I should no longer be surprised by people’s capacity for hate, by the staggering measures human beings will undertake to harm others, even when they have nothing to gain from it, out of shear malice. But I confess, it does still surprise me. I suppose it is in my nature to hold out an optimistic hope that we can set aside our prejudices and show compassion to our fellow beings, especially when doing so represents no threat to ourselves. I guess I am glad that it still surprises me, glad that I still have hope. Yet, there are times when the utter smashing of that hope makes me heartsick and weary. Today is one of those times.
In the aftermath of yesterday’s presidential election, I should be celebrating, but you may be aware that California had another issue on the ballot. It was a proposition to alter the state’s constitution to define marriage as a union between one man and one woman, effectively prohibiting marriage for homosexual couples. This proposition passed. I simply cannot understand that.
This is not to say that I am in favor of homosexuality. I am neither for nor against it. It is merely a fact that some people - human beings like you and me - are gay. We may not like it - hell, they may not like it themselves - but our likes and dislikes do not alter the reality.
Darling wife saw a student at her school wearing a sticker in favor of the proposition. The sticker insisted that every child deserves a mommy and a daddy. OK. Soooo… what does that have to do with gay marriage? This issue is about the right for two consenting adults to marry one another. Children, or lack thereof, are not part of the matter being legislated. That is a logical fallacy if ever I saw one. Besides, what about all of the parents out there who are widowed or divorced or simply never wed in the first place? Their children do not have a mommy AND a daddy. Of course, biologically they do. They must. But biology also has nothing to do with this issue. We may not like to acknowledge broken homes; we may not think them ideal for raising a healthy child, but they are also a reality, and one that has nothing to do with the institution of marriage, gay or otherwise.
I saw on the news another proponent of the proposition, a young man of about 17 or 18 years old. He stated boldly and defiantly for the news camera, “I’m not gay. I love women! I want to marry a woman.” Well, good for you, kid. But again, what does that have to do with anything? Allowing gay people to marry one another will not stop this young man from loving and marrying a woman, will it? I’m not gay either, and I AM married to a wonderful woman. That won’t change even if a million gay people marry each other. My marriage or its sanctity will not be affected in the least. So, why should I care?
This young man went on to say, “I don’t want any kid in California to have to see that - two people of the same sex married to each other. Or any kid anywhere in this country. I want prop 8 to stop that from happening.” And this is the real crux of the matter, isn’t it? Of course, it’s not really about the hypothetical “kid” that this “kid” wants to protect. It is about his self-centeredness. He will not do something for the good of others if it does not benefit himself. No, actually, it’s worse than that. He will not even do nothing if his inaction benefits others and not himself. He had rather be active to take away someone else’s rights, even when those rights don’t in any way infringe upon his own. Because he is not gay and doesn’t want to marry another man, he doesn’t want anybody to. It is the very fact that gay marriage will mean absolutely nothing to him personally that allows him to want to ban it. That makes his act is an act of pure hatred for those who are not like himself, and though he may couch his words in moral sounding philosophy, it is hate, and hate of the worst kind. It is hate for no reason, hate against something that does him no harm, hate that is raw and ugly.
For all our claims of higher sensibilities and progressive development, how can we still… why do we… what are we?
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Issues of a Nomad's Existence: A Complaint
Darling Wife and I continue to make preparations in keeping with our stated purpose to migrate back across the country next year. It has long been our intention to sell most of our furniture, saving only a few choice items, like our bed, which would free us from our material burdens and make our flight considerably easier. This measure would allow us, in theory, to transport the remainder of our household goods in a POD, and drive ourselves and our canine companions across the plain in our roomy sedan.
As the end of the month approaches, and bill-paying time is once again upon us, financial thoughts and budgeting aspects fill my waking hours. Consequently, I contacted PODS this past weekend to get a price quote for our relocation. The courteous and helpful British woman I spoke to took all of the specifics and told me - brace yourself- that it would cost $4, 305! I promptly hung up the phone.
Can you fathom it? That is an outrageous fee when we'd still have the expense of transporting ourselves, and we would have all of the packing, loading, and unloading to do. I think you could almost hire professional movers for such a sum.
So I turned to the poor man's moving friend, U-Haul. Darling Wife and I drove such a vehicle across this vast nation of ours when we moved to CA more than three years ago, and it was not an experience I wanted to repeat. Driving the distance isn't so bad - we'11 be doing that anyway - but doing it in a moving truck is not fun. The winds on the deserts and prairies struggle to turn you over or push you off the road the entire time, and it's a constant struggle to keep the contents of the truck from shifting around turns. I can handle it, of course, but I really didn't want to if there were any other way. We also have the car now, which we didn't have before, and which we'll have to pull that behind us. That adds additional difficulties to the driving. And then there are the dogs; having two dogs in a moving truck for almost 3,000 miles doesn't sound appealing either. But what are we to do?
According to U-haul's website, we'll get nine days to load and unload the truck and make the cross-country journey. That's a bit tight, don't you think? And it will cost almost $1, 500 for the truck, another $450 for the car trailer, plus there's the considerable expense of gas. So we're still looking at over $2, 000 even with this "cheaper" option.
It's almost enough to make us want to sell all of our belongings, save our money, and start fresh once we return to the civilized east. Fear not, I haven't exhausted all options yet. I just needed to vent.
As the end of the month approaches, and bill-paying time is once again upon us, financial thoughts and budgeting aspects fill my waking hours. Consequently, I contacted PODS this past weekend to get a price quote for our relocation. The courteous and helpful British woman I spoke to took all of the specifics and told me - brace yourself- that it would cost $4, 305! I promptly hung up the phone.
Can you fathom it? That is an outrageous fee when we'd still have the expense of transporting ourselves, and we would have all of the packing, loading, and unloading to do. I think you could almost hire professional movers for such a sum.
So I turned to the poor man's moving friend, U-Haul. Darling Wife and I drove such a vehicle across this vast nation of ours when we moved to CA more than three years ago, and it was not an experience I wanted to repeat. Driving the distance isn't so bad - we'11 be doing that anyway - but doing it in a moving truck is not fun. The winds on the deserts and prairies struggle to turn you over or push you off the road the entire time, and it's a constant struggle to keep the contents of the truck from shifting around turns. I can handle it, of course, but I really didn't want to if there were any other way. We also have the car now, which we didn't have before, and which we'll have to pull that behind us. That adds additional difficulties to the driving. And then there are the dogs; having two dogs in a moving truck for almost 3,000 miles doesn't sound appealing either. But what are we to do?
According to U-haul's website, we'll get nine days to load and unload the truck and make the cross-country journey. That's a bit tight, don't you think? And it will cost almost $1, 500 for the truck, another $450 for the car trailer, plus there's the considerable expense of gas. So we're still looking at over $2, 000 even with this "cheaper" option.
It's almost enough to make us want to sell all of our belongings, save our money, and start fresh once we return to the civilized east. Fear not, I haven't exhausted all options yet. I just needed to vent.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Those we leave behind
My grandmother is dying. Have I told you that?
Don't worry. I've made my peace with it. She is old, turned 90 this year. She has had a good life; she'd tell you that herself. Her father died when she was only a small child; she lived through the depression; and she literally nursed her husband through fifteen years of deteriorating health and dialysis after he suffered complete kidney failure. But she was happy. I seldom recall her without a twinkle in her eye and a song in her voice. And now her own health has been declining. She is weak, can hardly hear, and her mind is... what is the term... going? She's scarcely been cognizant of the realities of the outside world for at least two years. My memories of my father's mother are of a robust and opinionated woman who loved God, her family, and her home. She was simple, faithful, strong. This... shell... this mortal coil that remains is not my grandmother. It is not even a shadow of her; I do not recognize it. She deserves better than this shallow existence, confined to a bed, undressing herself in the middle of a crowded living room on the rare occasions when she rises, and she, the most prudish person I've ever known. She used to stitch extra lace or a bit of fabric into the necks of her dresses to avoid showing skin below the chin. That proud and happy woman has been gone for some time, and I have mourned her already. I honestly pray daily for her release.
But recently her worsening condition required my father, sister, and I to travel down to the farm house in northeastern Mississippi to make some arrangements with my aunt and clean up a few things. It felt weird going back. I haven't lived in the South for six years, haven't set foot in it at all for nearly two, and haven't been to the farm in over three. Those who read this blog know how much that farm means to me, but I am a stranger to it now. I once thought I would always be Southern no matter where I lived, no matter who else I became, but I confess I had almost forgotten what it was like. Living amongst the palm trees of California, it is Boston that my heart longs for. The South had been relegated to the past along with other ephemeral dreams of boyhood.
But oh, how the smell of the place stirred the echoes, like summer's cast off leaves caught in autumn's chill winds, dead but still resplendent, moving and palpable, their vibrant colors belying their lack of vitality. I expected the trip would allow me to take my leave of the farm, say goodbye to my grandmother and my childhood, but I found myself again and again searching for signs of my grandfather about the place, pushing through the accumulation of decades to find an article of clothing, his handwriting in a Bible. He is the one the farm conjures for me most vividly, despite the intervening years since his death, and I realized as we drove back to Tennessee listening to my father's tales of his childhood that it is for my grandfather I have wept when I have seen the utter disrepair of the place. It is because of my grandfather that I have refused to relinquish my hold on it... or it on me. He died in September of1985, but even after twenty three years, it is my grandfather I have not ceased to mourn.
He was an extraordinary person. I know many people believe this about their parents or grandparents, and I certainly know he had his fault, like any man. But my grandfather has always been a sort of hero to me. I have always wished to be more like him. He was quiet for the most part, seldom speaking, but speaking with authority and assurance when he spoke. He was smart and prudent, always making the right moves to keep the farm prosperous. He was firm with his rules, but kind in his consequences. He guided and taught with a light hand and never minded when we made mistakes. And best of all, we never knew exactly when his boyish penchant for mischief would break out from his dour countenance with a sly grin as we passed him in the hallway or on the front porch. Then would come the sudden lurch, a pinched buttock, a child's gleeful squirm and wriggle of escape, and then a rapid return in the hopes that we would be seized again. When I was a child, people said I looked like him, and with a boy's vanity, I was overly pleased with the observation. At his funeral, people packed the small country church sanctuary, spilled out to fill the hallway outside, and covered the sidewalk beyond the building's front doors. My grandfather in his quiet way loved deeply and encouraged an abiding love in others.
Of course, I didn't think of all this at the time. It seemed natural that being on the farm would make me think of him... would make all of us think of him. It was only upon returning to California that it hit me. It was my grandfather I was letting go of when I bid farewell to my grandmother and her home... my home, the home of my family for generations beyond memory. Its people and landscape have been my ties to him for my entire life, distant but comforting in their solidity.
Goodbye, Granddaddy. We will miss you. I... miss you.
Don't worry. I've made my peace with it. She is old, turned 90 this year. She has had a good life; she'd tell you that herself. Her father died when she was only a small child; she lived through the depression; and she literally nursed her husband through fifteen years of deteriorating health and dialysis after he suffered complete kidney failure. But she was happy. I seldom recall her without a twinkle in her eye and a song in her voice. And now her own health has been declining. She is weak, can hardly hear, and her mind is... what is the term... going? She's scarcely been cognizant of the realities of the outside world for at least two years. My memories of my father's mother are of a robust and opinionated woman who loved God, her family, and her home. She was simple, faithful, strong. This... shell... this mortal coil that remains is not my grandmother. It is not even a shadow of her; I do not recognize it. She deserves better than this shallow existence, confined to a bed, undressing herself in the middle of a crowded living room on the rare occasions when she rises, and she, the most prudish person I've ever known. She used to stitch extra lace or a bit of fabric into the necks of her dresses to avoid showing skin below the chin. That proud and happy woman has been gone for some time, and I have mourned her already. I honestly pray daily for her release.
But recently her worsening condition required my father, sister, and I to travel down to the farm house in northeastern Mississippi to make some arrangements with my aunt and clean up a few things. It felt weird going back. I haven't lived in the South for six years, haven't set foot in it at all for nearly two, and haven't been to the farm in over three. Those who read this blog know how much that farm means to me, but I am a stranger to it now. I once thought I would always be Southern no matter where I lived, no matter who else I became, but I confess I had almost forgotten what it was like. Living amongst the palm trees of California, it is Boston that my heart longs for. The South had been relegated to the past along with other ephemeral dreams of boyhood.
But oh, how the smell of the place stirred the echoes, like summer's cast off leaves caught in autumn's chill winds, dead but still resplendent, moving and palpable, their vibrant colors belying their lack of vitality. I expected the trip would allow me to take my leave of the farm, say goodbye to my grandmother and my childhood, but I found myself again and again searching for signs of my grandfather about the place, pushing through the accumulation of decades to find an article of clothing, his handwriting in a Bible. He is the one the farm conjures for me most vividly, despite the intervening years since his death, and I realized as we drove back to Tennessee listening to my father's tales of his childhood that it is for my grandfather I have wept when I have seen the utter disrepair of the place. It is because of my grandfather that I have refused to relinquish my hold on it... or it on me. He died in September of1985, but even after twenty three years, it is my grandfather I have not ceased to mourn.
He was an extraordinary person. I know many people believe this about their parents or grandparents, and I certainly know he had his fault, like any man. But my grandfather has always been a sort of hero to me. I have always wished to be more like him. He was quiet for the most part, seldom speaking, but speaking with authority and assurance when he spoke. He was smart and prudent, always making the right moves to keep the farm prosperous. He was firm with his rules, but kind in his consequences. He guided and taught with a light hand and never minded when we made mistakes. And best of all, we never knew exactly when his boyish penchant for mischief would break out from his dour countenance with a sly grin as we passed him in the hallway or on the front porch. Then would come the sudden lurch, a pinched buttock, a child's gleeful squirm and wriggle of escape, and then a rapid return in the hopes that we would be seized again. When I was a child, people said I looked like him, and with a boy's vanity, I was overly pleased with the observation. At his funeral, people packed the small country church sanctuary, spilled out to fill the hallway outside, and covered the sidewalk beyond the building's front doors. My grandfather in his quiet way loved deeply and encouraged an abiding love in others.
Of course, I didn't think of all this at the time. It seemed natural that being on the farm would make me think of him... would make all of us think of him. It was only upon returning to California that it hit me. It was my grandfather I was letting go of when I bid farewell to my grandmother and her home... my home, the home of my family for generations beyond memory. Its people and landscape have been my ties to him for my entire life, distant but comforting in their solidity.
Goodbye, Granddaddy. We will miss you. I... miss you.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Of Finances, Friends, and Formation of the Mind
It would be a gross understatement to claim that I have been busy. Of course, we are all busy, and at any rate, I am always busy. But I must say that I have been particularly busy of late.*
Darling Wife and I entertained house guests for the better part of last week, and I have been nearly o'rwhelmed with school work since their departure. We are also expecting another guest this weekend. None of these circumstances has been or will be lamented. Quite the contrary, most of it has been and, I hope, will continue to be highly enjoyable. But it does rather tax one's energies and stretch one's budget.
