Darling Wife's parents and older brother arrived last night from the east coast, and today they all piled into our car and headed north to visit DW's sister, about five hours away. They will be gone until Tuesday evening.
My new job precluded me from joining them. This was unfortunate because I really would have liked to see my sister-in-law's new digs and spend some time in her new hometown. It is a small city on the north coast in the heart of redwood country, and I truly love it there. But I could hardly ask for two days off after only starting my job last week. They all offered to postpone the trip until I could go, but I didn't want to cause everyone else to alter their plans on my account, and it was not even really possible to do so. Besides, my sister-in-law may very well return with them to spend Thanksgiving here, and DW and I can easily go up to her place some other time. I had reconciled myself to the loss of the experience.
However, there is another aspect to this event that I had not fully considered. It may sound silly to you, but DW and I have not spent three days apart since we were married. Last Christmas, she went to visit this same sister overnight. That was the first time we had slept apart in over a year. But it was just one night, a small part of one day and half of another. I was also busy with school work at the time, so the seperation passed by quickly. This time, it is different. I will spend two nights alone, and I am not preoccupied with exams or teaching. As I have commented several times in this blog, we live largely isolated lives here. We rely almost entirely on each other for companionship. How curious it feels to be here without her. What is more, before we married, I lived with a roommate for three years. I was seldom if ever home alone, and almost never over night. I haven't spent this much time completely and totally alone in over five years. I have never been an incredibly needy person. I am quite comfortable spending large amounts of time by myself. I even require it on occasion. But I was not prepared for the fact that the next few days seem like an oddly unpleasant experience now that I am faced with them.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
By the Minute
The past few weeks have been. . . well, I'm not sure what they've been. I want to say that they've been busy, but that's not exactly right. There have been entire blocks of time where I have done little more than read, for leisure now instead of work. There have also been long walks with Darling Wife, sightseeing with friends, and even a camping trip. All of these things have been at a relaxed pace.
I suppose that this feeling of busyness has come from the fact that I am engaged in a large number of activities at present. Most of these activities are of a very short duration, and often there may be a considerable length of time between one activity and the next. But there is seldom a moment when I am not aware that I need to begin another activity at some point later in the day or week. This has resulted in a constant need to watch the clock, making me more aware of the passage of time than I usually am. I monitor every click of the second hand, every change of the numbers to the right of the colon.
You know how it is when you sit down to compose an e-mail or make a telephone call and you look up when the action is complete to discover that hours have passed without you realizing it? This can cause momentary panic or a feeling of loss, but it also means that you were able to detach yourself from your cares and worries, if only for a bit. Lately, I haven't had that luxury. To be sure, I've had the satisfaction of checking off many, many things from my "to do" list, gotten to know my sofa rather well, and enjoyed a great deal of outdoor recreation, but I am beginning to feel a little run down.
I suppose most of us feel this way. Perhaps the best symbol of our age isn't the computer, iPod, or cell phone. Perhaps it's the centuries-old clock. We measure our lives out, not by years or hours, but by minutes.
I suppose that this feeling of busyness has come from the fact that I am engaged in a large number of activities at present. Most of these activities are of a very short duration, and often there may be a considerable length of time between one activity and the next. But there is seldom a moment when I am not aware that I need to begin another activity at some point later in the day or week. This has resulted in a constant need to watch the clock, making me more aware of the passage of time than I usually am. I monitor every click of the second hand, every change of the numbers to the right of the colon.
You know how it is when you sit down to compose an e-mail or make a telephone call and you look up when the action is complete to discover that hours have passed without you realizing it? This can cause momentary panic or a feeling of loss, but it also means that you were able to detach yourself from your cares and worries, if only for a bit. Lately, I haven't had that luxury. To be sure, I've had the satisfaction of checking off many, many things from my "to do" list, gotten to know my sofa rather well, and enjoyed a great deal of outdoor recreation, but I am beginning to feel a little run down.
I suppose most of us feel this way. Perhaps the best symbol of our age isn't the computer, iPod, or cell phone. Perhaps it's the centuries-old clock. We measure our lives out, not by years or hours, but by minutes.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Suffer the Little Children
"I play the trumpet," declared a small voice from somewhere in front of me.
