In transferring more than 7,000 songs and their accompanying artwork, playlists, and ratings, SharePod only freaked out on two dozen tracks.

The EXE file is tiny, however, weighing in at just 5.4MB, so it's small enough to carry around on your iPod. The program comes in an archive, not a self-extracting EXE file. One key feature of SharePod is that it comes with a database backup, so if something goes awry during the transfer process, it's a simple procedure to restore it. When you copy, you can set the folder architecture to one of three defaults, or customize your own.

You can use it to delete art, playlists, music, and videos from your iPod, edit tags, and you can also transfer from your computer to your iPod without having to use iTunes. Not only can you transfer your files, you can also perform some basic editing. SharePod comes with features that many competitors lack. It also transfers playlists, album art, and ratings, both to your hard drive and directly into iTunes. This fast freeware tool efficiently transfers your music collection to your hard drive, making it easy to back up or restore your music, videos, and photos. And because this sleek, metal poem challenges the story that 'progress' has made us safe, that 'the market' protects us, that the practices of modern science are objective, pure and benign, because it alters consciousness about what has happened to us, what we deserve, it is revolutionary work.Apple makes extracting your music from your iPod unnecessarily difficult, which is where SharePod comes in. The steel shell my contractor is designing and pricing, is a poem about immunity, about constructing a habitat that allows my overburdened defenses to rest. The house I am building is a story a story about what capitalism does to living cells, about the catastrophic rise in cancer rates and the murder of bees, the wildfire sterility of GMO pollen and the permanent states of inflammation so many of us suffer from. In that same essay Galeano writes, 'What process of change can move a people that does not know who it is nor where it came from? If it does not know who it is, how can it know what it deserves to be?' As a teller of significant stories, with a deep sense of historical context, this is what I try to do-to change our sense of who we are, where we came from and what we deserve. 'The task of the revolutionary,' my father says, 'is to change consciousness.' To affect the way people think, so that they are able to imagine a different way of life and begin creating it. But I grew up in the decades of decolonization, in a house filled with the words of people for whom revolution wasn't about storming barricades, but about transforming societies to make them livable, joyous and just. In his essay 'In Defense of the Word' Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano writes about the assault on meaning, when 'revolutionary' is used to describe the latest detergent, love is what one feels for a car, and happiness is the sensation of having eaten sausages. To declare oneself a revolutionary in the time and place where I now live sounds pretentious. 'The legendary Che said, as if planting a flower, that the good revolutionary is only moved by love.'

Dijo el Che legendario, como sembrando una flor, que al buen revolucionario solo le mueve e amor. Driving between the yellow fields of Sonoma County, contemplating my vocation, I sing with him. 'Guevara the human said no intellectual should be on salary to official thinking.' And he goes on to sing the horrors of an artificial self, of a head without a will of its own, of a conditional heart. Dijo Guevara el humano que ningún intelectual debe ser asalariado del pensamiento oficial. I'm listening to Silvio Rodriguez' CD Segunda Cita, marveling at the way Cuban singers can put political precision and big word into such heart-stirring poetry.

Rolling hills like the flanks of pale gold, short-haired beasts asleep in the sun. Springtime in Northern California (yes, February is spring here) means fields of flowering mustard, seas of brilliant lemon yellow lapping against the dark bent trunks of live oaks. Saturday morning I walked over to the nearest City Car Share pod and began my first road trip in almost five years: an hour north to see Stephen Marshall, my contractor.

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