Speaking of which, it being the end of one month and the beginning of another, I have been cooking the books, as the saying goes. Things in that quadrant are not as bleak as in times past. They are steadily improving. But I must confess that all of this focus on dollars and cents, pennies and pounds tires me something awful. I try to live by the maxim of Mr. Micawber: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery." But we are not talking about twenty pounds with an odd six pence on either side. It is alarming to consider the thousands that come in and out of a modestly small household like ours in the course of a single month so that even when the expenditure doesn't exceed the income, just dealing with it all runs one perilously close to misery. I can't help but think that there have to be ways to simplify matters without going to the extreme of living in an old bus in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness.
*I have also been watching the HBO series "John Adams" on DVD, and it may have affected my syntax a touch. :)
Darling Wife and I entertained house guests for the better part of last week, and I have been nearly o'rwhelmed with school work since their departure. We are also expecting another guest this weekend. None of these circumstances has been or will be lamented. Quite the contrary, most of it has been and, I hope, will continue to be highly enjoyable. But it does rather tax one's energies and stretch one's budget.
Speaking of which, it being the end of one month and the beginning of another, I have been cooking the books, as the saying goes. Things in that quadrant are not as bleak as in times past. They are steadily improving. But I must confess that all of this focus on dollars and cents, pennies and pounds tires me something awful. I try to live by the maxim of Mr. Micawber: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery." But we are not talking about twenty pounds with an odd six pence on either side. It is alarming to consider the thousands that come in and out of a modestly small household like ours in the course of a single month so that even when the expenditure doesn't exceed the income, just dealing with it all runs one perilously close to misery. I can't help but think that there have to be ways to simplify matters without going to the extreme of living in an old bus in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness.
*I have also been watching the HBO series "John Adams" on DVD, and it may have affected my syntax a touch. :)
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
A Screeching Halt
I just caused an accident... I think.
I was out for my afternoon bike ride, moving at a fairly quick clip, loose and enjoying myself in the mild afternoon sun. I had finished my exercise and had nearly reached home when I came up behind three undergraduate girls with long blond hair, wearing sun dresses and giant round-lensed sunglasses, carrying enormous "bags" (purses, not school bags), and riding side-by-side. One of them was talking on her cell phone, and the other two were keeping pace with her. They were all three creeping along on their big ole cruisers, blocking the entire bike path.
I followed behind them a short distance until they reached a section of the path with clearly marked lanes. I thought perhaps they would fall into line and stay in the right lane, as they are supposed to do. But the girls continued to pedal along at their extremely slow pace, staring around like they hadn't a brain among the three of them. So, I rang my little bike bell and said, "Excuse me. On your left," as I pulled up to pass them. The girl farthest to the left jerked her head around with surprise clearly marking every feature of her face and drove right into the side of the girl next to her. Their bikes became entangled, and they both went down in a jumble of fenders and chains.
All three girls immediately began swearing, not at me exactly, but at the universe, as if it had somehow betrayed them, and then they started looking over their bodies and clothes for damage. One girl had a pretty bad scrape on her knee, but she seemed more concerned about her dress than about her injury or the fact that she was sitting in the middle of the bike path with her knees drawn up and her legs spread, underwear clearly visible.
I stopped, got off my bike, and helped her to stand up. Then I righted their bikes and, with the help of another guy who stopped as well, straightened crooked handlebars and bent fenders. Meanwhile, the girls continued to swear and tug at their clothing. They didn't acknowledge any fault or assistance on my part or the other guy's, nor did they seem aware of what to do.
After a few awkward moments of standing there, unsure what to say or how to act, I got back on my bike and rode home. At this moment, I'm not exactly sure who was more at fault or who is more to be pitied.
I was out for my afternoon bike ride, moving at a fairly quick clip, loose and enjoying myself in the mild afternoon sun. I had finished my exercise and had nearly reached home when I came up behind three undergraduate girls with long blond hair, wearing sun dresses and giant round-lensed sunglasses, carrying enormous "bags" (purses, not school bags), and riding side-by-side. One of them was talking on her cell phone, and the other two were keeping pace with her. They were all three creeping along on their big ole cruisers, blocking the entire bike path.
I followed behind them a short distance until they reached a section of the path with clearly marked lanes. I thought perhaps they would fall into line and stay in the right lane, as they are supposed to do. But the girls continued to pedal along at their extremely slow pace, staring around like they hadn't a brain among the three of them. So, I rang my little bike bell and said, "Excuse me. On your left," as I pulled up to pass them. The girl farthest to the left jerked her head around with surprise clearly marking every feature of her face and drove right into the side of the girl next to her. Their bikes became entangled, and they both went down in a jumble of fenders and chains.
All three girls immediately began swearing, not at me exactly, but at the universe, as if it had somehow betrayed them, and then they started looking over their bodies and clothes for damage. One girl had a pretty bad scrape on her knee, but she seemed more concerned about her dress than about her injury or the fact that she was sitting in the middle of the bike path with her knees drawn up and her legs spread, underwear clearly visible.
I stopped, got off my bike, and helped her to stand up. Then I righted their bikes and, with the help of another guy who stopped as well, straightened crooked handlebars and bent fenders. Meanwhile, the girls continued to swear and tug at their clothing. They didn't acknowledge any fault or assistance on my part or the other guy's, nor did they seem aware of what to do.
After a few awkward moments of standing there, unsure what to say or how to act, I got back on my bike and rode home. At this moment, I'm not exactly sure who was more at fault or who is more to be pitied.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Time and Tide
Time plays tricks with memory. We all know that. Memory makes a treasured space out of a horrible apartment you once had when you were a young student, fresh to the city from some provincial existence. Nostalgia reworks the bored hours of childhood into an adult's longed-for moments of innocent freedom.
But once in a while, we experience something that time cannot embellish. These experiences encompass more than the places where they occurred, more than the activities we were engaged in, and it is curious how we can live outside of them and inside of them at precisely the same instant. It is as if these experiences defy the laws of temporality and physics to allow a person to exist in two places... two moments... at the same time. Even if medical science can explain this phenomenon some day, will it matter? Will knowing the exact cause of the sorcery render it any less potent? I think not.
When reading a book the other day, I briefly touched such a blurring. The book is a decent tale by a moderately talented author, nothing profound or all that moving. But the novel's setting called forth a mental time capsule like something from a Wordsworth poem.
I stood again on a stretch of road that was in itself unremarkable. Cars sped along it, occupants busy trying to reach other destinations. I could feel the ocean breeze on my hair and smell the tang of salt and seaweed on the air. On either side, water pulsed and quivered, the narrow stretch of the Vineyard Sound on my left, Vineyard Haven Lagoon on my right. The roadway covered a tiny strip of land, little more than a jetty, and I could see jellyfish gliding easily in the depths below. Had I been on a bridge or a boat, the experience would not have been the same. This space was truly liminal, not quite land nor sea. Ahead lay Edgartown, the island's chief town, and behind lay Vineyard Haven. But this space, this strip of road, was outside of both. It belonged to nowhere and nothing... except to the journey between places, between worlds.
And now, it resides in my mind, not quite real, but not imagined either... undefined, unnamed, unbounded.
But once in a while, we experience something that time cannot embellish. These experiences encompass more than the places where they occurred, more than the activities we were engaged in, and it is curious how we can live outside of them and inside of them at precisely the same instant. It is as if these experiences defy the laws of temporality and physics to allow a person to exist in two places... two moments... at the same time. Even if medical science can explain this phenomenon some day, will it matter? Will knowing the exact cause of the sorcery render it any less potent? I think not.
When reading a book the other day, I briefly touched such a blurring. The book is a decent tale by a moderately talented author, nothing profound or all that moving. But the novel's setting called forth a mental time capsule like something from a Wordsworth poem.
I stood again on a stretch of road that was in itself unremarkable. Cars sped along it, occupants busy trying to reach other destinations. I could feel the ocean breeze on my hair and smell the tang of salt and seaweed on the air. On either side, water pulsed and quivered, the narrow stretch of the Vineyard Sound on my left, Vineyard Haven Lagoon on my right. The roadway covered a tiny strip of land, little more than a jetty, and I could see jellyfish gliding easily in the depths below. Had I been on a bridge or a boat, the experience would not have been the same. This space was truly liminal, not quite land nor sea. Ahead lay Edgartown, the island's chief town, and behind lay Vineyard Haven. But this space, this strip of road, was outside of both. It belonged to nowhere and nothing... except to the journey between places, between worlds.
And now, it resides in my mind, not quite real, but not imagined either... undefined, unnamed, unbounded.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Short-term commitments
Have you ever heard the term "serial monogamist"? It refers to a person who is faithful to one other person while he or she is dating/married/sleeping with that person, presenting every appearance of maintaining a permanent situation. And in truth, sometimes these relationships can go on for years. But eventually, the serialist will sever the attachment, only to become embroiled in another one after a short time. Serial monogamists can be great partners if one is only looking for temporary stability and trust, but one can't base any long-term plans on them, despite all evidence to the contrary. For whatever reason, serial monogamists will eventually move on to different, albeit it not necessarily greener, pastures.
I was never a serial monogamist in the romantic sense. Oh sure, I dated various women for extended periods to the exclusion of other women, but until I met Darling Wife, I never gave any impression of a serious long-term relationship with any of them. Besides, I would often date many different women for years between these longer connections, and I went for long periods dating no one. Nope. Before I met DW, I considered myself a life-long bachelor, not a serial dater.
However, I confess that I have a track record of lengthy short-term commitments in most other aspects of my life. Three years is about average for me. Almost every job I ever held, with a couple of notable exceptions, lasted for approximately three years, give or take a few months. And every place I ever lived...? Yep... three years. You can measure out the phases of my life in three-year increments. I always thought this was because it took me a year to get used to something, another year to weary of it, and another year to find a way to change it. But whatever the reason for the cycle, each time I set up housekeeping with all of the appearances of permanent residence right up until the day I left.
After years of living this way, though, I long for a little more permanence. I want to plant a tree and watch it grown. I want to buy furniture without the thought of how I will move it a year later. I want to make an investment in a community and build lasting friendships.
Yet, the three-year itch is not easily shaken off. DW and I have lived here in CA for almost exactly three years now. As you all know, we haven't liked it beyond the first six months, but we stayed for various reasons. Now we have one more year... actually nine or ten more months. That's all. That isn't very long. But the three year period has passed, and like the mysterious migrational instincts of birds, I am struggling to stay put. Every sense within me tells me that we've been here too long. It's time to go.
We recently reworked our budget to start saving money for the move. We've also been examining potential communities in more detail. We even made arrangements to visit a few when we are back east for Christmas. All of these preparations should make me feel better, but suddenly a year seems like such a long time. You see, it's not just a year. It's a year beyond the three. And that, my friends, makes all the difference.
I was never a serial monogamist in the romantic sense. Oh sure, I dated various women for extended periods to the exclusion of other women, but until I met Darling Wife, I never gave any impression of a serious long-term relationship with any of them. Besides, I would often date many different women for years between these longer connections, and I went for long periods dating no one. Nope. Before I met DW, I considered myself a life-long bachelor, not a serial dater.
However, I confess that I have a track record of lengthy short-term commitments in most other aspects of my life. Three years is about average for me. Almost every job I ever held, with a couple of notable exceptions, lasted for approximately three years, give or take a few months. And every place I ever lived...? Yep... three years. You can measure out the phases of my life in three-year increments. I always thought this was because it took me a year to get used to something, another year to weary of it, and another year to find a way to change it. But whatever the reason for the cycle, each time I set up housekeeping with all of the appearances of permanent residence right up until the day I left.
After years of living this way, though, I long for a little more permanence. I want to plant a tree and watch it grown. I want to buy furniture without the thought of how I will move it a year later. I want to make an investment in a community and build lasting friendships.
Yet, the three-year itch is not easily shaken off. DW and I have lived here in CA for almost exactly three years now. As you all know, we haven't liked it beyond the first six months, but we stayed for various reasons. Now we have one more year... actually nine or ten more months. That's all. That isn't very long. But the three year period has passed, and like the mysterious migrational instincts of birds, I am struggling to stay put. Every sense within me tells me that we've been here too long. It's time to go.
We recently reworked our budget to start saving money for the move. We've also been examining potential communities in more detail. We even made arrangements to visit a few when we are back east for Christmas. All of these preparations should make me feel better, but suddenly a year seems like such a long time. You see, it's not just a year. It's a year beyond the three. And that, my friends, makes all the difference.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Civil Disobeisance
It turned cooler (mid-80s) here for about two days, but now it is nearly 100 degrees again. The lakes are lower than I've ever seen them, some are practically ponds now, and the creeks are all stagnant. Most of the plants in my garden are dying despite my daily watering, and the grass is disappearing from my backyard faster than wedding dresses at the Filene's Basement annual bridal sale.
In addition, I'm on jury duty. I was called and appeared on Tuesday as my civic duty demanded, and I was chosen as an alternate juror on a criminal trial that is expected to continue for the rest of the week. I've never been involved in proceedings like this before; I've only experienced the television version of them. It's very interesting, and I would probably be enjoying myself except... I spent all last weekend catching up on school work, and being in court all day is putting me behind again. I feel the stress starting to build with each day that passes.
And of course, that's not all. I could go on with the litany of petty annoyances, but I don't care to rehash them. The point is, I'm annoyed and cranky, which makes me more annoyed and cranky. Do you ever just get tired of being angry?
In addition, I'm on jury duty. I was called and appeared on Tuesday as my civic duty demanded, and I was chosen as an alternate juror on a criminal trial that is expected to continue for the rest of the week. I've never been involved in proceedings like this before; I've only experienced the television version of them. It's very interesting, and I would probably be enjoying myself except... I spent all last weekend catching up on school work, and being in court all day is putting me behind again. I feel the stress starting to build with each day that passes.
And of course, that's not all. I could go on with the litany of petty annoyances, but I don't care to rehash them. The point is, I'm annoyed and cranky, which makes me more annoyed and cranky. Do you ever just get tired of being angry?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Through the Hour Glass
Then just as quickly, those moments of respite are gone, and we are faced once again with the dust heap. It lies in our garages, in our e-mail in-boxes, in our hall closets. Only while we looked away, it has grown greater, taller, wider. It is a veritable mountain of senseless minutiae. How did it get so big... so quickly?
One is left to ponder, not how we manage to cope with it, but why.
Is it any mystery that countless numbers of today's youths prefer to be jacked into mp3 players and video games? Why drug abuse is rampant in our society? They seek drama and excitement, anything to quicken them and allow them to ignore the triviality of the heap.
But I don't long for that sort of escape. Instead, I hear the voice of Thoreau, "Simplify, simplify, simplify," it says. The word sounds in the midst of the refuse like the sharp call of a bird whose shape I know, but name I've forgotten. Thoreau wrote, "Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind."
I am weary of being hindered. If only I had the courage to be elevated.
One is left to ponder, not how we manage to cope with it, but why.
Is it any mystery that countless numbers of today's youths prefer to be jacked into mp3 players and video games? Why drug abuse is rampant in our society? They seek drama and excitement, anything to quicken them and allow them to ignore the triviality of the heap.