It was a beautiful day, perhaps a bit too warm for November, but it would take a true malcontent to complain of sun and 77 degrees. Though I was attentive to my duty, I admit my mind had wandered with the breeze that tickled the hair around my ears and shook the acorns hanging precariously from the branches along the sidewalk. But the clear indication that this short statement was meant for me pulled me back to the center of the road where I stood, holding aloft a stop sign while a half dozen, waist-high figures toddled before me.
I looked down and met the bright blue eyes of Everett. Everett is a brown-haired boy of about eight who traverses my crosswalk twice a day in the company of his sister, Sophie, and brother, Graham. Last week, Everett's mother asked my name and dutifully passed it along to her progeny when I had given it. Though none of the children has ever spoken to me before, they have often stared familiarly since they discovered I have a name, and I have heard them query their mother about me on numerous points of interest. Everett was clearly proud of his pronouncement, and I could tell he was anticipating a response. Joy exuded from each tiny line as he squinted into the sun to look up at me.
"I play the saxophone," I responded. A huge grin appeared on his face as Everett's elfin features nearly burst with excitement. He turned abruptly to his mother and shouted, "He plays the saxophone, Mama! Chris says he plays the saxophone." And just like that, our "conversation" was over.
Earlier in the day, I had escorted my small-scale friend Shane across the street and watched as he happily waved goodbye from the sidewalk before continuing on his way. Shane, who is perhaps nine or ten, and I became friends a few weeks ago over our mutual support of the Boston Red Sox. He now chats energetically with me each day before and after school.
And shortly after I confessed my somewhat lapsed muscial abilities, I would be stumped -for the third time this week I might add- by seven-year-old Josh, who lisped at me, "Why didn't the schkeleton cwoss the woad?" When I assured him of my woeful ignorance of skeletal psychology, he giggled so wildly that I could barely hear him utter, "Because he didn't hab the guts."
Within moments, a cheerful blonde girl would push her bicycle through the crosswalk, donn a plastic firemen's hat, and announce to me, "Well, I'm off to a fire" with an expression of absolute seriousness that I could not help but smile at. Apparently, some of the classes had been visited by a member of my fair city's fire department that day because I noticed for the first time that nearly half of the miniscule scholars sported or carried similiar headgear.
I have never considered myself a "kid person." They are small, messy, and noisy, and they have an extremely limited vocabulary. The most obvious things escape their attention while completely rediculous things entertain them for hours. To be honest, I've just never known what to do with them. It's been a long time since I was able to "play" as they seem to always expect me to do.
But last week I was offered a part-time administrative assistant position at the university. This position means work indoors, which is appealing now that winter is approaching, however slowly. It also carries quite a bit more money, which is frankly needed. So, I accepted the position and gave notice to the crossing guard supervisor. Consequently, this is my last week with my diminutive friends, and now I fear I shall miss them immensely.
It was a beautiful day, perhaps a bit too warm for November, but it would take a true malcontent to complain of sun and 77 degrees. Though I was attentive to my duty, I admit my mind had wandered with the breeze that tickled the hair around my ears and shook the acorns hanging precariously from the branches along the sidewalk. But the clear indication that this short statement was meant for me pulled me back to the center of the road where I stood, holding aloft a stop sign while a half dozen, waist-high figures toddled before me.
I looked down and met the bright blue eyes of Everett. Everett is a brown-haired boy of about eight who traverses my crosswalk twice a day in the company of his sister, Sophie, and brother, Graham. Last week, Everett's mother asked my name and dutifully passed it along to her progeny when I had given it. Though none of the children has ever spoken to me before, they have often stared familiarly since they discovered I have a name, and I have heard them query their mother about me on numerous points of interest. Everett was clearly proud of his pronouncement, and I could tell he was anticipating a response. Joy exuded from each tiny line as he squinted into the sun to look up at me.
"I play the saxophone," I responded. A huge grin appeared on his face as Everett's elfin features nearly burst with excitement. He turned abruptly to his mother and shouted, "He plays the saxophone, Mama! Chris says he plays the saxophone." And just like that, our "conversation" was over.
