stage banter, "Chosen Blondes," in which Clay deals with a spotlight problem:
"There's a Kind of Hush":
"It's Impossible":
Jazzy medley of Clay's hits:
"A Foggy Day" performed by Quiana Parler:
There's one more, but YouTube screwed up the formatting and cropped my 4:3 video into a 16:9 screen. Grr.
The highlight of this concert tour, Tried & True in support of Clay's album of that name, was the interactivity promised by PBS's participation in promoting the event. But since this promise was handled by the individual stations in each city, the experience has varied widely from city to city. In Towson, we got what is now called the Meet & Moo experience: a cattle call, only not nearly as organized.
At other Meet & Greets, guests were able to chat with Clay in small groups, so there was pressure to come up with interesting questions that would either make Clay laugh or elicit an interesting tidbit. Most of us know that questions about Clay's son are off limits, as are direct questions about his immediate career plans. The last thing one wants to do is make Clay mad.
Also at other Meet & Greets, guests were able to have an item autographed by Clay and have their picture taken with him. This created pressure to find just the right item to get signed, something meaningful but not ridiculous or unsignable. You also had to carry it with you during the concert, so lightweight would be good.
The problem at Towson wasn't the crowde of people waiting for the M&Moo; we had about 40 in our group, whereas Charlotte had (reportedly) 150-200. The problem for us was the lack of organization on the part of our PBS affiliate; they couldn't even get concert tickets mailed out to some people, who'd sent in their pledges for these tickets back in August. The person who was supposed to get things going at the venue was an hour late, leaving us standing around uncomfortably (though it was fun to chat with others).
So our Meet and Moo was a rush job. I happened to be near the front of the line to Moo at Clay, and I handed tour manager Mary the gift I wanted to give Clay. It required an explanation, but I never got the opportunity to explain it. Clay was a sweetheart, though, and he signed my item and cuddled up with me for the quicky photo by the PBS station's supplied photographer. Then I got "Jeromed" by Jerome the bodyguard while trying to explain my gift.
Clay saw that I had something to say about the gift, so he did turn away from his next mooer long enough to ask me where the gift was placed and to assure me that he will get it. So that made me happy.
On Team Clay, if there have to be bad cops and good cops, it's essential that Clay be the good cop. They got that right at least.
Now the problem with the PBS affiliate's incompetence is that they made no arrangements for sending me the photo with Clay. They made no attempt to match up the individual being photographed with contact information. E-mails go unanswered; the voicemail box was full; there is no "send message" option on Facebook. What am I supposed to do, write a letter?
Anyway, it probably doesn't matter. I realized that I was wearing the exact same outfit that I had on when I got Daniil Simkin's autograph and photo at the Kennedy Center stage door. So I could just use the same picture, darken it and add one of our famous captions,
"Clay Aiken, not seen in photo...."
Heh. The gift I gave him is none of your business for now. But here is what I had him sign for me: The article I wrote about one of his Foundation's projects in 2004.
I had a great time and even got to call out one of the genres selected for that night's "Variations on 'Who's Sorry Now'" bit: Ragtime! Hee!
If I get a chance to later, I'll list some of the questions I would have mooed if I'd had the opportunity. I will say that almost all of the legal questions (the ones that would not necessarily elicit an icy stare) were really unsolicited career advice phrased in the form of a question. So it's just as well I didn't ask.
But I wish I could have asked this: "What are you planning to do to stay in touch with your fans after this tour is over?"
At least I have one more show to see - next Tuesday in Grand Prairie, Texas, with my S.A.S.S.!!!
Love, hosaa Tried and mooed
* Sisterhood for the Adoration of his Serene Sweetness. No, really.
"Breaking Up Is Hard to Do":
ETA, 3 March 2011: At last! I did receive my M&Moo pic from MPT (by request, I asked that they not post it on Facebook. Someone e-mailed it to me instead. It pays to be a squeaky wheel once in a while - I got the high-res original!)
My mother, who died two and a half years ago, probably would have had some sympathy for Hosni Mubarak this week, for no other reason than that she once shook his hand.
Egypt has always been special to my family. While in the Navy in the 1950s, my dad was sent to Cairo to help set up a medical lab as part of Eisenhower's Atoms for Peace program. His pregnant wife and toddler son, Mike, went along; before long, my second brother, Tom, was born there.
Mom spent most of her time dealing with sick babies and mastering the art of haggling in the markets. She also did the tourist thing with her little box camera. And shortly before the young American family finally left Cairo, they learned that a little daughter and sister would be on the way.
After returning home, Mom would often show her Egypt slides, accompanied by histories and creative stories, as our evening entertainment. She honed the narrative to such a perfection that she was often asked to give her Egypt slides at PTA meetings and other public gatherings.