But I don't long for that sort of escape. Instead, I hear the voice of Thoreau, "Simplify, simplify, simplify," it says. The word sounds in the midst of the refuse like the sharp call of a bird whose shape I know, but name I've forgotten. Thoreau wrote, "Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind."
I am weary of being hindered. If only I had the courage to be elevated.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Love is all you need
And then, there are those stolen moments with someone you love that sweep all the trash away.
Or perhaps, the trash is still there, but you are able to see again how insignificant it truly is.
If only those moments weren't so difficult to come by. But then I guess they wouldn't be worth as much.
Or perhaps, the trash is still there, but you are able to see again how insignificant it truly is.
If only those moments weren't so difficult to come by. But then I guess they wouldn't be worth as much.
Friday, August 22, 2008
It's the little things
They come at you, all the time, piling up like garbage at a landfill. Each one by itself is insignificant, and you know that in time, they will not matter.
Perhaps that is what makes them so hard to deal with. They are so trivial; what is the point? Why exert yourself?
But if you do not, they soon bury you. So you work them out, clean them up, handle each one in turn... over, and over, and over again... until you are exhausted.
But you can't really complain because... after all... they are trivial. Right?
Perhaps that is what makes them so hard to deal with. They are so trivial; what is the point? Why exert yourself?
But if you do not, they soon bury you. So you work them out, clean them up, handle each one in turn... over, and over, and over again... until you are exhausted.
But you can't really complain because... after all... they are trivial. Right?
Friday, August 08, 2008
Will You Not Shed a Tear?
I named my PC "Glorfindel." To those steeped in the lore of Tolkien, this name may not be unfamiliar to your eyes. But to those who have never ventured into the complex worlds of this master dreamweaver, let me assure you that this is a name to conjure with. Glorfindel was an elf lord of the Eldar who returned to Middle Earth from the Undying Lands, a journey never undertaken by other being, to help Frodo escape from the Nazgul and come within the protecting sway of the elves of Rivendell in Fellowship of the Ring. (This role was usurped by Arwen Undomiel in the film.) Glorfindel is powerful and good, and I had hope that bestowing this name upon my mechanical servant would render it some manner of protection.
But alas, some two days ago, a friend reached across cyberspace and time to send me a video file. This file contained a music video filmed in his new soundstage in my old hometown, and he desired my opinion of it. Glorfindel informed me that I needed a certain codec to view the file, and I went speedily in pursuit of it. In my haste and poor judgment, I discovered what I believed to be the sought after element and gave it to Glorfindel.
Woe and destruction followed, for the thing I had unearthed was not the codec I mistook it for but a foul fiend of the abyss. Harken unto me, friends, and harken well. Know you that this fiend is called Antispyware 2008, and it is a most fell beast. Test it not. Touch it not. But avoid it with all your might unless you long for a life of peril and death.
This grievous foe latched onto Glorfindel with the swiftness of birds in flight and the strength of a cave troll. Like a guard asleep at the castle gates, my virus-protection software recognized it not until it was well beyond the reach of the defenses, wreaking horrible damage upon all that crossed its path.
I hastily procured the services of a mercenary by the name of Antimalware, available at Malwarebytes.org, and he succeeded in utterly destroying the enemy. But it was too late. Glorfindel has suffered a mortal wound that is beyond my powers to heal.
Fortunately, he was able to hold himself together long enough to allow me to save the precious cargo he carries, but his memory must be wiped and his operating system reinstalled. He will no longer be recognizable as the companion of my recent years. I am most cast down. A moment of indiscretion and folly has brought the ruin of all that he and I had built together.
It is a gray day, my friends. Please, lament with us.
But alas, some two days ago, a friend reached across cyberspace and time to send me a video file. This file contained a music video filmed in his new soundstage in my old hometown, and he desired my opinion of it. Glorfindel informed me that I needed a certain codec to view the file, and I went speedily in pursuit of it. In my haste and poor judgment, I discovered what I believed to be the sought after element and gave it to Glorfindel.
Woe and destruction followed, for the thing I had unearthed was not the codec I mistook it for but a foul fiend of the abyss. Harken unto me, friends, and harken well. Know you that this fiend is called Antispyware 2008, and it is a most fell beast. Test it not. Touch it not. But avoid it with all your might unless you long for a life of peril and death.
This grievous foe latched onto Glorfindel with the swiftness of birds in flight and the strength of a cave troll. Like a guard asleep at the castle gates, my virus-protection software recognized it not until it was well beyond the reach of the defenses, wreaking horrible damage upon all that crossed its path.
I hastily procured the services of a mercenary by the name of Antimalware, available at Malwarebytes.org, and he succeeded in utterly destroying the enemy. But it was too late. Glorfindel has suffered a mortal wound that is beyond my powers to heal.
Fortunately, he was able to hold himself together long enough to allow me to save the precious cargo he carries, but his memory must be wiped and his operating system reinstalled. He will no longer be recognizable as the companion of my recent years. I am most cast down. A moment of indiscretion and folly has brought the ruin of all that he and I had built together.
It is a gray day, my friends. Please, lament with us.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Do You Believe in Signs?
I don't. Or at least, I say I don't. But I always watch for them all the same. I think it's human nature. We WANT to believe that we are part of something bigger, something that is secretly communicating with us.
Anyway, I just finished reading The Secret Life of Bees, and in addition to the thoughts I had about the novel, I was intrigued by the idea of keeping bees, something I've actually thought about before. Toward the end of the book, the main character gets stung, and her mentor/surrogate mother tells her that you can't be a bee keeper unless you get stung; it's sort of an initiation.
Goodness knows I've been stung plenty of times as a child, but it's been years since it happened. I used to swell up terribly, and my mother said I was allergic, though my life was never in danger. I lived in fear of bees. But not any longer. Perhaps not being stung in decades lessens the reality of the sting. For whatever reason, I find them fascinating now, and as an amateur gardener, they are sort of necessary friends, like earth worms. Without bees, I'd have no tomatoes, no squash. I think it would be fun to have my own hive someday, my own miniature city of tiny gardeners.
I was stung today. As I was riding on the bike bath, a bee struck my thumb, and I was stung. I've been hit before, in the chest, on the sunglasses... I even had a bee shoot right into one of the vent holes on the top of my bike helmet. But I haven't been stung until today. And I didn't swell up at all. It hurt like hell at the time, but by the time I got home, I could hardly feel it. And now, I can barely tell where it happened.
Do you think it's a sign?
Anyway, I just finished reading The Secret Life of Bees, and in addition to the thoughts I had about the novel, I was intrigued by the idea of keeping bees, something I've actually thought about before. Toward the end of the book, the main character gets stung, and her mentor/surrogate mother tells her that you can't be a bee keeper unless you get stung; it's sort of an initiation.
Goodness knows I've been stung plenty of times as a child, but it's been years since it happened. I used to swell up terribly, and my mother said I was allergic, though my life was never in danger. I lived in fear of bees. But not any longer. Perhaps not being stung in decades lessens the reality of the sting. For whatever reason, I find them fascinating now, and as an amateur gardener, they are sort of necessary friends, like earth worms. Without bees, I'd have no tomatoes, no squash. I think it would be fun to have my own hive someday, my own miniature city of tiny gardeners.
I was stung today. As I was riding on the bike bath, a bee struck my thumb, and I was stung. I've been hit before, in the chest, on the sunglasses... I even had a bee shoot right into one of the vent holes on the top of my bike helmet. But I haven't been stung until today. And I didn't swell up at all. It hurt like hell at the time, but by the time I got home, I could hardly feel it. And now, I can barely tell where it happened.
Do you think it's a sign?
Friday, July 25, 2008
In the Moment
The mornings have turned crisp and cool again, so I composed a post in my head during my bike ride this morning about my desire for autumn. But now that I sit down to type it out, the words drop away like overripe fruit. They can provide me no succor, no sustenance. The sight and smell of them merely increases my hunger with promise that cannot be fulfilled through longing.
Instead, let me feast upon thoughts of the summer that is still here in all it's ripe plenitude. Certainly there have been and will continue to be trials, like predatory insects snacking on the harvest that is mine, but these things pale in comparison to the bounty that remains.
Better health than I've enjoyed in years, the company of a wonderful spouse, the escapades of two rambling puppies, and the time to appreciate it all.
Instead, let me feast upon thoughts of the summer that is still here in all it's ripe plenitude. Certainly there have been and will continue to be trials, like predatory insects snacking on the harvest that is mine, but these things pale in comparison to the bounty that remains.
Better health than I've enjoyed in years, the company of a wonderful spouse, the escapades of two rambling puppies, and the time to appreciate it all.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Will Herd Sheep for Food
Camping with a large, moving shag carpet can sometimes be a little messy. I present for your consideration, Exhibit A.
Notice how she finds the one patch of dirt in our campsite that is not covered by a tarp, specifically placed there for her use.
How would you like that to lick your face in the morning?
.
Notice how she finds the one patch of dirt in our campsite that is not covered by a tarp, specifically placed there for her use.
How would you like that to lick your face in the morning?
.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Landscape of my Dreams
For the first time in nearly a month, I can see the hills on the horizon. They are not sharp or distinct; a slight haze still blurs them. But they are there, firm and solid rather than the phantom presence, sensed but not seen, that they have been. They form a nice boundary or backdrop to the fields and farms I bike through, a focal point, something to look at or from. This is my favorite landscape.
I enjoy the energy and verve of the city. Whether at night, with its blur of lights, or during the day, with its sidewalk shuffles and industrial bustle, a city possesses a sense of activity and movement. Though I admit that the sheer volume of this can be overwhelming sometimes.
But rolling farmland bounded by mountains or hills is the best. The farmland carries with it the idea of nature, harnessed and organized, yes, but not controlled. It cannot be controlled. Ask any farmer, and he will tell you that technology and hard work help him improve the odds in his favor, but ultimately, he is at the mercy of natural forces. Farms also open the landscape to the eye, give one a view to the horizon and options for travel. In contrast, forests close out the world, which is nice sometimes, but occasionally I've had difficulty seeing the forest for the trees. Once cleared for planting or livestock, the vast stretches of land give one a sense of distance, perspective, and opportunity. Farms are stable, present; they are of and about the earth. They remain still, but they also invite one to meander; they offer options. Whether you go across country or along a road depends on your mode of transportation and your momentary inclination. And farms change with the seasons, with the crop, in an ever moving cycle. Consequently, farms are permanence made fluid.
But mile after mile of flat farmland can lack direction. How does one choose one path versus another when there is little or no variation, no distinctness. Add high hills on the horizon, and you get a natural waypoint. You can choose to move toward them or away... or maybe you want to travel parallel to them, as if they were companions going along for the journey but not pressing themselves upon you. It doesn't matter what route you choose to take, hills offer you a purpose, a reason to move. And they give you something with which to monitor your progress.
Yes, options and freedom of movement in the present with a goal or an objective, however remote, in the future. This is more than a favorite landscape; it is how I like my life.
I guess that's why I don't like suburbs. Like office cubicles, they divide up the land, the view, into tiny parcels. This is mine; that is yours. They hem in, close off with fences and landscaping. They wind and confuse with roads that go nowhere but to other roads, other houses, each like the last. And they lock one into cars, away from interaction with anything other than middle class staleness. Suburbs are the only dead things I know of that grow, except perhaps for toenails. :)
I enjoy the energy and verve of the city. Whether at night, with its blur of lights, or during the day, with its sidewalk shuffles and industrial bustle, a city possesses a sense of activity and movement. Though I admit that the sheer volume of this can be overwhelming sometimes.
But rolling farmland bounded by mountains or hills is the best. The farmland carries with it the idea of nature, harnessed and organized, yes, but not controlled. It cannot be controlled. Ask any farmer, and he will tell you that technology and hard work help him improve the odds in his favor, but ultimately, he is at the mercy of natural forces. Farms also open the landscape to the eye, give one a view to the horizon and options for travel. In contrast, forests close out the world, which is nice sometimes, but occasionally I've had difficulty seeing the forest for the trees. Once cleared for planting or livestock, the vast stretches of land give one a sense of distance, perspective, and opportunity. Farms are stable, present; they are of and about the earth. They remain still, but they also invite one to meander; they offer options. Whether you go across country or along a road depends on your mode of transportation and your momentary inclination. And farms change with the seasons, with the crop, in an ever moving cycle. Consequently, farms are permanence made fluid.
But mile after mile of flat farmland can lack direction. How does one choose one path versus another when there is little or no variation, no distinctness. Add high hills on the horizon, and you get a natural waypoint. You can choose to move toward them or away... or maybe you want to travel parallel to them, as if they were companions going along for the journey but not pressing themselves upon you. It doesn't matter what route you choose to take, hills offer you a purpose, a reason to move. And they give you something with which to monitor your progress.
Yes, options and freedom of movement in the present with a goal or an objective, however remote, in the future. This is more than a favorite landscape; it is how I like my life.
I guess that's why I don't like suburbs. Like office cubicles, they divide up the land, the view, into tiny parcels. This is mine; that is yours. They hem in, close off with fences and landscaping. They wind and confuse with roads that go nowhere but to other roads, other houses, each like the last. And they lock one into cars, away from interaction with anything other than middle class staleness. Suburbs are the only dead things I know of that grow, except perhaps for toenails. :)
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Of Mice and Men
"H-Reek, hreek, huh-REEK!" he chants as I ride beneath the towering telephone pole he is perched upon. His mate sits silent on the cross bar beside him. She shifts her position slightly, turning her head to keep her cold, yellow eyes fixed upon me. A shiver runs through my body, carrying with it a sense of metamorphosis...
- - - - - - -
A shadow, a flutter of feathers, and I am in her grip, snatched from within inches of the shielding safety of field-side grasses. I wriggle and squirm, but I cannot get free of the powerful, skeletal claws, their scaly skin clutching me tightly, almost cutting off my breath in a horrible parody of a loving embrace. I can feel her razor-sharp talons pressing in on me, pricking beneath my fur, painfully foreshadowing what is to come. She smells of guano and blood.
Then for a moment, the sensation of soaring through the air penetrates my terror. I am flying. I can fly! My tail dangles behind, catching the currents that ripple through my soft fur. Wind beats against my eyes, making them water. But oh, how wonderful. How...
Then it is over before I can even process the feeling. With a back beat of her enormous wings, my captor cups the air and alights gently on a tree branch, crushing me mercilessly against the bark. I cannot breathe. I can feel my tiny bones popping and collapsing. It will be over soon. She lowers her piercing beak to my neck, and for just an instant, her hard, golden eyes peer into my beady black ones. "So pretty," I think, practically mesmerized. There is an agonizing cold, a sharp snap, effortless on her part, and then....
- - - - - - -
Darling Wife and I watched "Kite Runner" last night.
.
- - - - - - -
A shadow, a flutter of feathers, and I am in her grip, snatched from within inches of the shielding safety of field-side grasses. I wriggle and squirm, but I cannot get free of the powerful, skeletal claws, their scaly skin clutching me tightly, almost cutting off my breath in a horrible parody of a loving embrace. I can feel her razor-sharp talons pressing in on me, pricking beneath my fur, painfully foreshadowing what is to come. She smells of guano and blood.