Earlier in the day, I had escorted my small-scale friend Shane across the street and watched as he happily waved goodbye from the sidewalk before continuing on his way. Shane, who is perhaps nine or ten, and I became friends a few weeks ago over our mutual support of the Boston Red Sox. He now chats energetically with me each day before and after school.
And shortly after I confessed my somewhat lapsed muscial abilities, I would be stumped -for the third time this week I might add- by seven-year-old Josh, who lisped at me, "Why didn't the schkeleton cwoss the woad?" When I assured him of my woeful ignorance of skeletal psychology, he giggled so wildly that I could barely hear him utter, "Because he didn't hab the guts."
Within moments, a cheerful blonde girl would push her bicycle through the crosswalk, donn a plastic firemen's hat, and announce to me, "Well, I'm off to a fire" with an expression of absolute seriousness that I could not help but smile at. Apparently, some of the classes had been visited by a member of my fair city's fire department that day because I noticed for the first time that nearly half of the miniscule scholars sported or carried similiar headgear.
I have never considered myself a "kid person." They are small, messy, and noisy, and they have an extremely limited vocabulary. The most obvious things escape their attention while completely rediculous things entertain them for hours. To be honest, I've just never known what to do with them. It's been a long time since I was able to "play" as they seem to always expect me to do.
But last week I was offered a part-time administrative assistant position at the university. This position means work indoors, which is appealing now that winter is approaching, however slowly. It also carries quite a bit more money, which is frankly needed. So, I accepted the position and gave notice to the crossing guard supervisor. Consequently, this is my last week with my diminutive friends, and now I fear I shall miss them immensely.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Into the Mist
There was a fog today, the first of the season. And by this, I do not mean that we had some fog. I mean there was a fog. The difference is subtle when written, but significant when experienced. We occasionally have heavy, incredibly dense, visually impairing fogs in the CA central valley during the winter. Last winter we didn't have any, but usually we get four or five a season. They occur when the air temperature drops quickly while the ground temperature does not. The cool air is dry, so it leaches moisture out of the ground. But once the moisture makes contact with the coolness, it condenses instantly to be come an opaque vapor that hovers impenetrably above the surface. Sometimes even the sun and wind cannot disspell it.
I quite enjoy a good fog. Not the brown, industrial kind that Dickens describes in A Christmas Carol, but the swirling white kind that envelopes the world in a special feeling. Fog provokes an odd sort of reversal; solid objects take on an insubstantial, barely-seen quality while the ephemeral air mutates into something solid and tangible. It turns the landscape into a water-color painting, muting the colors and blurring them together into something softer, less intense, less real. It also muffles sounds so that even the roar of a car's engine and hum of it's tires become distant, almost imagined. Essentially, fog acts like a veil over the world, fashioning mystery out of everyday things. In literary terms, fog is poetry.
And how fitting that it should come on Halloween day, don't you think?
I quite enjoy a good fog. Not the brown, industrial kind that Dickens describes in A Christmas Carol, but the swirling white kind that envelopes the world in a special feeling. Fog provokes an odd sort of reversal; solid objects take on an insubstantial, barely-seen quality while the ephemeral air mutates into something solid and tangible. It turns the landscape into a water-color painting, muting the colors and blurring them together into something softer, less intense, less real. It also muffles sounds so that even the roar of a car's engine and hum of it's tires become distant, almost imagined. Essentially, fog acts like a veil over the world, fashioning mystery out of everyday things. In literary terms, fog is poetry.
And how fitting that it should come on Halloween day, don't you think?
Monday, October 29, 2007
On the Rail Again
What is it about trains? I can't say exactly. Children's eyes light up and adults wax nostalgic whenever they see one. Maybe it's that they offer some sort of connection to a past era, both personal and historical. Maybe it's the disembodied concept of "Travel." Maybe it's the comfort and ease of train travel as opposed to plane or automobile. Or maybe it's the landscape that trains typically traverse, usually more scenic and isolated than that of highways and airports. I just don't know, but I know I love them.
