BOOK REPORT: PERMANENT RECORD BY EDWARD SNOWDEN

IN THE INTRODUCTION TO HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY, EDWARD SNOWDEN WRITES:

"The freedom of a country can only be measured by its respect for the rights of its citizens, and it’s my conviction that these rights are in fact limitations of state power that define exactly where and when a government may not infringe into that domain of personal or individual freedoms that…during the Internet Revolutions is called 'privacy.'” (6-7)

He states that the “system of near-universal surveillance” his work in part helped establish, “had been set up not just without our consent, but in a way that deliberately hid every aspect of its programs from our knowledge. At every step, the changing procedures and their consequences were kept from everyone, including most lawmakers.” (6)

The title, “Permanent Record” refers to one of Edward Snowden’s chief concerns with the "Intelligence Community" (IC) where he spent more than a decade working—namely that all the information this vast spy system compiled about its citizens was collected—as his revelations proved—illegally and kept indefinitely: phone calls, text messages, emails, web searches and so on, all the electronic communications that most of us think of as private were (and quite probably still are) housed in banks of servers hidden away in secret, underground bunkers.

In the United States the NSA, the National Security Agency, is tasked with guarding “signals” espionage, that is the new-school form of spying that has come to compete with the old school ‘shoe-leather and mail-drop’ version of Spy vs Spy, that we grew up with as kids. (At least I did.) Snowden is of the generation that helped bring computer technologies forward to serve America’s spymasters. He came of age during the rise of the personal computer and the internet (he’s 30 years old or so today). A precocious youth, at school he was an indifferent student and his brilliance was reserved for his personal studies of computers and internet protocols, and of course “hacking”. The online world of chat-rooms, web searches and trying to understand how all these new technologies worked, and worked together, absorbed his young, inquisitive mind. One humorous incident Snowden recounts is when he hacked into the Los Almos National Laboratory and was horrified to find that many of their electronic directories containing information on classified atomic research were easily accessible to the public. If he could so get in, so could the Russians! He left a voicemail at the public inquiries' hotline to warn them of their security vulnerabilities. His equally horrified parents (both of whom were government employees—his mother worked for a time at the NSA as a low-level supoort staff; his father worked for the coast guard in an administrative capacity) received a visit from a pair of bemused FBI agents verifying young Snowden’s story. His talents for computer programming were already obvious, and he continued along this path, growing his knowledge of system analysis, eventually becoming a “system’s engineer” with the NSA.

Snowden is a true “whistle-blower”. As a young adult and a person of conscience, he came to realize the growing capacity of organizations such as the NSA* to operate increasingly in the dark with less and less governmental oversight.

At the same time, he was a rather conservative young man. His family background was one of government and military service going back generations.  He grew up in the area around Washington D.C. called “the Beltway” where many military and government workers made their homes. Secrecy, or at least a tendency for most residents to keep things close to your chest, was the environment that shaped his formative years. Later, he would later excel at developing security protocols for the security agency’s computer networks, as well as developing systems that helped the NSA store vast quantities of electronic information. Information, that is, about you and me. In particular, the NSA was interested in what it termed “metadata”:

     "The terms prefix “meta” which traditionally is translated as “above” or “beyond” is here used in the sense of “about”: metadata is data about data. It is, more accurately, data that is made by data—a cluster of tags and markers that allow data to be useful. The most direct way of thinking about metadata, however, is as “activity data,” all the records of all the things you do on your devices and all the things your devices do on their own. Take a phone call for example: its metadata might include the date and time of the call, the call’s duration, the number from which the call was made, the number being called and their locations. An emails' metadata might include information about what type of computer it was generation on, where, and when, who the computer belonged to, who sent the email, who received it, where and when it was sent and received and who, if anyone, besides the sender and recipient accessed it, and where and when. Metadata can tell your surveillant the address you slept at last night and what time you got up this morning. It reveals every place you visited during your day and how long you spent there. It shows who you were in touch with and who was in touch with you.” (179)

In his autobiography, Edward Snowden comes across as a principled, introspective and thoughtful person. He strongly believed that democracy is “the one form of governance that most fully enables people of different backgrounds to live together, equal before the law.” (207) His experience in the Intelligence Community, in the years he worked as a “contractor”—on the payroll and listed as an employee of such firms as Dell Computers, but in reality working in facilities run by the CIA and NSA—increasingly laid bare for him the institutional practices and technologies that, he came to feel, threatened his country’s democracy and trampled on the civil liberties of its citizens. As revelatory as his exposé of the hidden surveillance activities of these vast bureaucracies was, I found equally interesting his descriptions of his job path, and the organizations, groups, bureaucratic mazes and hidden hierarchies he encountered.