Then for a moment, the sensation of soaring through the air penetrates my terror. I am flying. I can fly! My tail dangles behind, catching the currents that ripple through my soft fur. Wind beats against my eyes, making them water. But oh, how wonderful. How...
Then it is over before I can even process the feeling. With a back beat of her enormous wings, my captor cups the air and alights gently on a tree branch, crushing me mercilessly against the bark. I cannot breathe. I can feel my tiny bones popping and collapsing. It will be over soon. She lowers her piercing beak to my neck, and for just an instant, her hard, golden eyes peer into my beady black ones. "So pretty," I think, practically mesmerized. There is an agonizing cold, a sharp snap, effortless on her part, and then....
- - - - - - -
Darling Wife and I watched "Kite Runner" last night.
.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Temporal Vortex
A truck hauling hay breezes past me, smacking me in the face with all the power of memory. The scent of the warm straw instantly transporting me to my grandparent's barn...
I am a child again, eight, maybe nine years old. My sister, brother, and two cousins scamper around on the dirt floor some ten or twelve feet below me, playing tag or chasing kittens. But I can't see them; my back is turned, and I feel the semi-soft seed heads scratch my hands and knees, the blades and stalks poking and jabbing as I climb up the side of the stacks of tightly bound rectangular bales, something we were strictly forbidden to do. It is mid-summer and blazing hot in the barn, and our playtime activities have stirred dust and grass particles, which whirl around in tiny shafts of light from small holes in the tin roof.
When I reach the top of the stack, I turn and grab the rope dangling from the rafters about twenty feet in the air. A surge of fear and excitement shoots through me. I look down at my fellow thrill seekers waiting below, some encouraging, some taunting, and I almost turn back. I can't do this. What if the rope breaks? What if my hand slips? What if the rafter snaps?
The hay bale I'm standing on shifts beneath my feet, side to side, following the trajectory of my wavering indecision. Then suddenly, I'm free, swinging through the air with mingled terror and reckless glee. The rope creaks and pops as I reach the top of the upward arch and my forward momentum stops and changes direction, returning me to the safety of the haystack. I let go and tumble into the cushioning bricks of dried grass, dizzy with childhood delight as much as anything else.
Then just as abruptly, I am back on the bike path again, a middle-aged man enjoying a morning ride. Who said it was impossible to be in two places at once?
I am a child again, eight, maybe nine years old. My sister, brother, and two cousins scamper around on the dirt floor some ten or twelve feet below me, playing tag or chasing kittens. But I can't see them; my back is turned, and I feel the semi-soft seed heads scratch my hands and knees, the blades and stalks poking and jabbing as I climb up the side of the stacks of tightly bound rectangular bales, something we were strictly forbidden to do. It is mid-summer and blazing hot in the barn, and our playtime activities have stirred dust and grass particles, which whirl around in tiny shafts of light from small holes in the tin roof.
When I reach the top of the stack, I turn and grab the rope dangling from the rafters about twenty feet in the air. A surge of fear and excitement shoots through me. I look down at my fellow thrill seekers waiting below, some encouraging, some taunting, and I almost turn back. I can't do this. What if the rope breaks? What if my hand slips? What if the rafter snaps?
The hay bale I'm standing on shifts beneath my feet, side to side, following the trajectory of my wavering indecision. Then suddenly, I'm free, swinging through the air with mingled terror and reckless glee. The rope creaks and pops as I reach the top of the upward arch and my forward momentum stops and changes direction, returning me to the safety of the haystack. I let go and tumble into the cushioning bricks of dried grass, dizzy with childhood delight as much as anything else.
Then just as abruptly, I am back on the bike path again, a middle-aged man enjoying a morning ride. Who said it was impossible to be in two places at once?
Monday, July 07, 2008
Sail, ho!
On the horizon I see a speck of white, its shape indiscernible through the squiggly lines of heat and haze of smoke. I am back on the bike path, surrounded by nothing but rolling pastures and the occasional olive tree. Like the sails of a distant ship at sea, there is nothing of note to see but me and that far-away white speck. So I watch it. Not out of any personal interest really. I am in The Zone again despite the triple-digit heat and choking atmosphere. I am stubborn. I will not be pushed out! And in The Zone, not much matters except breathing in, breathing out, pushing the pedal with the right foot, pushing the pedal with the left... breathe in... breathe out. And even these are only a vague pattern in the pack of the mind, a rhythm that lulls me through the miles as my consciousness drifts I know not where. The white speck is merely something to look at on an otherwise blank surface, a mild curiosity, nothing more.
As I watch, the speck grows larger, shaping itself into the shirt of another biker, its legs barely visible now as each moves up and down in turn. But I still cannot make out any detail, spy any colors on the nearing vessel. Is she friend or foe? Merchant or brigand? Will she hail me or fire on me? I do not know, but I refuse to alter my pace. I have a good wind and a fair course; I will not reduce sail now.
Slowly I gain on her, closing the distance between us until I can see that "she" is a man of medium age, perhaps three or four years older than myself. The white shirt is made of an opaque mesh, the kind that breathes well, allowing the dry California air to wick away sweat, cooling the wearer marginally but thankfully. He also wears spandex pants and rides a thin-wheeled racing bike, all signs of a serious cyclist. However, I notice that his pants are of a red and black tiger pattern, the sort you might find at Walmart rather than a bike shop, and his waist is thick and slightly protuberant. These details show him to be a novice cyclist, much like myself.
I think, carrying on with the nautical theme, "Ah, she is bluff of bow and drawing deeply amidships, not as heavy as a man-o-war, which one hardly ever sights in these waters, or as light and fleet as a schooner or clipper." These last two being the "serious cyclists" I often spy on the bike path. "She is a friend and fellow countryman," I think. I will draw alongside and hail her.
But suddenly the guy's head turns, and he sees me closing on him, moving out to pull up next to him, and he lays on speed. I think, "What is he doing? For more than three miles, I have gained on him steadily without quickening my pace at all; he was clearly in no hurry. But as soon as he thinks I am going to go around him, it becomes a race. Jerk!" He pedals harder and faster, unfolding more and more canvas, as it were. And I begin speeding up as well, letting him see what I can do. The desire to pass him, born out of competition, grows strong within me. I will blow him out of the water.
Then I think, "Perhaps he isn't a jerk. Perhaps he merely thinks I am a pirate." I reduce speed, return to my former pace. Soon, he is no more than a speck again, and in a short time, I am back in port, safe and quiet. We will both survive to sail again tomorrow. Perhaps we will meet again... or perhaps not. Only Poseidon knows for sure.
As I watch, the speck grows larger, shaping itself into the shirt of another biker, its legs barely visible now as each moves up and down in turn. But I still cannot make out any detail, spy any colors on the nearing vessel. Is she friend or foe? Merchant or brigand? Will she hail me or fire on me? I do not know, but I refuse to alter my pace. I have a good wind and a fair course; I will not reduce sail now.
Slowly I gain on her, closing the distance between us until I can see that "she" is a man of medium age, perhaps three or four years older than myself. The white shirt is made of an opaque mesh, the kind that breathes well, allowing the dry California air to wick away sweat, cooling the wearer marginally but thankfully. He also wears spandex pants and rides a thin-wheeled racing bike, all signs of a serious cyclist. However, I notice that his pants are of a red and black tiger pattern, the sort you might find at Walmart rather than a bike shop, and his waist is thick and slightly protuberant. These details show him to be a novice cyclist, much like myself.
I think, carrying on with the nautical theme, "Ah, she is bluff of bow and drawing deeply amidships, not as heavy as a man-o-war, which one hardly ever sights in these waters, or as light and fleet as a schooner or clipper." These last two being the "serious cyclists" I often spy on the bike path. "She is a friend and fellow countryman," I think. I will draw alongside and hail her.
But suddenly the guy's head turns, and he sees me closing on him, moving out to pull up next to him, and he lays on speed. I think, "What is he doing? For more than three miles, I have gained on him steadily without quickening my pace at all; he was clearly in no hurry. But as soon as he thinks I am going to go around him, it becomes a race. Jerk!" He pedals harder and faster, unfolding more and more canvas, as it were. And I begin speeding up as well, letting him see what I can do. The desire to pass him, born out of competition, grows strong within me. I will blow him out of the water.
Then I think, "Perhaps he isn't a jerk. Perhaps he merely thinks I am a pirate." I reduce speed, return to my former pace. Soon, he is no more than a speck again, and in a short time, I am back in port, safe and quiet. We will both survive to sail again tomorrow. Perhaps we will meet again... or perhaps not. Only Poseidon knows for sure.
Friday, July 04, 2008
What a piece of work is man
Have you ever noticed that when you're home, all you want to do is get away, and when you're away, all you want to do is go home?
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Lost... Found...Taken
You may find this hard to believe, but when I was younger, I used to run 3-4 miles every day, do 200 push-ups, and 250 crunches; I meditated for 30 minutes-1 hour each day. I could even control my pulse rate and body temp with thought and concentration. And I kept up my routine regardless of rain, sleet, heat, or social obligations. I felt good.
That's not to say that these activities were easy. The first 200 yards of every run took determination to keep going, as did the first fifteen push-ups and the first fifty crunches. But anyone who exercises regularly knows that once you get past that hurdle, you get into "The Zone." The Zone is that place where you stop counting the steps you've taken, stop thinking about the catch in your side; you're movements become automatic; your mind drifts elsewhere or nowhere, and you just keep going. I liked The Zone.
But once I started undergraduate studies full time, I allowed time to become my master, and I lost The Zone. I just couldn't keep up with its rhythms.
Periodically over the last decade, I have tried to find my way back, but I could never quite get there. Stress or weather or just plain fatigue would push me off course again and again until I would give up the search, return home determined to try again the next day. But eventually I'd give in and stop looking.
That is, until the past few weeks. It started as a desire to get out... get out of the house, get out of town, just get out. I began taking my bicycle out to the bike path that runs by our house and going a short distance along it each day. It felt nice to be doing something, to be going somewhere but not going any place particular; I was just going. Every day, I'd go a little further and a little further, not out of any intention to do so, mind you. No. I was just enjoying myself, so I'd think, "Why not go just a few minutes more. I have time." Then one day this week, I realized I had found "The Zone." There it was on a bike path in California's central valley. Who knew?
The path is cracked and pitted by the merciless rays of the California sun, but I'm not bothered by the bumps. I speed along at a fairly quick pace, but I'm not pushing myself or the bike to our limits; I'm just cruising, knocking off the miles without even getting out of breath. I've been biking about 15 miles a day with virtually no effort, once I get beyond the confines of my neighborhood. I just roll through the farmland to the west of town and let my mind wander where it will.
Yesterday, I noticed the haze on the horizon. It was worse than the day before. Arnold Swartzenegger's drawling, broken English plays in my head, "All ov CAL-i-FORN-ia is full of smoke. De smoke is very bad for de health. It is not good to breath de smoke, especially for dose wit asthma." But I'm in The Zone. I don't care about smoke.
But today I could smell it as soon as I walked out the door. I'd gone about two miles when it enveloped me like a fog. I am one well acquainted with fog. It is my friend. So, I rode on, expecting to feel the cool moisture caress my skin, but instead there were stabs of pain as my lungs betrayed me, the acrid smoke palpably bitter in my mouth. My eyes began to burn. I had to turn back.
As I biked my way back to my air-conditioner-filtered home, I thought that this time, I had not lost The Zone; it had been taken from me. I had been forcibly ejected, and I'd only experienced it for such a precious little time. California sucks! And don't let anyone tell you differently.
That's not to say that these activities were easy. The first 200 yards of every run took determination to keep going, as did the first fifteen push-ups and the first fifty crunches. But anyone who exercises regularly knows that once you get past that hurdle, you get into "The Zone." The Zone is that place where you stop counting the steps you've taken, stop thinking about the catch in your side; you're movements become automatic; your mind drifts elsewhere or nowhere, and you just keep going. I liked The Zone.
But once I started undergraduate studies full time, I allowed time to become my master, and I lost The Zone. I just couldn't keep up with its rhythms.
Periodically over the last decade, I have tried to find my way back, but I could never quite get there. Stress or weather or just plain fatigue would push me off course again and again until I would give up the search, return home determined to try again the next day. But eventually I'd give in and stop looking.
That is, until the past few weeks. It started as a desire to get out... get out of the house, get out of town, just get out. I began taking my bicycle out to the bike path that runs by our house and going a short distance along it each day. It felt nice to be doing something, to be going somewhere but not going any place particular; I was just going. Every day, I'd go a little further and a little further, not out of any intention to do so, mind you. No. I was just enjoying myself, so I'd think, "Why not go just a few minutes more. I have time." Then one day this week, I realized I had found "The Zone." There it was on a bike path in California's central valley. Who knew?
The path is cracked and pitted by the merciless rays of the California sun, but I'm not bothered by the bumps. I speed along at a fairly quick pace, but I'm not pushing myself or the bike to our limits; I'm just cruising, knocking off the miles without even getting out of breath. I've been biking about 15 miles a day with virtually no effort, once I get beyond the confines of my neighborhood. I just roll through the farmland to the west of town and let my mind wander where it will.
Yesterday, I noticed the haze on the horizon. It was worse than the day before. Arnold Swartzenegger's drawling, broken English plays in my head, "All ov CAL-i-FORN-ia is full of smoke. De smoke is very bad for de health. It is not good to breath de smoke, especially for dose wit asthma." But I'm in The Zone. I don't care about smoke.
But today I could smell it as soon as I walked out the door. I'd gone about two miles when it enveloped me like a fog. I am one well acquainted with fog. It is my friend. So, I rode on, expecting to feel the cool moisture caress my skin, but instead there were stabs of pain as my lungs betrayed me, the acrid smoke palpably bitter in my mouth. My eyes began to burn. I had to turn back.
As I biked my way back to my air-conditioner-filtered home, I thought that this time, I had not lost The Zone; it had been taken from me. I had been forcibly ejected, and I'd only experienced it for such a precious little time. California sucks! And don't let anyone tell you differently.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Bi-coastal Disorder
I hadn't realized it had been so long since my last post. I've had things I could post about. For one, Darling Wife and I celebrated our third anniversary last week, and we spent a great deal of time reminiscing about our life together. We have certainly had some great times. Lots of stuff to think about there. And my father and stepmother visited us for the first time ever. In fact, I think it may have been the most time I've spent with my father in my life. Yeah, there was some bloggable material in there. But I just haven't felt like it. For the first time in years, I am really, really enjoying just being home, curled up on the sofa with a good book in my hand, puppies at my feet, and DW at my side. There is very little lure to a computerized escape.
But life is not all wonderful. If you've been following the news, you know that California is once again on fire. There is a sizable blaze in Napa Valley, pretty close to where we live. We aren't threatened by the conflagration, but the delta breeze that we usually value so much in the summer for it's cooling freshness is wafting smoke and fumes into our charming university town. The air is hazy and difficult to breathe. I am reminded again of how much I dislike it here.