This past weekend, Darling Wife and I went with our two houseguests to visit some of the tourist attractions in the Bay Area. To save money and make the trip more companionable, we took one vehicle. We spent a day and night in San Francisco, hitting several sights that DW and I were very familiar with, but also taking in one or two that we had not managed to experience on previous sojourns in the city. The next day, we all travelled south to San Jose, where we paid a call on Mrs. Winchester, and then our guests continued down the coast to San Simeon, the isolated mansion of famed newspaper publisher William Randolph Hurst, while DW and I caught the train back home. How odd it was to be on a train again. . . and how wonderful.
The southern city where I grew up didn't have trains. Well, that's not exactly true. We had freight trains. I could hear them whistle as they passed by the suburb where I lived, haunting and thrilling to a small boy lying awake in his bed at night dreaming of distant lands and even more distant days. They were romantic, carrying with them an echo of Europe and Victorian industry.
Later when I was studying in the UK, I took my first train trip. I had a British Rail pass that openned the island to me, and I made frequent use of it, so much so that I was an old hand at train travel by the time I hopped back across the pond. Everything seemed so easy on the train. I'd just show up at the station, check the schedule, and go to the right platform at the right time. It required very little thought or effort. I didn't have to carry maps or directions, arrive hours ahead of time, purchase tickets days in advance - I didn't even have to check luggage. Once on board the train, the seats were usually much roomier and more comfortable than airplane seats, and there was almost always a dining car with decent, if overly priced, food, so I was never required to plan ahead or go hungry. I could read or sleep or stare out the window as sheep and stone fences sped past until the conductor notified me that we had reached my stop or I heard the announcement over the loud speakers. Then I'd jump off and start a new adventure in a new place where people spoke with different accents and dwelt beside enormous cathedrals. What could be more fun?
Later, when I'd moved to Boston, I again renewed my friendship with the train. My sister lived on Long Island at the time, and I would take Amtrak down to Manhattan and board the Long Island Railroad at Penn Station. The fast pace of the crowds and smell of pizza-by-the-slice always excited me. Sometimes I would stay in The City for an hour or a day. There was no rush. There would always be another train if I missed one. And if I didn't have time to buy my ticket at the station, I could get one from the conductor on the train, for a slightly increased price. I also regularly took the MBTA commuter rail from Boston to Salem, Gloucester, or Maine. These quick and convenient trains made getting out of the city without a car part of the fun of the escape rather than an additional hassle. I could imagine that I was Sherlock Holmes, steaming my way toward another case, or David Copperfield, about to embark on a new phase of my education.
Now that I live on the west coast, my train excursions are limited to the occasional trip from Washington, D.C. to DW's parent's house in Maryland. They are infrequent, perhaps once a year, but they are delightful. The rolling hills of the mid-atlantic region glide by the windows like a permanent green sea, and rivers with names forever connected in my mind with Civil War campaigns flow gently alongside us. And these trips carry with them the additional promise of family and home.
So as we sat there on this western train, returning to our Central Valley town, I felt the familiar rocking and listened to the perpetual rattle and chug, and a sense of pleasure and relaxation swept over me. There is just something about a train.
This past weekend, Darling Wife and I went with our two houseguests to visit some of the tourist attractions in the Bay Area. To save money and make the trip more companionable, we took one vehicle. We spent a day and night in San Francisco, hitting several sights that DW and I were very familiar with, but also taking in one or two that we had not managed to experience on previous sojourns in the city. The next day, we all travelled south to San Jose, where we paid a call on Mrs. Winchester, and then our guests continued down the coast to San Simeon, the isolated mansion of famed newspaper publisher William Randolph Hurst, while DW and I caught the train back home. How odd it was to be on a train again. . . and how wonderful.
The southern city where I grew up didn't have trains. Well, that's not exactly true. We had freight trains. I could hear them whistle as they passed by the suburb where I lived, haunting and thrilling to a small boy lying awake in his bed at night dreaming of distant lands and even more distant days. They were romantic, carrying with them an echo of Europe and Victorian industry.