For those unfamiliar with Snowden’s story, he provided Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Glen Greenwald and Britain’s Guardian newspaper, with details of the NSA’s illegal data-collection activities. In 2013, having fled ahead of American authorities, he found himself trapped in Moscow’s international airport, in diplomatic limbo for several months, his American passport having been revoked by the State Department. Russia finally granted him asylum, and there he remains, wanted in the United States on charges of espionage.

His revelations made real for many the fears of what today’s new technologies might mean, especially when our governments (and for that matter, our large corporations) act in overreach their authority. While there were congressional investigations into wrongdoings on the part of the NSA and other American  IC agencies, resulting from Snowden's revelations, and new laws in the United States were established, I am far from certain this story is over. Here, in Canada, we must not be complacent about what our own government is capable of doing in the name of “national security.” Instead of being branded a traitor and criminal, Edward Snowden should be given a medal!

Be vigilant and be aware that Big Brother may indeed be watching!  And check out the HBO flic based on Snowden's revelations, Citizenfour.

Cheers, Jake.

 *The United States, Great Britain, Canada, Australia and New Zealand intelligence pact—the so-called “Five Eyes” network—share information that their electronic spy agencies  gather. The Canadian branch, CSIS, in the recent past has come under criticism for sharing information about a Canadian citizen travelling abroad where he was subsequently—illegally—transported to a third country where he was subjected to torture as a possible “terrorist”. Court proceedings in Canada following his release led to the government compensating him financially for his mistreatment. I have no reason to assume that such privacy and even human rights abuses do not still continue. Once such powerful technologies are acquired, it is difficult to get the holders of these technologies to relinquish them. As Edward Snowden discovered, they are too tempting not to use. And abuse.    

RANTS: MY CARONA! OOPSIE! MY BAD!

Mister Bottom's Folly

MARCH 24—Went to the local grocery store today. No lineups yet, though there’s now a security guard at the front doors. But it wasn’t busy (late morning) and the shelves were stocked in the usual manner (I even got some toilet paper!). I’m stocking up on canned goods, etc. I really didn’t need to shop, today. But, like everyone, I don’t know how long this thing will last.

I made a boo-boo at the checkout counter with my reusable plastic bags containing my purchases. I got a bit of a chill from the clerk. Then I realized my faux pas when she commented to another customer about store preferences (using store plastic bags.) I got out of there quick!

Note to store: if that is what you want to do to protect your workers, I’m 100% with you and will comply happily (if guiltily) in the future, using new plastic (sorry about that, sea turtles!)—but I suggest letting your security guard know so he can inform incoming customers or post some signs! I’m sorry! Sorry!

After skulking out of the grocery store I walked to the drugstore. I wanted vitamins and lottery tickets—especially lottery tickets because I really need to buy a castle with a moat. Again, the store was not busy, but looked well-stocked and they had vitamin C. (Last week they were out.) At the checkout there was a sign saying they were no longer selling lottery tickets, I guess to cut down on customer traffic (like me). There were no clerks at the checkouts so I had to use the self-scan machine. I got befuddled with the process, and was a bit snippy with a young female clerk who came to assist me. Sorry! Sorry! My bad; she didn’t need me to be pouty. These are not times for pouting! As for lottery tickets—I’ve decided to buy them on-line. Maybe my luck will improve! Later, I’ll go for my (social-distance maintained) walk along the lake shore. Temp is around 0⁰ C. We’ve had a bit of wet snow in last couple of days, and it will be a nice day for a long walk. Enjoy the joys and nod to sorrows as you walk by.

Cheers. Jake.

A POEMOPHOBE'S POEMS

Birth

The exact,

perfect moment—

Electric!

Then come the bells

and he’ll be shouting

at the dogs again:

“Lie down! Lie down!”

Still, history will record

that at a certain time and place,

a comet appeared in the sky.

Travelers newly arrived,

took up residence

in a nearby hotel.

The following morning,

a calf was born

with a single, perfect head.

Dew lay bejeweled

on the grass outside.

And time became a chorus

for birds in a churchyard.

Thus, nightingales sang,

bronze bells rang, dogs barked

and a man sat by his window—

all while a calf suckled

for its milk.

Pathway

Something in the air

coughed

as you took my hand

and led me, breathless,

to the top of the world.

(1974)

Ode to Underwear

Under clothes and the things we wear,

under suits like armour, under there—

beneath the shirts, the pants and skirts,

beneath the pleasures, beneath the hurts

lay skins of gold like cloth so fine,

skins like cups of summer’s wine,

wine that’s drunk along such shores

where boats are ushered by with oars;

that dipping ‘neath that sparkling plain

to cool dark then to sun again,

come drops of water, like beads of sweat.

All caught within the golden net.

Land, too, wakes inside the hour.

Blossoms open up in bower.

Below here lay the wakened scent

of love’s unending payment.

For light reaches under there.