And escape, blessed escape is on the horizon. My nephew has thrown us a lifeline in the form of a graduation invitation from upstate New York. Blessed child! We will be departing this inferno via a red-eye flight from San Francisco Thursday night and traversing the breadth of our nation for a few wondrous days on the opposite coast. In fact, we will be flying into our nuptial city, that fabulous old Puritan town, and driving the entire width of the great state of Massachusetts. Glory be! And though thunderstorms are predicted to dampen the affair, I think DW and I will welcome the mercy drops. I can almost feel my skin soaking up the heavenly moisture even now, and my nostrils inflate, drinking in the sweetly remembered scent of rain-soaked Berkshire forests.
It is a good thing we aren't taking the dogs or we might not return to this accursed land of flame and ash at the end of the earth. Does anyone know if you can Fed-Ex live animals?
But life is not all wonderful. If you've been following the news, you know that California is once again on fire. There is a sizable blaze in Napa Valley, pretty close to where we live. We aren't threatened by the conflagration, but the delta breeze that we usually value so much in the summer for it's cooling freshness is wafting smoke and fumes into our charming university town. The air is hazy and difficult to breathe. I am reminded again of how much I dislike it here.
And escape, blessed escape is on the horizon. My nephew has thrown us a lifeline in the form of a graduation invitation from upstate New York. Blessed child! We will be departing this inferno via a red-eye flight from San Francisco Thursday night and traversing the breadth of our nation for a few wondrous days on the opposite coast. In fact, we will be flying into our nuptial city, that fabulous old Puritan town, and driving the entire width of the great state of Massachusetts. Glory be! And though thunderstorms are predicted to dampen the affair, I think DW and I will welcome the mercy drops. I can almost feel my skin soaking up the heavenly moisture even now, and my nostrils inflate, drinking in the sweetly remembered scent of rain-soaked Berkshire forests.
It is a good thing we aren't taking the dogs or we might not return to this accursed land of flame and ash at the end of the earth. Does anyone know if you can Fed-Ex live animals?
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Unread Books Meme
Thanks Michele for turning me onto this. It was fun. I'm not going to explain what it is because my three readers already know.
3 started but not finished; however, I will say that this was not because I didn't like them. All of them were books read for school when I was younger, and I was forced to abandon them from time constraints. I would gladly pick any of them up again.
9 owned but not read. I think only one or two of them are actually mine. The rest belong to Darling Wife, and I think I would like to read most of them. In fact, she brought quite a few books into our marriage that fall into this category, and I wouldn't doubt that I've left some on this list un-underlined when they should be.
1 I hated. Proust... it was really, really dull. I guess I just didn't get into it.
Unlike Michele, I would like to read several on this list, and expect I will get around to many of them eventually.
The rules:
bold = what you’ve read,
italics = books you started but couldn’t finish
crossed out = books you hated
* = you’ve read more than once
underline = books you own but haven’t read yourself
1 The ultimate hitchhiker's guide by Douglas Adams*
2 Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke
3 The kite runner by Khaled Hosseini
4 Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
5 Life of Pi : a novel by Yann Martel
6 Don Quixote by Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra
7 Crime and punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
8 One hundred years of solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
9 Vanity fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
10 The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien
11 Ulysses by James Joyce
12 War and peace by Leo Tolstoy
13 Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
14 The brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
15 Catch-22 a novel by Joseph Heller
16 Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte*
17 The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood
18 Quicksilver (The Baroque Cycle I) by Neal Stephenson
19 A tale of two cities by Charles Dickens
20 The satanic verses by Salman Rushdie
21 Middlemarch by George Eliot
22 Reading Lolita in Tehran : a memoir in books by Azar Nafisi
23 The name of the rose by Umberto Eco
24 The Kor'an by Anonymous
25 Moby Dick by Herman Melville
26 The Odyssey by Homer
27 The Canterbury tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
28 Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
29 The hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo
30 The historian : a novel by Elizabeth Kostova
31 Foucault's pendulum by Umberto Eco
32 Atlas shrugged by Ayn Rand
33 The history of Tom Jones, a foundling by Henry Fielding
34 The three musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
35 The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
36 The sound and the fury by William Faulkner
37 The Iliad by Homer
38 Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf*
39 Emma by Jane Austen
40 Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
41 Sons and lovers by D.H. Lawrence
42 Gulliver's travels by Jonathan Swift
43 The house of the seven gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne*
44 Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies by Jared Diamond
45 Dracula by Bram Stoker*
46 Lady Chatterley's lover by D.H. Lawrence
47 A heartbreaking work of staggering genius by Dave Eggers
48 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
49 The once and future king by T. H. White
50 Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
51 To the lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
52 Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
53 Oryx and Crake : a novel by Margaret Atwood
54 Great Expectations by Charles Dickens*
55 Labyrinth by Kate Mosse
56 Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
57 Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed by Jared Diamond
58 The corrections by Jonathan Franzen
59 Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe
60 Underworld by Don DeLillo
61 Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott
62 The grapes of wrath by John Steinbeck
63 Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte*
64 The Gormenghast trilogy by Mervyn Peake
65 The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells*
66 Jude the obscure by Thomas Hardy
67 The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
68 Tender is the night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
69 A portrait of the artist as a young man by James Joyce
70 A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain
71 The divine comedy by Dante Alighieri
72 The inferno by Dante Alighieri
73 Gravity's rainbow by Thomas Pynchon
74 The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
75 Swann's way by Marcel Proust
76 The poisonwood Bible : a novel by Barbara Kingsolver
77 The amazing adventures of Kavalier and Clay : a novel by Michael Chabon
78 Sense and sensibility by Jane Austen
79 The portrait of a lady by Henry James
80 Silas Marner by George Eliot
81 The picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde*
82 The man in the iron mask by Alexandre Dumas
83 The god of small things by Arundhati Roy
84 The book thief by Markus Zusak
85 The confusion by Neal Stephenson
86 One flew over the cuckoo's nest by Ken Kesey
87 Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
88 Bleak House by Charles Dickens*
89 The system of the world by Neal Stephenson
90 The elegant universe : superstrings, hidden dimensions, and… by Brian Greene
91 Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson
92 The known world by Edward P. Jones
93 The time traveler's wife by Audrey Niffenegger
94 The mill on the Floss by George Eliot
95 The English patient by Michael Ondaatje
96 Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon
97 Dubliners by James Joyce
98 Les misérables by Victor Hugo
99 The bonesetter's daughter by Amy Tan
100 Infinite jest : a novel by David Foster Wallace
101 Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad
102 Beloved : a novel by Toni Morrison
103 Persuasion by Jane Austen
104 A clockwork orange by Anthony Burgess
105 The personal history of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens*
106 Tropic of cancer by Henry Miller
3 started but not finished; however, I will say that this was not because I didn't like them. All of them were books read for school when I was younger, and I was forced to abandon them from time constraints. I would gladly pick any of them up again.
9 owned but not read. I think only one or two of them are actually mine. The rest belong to Darling Wife, and I think I would like to read most of them. In fact, she brought quite a few books into our marriage that fall into this category, and I wouldn't doubt that I've left some on this list un-underlined when they should be.
1 I hated. Proust... it was really, really dull. I guess I just didn't get into it.
Unlike Michele, I would like to read several on this list, and expect I will get around to many of them eventually.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Reclamation
Do you remember my new friend, the one who asked me to learn gun handling and go to a shooting range with him? It turned out that he wasn't really a friend after all. I haven't heard from him since that first week or so, and he hasn't responded to a message from me in about a month. I've been busy, so I haven't made a huge effort to contact him, but I have sent the random e-mail here and there and received no replies to any of them.
The last time we spoke, he told me his doctor found a heart murmur or something. He said the docs ran a bunch of tests, but he wasn't going to worry about it until they told him it was time to be concerned. When I didn't hear from him, I wondered if he was alright. All I have is his work e-mail address, and even though he's a tech junkie who connects to his work computer from everywhere he goes, including his phone, there was the slight possibility that he wasn't responding because he was missing work. I admit, I was a little concerned. Not enough to call him or go by his office, but concerned nonetheless.
But I saw him on campus today. I was riding my bike home when I saw him crossing to the sidewalk about 40 yards ahead. It took me a moment to register that it was him, and by the time I got to where he'd crossed, he'd already moved along the sidewalk a considerable distance. If I'd bumped into him naturally, I'd have spoken to him easily, but chasing him down seemed weird under the circumstances. So, I pedaled on without stopping, but now I'm really wondering what's going on.
Obviously, he doesn't want to be friends. That's fine. I don't really want to be friends with him either. It doesn't matter what his reasons are. Who would want to hang out with someone who doesn't want to hang out with them? That would hardly be a satisfying relationship. Besides, he's irresponsible and immature. This isn't sour grapes talking. His primary activities outside of work amount to smoking pot, playing video games, and going to the Bay Area to visit his folks. He's only 25. Maybe I'd just been trying to be young; I don't know. But that sort of behavior didn't suit me even when I was young.
The problem is, I loaned him some books. They aren't valuable at all, just some paperbacks. Nor are they favorites or anything. But they are mine, and I would like to have them back. My last couple of e-mails to him have been related to this issue, but he has ignored them. So, what should I do?
The last time we spoke, he told me his doctor found a heart murmur or something. He said the docs ran a bunch of tests, but he wasn't going to worry about it until they told him it was time to be concerned. When I didn't hear from him, I wondered if he was alright. All I have is his work e-mail address, and even though he's a tech junkie who connects to his work computer from everywhere he goes, including his phone, there was the slight possibility that he wasn't responding because he was missing work. I admit, I was a little concerned. Not enough to call him or go by his office, but concerned nonetheless.
But I saw him on campus today. I was riding my bike home when I saw him crossing to the sidewalk about 40 yards ahead. It took me a moment to register that it was him, and by the time I got to where he'd crossed, he'd already moved along the sidewalk a considerable distance. If I'd bumped into him naturally, I'd have spoken to him easily, but chasing him down seemed weird under the circumstances. So, I pedaled on without stopping, but now I'm really wondering what's going on.
Obviously, he doesn't want to be friends. That's fine. I don't really want to be friends with him either. It doesn't matter what his reasons are. Who would want to hang out with someone who doesn't want to hang out with them? That would hardly be a satisfying relationship. Besides, he's irresponsible and immature. This isn't sour grapes talking. His primary activities outside of work amount to smoking pot, playing video games, and going to the Bay Area to visit his folks. He's only 25. Maybe I'd just been trying to be young; I don't know. But that sort of behavior didn't suit me even when I was young.
The problem is, I loaned him some books. They aren't valuable at all, just some paperbacks. Nor are they favorites or anything. But they are mine, and I would like to have them back. My last couple of e-mails to him have been related to this issue, but he has ignored them. So, what should I do?
Friday, May 23, 2008
Nth Degree of Separation
I called him "Blue Boy." Of course, he isn't actually blue, but he wears blue. Blue jeans, blue jacket, blue helmet... even his bike is blue. I first noticed him because he comes through my crosswalk every morning almost precisely at 7:45, and that just happens to be the time that I need to move from one side of the street to the other.
See, the schools in my burg have staggered start-times so that the high-schoolers, who travel west through the intersection where I work in the mornings, come earlier than the middle-schoolers, who travel east. Consequently, midway through my morning shift, I have to change curbs in order to most effectively assist the kids in their crossings.
After a couple of weeks of observation of Blue Boy, I learned to rely on his timing. I didn't even check my watch anymore. I just waited until I saw that familiar blue form pass through the crosswalk to alter my standing position.
My reliance on him caused me to observe Blue Boy more closely, to pick him out of the crowd. He is handsome in an Aryan sort of way. I catch a glimpse of his blond hair beneath his helmet and notice the aristocratic shape of his nose as he breezes past me. He sits on his bike with confidence and skill, and his blue eyes never flicker for an instant in my direction, even when I have to stop him until there is a break in the flow of traffic to allow him to cross. He glides down the hill behind me and turns the corner to cross the street with speed and absolute silence. In a town where most kids say "hello," "good morning," or "thank you" as they cross, or at least make eye contact and nod, his lack of acknowledgment smacks of rudeness. I determined for myself that he is haughty or at the very least callous. The exactness of his timing every day and the unvarying monotony of his clothing contributing to my impression of him as cold and aloof.
Then one day, I noticed that Blue Boy's blue jacket is a varsity letter jacket. Surprise. He is an athlete and no doubt popular. Or that's what I first thought when I noticed it. Then I wondered at the fact that I had not marked it before. One can believe a letter jacket to be a symbol of elitism and discrimination or as a mark of pride and achievement, but regardless of the significance one places on the sign, it has more meaning than the nondescript "blue jacket" I had labeled him with up to that point. How could I not see it?
The next day, Blue Boy wore a hooded sweatshirt of a much lighter shade of blue than the letter jacket, and as soon as I saw it, I realized that this was not the first time I'd seen it. He frequently alternates between the jacket and the hoodie, and perhaps even other garments as well, but I had failed to take notice of this either.
I began to be aware that I had not seen Blue Boy at all. For my own purposes, I had branded him with a moniker that segregated him from the mass of his schoolmates and learned a few of his routines, and from this paltry evidence, I had constructed a profile for him that may have little or nothing to do with the boy himself. I mean, for crying out loud, I call him "Blue Boy," and in my mind, that is his identity. How could he be more than a cardboard cutout of a person? He is a color, not a reality.
One day not long after I made this observation, Blue Boy was accompanied by another lad. This one, about the same age, was of a completely different disposition. He is friendly and perhaps a little geeky. His clothes reveal somewhat less attention to fashion than many of the youths I see, and he never passes up the chance to speak to me. On more than one occasion, he has even initiated a brief conversation when he has had to wait for a pause in traffic. I'd never heard Blue Boy speak before, never seen him pay attention to anything in his surroundings as he sped past, but here he was, riding slowly in pace with this other kid. He talked animatedly, telling the other boy some sort of story about something he'd seen on TV or a movie. They were clearly friends.
I stood in amazement. Not at the boys, but at myself. Granted, I have little contact with these kids, so it is only natural that my assumptions about them are flawed and inaccurate. But it got me to thinking about how little we know anyone and how much we think we know. Do we really see others or do we always only see ourselves? I may never know Blue Boy's name, and I may never see more than a shallow surface, but I like to think it will be his and not mine. Do you think that's possible?
See, the schools in my burg have staggered start-times so that the high-schoolers, who travel west through the intersection where I work in the mornings, come earlier than the middle-schoolers, who travel east. Consequently, midway through my morning shift, I have to change curbs in order to most effectively assist the kids in their crossings.
After a couple of weeks of observation of Blue Boy, I learned to rely on his timing. I didn't even check my watch anymore. I just waited until I saw that familiar blue form pass through the crosswalk to alter my standing position.
My reliance on him caused me to observe Blue Boy more closely, to pick him out of the crowd. He is handsome in an Aryan sort of way. I catch a glimpse of his blond hair beneath his helmet and notice the aristocratic shape of his nose as he breezes past me. He sits on his bike with confidence and skill, and his blue eyes never flicker for an instant in my direction, even when I have to stop him until there is a break in the flow of traffic to allow him to cross. He glides down the hill behind me and turns the corner to cross the street with speed and absolute silence. In a town where most kids say "hello," "good morning," or "thank you" as they cross, or at least make eye contact and nod, his lack of acknowledgment smacks of rudeness. I determined for myself that he is haughty or at the very least callous. The exactness of his timing every day and the unvarying monotony of his clothing contributing to my impression of him as cold and aloof.