Later when I was studying in the UK, I took my first train trip. I had a British Rail pass that openned the island to me, and I made frequent use of it, so much so that I was an old hand at train travel by the time I hopped back across the pond. Everything seemed so easy on the train. I'd just show up at the station, check the schedule, and go to the right platform at the right time. It required very little thought or effort. I didn't have to carry maps or directions, arrive hours ahead of time, purchase tickets days in advance - I didn't even have to check luggage. Once on board the train, the seats were usually much roomier and more comfortable than airplane seats, and there was almost always a dining car with decent, if overly priced, food, so I was never required to plan ahead or go hungry. I could read or sleep or stare out the window as sheep and stone fences sped past until the conductor notified me that we had reached my stop or I heard the announcement over the loud speakers. Then I'd jump off and start a new adventure in a new place where people spoke with different accents and dwelt beside enormous cathedrals. What could be more fun?
Later, when I'd moved to Boston, I again renewed my friendship with the train. My sister lived on Long Island at the time, and I would take Amtrak down to Manhattan and board the Long Island Railroad at Penn Station. The fast pace of the crowds and smell of pizza-by-the-slice always excited me. Sometimes I would stay in The City for an hour or a day. There was no rush. There would always be another train if I missed one. And if I didn't have time to buy my ticket at the station, I could get one from the conductor on the train, for a slightly increased price. I also regularly took the MBTA commuter rail from Boston to Salem, Gloucester, or Maine. These quick and convenient trains made getting out of the city without a car part of the fun of the escape rather than an additional hassle. I could imagine that I was Sherlock Holmes, steaming my way toward another case, or David Copperfield, about to embark on a new phase of my education.
Now that I live on the west coast, my train excursions are limited to the occasional trip from Washington, D.C. to DW's parent's house in Maryland. They are infrequent, perhaps once a year, but they are delightful. The rolling hills of the mid-atlantic region glide by the windows like a permanent green sea, and rivers with names forever connected in my mind with Civil War campaigns flow gently alongside us. And these trips carry with them the additional promise of family and home.
So as we sat there on this western train, returning to our Central Valley town, I felt the familiar rocking and listened to the perpetual rattle and chug, and a sense of pleasure and relaxation swept over me. There is just something about a train.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Room To Let to friends and family
Darling Wife and I have more houseguests arriving this evening and staying through next week. This means another bout of sightseeing and entertaining. But we are not as weary of this as you might think. Quite the contrary.
You see, DW and I have no family and very few friends out here at the end of the world. That means that 95% of the time it's just the two of us. Of course, we're still newlyweds, and we enjoy this time alone together. Besides, even though I suffer from chronic wanderlust now and again, we're mostly kind of quiet homebodies, so it's nice to have no social commitments generally. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Despite the wonders of telephones and the internet, we have few options other than quiet, alone time. Everyone we know is just too far for easy face-to-face contact. (There are reasons I won't go into right now for why we haven't made many real friends here.) Consequently, we often feel isolated and homesick. As a result, every visitor gives us a little taste of home and friendly companionship, reminds us that we are part of a larger circle. They also give us the impetus to get out of the house and enjoy a little of this wonderous place we live in.
It's true that we are being overly blessed with visitors at the moment, but we won't complain. We are enjoying it.
But this means that I will, once again, be writing very little next week.
Cheers!
You see, DW and I have no family and very few friends out here at the end of the world. That means that 95% of the time it's just the two of us. Of course, we're still newlyweds, and we enjoy this time alone together. Besides, even though I suffer from chronic wanderlust now and again, we're mostly kind of quiet homebodies, so it's nice to have no social commitments generally. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Despite the wonders of telephones and the internet, we have few options other than quiet, alone time. Everyone we know is just too far for easy face-to-face contact. (There are reasons I won't go into right now for why we haven't made many real friends here.) Consequently, we often feel isolated and homesick. As a result, every visitor gives us a little taste of home and friendly companionship, reminds us that we are part of a larger circle. They also give us the impetus to get out of the house and enjoy a little of this wonderous place we live in.
It's true that we are being overly blessed with visitors at the moment, but we won't complain. We are enjoying it.
But this means that I will, once again, be writing very little next week.
Cheers!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Feel the Burn!
So, Southern California (SoCal) is in flames, as everyone must know because it is in all the papers and ABC pre-empted my favorite television show last night to do a special report on it. It is truly terrible how many people have been evacuated, homes destroyed, landscape devastated, all to the tune of millions -if not billions- of dollars in damage. I know that I should feel bad for these people. I know that I should sympathize with their very real human suffering.