In 1994, Mike, my oldest brother--a Navy man like Dad--was stationed in the Middle East and invited Mom to meet him in Cairo for a special nostalgic trip to her favorite sites, like the temples of Karnac and Luxor. There was also a very splashy (and very cold) outdoor production of Aida, the first grand opera for both Mom and Mike.
It was on the way back from one of these excursions that Mom met Mubarak. From her diary:
We were resting near King Tut's tomb when a motorcade suddenly appeared--out jumped security guards--young, lean, in dark suits with white shirts and ties. In moments they were positioned all round--and President Maburak [sic] appeared. I asked the guard in front of me if I could take pictures--at first he said 'no'--but then the President gave different orders. Before I quite realized what was happening, I was shaking his hand and chatting with him about the opera and my appreciation of all that had been done for that event--and my enjoyment of Egypt. When we got back to the hotel, I discovered that I was an instant (though temporary) celebrity. I was on the 6 o'clock TV news and people started recognizing me everywhere.
Few things pleased my mother as much as being the center of attention; being singled out by the President of Egypt meant a great deal to her. And I'm certain that her unsolicited statements on national television reassuring the president of how safe she, as an American lady, felt in Egypt (at a time when violence against Western tourists was a growing problem) also meant a great deal to Mubarak--or at least to his public image.
Mom was far more interested in the history of Egypt, its ancient beauties and mysteries, than the turmoil of contemporary geopolitics. Shaking the man's hand was enough to charm her. Politics isn't just local; it's personal.
I think about Mom and Mubarak when I look back on how differently I feel about people after I have met them. I was as charmed by Newt Gingrich as by Al Gore when I met them at World Future Society conferences.
But of course I would not want either gentleman running my country for 30 years.
Ford's brings back special memories for me and an anniversary of sorts (though not the day exactly). It was a bright, crisp Sunday afternoon in a February far far away that brought me the bright, crisp off-key dancing and braying laugh of Edward Duke in Jeeves Takes Charge, the "one-man, two-act, 12-character, award-winning comedy tour de force," if he does say so himself.
So sitting in the balcony before the beginning of a play I knew nothing about, I was re-imagining my Edward and his many voices and faces, merry costumes and clever scene changes and all, enchanting me for a couple of hours and embodying the storytelling genius of Wodehouse.
So why did the format of Carpetbagger make me so impatient? The scene was static, with three actresses portraying sisters, each in her own panel of the triptych of a Texas cotton farm homestead, each taking a turn telling the story of their family to the audience but almost never interacting with each other. Yet each took on the voice and personality of the characters whose stories they were telling.
Storytelling with impersonations is exactly what Edward did for Jeeves; it is not a particularly original format. But with the Carpetbagger's girls, I was having a few of those "Why are you telling me all this?" moments and shifting in my seat a bit waiting for the plot to begin.
When I relaxed into the format a bit (thanks for reminding me, Edward), I let the power of the personalities on stage persuade me their story was worth the telling, even if I didn't get it at first.
One sister was constantly pressed to sing "The Clanging Bell of Time," or whatever the dashed name of the song was, which became an anthem for the passage of the family members' lives.
And, like Charming Billy over at Round House, the play seemed to say we are surrounded by our memories as we live through them, even if we cannot directly interact with the actors in our dramas.
It's hard to be a liar and a believer at the same time.
Back from Round House Theatre's production of Charming Billy, adapted and directed by RHT's producing artistic director, Blake Robison, from Alice McDermott's novel. A gathering of family and friends pieces together the life and heartbreak of Billy Lynch (portrayed by David Whalen) during a post-funeral gathering at a New York-Irish bar.
The conversation opens on one end of the long banquet table, the side away from the grieving widow, focusing on how long Billy had been known to drink, each recollection taking us back farther into Billy's life and to the key episode where he first met "the Irish girl."
The flashback scenes glided in from the wings onto the front of the stage, upstaging the party scene but leaving them visible to represent the present. Another flashback begins at the bar behind the party table. In this way, memory surrounds the present, asserting its legitimate place at the table.
Billy was a drunk; should we have helped him? Could we have helped him? Was it a disease, or was he at fault? The answers aren't really there, though I kept hoping for them. It wasn't about Billy, but about our own heartbreaks and guilts.
And so I turn these questions inward. Throughout the play I thought about my charming mother and her battles with depression and alcohol. Unlike Billy, she died sober, because she'd been in rehab those last several months. In the end, she still wanted to die--she'd outlived her life--but at least she no longer wanted to kill herself. At least I don't think so.
Not much of a review, but that's my approach to art. I let it surround me and assert its legitimate place at my table.