Then one day, I noticed that Blue Boy's blue jacket is a varsity letter jacket. Surprise. He is an athlete and no doubt popular. Or that's what I first thought when I noticed it. Then I wondered at the fact that I had not marked it before. One can believe a letter jacket to be a symbol of elitism and discrimination or as a mark of pride and achievement, but regardless of the significance one places on the sign, it has more meaning than the nondescript "blue jacket" I had labeled him with up to that point. How could I not see it?
The next day, Blue Boy wore a hooded sweatshirt of a much lighter shade of blue than the letter jacket, and as soon as I saw it, I realized that this was not the first time I'd seen it. He frequently alternates between the jacket and the hoodie, and perhaps even other garments as well, but I had failed to take notice of this either.
I began to be aware that I had not seen Blue Boy at all. For my own purposes, I had branded him with a moniker that segregated him from the mass of his schoolmates and learned a few of his routines, and from this paltry evidence, I had constructed a profile for him that may have little or nothing to do with the boy himself. I mean, for crying out loud, I call him "Blue Boy," and in my mind, that is his identity. How could he be more than a cardboard cutout of a person? He is a color, not a reality.
One day not long after I made this observation, Blue Boy was accompanied by another lad. This one, about the same age, was of a completely different disposition. He is friendly and perhaps a little geeky. His clothes reveal somewhat less attention to fashion than many of the youths I see, and he never passes up the chance to speak to me. On more than one occasion, he has even initiated a brief conversation when he has had to wait for a pause in traffic. I'd never heard Blue Boy speak before, never seen him pay attention to anything in his surroundings as he sped past, but here he was, riding slowly in pace with this other kid. He talked animatedly, telling the other boy some sort of story about something he'd seen on TV or a movie. They were clearly friends.
I stood in amazement. Not at the boys, but at myself. Granted, I have little contact with these kids, so it is only natural that my assumptions about them are flawed and inaccurate. But it got me to thinking about how little we know anyone and how much we think we know. Do we really see others or do we always only see ourselves? I may never know Blue Boy's name, and I may never see more than a shallow surface, but I like to think it will be his and not mine. Do you think that's possible?
Friday, May 16, 2008
Little Suprises
I haven't felt much like blogging lately. Not that I've been in a bad mood. Sure, the extreme heat, horribly dry winds, and forest fires we've been experiencing have somewhat squelched the high I was feeling a few weeks ago, but I'm in a pretty good mood all the same. It's just that now that I am finished with my classes until fall, I have more free time, and I haven't been inclined to spend it sitting at the computer. You know how it is.
But I had to share this one really cool thing that we just discovered. Darling Wife had the dogs out in the backyard for their... er... comfort, and she called through the window to ask if I had ever seen a hummingbird's nest. I remarked, "Only in pictures." She then asked me what they were made out of, etc., and explained that she thought we had one in the tree in our back yard.
I went out to investigate, and sure enough there it was. Here are a few snapshots for your entertainment. Cool, eh?
If you look closely at the last one, you can sort of see that they are made out of moss, and... get this... spider webs. That's why it's white. And that's probably why it nested here. Plenty of webs for its use... that and the feeder by the back fence.
But I had to share this one really cool thing that we just discovered. Darling Wife had the dogs out in the backyard for their... er... comfort, and she called through the window to ask if I had ever seen a hummingbird's nest. I remarked, "Only in pictures." She then asked me what they were made out of, etc., and explained that she thought we had one in the tree in our back yard.
I went out to investigate, and sure enough there it was. Here are a few snapshots for your entertainment. Cool, eh?
If you look closely at the last one, you can sort of see that they are made out of moss, and... get this... spider webs. That's why it's white. And that's probably why it nested here. Plenty of webs for its use... that and the feeder by the back fence.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Golden Days
.
Do you know the scent of jasmine?
Not that sickly sweet, heavy perfume that air fresheners and candles call jasmine, but the light, flowery fragrance of spring in the tropics that defines true jasmine. Certainly it's strong, but it's also fresh and soft, not cloying and stifling like the artificial wannabes. As I ride my bike around the city, that fragrance pervades everything, and I think that the ambrosia of the Olympian gods must surely have smelled like this.
The poppies, the orange-colored California Golden Poppies, are also in radiant bloom right now in more abundance than I have ever seen them, delicately tossing their happy faces in the breeze beneath the more subdued and stately tea roses that seem to have appeared full-grown in front yards all over town.
I never cease to be amazed at how much a pleasant landscape lifts my spirits. And yes, I am in a good mood. I realized that quite unexpectedly last week. I am happy.
I'm not quite sure why. Oh, I could give you reasons. The flowers and mild temperatures are one. Did you know there is rain in our forecast for this evening? I know that means very little to those of you in more moderate climates, but for us, this is a big deal. We haven't had rain since early February and didn't expect any until October. It isn't supposed to be much, but OH HOW EXCITING it is! The realization that the fiscal outlook for Darling Wife and I is not quite as bleak for this summer as it has been in years past also adds to my pleasure. Or maybe it's that the school semester is winding down, and for the first time in a decade I am not stressed by that. I do have quite a bit of work, but it's all manageable, and its impending hiatus is pleasant to think on. What is more, my father and step-mother will be visiting us in a couple of months for the first time ever, and it's possible that another friend may drop in for a few days next month. These visits promise contact outside of our own domestic sphere as well as some nice tourist activities beyond the boundaries of our central valley home. What's more, we have plans to visit Boston briefly at the end of June when we travel to the northeast for my nephew's high school graduation. I can't tell you how much I long to see the cramped old metropolis! And finally Fergus continues to amaze us by how cute and well-behaved he is. He adores our company so much that he hangs his head in sadness when it's time for him to leave us at bedtime, but he always goes without fuss or difficulty. He has never once chewed up a shoe or piece of furniture, and he went for a long walk with us yesterday with a jaunty trot and hardly a pause to sniff a shrub that surprised and delighted us both. He is truly a joy, better than either of us could ever have hoped for.
But all of these reasons, and the many more I could give, don't quite explain why I am in such high form. But I guess I really shouldn't search for reasons. I'll just enjoy it while it lasts.
Do you know the scent of jasmine?
Not that sickly sweet, heavy perfume that air fresheners and candles call jasmine, but the light, flowery fragrance of spring in the tropics that defines true jasmine. Certainly it's strong, but it's also fresh and soft, not cloying and stifling like the artificial wannabes. As I ride my bike around the city, that fragrance pervades everything, and I think that the ambrosia of the Olympian gods must surely have smelled like this.The poppies, the orange-colored California Golden Poppies, are also in radiant bloom right now in more abundance than I have ever seen them, delicately tossing their happy faces in the breeze beneath the more subdued and stately tea roses that seem to have appeared full-grown in front yards all over town.
I never cease to be amazed at how much a pleasant landscape lifts my spirits. And yes, I am in a good mood. I realized that quite unexpectedly last week. I am happy.I'm not quite sure why. Oh, I could give you reasons. The flowers and mild temperatures are one. Did you know there is rain in our forecast for this evening? I know that means very little to those of you in more moderate climates, but for us, this is a big deal. We haven't had rain since early February and didn't expect any until October. It isn't supposed to be much, but OH HOW EXCITING it is! The realization that the fiscal outlook for Darling Wife and I is not quite as bleak for this summer as it has been in years past also adds to my pleasure. Or maybe it's that the school semester is winding down, and for the first time in a decade I am not stressed by that. I do have quite a bit of work, but it's all manageable, and its impending hiatus is pleasant to think on. What is more, my father and step-mother will be visiting us in a couple of months for the first time ever, and it's possible that another friend may drop in for a few days next month. These visits promise contact outside of our own domestic sphere as well as some nice tourist activities beyond the boundaries of our central valley home. What's more, we have plans to visit Boston briefly at the end of June when we travel to the northeast for my nephew's high school graduation. I can't tell you how much I long to see the cramped old metropolis! And finally Fergus continues to amaze us by how cute and well-behaved he is. He adores our company so much that he hangs his head in sadness when it's time for him to leave us at bedtime, but he always goes without fuss or difficulty. He has never once chewed up a shoe or piece of furniture, and he went for a long walk with us yesterday with a jaunty trot and hardly a pause to sniff a shrub that surprised and delighted us both. He is truly a joy, better than either of us could ever have hoped for.
But all of these reasons, and the many more I could give, don't quite explain why I am in such high form. But I guess I really shouldn't search for reasons. I'll just enjoy it while it lasts.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
they're gone
Have you ever seen that scene toward the end of Fried Green Tomatoes in which Kathy Bates's character discovers Jessica Tandy's character sitting on her suitcase in front of a vacant lot where her home used to be?
If you have, then you can picture what I must have looked like when, walking home from work this afternoon, I saw a bare spot where "my" bee colony had been only a few days ago. The only evidence of its existence were some twigs lying on the ground with the torn remnants of honeycombs clinging to their surfaces.
At first, I thought the high winds we had last night and this morning might have blown the hive down. I searched frantically in the grass and bushes for its crushed remains, but there were none to be found.
Then my eyes lit on the smooth stub of the tree branch where the limb containing the cluster had been cut away. The clean whiteness at the site of amputation seemed so casual... so matter-of-fact.
When I reported the presence of the colony back in the fall, I expected this to happen. I thought the campus community would rush to remove this threat to the safety of students, faculty, and staff. But when my report was greeted with disinterest and nonchalance, I assumed the bees were safe in their new home, at least from the campus authorities. And as the fall gave way to winter and then spring, you know how much I came to regard the bees, stubbornly clinging to survival under the harshest conditions and despite all odds. I should have known that it was merely bureaucratic slowness and academic insouciance that preserved their meager lives for a few paltry months of struggle instead of any strength of will or determination on the part of the bees, their famed busyness availing nothing in the face of the constant, inevitability of red-tape bound progress that would eventually catch them up.
I would like to think that some eager bee-keeper scooped up the little colony and gave it a nice warm home in a box in his back yard, but I know too much of the ways of the world to trust to that shallow hope.
Is it silly to feel so strongly over a bunch of bugs? Especially when I violently destroyed several members of the same species when they invaded my home via the chimney on Monday of this very week? Is it hypocritical and ridiculous? I think maybe it is. But as I stood, staring at the emptiness where for so many weeks there was buzzing life, I cannot help but feel a profound sense of loss.
If you have, then you can picture what I must have looked like when, walking home from work this afternoon, I saw a bare spot where "my" bee colony had been only a few days ago. The only evidence of its existence were some twigs lying on the ground with the torn remnants of honeycombs clinging to their surfaces.
At first, I thought the high winds we had last night and this morning might have blown the hive down. I searched frantically in the grass and bushes for its crushed remains, but there were none to be found.
Then my eyes lit on the smooth stub of the tree branch where the limb containing the cluster had been cut away. The clean whiteness at the site of amputation seemed so casual... so matter-of-fact.
When I reported the presence of the colony back in the fall, I expected this to happen. I thought the campus community would rush to remove this threat to the safety of students, faculty, and staff. But when my report was greeted with disinterest and nonchalance, I assumed the bees were safe in their new home, at least from the campus authorities. And as the fall gave way to winter and then spring, you know how much I came to regard the bees, stubbornly clinging to survival under the harshest conditions and despite all odds. I should have known that it was merely bureaucratic slowness and academic insouciance that preserved their meager lives for a few paltry months of struggle instead of any strength of will or determination on the part of the bees, their famed busyness availing nothing in the face of the constant, inevitability of red-tape bound progress that would eventually catch them up.
I would like to think that some eager bee-keeper scooped up the little colony and gave it a nice warm home in a box in his back yard, but I know too much of the ways of the world to trust to that shallow hope.
Is it silly to feel so strongly over a bunch of bugs? Especially when I violently destroyed several members of the same species when they invaded my home via the chimney on Monday of this very week? Is it hypocritical and ridiculous? I think maybe it is. But as I stood, staring at the emptiness where for so many weeks there was buzzing life, I cannot help but feel a profound sense of loss.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Hanging On
They are alive... Or at least some of them are... Or rather, the community survives.
I take comfort from that. The "expert" was wrong. They weren't frozen, or starved, or eaten.
But what about the individuals, the ones whose bodies I witnessed curled up on the ground among the grass. Do they matter as long as the hive lives on? I think the bees, if they could say anything, would say not. It's not like they had individual lives separate from the hive.
Still, a note of sadness creeps into my joy at their continued, stubborn hold on life and a university tree.
I take comfort from that. The "expert" was wrong. They weren't frozen, or starved, or eaten.
But what about the individuals, the ones whose bodies I witnessed curled up on the ground among the grass. Do they matter as long as the hive lives on? I think the bees, if they could say anything, would say not. It's not like they had individual lives separate from the hive.
Still, a note of sadness creeps into my joy at their continued, stubborn hold on life and a university tree.
Friday, April 04, 2008
The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings.
I hear the call of the Red-shouldered Hawk most days as I ride to work in the morning. On occasion I see her, gliding gracefully across the heavens, and I think how beautiful, how noble she is. More than once, I have seen her engage in battle with my own enemy, the crow. Crows are troublesome and messy creatures that will have no other soul at peace while they have air in their breast to cry out with a tumultuous uproar. They swoop and harass the hawk as she goes on her way struggling to find food for herself and her young or as she sits in a treetop taking a much deserved rest from the hunt. But she does not allow these raucous creatures to trouble her. She dives and tacks with skill and nonchalance. What a fine beast she is, I think, as I ride along, observing the aerial drama.
When suddenly it occurs to me that she is a predator, a cold blooded killer that ends the life of others so that hers might continue a little while longer. Why is it that we think raptors so admirable and respectable, while we disdain and belittle the skulking animals that are their prey? Is it because of the skulking? Do we think that mice and rabbits like to scrabble around in underbrush and dark corners, that they are just naturally happiest wallowing in the poorest and most degrading existence while the raptor soars through the sky in unbounded freedom? Or is it possible that these more humble creatures long, as we do, for more than their lot but are are forced to slink in the shadows to avoid the sharp talons and ripping beaks of those we hold in such esteem? Can a rabbit be noble, can a mole?