But I can't. Call me cold; call me cruel. But I just can't feel anything for these mostly extremely wealthy people who have lost their million-dollar Malibu and and San Diego homes and now reside in a football stadium all because they refuse to leave "paradise." Oh, I know that it's hit some average Joes and Janes too. But mostly it's been the filthy rich.
My lack of sympathy is not directly related to my opinions about the victims' wealth. Certainly the fact that most of them probably have more than enough insurance to allow them to rebuild with very little inconvenience does factor into the equation, but it is not the bottom line. No. The real reason for my response would be apparent if you actually watch or read the news reports in which these victims make statements. Almost all of them say something along the lines of "We've been through this before, but not this bad." And "We're just hoping it's over soon so that we can start to put our lives back together again as soon as possible."
These statements tell me two things:
First, this DOES happen in SoCal... a lot. To be sure, it is seldom, if ever, this bad, but it is always happening. Southern California is desert, but unlike deserts in the southwest, which get little if any rain and consequently have almost no vegetation other than cacti, SoCal gets some rain in the winter, which means that it grows grass and stuff that dies when the winter rains stop so that by summer and fall, there is a lot of dried up, extremely combustible vegetation covering the landscape. SoCal also has dry, hot winds every single year, many, many times a year. The conditions couldn't be better for wildfires. So, unlike a Hurricane Katrina-type disaster that happens occasionally when a thousand factors play out just right, these SoCal fires happen every single year, several times a year. And everyone knows this.
As a result, I have a hard time feeling sorry for these people. They chose to build very expensive homes in the heart of a fire-prone area. Where's the surprise that those homes are now burning, burnt, or threatened by fire? Duh!
Furthermore, the second statement indicates something very detrimental to any sympathy on my part. Most of these people have the money to go elsewhere, but they are choosing to stay in that stadium for one reason and one reason only. They didn't just build their homes in a dangerous area in the first place, they are staying as close as they can, hoping that the fires are contained soon so that they can go right back to them! Did they learn a lesson? Are they fleeing? Will they use a little common sense and make a life in a more hospitable environment? Nope. They are living off of taxpayer dollars so that they can quickly repeat what was a stupid and costly decision in the first place. And they are putting thousands of firefighters' lives on the line as a result.
There are real tragedies, unavoidable ones, happening all over the world. I cannot feel that these people deserve my sympathy.
But I can't. Call me cold; call me cruel. But I just can't feel anything for these mostly extremely wealthy people who have lost their million-dollar Malibu and and San Diego homes and now reside in a football stadium all because they refuse to leave "paradise." Oh, I know that it's hit some average Joes and Janes too. But mostly it's been the filthy rich.
My lack of sympathy is not directly related to my opinions about the victims' wealth. Certainly the fact that most of them probably have more than enough insurance to allow them to rebuild with very little inconvenience does factor into the equation, but it is not the bottom line. No. The real reason for my response would be apparent if you actually watch or read the news reports in which these victims make statements. Almost all of them say something along the lines of "We've been through this before, but not this bad." And "We're just hoping it's over soon so that we can start to put our lives back together again as soon as possible."
These statements tell me two things:
First, this DOES happen in SoCal... a lot. To be sure, it is seldom, if ever, this bad, but it is always happening. Southern California is desert, but unlike deserts in the southwest, which get little if any rain and consequently have almost no vegetation other than cacti, SoCal gets some rain in the winter, which means that it grows grass and stuff that dies when the winter rains stop so that by summer and fall, there is a lot of dried up, extremely combustible vegetation covering the landscape. SoCal also has dry, hot winds every single year, many, many times a year. The conditions couldn't be better for wildfires. So, unlike a Hurricane Katrina-type disaster that happens occasionally when a thousand factors play out just right, these SoCal fires happen every single year, several times a year. And everyone knows this.
As a result, I have a hard time feeling sorry for these people. They chose to build very expensive homes in the heart of a fire-prone area. Where's the surprise that those homes are now burning, burnt, or threatened by fire? Duh!