And warmth does touch us under where

we’re skins of earth and water, fine.

A feast for all who choose to dine.

Perseverance

The wild thing laughed

when I stroked its neck

with my other hand.

In the Beginnin’

When Adam saw Eve

he said, “Holy Smoke!”

as his member grew stiff

and hard as an oak.

“Blessin’ be as blessin’ might,

I ain’t never ‘fore seen

such a wondrous sight!”

And when his fig leaf blew off

in the Great Cleansin’ Win’,

I believe that’s when

they named it

Original Sin.

The Porn Stars

Breathless with commission

after each emission,

with orgasmic precision,

our Dolly held the stage.

And Buck Wright, her first mate,

a.k.a. “Dick-the-Great”,

politely would await

her great finish.

But Dolly took to heart

a work ethic, from the start,

that finished (just in part),

on camera.

Days after she would shiver.

Down to her toes she’d quiver,

and moaning, whenever

Buck came in the room.

It got to the point

he couldn’t leave the joint,

nor even to appoint

a pitch hitter.

She practiced her craft

morning, noon and aft.

“More,” she once laughed,

on Sundays.

To better her skills

her privates she’d chill

with ice after drills.

(To keep them from overheating.)

She was a capitalist at core.

I remember she swore

that at forty and four

she’d retire.

And Buck, he agreed.

(Of late he’d felt the need

to keep his great steed

more in paddock.)

Yet, they were treadmilled,

tantalized and still,

caught between thrills

and just living.

Oh, it burned like a fire,

that unquenchable desire,

that need to aspire

for more:

More friction more waste,

more slippage more haste,

more freedom and space

for whatever.

So, be it money or sex,

like porn stars we’re next!

Will we read the fine text

only after?

Mystery at the

End of the Road

The human race

ran out of space,

all in the twinkling of an eye.

While across the face,

from that other place,

is the smile that you could die for.

Chestnut 2.0

Under the spreading selfish-tree,

I took from you; you took from me.

We made our stand, did I and thee,

under the spreading selfish-tree.

Sweet John/Spencer’s Hill

Sweet John, Sweet John,

how long you’ve been away!

Oh, I’ve been gone so long

that I might never stay.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

why did you go away?

I left for my sweetheart

to marry her someday.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

Oh, tell me who is she?

Why, she’s the sweetest gal

that you would ever see!

Is she a farming girl,

or from a city lane?

She lives not far from here,

but I’ll not say her name.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

where did your trav’ling go?

I went up to the mines

of north Ontario.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

why did you go up there?

To make me some money

to give to one so fair.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

was your searching in vain?

Up there I dug more gold

than a cloud does give rain.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

I‘m so happy for you!

Say with all your money

what is it you will do?

I’ll buy that house so high,

the one ‘top Spencer’s Hill.

Then I’ll buy his foundry

and Samuel Johnson’s mill.

I’ll make a grand old house;

she’ll want for not a thing—

with silks and fine linens, 

and golden wedding rings!

Sweet John, Sweet John,

I, too, will wed this fall!

Tell me, now, of your love,

of where you met, and all?

On Spencer’s Hill, one spring;

when I, a callow youth.

We’d love there ‘til the dawn.

She is my life, in truth.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

Now what do you speak of?

Not those times long ago

when we were fools in love?

Not foolish was our love!

Nor was our love in vain.

We were in love. And are.

That is a fact that’s plain.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

yes once we were as one.

But like night ends the day;

our love has had its run.

Sweet John, Sweet John,

I’m ‘trothed to Adam Dane.

Him I love. Only him.

And soon I’ll take his name.

 “Sweet John, Sweet John,”

in love you once called me.

Well, we’ll dance, one last time

beneath our courting tree.

Offering

The snow angel

lay beside

her counterpart,

her friction,

a cooling sacrifice

to blood and time.

So, poems are a bit like viruses—they need to attach themselves to something that has a heart and pumps blood. They need to be nourished by something other than themselves or they can’t survive. And yes, they do infect healthy cells of living, breathing bodies (and I wonder, here, if I should say that they also, more often than not, whither and drop away when they attach themselves to unhealthy ones.) In most cases, they cause a slight fever, some aches and pains, maybe a runny nose or watery eyes—nothing that’s too traumatic such that it would be remembered after a few days. Others, though, have more dramatic symptoms: nausea, stomach cramps, night sweats, and other physical ailments, including fairly high fevers (though these are usually not fatal). The ailments can last quite a while. And if the poem has gone deep enough, it will last through several of a person’s life stages.