When suddenly it occurs to me that she is a predator, a cold blooded killer that ends the life of others so that hers might continue a little while longer. Why is it that we think raptors so admirable and respectable, while we disdain and belittle the skulking animals that are their prey? Is it because of the skulking? Do we think that mice and rabbits like to scrabble around in underbrush and dark corners, that they are just naturally happiest wallowing in the poorest and most degrading existence while the raptor soars through the sky in unbounded freedom? Or is it possible that these more humble creatures long, as we do, for more than their lot but are are forced to slink in the shadows to avoid the sharp talons and ripping beaks of those we hold in such esteem? Can a rabbit be noble, can a mole?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Empty Nest
Think back to the last time you moved... or perhaps the first time. Remember what it felt like to walk through your apartment after all of your things had been taken out? These rooms that have been as familiar to you as your own hand suddenly seem strangely unfamiliar. The physical space is the same, the walls, the windows, the cabinets and floors. You can remember when you made that special dinner for a friend or lover, standing at that stove, lighting candles on a table that stood just there. You burned the chicken a little, but the wine was nice. Or you recall the hours you spent on the sofa in this living room, reading or watching a movie, by yourself or with friends. Those were pleasant times when you snatched a few grains of sand away from the worries of the outside world. And even if you didn't like the color of the walls or the shape of a certain corner, you were home in these rooms for a time. All of that is still here in the shadows of the mind's eye. But now, with all of your personal touches gone, all vestiges of you removed from the space, leaving it bare of personality and foreign as the first day you moved in, the very fact that the space is still the same when everything else that made it home is gone is precisely what makes you feel uncomfortable and lost there. If it were truly and completely different, it would no longer have meaning to you, and you would feel nothing. But its closeness, it's familiarity is what is unsettling when it is now so unlike what you know. Freud called this unheimlich, unhomely. It is not not-home. But it is not home. It is un-home. Recognizable as home, but not at the same time.
This week is spring break week at the university where I work and also at the high school where Darling Wife teaches. She is home with Fergus, but there is no break for me. My campus is not closed, and the staff must still work, unless we take vacation leave, which I do not want to do. So, I sit at my desk in a mostly empty building on a mostly empty campus in a mostly empty town. The students that normally fill the place with superficial cell phone conversations and drunken stumblings are all gone, and there is an eerie silence to everything. Certainly they are annoying when they are here and sometimes even seriously disturbing. But how strange it is when they are not here... how unheimlich. One almost wishes for them back....
....almost.
This week is spring break week at the university where I work and also at the high school where Darling Wife teaches. She is home with Fergus, but there is no break for me. My campus is not closed, and the staff must still work, unless we take vacation leave, which I do not want to do. So, I sit at my desk in a mostly empty building on a mostly empty campus in a mostly empty town. The students that normally fill the place with superficial cell phone conversations and drunken stumblings are all gone, and there is an eerie silence to everything. Certainly they are annoying when they are here and sometimes even seriously disturbing. But how strange it is when they are not here... how unheimlich. One almost wishes for them back....
....almost.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Homing in on Home
Darling Wife and I had a lovely weekend. Our friend from across the northern border came to visit on Saturday, and we spent a relaxing day sitting on the balconies and in the gardens of wineries, sampling the wares, and catching up. The temperature was an absolute perfect 74 degrees Fahrenheit; the sun was warm on the skin; and a gentle breeze kept us cool. Even Fergus had a good time as people everywhere fussed over him in excited tones and rubbed his fur in every direction while he wiggled rapturously around their feet.
Then yesterday, we attended a triumphant celebration of the resurrection of our Lord at the nearby Episcopal church, tidied the house a bit, and took a long walk through the burrowing owl habitat. Again, the weather was near perfect, and the pace was slow and pleasant. The air was perfumed with sage and rosemary from the wild shrubs flowering alongside the adjacent field, and cottontails chased one another long the hedge. California seems like not such a foul word at times like these.
During the afternoon, I phoned my family back in Tennessee. My sister and her family had descended from the frozen depths of Minnesota to spend the holiday there. Everyone was at my brother's house where they were eating and chatting and planning an Easter egg hunt after lunch. That is, everyone was there but me.
But even as I experienced the familiar longing to be home, sharing in the familial camaraderie, I knew that I would not be happy if I were there. It is merely the shadow of a place I called home in a distant time when I was some other person, and I don't belong there anymore. Oh, to be sure I miss it. There are certain things, certain people and places, that will always pull at my heart with all of the power of bittersweet memory. But that's all it is, Memory. There is no living reality there that I am part of, and there hasn't been for a long time.
No, as I've written many times before, the feeling I was revisiting was merely a desire for "home" in a vague and intangible sense. And as much as I might try to trick myself in that telephonic moment that TN is that home, I know better. In quiet moments, when I allow my soul to drift into imagination, it is not the cotton delta, central plateau, or eastern mountains of Tennessee that I journey to. It is the downs and dales of England that call to me the strongest, and their echo resounds along the American north and mid Atlantic coast. Perhaps there I will find harmony.
And if I stay away a bit longer, it may be that the thin air of California will further refine the sound and allow me to home in on it with all the certainty of a migrating swallow, returning to build a nest in the same British riverbank after the long journey home from a winter Mediterranean exile.
Then yesterday, we attended a triumphant celebration of the resurrection of our Lord at the nearby Episcopal church, tidied the house a bit, and took a long walk through the burrowing owl habitat. Again, the weather was near perfect, and the pace was slow and pleasant. The air was perfumed with sage and rosemary from the wild shrubs flowering alongside the adjacent field, and cottontails chased one another long the hedge. California seems like not such a foul word at times like these.
During the afternoon, I phoned my family back in Tennessee. My sister and her family had descended from the frozen depths of Minnesota to spend the holiday there. Everyone was at my brother's house where they were eating and chatting and planning an Easter egg hunt after lunch. That is, everyone was there but me.
But even as I experienced the familiar longing to be home, sharing in the familial camaraderie, I knew that I would not be happy if I were there. It is merely the shadow of a place I called home in a distant time when I was some other person, and I don't belong there anymore. Oh, to be sure I miss it. There are certain things, certain people and places, that will always pull at my heart with all of the power of bittersweet memory. But that's all it is, Memory. There is no living reality there that I am part of, and there hasn't been for a long time.
No, as I've written many times before, the feeling I was revisiting was merely a desire for "home" in a vague and intangible sense. And as much as I might try to trick myself in that telephonic moment that TN is that home, I know better. In quiet moments, when I allow my soul to drift into imagination, it is not the cotton delta, central plateau, or eastern mountains of Tennessee that I journey to. It is the downs and dales of England that call to me the strongest, and their echo resounds along the American north and mid Atlantic coast. Perhaps there I will find harmony.
And if I stay away a bit longer, it may be that the thin air of California will further refine the sound and allow me to home in on it with all the certainty of a migrating swallow, returning to build a nest in the same British riverbank after the long journey home from a winter Mediterranean exile.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Green Acres
As an amateur gardener, I really have no problem with altering the landscape. And I don't see any reason we can't plant flowering shrubs from China or bulbs from Brazil in our gardens, as long as they don't get out and compete with native species. (Coming from a state overrun by Kudzu, I am intimately aware of how dangerous this can be.) However, as I rode my bike to work this morning amidst the spray of sprinklers, I could not escape the feeling that something is wrong with our attitude to our environment.
The movement among plant biologists here is toward native plants or plants from the Mediterranean, plants adapted to the incredible variation in temperature and rainfall seen in the central valley. At every possible opportunity, they advocate making these choices when landscaping . And I think some people listen. I do see selections of native grasses in some "lawns" and cypress trees between properties. But by and large, I see sprinklers.
Of course, I can understand the desire to have a well-manicured lawn and lush foliage framing one's home. Not everyone likes knee-deep, half-dead stands of native grasses along our front walk, and some of us dislike stands of scrubby blue oak trees surrounded by swathes of hard, dry dirt. We like to feel we sculpt our property, make it our own. We like to feel we are in control of it. We like to feel that it is beautiful... according to our own subjective definition of that term.
But as water supply becomes increasingly problematic and the inevitable pools and squishy places, breeding grounds for West Nile-carrying mosquitoes, present themselves behind shrubs and at the edges of curbs, I begin to think that perhaps we need to wise up. If we don't like the flora and climate here, we should go where we do rather than vainly trying to force nature to conform to our image of home.
The movement among plant biologists here is toward native plants or plants from the Mediterranean, plants adapted to the incredible variation in temperature and rainfall seen in the central valley. At every possible opportunity, they advocate making these choices when landscaping . And I think some people listen. I do see selections of native grasses in some "lawns" and cypress trees between properties. But by and large, I see sprinklers.
Of course, I can understand the desire to have a well-manicured lawn and lush foliage framing one's home. Not everyone likes knee-deep, half-dead stands of native grasses along our front walk, and some of us dislike stands of scrubby blue oak trees surrounded by swathes of hard, dry dirt. We like to feel we sculpt our property, make it our own. We like to feel we are in control of it. We like to feel that it is beautiful... according to our own subjective definition of that term.
But as water supply becomes increasingly problematic and the inevitable pools and squishy places, breeding grounds for West Nile-carrying mosquitoes, present themselves behind shrubs and at the edges of curbs, I begin to think that perhaps we need to wise up. If we don't like the flora and climate here, we should go where we do rather than vainly trying to force nature to conform to our image of home.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Biorhythms
Every year at this time of year, I get a little... er.... I don't know what to call it. When I lived in TN, it always manifested as an extremely strong desire to go somewhere else, anywhere else, as long as it wasn't the South. The important part was that it had to be spontaneous. You know, just get up one morning, walk out of my apartment door, get in my car, and drive until I got tired of driving. No packing, no destination, no itinerary, no notice. Just leave.
Now after years of moving around, this feeling takes on a different form, I have a profound desire to go home... even if I'm not sure where that is. First I think Boston. Then London. Then my grandparent's farm. What about New Orleans? It's springtime there, and the jasmine will be in bloom. I even think back to Darling Wife's home town and consider that. We had such a good time at Antietam with her parents over Christmas 2006. (Yeah, I know. Bloody battlefield, good times... It isn't exactly an automatic pairing, but the place was originally and still is some pretty spectacular farm land with rolling hills and a lot of history... and it's only about an hour-to-an hour and a half from D.C.) That could be fun again.
I recognize, of course, that the place is really not the issue. I just feel this overwhelming need to escape. When I'm stressed, I want to escape from my worries. When I'm not, I want to escape from my boredom. Right now, it's both. I have a lot of work to do, but none of it is exciting. I can't leave because I have too much to do, but I don't WANT to do any of it. So I feel dissatisfied and trapped, which only makes the feeling worse.
Some of this feeling transfers to DW, who seems less affected by it than me at first but eventually admits a little fellow sentiment. But this is one of those occasions in which misery does not love company. When she starts to succumb, it just makes it harder for me to ignore the mounting flight response. Wild abandonment is knocking at the door, and duty and responsibility are such feeble words to combat it with.
I think most people feel this way at some time or another, and I believe this is a particularly infectious season. Cabin Fever they used to call it. We may no longer live in cabins, but I think computers and cubicles are worse.
Now after years of moving around, this feeling takes on a different form, I have a profound desire to go home... even if I'm not sure where that is. First I think Boston. Then London. Then my grandparent's farm. What about New Orleans? It's springtime there, and the jasmine will be in bloom. I even think back to Darling Wife's home town and consider that. We had such a good time at Antietam with her parents over Christmas 2006. (Yeah, I know. Bloody battlefield, good times... It isn't exactly an automatic pairing, but the place was originally and still is some pretty spectacular farm land with rolling hills and a lot of history... and it's only about an hour-to-an hour and a half from D.C.) That could be fun again.
I recognize, of course, that the place is really not the issue. I just feel this overwhelming need to escape. When I'm stressed, I want to escape from my worries. When I'm not, I want to escape from my boredom. Right now, it's both. I have a lot of work to do, but none of it is exciting. I can't leave because I have too much to do, but I don't WANT to do any of it. So I feel dissatisfied and trapped, which only makes the feeling worse.
Some of this feeling transfers to DW, who seems less affected by it than me at first but eventually admits a little fellow sentiment. But this is one of those occasions in which misery does not love company. When she starts to succumb, it just makes it harder for me to ignore the mounting flight response. Wild abandonment is knocking at the door, and duty and responsibility are such feeble words to combat it with.
I think most people feel this way at some time or another, and I believe this is a particularly infectious season. Cabin Fever they used to call it. We may no longer live in cabins, but I think computers and cubicles are worse.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Pistol Whipped
Yesterday after lunch with a new friend, he says, "This is going to sound weird, but have you ever fired a gun?"
Er... yeah... it is weird, and yes, I have.
I wish I could say I was stunned to silence or had some other surprised reaction, but I wasn't. As my friend was explaining that he meant at a firing range, adding that he has an acquaintance who took some gun safety courses and started going to a firing range and now my friend is thinking it might be fun, I am scrambling to explain that as a Southerner, I am no stranger to guns.
On later reflection, I am a little disturbed by my behavior. My friend made it clear that he has no desire to hurt anyone or anything, and I know he means it. I also hastened to clarify that most of my experience with guns involves hunting, which I am not too keen on. I'm just not a killer. But here we were talking about researching where we could go and how much it would cost, and I can't say I had seriously considered what I was talking about.
Certainly, it can't hurt to know how to handle a gun. You never know when that might be useful knowledge. And it could be interesting to take on the challenge of becoming a good shot. So as long as it's safe and in controlled conditions, why not? I am not bothered by the idea of what my friend proposed. I'm even starting to hope he follows through with the plans. What concerns me is that none of these reasons crossed my mind in that moment. I was merely making every effort to convince my friend that I think the idea is cool when the truth is, I've never thought of it at all and wasn't really thinking about it then.
Am I that desperate for male companionship that I would take up a hobby that involves playing with deadly weapons without a single thought just to please a new friend?
Apparently, I am.
Er... yeah... it is weird, and yes, I have.
I wish I could say I was stunned to silence or had some other surprised reaction, but I wasn't. As my friend was explaining that he meant at a firing range, adding that he has an acquaintance who took some gun safety courses and started going to a firing range and now my friend is thinking it might be fun, I am scrambling to explain that as a Southerner, I am no stranger to guns.
On later reflection, I am a little disturbed by my behavior. My friend made it clear that he has no desire to hurt anyone or anything, and I know he means it. I also hastened to clarify that most of my experience with guns involves hunting, which I am not too keen on. I'm just not a killer. But here we were talking about researching where we could go and how much it would cost, and I can't say I had seriously considered what I was talking about.
Certainly, it can't hurt to know how to handle a gun. You never know when that might be useful knowledge. And it could be interesting to take on the challenge of becoming a good shot. So as long as it's safe and in controlled conditions, why not? I am not bothered by the idea of what my friend proposed. I'm even starting to hope he follows through with the plans. What concerns me is that none of these reasons crossed my mind in that moment. I was merely making every effort to convince my friend that I think the idea is cool when the truth is, I've never thought of it at all and wasn't really thinking about it then.
Am I that desperate for male companionship that I would take up a hobby that involves playing with deadly weapons without a single thought just to please a new friend?
Apparently, I am.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
And now I remember...
why I don't stay out late drinking on weeknights anymore.
Please! Do you have to read that loudly?
Please! Do you have to read that loudly?
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
So, THAT's a Vicissitude
Yesterday was certainly a Monday, in more than the calendar sense. You know what I mean. It seems that Mondays are often a little dodgy. Maybe the two days off on the weekend makes us forget the routine we endure the other five days a week, or maybe our pitiful struggle against that routine requires us to blunder as much as we can on Mondays in some vain attempt to pretend this isn't our real life. I don't know. But I do know that I wanted to crawl back into bed after my shower yesterday morning, and the day only got worse as it progressed.