Furthermore, the second statement indicates something very detrimental to any sympathy on my part. Most of these people have the money to go elsewhere, but they are choosing to stay in that stadium for one reason and one reason only. They didn't just build their homes in a dangerous area in the first place, they are staying as close as they can, hoping that the fires are contained soon so that they can go right back to them! Did they learn a lesson? Are they fleeing? Will they use a little common sense and make a life in a more hospitable environment? Nope. They are living off of taxpayer dollars so that they can quickly repeat what was a stupid and costly decision in the first place. And they are putting thousands of firefighters' lives on the line as a result.
There are real tragedies, unavoidable ones, happening all over the world. I cannot feel that these people deserve my sympathy.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Is It a Positive Virture, Though?
My horoscope today reads:
"Develop the patience of a saint. The pressing need to rush to meet a deadline could be working at cross purposes with accuracy. Start nothing new of great importance right now."
Patience, eh? Patience is a curious concept, especially in American culture. We have all sorts of platitudes that advocate it, like the one alluded to in the horoscope and the title of today's post, and we generally accept patience as a desireable quality. And yet, everything in our society pushes us to strive for more, to actively seek greater things, to be decisive and sure, to be anything but patient. Being patient can be seen as being weak, inert, insignificant. Patience is one of those words, like "complacent" or "condescending," that technically denotes something positive while connoting something slightly negative to most people. The patient person appears to us simultaneously wise and enervated.
Now, I don't put any stock in astrology. I read horoscopes out of curiousity and entertainment more than anything else, and if one does accurately reflect a certain present or future reality for me, I see this as an interesting coincidence or the result of creative perspective rather than fact.
However, it is. . . well . . . interesting in light of today's horoscope that I just discovered that our scottie breeder's "bitch" has not come into season yet. She is more than a month overdue. After some research, I discovered that this is not really abnormal since a female dog's reproductive cycle is hardly regular. There are four distinct phases, each of which can vary in length by several days. As a result, the entire cycle tends to last about six months, but this is no where near an exact figure for each and every cycle even in the same bitch. In addition, there is no real way to know when she began a particular phase of the cycle, so the breeder's calculations could easily be off by as much as a month. But the consequence of this delay is that Darling Wife and I have had to decide to either find another breeder who will have puppies available at the late-January/early-February date that we wanted, or stick with our current breeder, meaning we won't be able to bring a puppy home until April at the earliest.
On the one hand, we've already been very patient on this issue, and I do have another breeder waiting to help us get a puppy around the time we want, which we believe to be an advantageous one for us. But on the other hand, there are several incentives for getting the pup in April, and we have already made a significant investment of time, research, and emotion into this breeder and her dogs.
So, we have chosen the route of patience. But I can't help but wonder if our decision indicates a positive, saintly virture, or simply inertia and irresolution.
"Develop the patience of a saint. The pressing need to rush to meet a deadline could be working at cross purposes with accuracy. Start nothing new of great importance right now."
Patience, eh? Patience is a curious concept, especially in American culture. We have all sorts of platitudes that advocate it, like the one alluded to in the horoscope and the title of today's post, and we generally accept patience as a desireable quality. And yet, everything in our society pushes us to strive for more, to actively seek greater things, to be decisive and sure, to be anything but patient. Being patient can be seen as being weak, inert, insignificant. Patience is one of those words, like "complacent" or "condescending," that technically denotes something positive while connoting something slightly negative to most people. The patient person appears to us simultaneously wise and enervated.
Now, I don't put any stock in astrology. I read horoscopes out of curiousity and entertainment more than anything else, and if one does accurately reflect a certain present or future reality for me, I see this as an interesting coincidence or the result of creative perspective rather than fact.
However, it is. . . well . . . interesting in light of today's horoscope that I just discovered that our scottie breeder's "bitch" has not come into season yet. She is more than a month overdue. After some research, I discovered that this is not really abnormal since a female dog's reproductive cycle is hardly regular. There are four distinct phases, each of which can vary in length by several days. As a result, the entire cycle tends to last about six months, but this is no where near an exact figure for each and every cycle even in the same bitch. In addition, there is no real way to know when she began a particular phase of the cycle, so the breeder's calculations could easily be off by as much as a month. But the consequence of this delay is that Darling Wife and I have had to decide to either find another breeder who will have puppies available at the late-January/early-February date that we wanted, or stick with our current breeder, meaning we won't be able to bring a puppy home until April at the earliest.