Interestingly, most people know when they‘ve been infected by a poem. Usually they can recall where and when and under what circumstances they acquired it. Perhaps they were out walking in the street or in a bar or along the lakeshore, or at the gym (though not so often there, where there is already too much heavy breathing and sighing), or when simply sitting in their room, looking out the window at banks of purpling clouds in the distance. Surprisingly, a lot of people can be very precise about of how and when and where they were infected, but not usually why. And, of course it should be said that such details are helpful if there needs to be any sort of diagnosis or explanation or excuse made (but those formulations are seldom helpful.)

A Poetic Fish: "Breathless! I am hooked with baited breath!"

In most people, poems enter and leave their system all the time with no appreciable effects. Often they will not even be aware of their presence, other than perhaps for the vaguest of cravings. There have been studies on why some people develop immunity to poems while others are smacked and tossed around, flabbergasted and splayed open by them. Many in the field think it is a factor of time and distance, as well as memory, though this remains a hotly-debated topic.

The much smaller group of “Infectees”—those most prone to the slightest of poetic rhymes (AA, BB etc.), often suffer, we’re told, from tinnitus (or “ringing in the ear”), a word coincidentally poetic when spoken aloud in a strong, low-registered voice. (To my mind the word conjures up images of vague body parts being tickled or gently pinched. But that’s for another time.)

The reason that I bring this important topic to your attention is because of the growing stigma around Infectees, especially through today’s ‘social’ media (which is the equivalent of shouting across the bog-ditch at your neighbour instead of taking the time to walk around and shout at them in person.) infectees are rarely contagious after the initial period of greatest enthusiasm when they are most infused by a poem, and so person-to-person transmission is statistically low, given the several millennia poems have been written and read.

"Arr! Billy! There be poem treasure buried here!"

Now, I’ll end here by expressing to the reader my apologies if any of you become infected while reading any of the above poems. Poem-contagions are most virilant and potent  for those who have little or no immunity. I once read that even the dreaded Bubonic Plague (I’m reading Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year; go figure) will, in a few more centuries of adaptation, become on par with the measles and chicken pox; that humans will gradually develop immunity to it. My personal opinion is that we all need to keep some susceptibility and vulnerability to poems going forward, and that healthy lives depend upon the occasional infection. So, as far as poems are concerned, I guess you could say: A pox on all our houses!

BIRTH—I seem to recall writing around the same time that I was working on "The Dying House", and the storyline of a journey and stopping at hotels in different towns was on my mind. And again, I was thinking of one moment that crystalizes and captures as many other moments as possible, and presents them as some kind of whole. And perhaps even a pretty one. In the birthing of a calf there are many moments along the way. Which one is THE moment? Perhaps the moment of birth occurs years and decades later? Or earlier? When does birth start? When does it end? What do you see looking out that window?

PATHWAY—I wrote this probably in a hash-induced haze during my student days when I’d spend much time mooning over all the lovely lassies in the commons, and less time studying. While mountain climbing will leave you gasping for air eventually, unless you bring along a supply of oxygen, love, on the other hand, will always leave you breathless—even if you find it at sea level.

ODE TO UNDERWEAR—Probably my fav poem in this batch. I like the comic aspect of it, but also how it morphs into an ode or paean to our skin, our flesh, our physical being. We disguise ourselves in clothing, but also in the choices we make in life. I happen to think that human beings are basically “good”, no matter how much we cloak ourselves in decisions and prevarications and pride. So, when a cup of wine is offered to you—drink it. When a hand is offered, take it, and when someone speaks to you, answer them.  

PERSEVERANCE—They say only humans can laugh. I’m not sure if this is true or not, but when you use your other hand—perhaps the less dominant one—consequences other than the ones you’ve come to expect may occur, at times making for pleasant, even languid, moments that will last in your memories. Stroke on, my friends! Stroke on!

"Walk softly, my friend. Softly!"

IN THE BEGINNIN’—An early, raucous poem that is a ribald account about how the whole thing got started. While what Eve said about the matter is for another poem, what Adam said, when he finally lost his fig leaf, has unfortunately gone unrecorded. Which is just as well (because it’s probably unprintable!) ‘Nuff said.

THE PORN STARS—A record of silliness leading those who are afflicted into sadness, others into badness or even madness. Ah, Porn! It’s the “Wash-Rinse-Repeat-Repeat-Repeat” cycle of some people’s existence. And in doing porn (my career in the industry lasted about as long as I did) just when you think you’ve made the perfect take, there's always someone who sneezes! As an aside, I miss old-school porn shops, with “Daisy Doll” half-inflated in the front window, along with bondage gear and assorted “toys”, (some of which look down right painful!) And in the murky backroom’s smoke filled air, came the whispered sounds of pages turning, turning, turning…Well, that’s how I remember it, anyway. I do hope Buck and Dolly make a go of it off camera!

MYSTERY AT THE END OF THE ROAD—The mystery is not what causes your death, but what causes your life. The former is only confusing when you haven’t discovered the later. 

Cheers, Jake.