First, I'd had a bad Friday. The center I work for hosted an installment of a seminar series being funded by a government research agency. I'd been working out the logistics of the seminar for months and thought everything was ready. And in all honesty, most of it came off well. But somehow I misplaced a presentation remote control on Thursday, and it was simply not to be found on Friday. I spent half the day, and almost all of the seminar time, searching my office and everywhere else I could think of with no success. Consequently, I faced an unpleasant experience on Monday morning when I had to confess my negligence and attempt to make restitution to the university.
But even before I got to work, I was hit by a car when I was riding my bike to campus. I was going straight in the bike lane when a Toyota Pruis pulled into the road from a side-street and drove right into my path. So much for caring about the environment. The driver was obviously oblivious to his. No one was hurt; the driver turned in the same direction I was going, and I saw him in time to slow up and try to dodge his car. So, I just bounced off his front, drivers-side bumper lightly and continued to bump along the side of his car until he stopped. Neither of our "vehicles" received any damage either, but it shook me up a lot, as I'm sure you can imagine. The guy had glanced my way; I saw his head turn. But he clearly doesn't understand the difference between actually looking both ways and just going through the motions. I let off a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush, and the driver was clearly frightened. I would have felt badly for him if he hadn't almost killed me. I nearly turned around and went home right then.
But I didn't. And I was swamped with work when I got to the office. There were all sorts of things to do to wrap up the seminar, and my boss is in France or Spain or some other European country where he is no help to me. Then a friend canceled lunch plans on me last minute, and I had a major assignment due for one of my classes after work.
Fortunately, I had arrangement to meet up with some old school mates down the pub last night. (It's not really a pub, but I can pretend pretty well.) In keeping with my desire to change my social situation, I've been reaching out to acquaintances where I can, and it paid off last night with a few pints of Newcastle and some lively conversation. So what seemed like a disastrous day ended up on a positive note. And if it hadn't been for my effort to make some alterations in my life, my friends would not have known I was still in town, and I would have spent the evening watching t.v. and feeling down on the living room sofa while DW worked on lesson plans in the study.
Yes, my friends, change is good. And don't let anyone tell you differently.
First, I'd had a bad Friday. The center I work for hosted an installment of a seminar series being funded by a government research agency. I'd been working out the logistics of the seminar for months and thought everything was ready. And in all honesty, most of it came off well. But somehow I misplaced a presentation remote control on Thursday, and it was simply not to be found on Friday. I spent half the day, and almost all of the seminar time, searching my office and everywhere else I could think of with no success. Consequently, I faced an unpleasant experience on Monday morning when I had to confess my negligence and attempt to make restitution to the university.
But even before I got to work, I was hit by a car when I was riding my bike to campus. I was going straight in the bike lane when a Toyota Pruis pulled into the road from a side-street and drove right into my path. So much for caring about the environment. The driver was obviously oblivious to his. No one was hurt; the driver turned in the same direction I was going, and I saw him in time to slow up and try to dodge his car. So, I just bounced off his front, drivers-side bumper lightly and continued to bump along the side of his car until he stopped. Neither of our "vehicles" received any damage either, but it shook me up a lot, as I'm sure you can imagine. The guy had glanced my way; I saw his head turn. But he clearly doesn't understand the difference between actually looking both ways and just going through the motions. I let off a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush, and the driver was clearly frightened. I would have felt badly for him if he hadn't almost killed me. I nearly turned around and went home right then.
But I didn't. And I was swamped with work when I got to the office. There were all sorts of things to do to wrap up the seminar, and my boss is in France or Spain or some other European country where he is no help to me. Then a friend canceled lunch plans on me last minute, and I had a major assignment due for one of my classes after work.
Fortunately, I had arrangement to meet up with some old school mates down the pub last night. (It's not really a pub, but I can pretend pretty well.) In keeping with my desire to change my social situation, I've been reaching out to acquaintances where I can, and it paid off last night with a few pints of Newcastle and some lively conversation. So what seemed like a disastrous day ended up on a positive note. And if it hadn't been for my effort to make some alterations in my life, my friends would not have known I was still in town, and I would have spent the evening watching t.v. and feeling down on the living room sofa while DW worked on lesson plans in the study.
Yes, my friends, change is good. And don't let anyone tell you differently.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Be Like Me
One of the classes I'm taking this semester is on management. Each week my classmates and I read chapters from the textbook and post answers on the course Blackboard site to questions posed in the text.
Recently the topic of one of the chapters was on decision making, and one of my classmates made the following remark:
This topic makes me think of an interview I heard on NPR about how people arrive at their decision on what candidate to vote for on election day. The interviewee (he was a journalist) argued that people like to think that they arrive at their decisions because of facts they know about the candidate. However, most people, when it comes down to the moment of truth, will vote for the candidate they intuitively identify with the most. I thought this was pretty interesting.
I thought it was pretty interesting too. I really prefer to think that I do make my choices based on the issues, but maybe I just mean I choose the candidate whose stance on issues is similar to my own, in other words, the candidate I "intuitively identify with the most." Now perhaps there is some difference between intuitive identification and intellectual agreement, but it's a fine line.
I also recently heard Hilary Clinton refer to Barack Obama's campaign as a Cult of Personality, an assertion that is not entirely without merit. Take this report for instance. If we can accept these claims, then certainly there are some who are a little over-enthusiastic about the senator from Illinois, don't you think? However, I'm not sure that Clinton's followers are any less zealots; they just adhere to a different cult, the cult of the double X chromosomes. Oh, I'm not saying that there are not substantial, legitimate reasons to support her, but when I read an editorial or a letter to the editor in the paper that praises Clinton, 8 times out of 10 her gender is the primary selling point.
So, if we accept that we vote based on personality, perhaps we should look into the personalities of the candidates more. Check out this site. I'm not sure how scholarly it is, but you have to admit it's interesting.
Recently the topic of one of the chapters was on decision making, and one of my classmates made the following remark:
This topic makes me think of an interview I heard on NPR about how people arrive at their decision on what candidate to vote for on election day. The interviewee (he was a journalist) argued that people like to think that they arrive at their decisions because of facts they know about the candidate. However, most people, when it comes down to the moment of truth, will vote for the candidate they intuitively identify with the most. I thought this was pretty interesting.
I thought it was pretty interesting too. I really prefer to think that I do make my choices based on the issues, but maybe I just mean I choose the candidate whose stance on issues is similar to my own, in other words, the candidate I "intuitively identify with the most." Now perhaps there is some difference between intuitive identification and intellectual agreement, but it's a fine line.
I also recently heard Hilary Clinton refer to Barack Obama's campaign as a Cult of Personality, an assertion that is not entirely without merit. Take this report for instance. If we can accept these claims, then certainly there are some who are a little over-enthusiastic about the senator from Illinois, don't you think? However, I'm not sure that Clinton's followers are any less zealots; they just adhere to a different cult, the cult of the double X chromosomes. Oh, I'm not saying that there are not substantial, legitimate reasons to support her, but when I read an editorial or a letter to the editor in the paper that praises Clinton, 8 times out of 10 her gender is the primary selling point.
So, if we accept that we vote based on personality, perhaps we should look into the personalities of the candidates more. Check out this site. I'm not sure how scholarly it is, but you have to admit it's interesting.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Tho' much is taken, much abides.
When I was young, I was a loner. Not exactly a rebel, but an isolationist of sorts. I was the kid who sat in the back of the room and scowled with disdain at the ridiculous drama of teenage life. I read Malory and sci-fi novels and wished I could be anywhere but where I was. If there had been a Goth movement or a trench coat mafia at my small suburban high school, I would have been part of it... if I were a joiner, which I most definitely was not. Even that alternative lifestyle seemed ritualistic and hypocritical, and I just preferred to do things for a reason, not because others did them. I did have some people I hung out with and called friends, but when high school was over and we all went separate ways, I realized they were habits, not friends. I'd always known them and never imagined not spending time with them. It was that simple.
After high school, I came to know what loneliness was. No longer able to interact with people out of habit, I spent almost all of my time alone, when I wasn't at my dreadful fastfood job. I gained 60 pounds and perfected the art of wallowing in self pity.... until I wised up to the fact that no one was forcing this life upon me. I could change it at any time.
So, I got a new job, lost weight, learned to dress better, and started college. I made many friends and began going out all the time. I'm not saying it was all bliss and roses, but I was pretty happy. I'd never considered myself a social person before, but as long as I got some "me" time to read or watch a movie to recharge my energies, I enjoyed having an active social life.
This pattern continued for over a decade. Then, Darling Wife and I move here to Northern CA. I never really got into the rhythm of things here. There were many people in my cohort at the university that I liked, and they seemed to like me. I spent a lot of time with them. But I can't say I ever considered any of them to be friends. This is mostly my fault. I didn't allow myself to connect with them. I didn't want to. Whenever I could get away from school, I preferred to spend time at home or on an outing with DW. I enjoyed our little cocoon. So once I left my Ph.D. program, I lost all contact with the only people I knew here. I didn't anticipate how lonely this would make me feel.
You may recall that I mentioned a new friend a few months back. Our friendship was the most random connection. He was a computer support guy in the university dept where I work as a part time admin assistant, and he came to my office to fix a minor problem with my PC. We started talking, and soon meaningless smalltalk led to a decent conversation. So, I suggested we grab a pint sometime to continue it. Over the past weeks, I have come to value his friendship a great deal, more than I could have foreseen at the time. You can imagine, then, how I felt to learn that his position with the university was a temporary appointment and he would be leaving at the end of February. I attended his farewell party Friday, and though we have made promises to stay in touch, I am too experienced with the ways of the world to expect much.
It's true, we hardly ever saw each other at work anyway, but today, I sit at my desk with a profound sense of loss and isolation. But just as I did those many years ago, I am starting to think the answer is to lighten up... make some changes. And this time, my starting position is already better off because I am not alone. I have DW.
One of the great things about life is the ability to change it, don't you think? I am ready to smite the sounding furrows. Care to join me?
After high school, I came to know what loneliness was. No longer able to interact with people out of habit, I spent almost all of my time alone, when I wasn't at my dreadful fastfood job. I gained 60 pounds and perfected the art of wallowing in self pity.... until I wised up to the fact that no one was forcing this life upon me. I could change it at any time.
So, I got a new job, lost weight, learned to dress better, and started college. I made many friends and began going out all the time. I'm not saying it was all bliss and roses, but I was pretty happy. I'd never considered myself a social person before, but as long as I got some "me" time to read or watch a movie to recharge my energies, I enjoyed having an active social life.
This pattern continued for over a decade. Then, Darling Wife and I move here to Northern CA. I never really got into the rhythm of things here. There were many people in my cohort at the university that I liked, and they seemed to like me. I spent a lot of time with them. But I can't say I ever considered any of them to be friends. This is mostly my fault. I didn't allow myself to connect with them. I didn't want to. Whenever I could get away from school, I preferred to spend time at home or on an outing with DW. I enjoyed our little cocoon. So once I left my Ph.D. program, I lost all contact with the only people I knew here. I didn't anticipate how lonely this would make me feel.
You may recall that I mentioned a new friend a few months back. Our friendship was the most random connection. He was a computer support guy in the university dept where I work as a part time admin assistant, and he came to my office to fix a minor problem with my PC. We started talking, and soon meaningless smalltalk led to a decent conversation. So, I suggested we grab a pint sometime to continue it. Over the past weeks, I have come to value his friendship a great deal, more than I could have foreseen at the time. You can imagine, then, how I felt to learn that his position with the university was a temporary appointment and he would be leaving at the end of February. I attended his farewell party Friday, and though we have made promises to stay in touch, I am too experienced with the ways of the world to expect much.
It's true, we hardly ever saw each other at work anyway, but today, I sit at my desk with a profound sense of loss and isolation. But just as I did those many years ago, I am starting to think the answer is to lighten up... make some changes. And this time, my starting position is already better off because I am not alone. I have DW.
One of the great things about life is the ability to change it, don't you think? I am ready to smite the sounding furrows. Care to join me?
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Sometimes they do come true
It finally happened. Last weekend, I brought our new puppy home.
So we had to start the process all over again with this breeder. Once we'd decided to take a puppy from this breeder, there was the issue of how to get him here to CA. We did not want to fly him by himself in cargo. That's a bit too much for a puppy to go through alone. Would you put a baby in a box and stick it into an airplane's cargo hold for hours? I don't think so. And while a puppy is not exactly a baby, in many ways it amounts to the same thing. So I decided to fly to MI and pick him up and bring him back with me in the cabin. However, flights to Grand Rapids, MI from central CA are not cheap. I ended up opting to fly to Chicago and crash with a friend for a few days instead. The flight was significantly cheaper, and my friend generously offered to play chauffeur to me and my new family member, picking me up at the airport while it was still dark and driving us around Lake Michigan in the wee hours during the middle of winter. Now, that's a good friend. But coordinating her schedule with mine and the breeder's proved even more difficult, and when we eventually worked it all out, it still meant me getting almost no sleep for three days, and all I saw of Chicago was my friend's apartment and one truly great pizza place.
But all's well that ends well, right? Fergus has been home with us for a week now, and he is proving himself to be all that we wished for. We've been having so much fun -and I had so much school work to catch up on- that this is the first chance I've had to sit down and share the good news. Who knows when I'll take the time again, but fear not; my blogging days may be fewer, but they aren't gone yet. And they won't all be about our adorable new pal.
This was no mean feat. As some of you know, the entire process has been a lengthy one. After convincing Darling Wife that she wanted a Scottish Terrier... :)
....we had to save the money to buy one and take proper care of him. We also had to find a breeder we liked. This involved months of web searches, telephone calls, and letter writing. And when we did finally find one, we waited and waited, but her dog did not go into season. Then she recommended another breeder in Michigan who had puppies available.
So we had to start the process all over again with this breeder. Once we'd decided to take a puppy from this breeder, there was the issue of how to get him here to CA. We did not want to fly him by himself in cargo. That's a bit too much for a puppy to go through alone. Would you put a baby in a box and stick it into an airplane's cargo hold for hours? I don't think so. And while a puppy is not exactly a baby, in many ways it amounts to the same thing. So I decided to fly to MI and pick him up and bring him back with me in the cabin. However, flights to Grand Rapids, MI from central CA are not cheap. I ended up opting to fly to Chicago and crash with a friend for a few days instead. The flight was significantly cheaper, and my friend generously offered to play chauffeur to me and my new family member, picking me up at the airport while it was still dark and driving us around Lake Michigan in the wee hours during the middle of winter. Now, that's a good friend. But coordinating her schedule with mine and the breeder's proved even more difficult, and when we eventually worked it all out, it still meant me getting almost no sleep for three days, and all I saw of Chicago was my friend's apartment and one truly great pizza place.
But all's well that ends well, right? Fergus has been home with us for a week now, and he is proving himself to be all that we wished for. We've been having so much fun -and I had so much school work to catch up on- that this is the first chance I've had to sit down and share the good news. Who knows when I'll take the time again, but fear not; my blogging days may be fewer, but they aren't gone yet. And they won't all be about our adorable new pal.
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