On the one hand, we've already been very patient on this issue, and I do have another breeder waiting to help us get a puppy around the time we want, which we believe to be an advantageous one for us. But on the other hand, there are several incentives for getting the pup in April, and we have already made a significant investment of time, research, and emotion into this breeder and her dogs.
So, we have chosen the route of patience. But I can't help but wonder if our decision indicates a positive, saintly virture, or simply inertia and irresolution.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
Still
"Dense." That's the word I would give it if I were limited to one word. Dense with history, people, cars, buildings. Even the trees cling to every curb, determined to crush out any sense of space. I grew up with fields and pastures, and I need to see sky sometimes. There is no sky in that New England metropolis, just age and culture. Consequently, I found myself wanting to strike out at people on the subways and sidewalks in panic for a little elbow-room, some air to breathe. From buying groceries to having a drink with friends, everything is hard there, dense and hard. There are just too many people in too small a space - all of them scurrying to secure for themselves what you want for yourself. They are your unwelcome competitors for materials, attention, and space, and you are theirs. Certainly they can be nice, if you can slide beneath their hard exterior, their instantaneous "No!" But if you want to survive, you have to push them before they push you. It is a constant struggle in which even the weather beats at you, a cold that seeps into your bones until you think you will never be warm again.
I cannot live there anymore.
And yet…I miss. I miss tea at a café on Newbury Street on a spring afternoon when the snowmelt puddles on street corners and drips from the awnings of Armani and Prada. The air so heavy it dampens the sounds of cars rushing past and sidewalk conversations carried out in Mandarin and French. I miss brick townhouses that remember the Revolution, plain and solid on the outside with glimpses of marble fireplaces and crystal chandeliers through rippled, centuries-old glass. Things were built to last there. I miss narrow, winding streets that never quite come out where one thinks. Every journey is one of confusion, followed by discovery. I miss the river that freezes so hard in winter people drive on it, and in spring, breaks out with Ivy League crew teams that glide over its surface like maroon-clad swans. I miss used-music stores in Harvard Square where millionaires' sons in second-hand clothes haggle with sales clerks over $10 CDs. I miss the Museum of Fine Arts where blue-collar workers from Southie spend a Saturday admiring Van Goghs and Renoirs with no more self-consciousness than they would feel at a construction site near Fenway. I miss Robert Frost, Hawthorne, and Thoreau. I miss fresh lobster in summer and flame-colored trees in Autumn. And most of all, I miss the pubs, places where my friends and I listened to Irish bands and talked about our classes while drinking Guinness served by people who know how it should taste, the feel of warm camaraderie on cold, winter nights.
I miss Boston.
I cannot live there anymore.
And yet…I miss. I miss tea at a café on Newbury Street on a spring afternoon when the snowmelt puddles on street corners and drips from the awnings of Armani and Prada. The air so heavy it dampens the sounds of cars rushing past and sidewalk conversations carried out in Mandarin and French. I miss brick townhouses that remember the Revolution, plain and solid on the outside with glimpses of marble fireplaces and crystal chandeliers through rippled, centuries-old glass. Things were built to last there. I miss narrow, winding streets that never quite come out where one thinks. Every journey is one of confusion, followed by discovery. I miss the river that freezes so hard in winter people drive on it, and in spring, breaks out with Ivy League crew teams that glide over its surface like maroon-clad swans. I miss used-music stores in Harvard Square where millionaires' sons in second-hand clothes haggle with sales clerks over $10 CDs. I miss the Museum of Fine Arts where blue-collar workers from Southie spend a Saturday admiring Van Goghs and Renoirs with no more self-consciousness than they would feel at a construction site near Fenway. I miss Robert Frost, Hawthorne, and Thoreau. I miss fresh lobster in summer and flame-colored trees in Autumn. And most of all, I miss the pubs, places where my friends and I listened to Irish bands and talked about our classes while drinking Guinness served by people who know how it should taste, the feel of warm camaraderie on cold, winter nights.
I miss Boston.
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