existential_spaghetti

Jury Duty

2012-01-19T08:50:00.000-05:00

Today I am serving my first-ever full day of jury duty. I actually arrived several weeks ago for my first jury duty service; however, after taking in the full breadth of what that service meant (at least 1 day, and I had to stay all day no matter what), I asked to reschedule my service. Today I came prepared: I have my work laptop, food, and I at least tried to get here early enough so as to get prime placement (a) at a table and (b) adjacent to a power outlet.

I have mixed feelings about jury duty service. It is inconvenient for one thing; however, I fully recognize the importance of this sort of service. Though I am a "public servant" by day, I feel as though this sort of service is more visible than the important work I do on a daily basis. Yet, the thought of sitting in this juror's lounge for the entire day--and the possibility of having to stay even longer--leaves me with a feeling of uber dread.

That stated, here I am. I wanted to share that embarking on this day of service, snuggling up to this well-worn table someplace in the Judiciary Square District of DC, harkens back to the days when I would go into my mother's work for the day. I cannot remember the circumstances when I would go in to her work. But I do remember the process of trying to fight boredom while waiting for her to finish her day. The nostalgia of that experience is not entirely unpleasant. Perhaps that will temper the dread today I bring with me to this service.

Tare

2011-08-12T08:48:00.004-04:00

I doubt I was a very good student in Mr. Sak’s Chemistry class. Not from the standpoint of behavior; more on account of a lack of drive to work, and, I’m sure, my lab partner (I think her name was Becky) probably suffered as a result of it.

At least I was dependable for procedural aspects of the lab. Not having really prepared for the assignment or wanting to work on the calculations, I was, however, proficient at setting up the equipment: pulling out rubber gloves, finding the right erlenmeyer flasks, hooking up the Bunsen burner (gas actually fed from nozzles in the lab counter), fetching pipettes and spoons, and, finally, setting up the scale.

We received instruction on how to set up the scale. I can’t remember if they were battery powered or powered by a direct source, but I do remember the importance of taring the scale prior to its use. This process was about as straightforward as it gets: once powered up, you just hit the “Tare” button on the scale to set the “tare weight” (in case you needed to tare the scale at some level offset by the weight or your measuring instrument).

Powering on the scale, I wondered about the weights that would first appear on the scale’s screen prior to hitting tare. Some days it was already at zero. But other days the scale would show an existent positive or negative weight; sometimes by as little as a few milligrams and other times by as much as a kilogram. It’s just anomalous behavior of the scale, I know. But often I imagined that something was really there despite our inability to see it, and I wondered at its form and fluctuation in mass. Sometimes, on my more melancholy days, I imagined it was the weight of my spirit or soul, measuring the void of my full state that day. The embodiment of life out of balance. How was this void manifested between a deficit of a few milligrams of spirit compared to a few grams or decagrams? What did I need to do to replace that void—or to tare my soul?

Older, I have more thoughts about answers to those questions, and a prominent one lately has been the (probably trite) thought that we are only but the ideas that we accept, have and hold. These ideas, however, never cease to change from the moment they are formed (either willingly or unwillingly)—and they might even defy the conservation of mass, as suggested (at least metaphorically) by my observations of the scale. Some days, my emotional or mental state is such that I can barely endure their change: I shrink from how they, life, change(s). Other days, I am able to appreciate the vibrancy of life: the chaos that allows us to appreciate the excitement of an entropic existence.

Somewhere in that state of flux do I find myself these days, and particularly as I ponder that about which I can write for my (sorrowfully neglected) blog. I am inclined to expound on how maddening I find my nation’s current political and fiscal state, or how joyful I am at having moved in with my special lady friend. All in due time, I am sure. As for right now, tare.

End of Days (by Marge Piercy)

2011-04-20T08:41:00.005-04:00

Almost always with cats, the end
comes creeping over the two of you—
she stops eating, his back legs
no longer support him, she leans
to your hand and purrs but cannot
rise—sometimes a whimper of pain
although they are stoic. They see
death clearly though hooded eyes.

Then there is the long weepy
trip to the vet, the carrier no
longer necessary, the last time
in your lap. The injection is quick.
Simply they stop breathing
in your arms. You bring them
home to bury in the flower garden,
planting a bush over a deep grave.

That is how I would like to cease,
held in a lover's arms and quickly
fading to black like an old-fashioned
movie embrace. I hate the white
silent scream of hospitals, the whine
of pain like air-conditioning's hum.
I want to click the off switch.
And if I can no longer choose

I want someone who loves me
there, not a doctor with forty patients
and his morality to keep me sort
of, kind of alive or sort of undead.
Why are we more rational and kinder
to our pets than to ourselves or our
parents? Death is not the worst
thing; denying it can be.

"End of Days" by Marge Piercy, from The Hunger Moon: New and Selected Poems, 1980 - 2010. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2011. (link)

Argentina

2011-01-30T10:17:00.000-05:00

Someplace in my list of draft posts are thoughts on a trip I took to Turkey last April with my best friend from high school. Maybe someday I'll finish that post. But the general sentiments I would impart are these: it wasn't a great trip. The company was great, but we didn't love the Turkey travel experience (noting that a serious compounding factor was getting stuck in Turkey due to the eruption of that volcano in Iceland).

In stark, drastic contrast to that experience, DD and I just returned from a trip to Argentina. Argentina was fantastic.

Blood Meridian

2011-01-30T10:14:00.001-05:00

I want to start with this concept, taken from a (what I thought was) brilliant online commentary written by Stanley Fish on the New York Times's website discussing the differences he saw between the original, John Wayne adaptation of Charles Portis's novel, True Grit, and the most recent Coen brother's version:

... there are two registers of existence: the worldly one in which rewards and punishment are meted out on the basis of what people visibly do; and another one, inaccessible to mortal vision, in which damnation and/or salvation are distributed, as far as we can see, randomly and even capriciously.

Hazarding a summary and oversimplification, the faith one has in God matters little in determining our course through our present existence; if such a supernatural force exists, it likely doesn't score the rights and wrongs amassed by humans as they toil an existence. Instead, what matters is the faith one has in his or her own existence, and the extent to which he / she adheres to that faith. Only through that sort of resolution of conscience, drawn out over a long and varied life, can any sort of reconciled redemption be found.

I read Fish's commentary shortly before I read Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, a bleak and powerful novel. From one perspective, the book is a study in the creation of (what I agree is) an American classic. McCarthy's 3rd person, narrative writing style; his lack of the use of quotations; and his expressive punctuation (as though he were sitting in the room with you, telling you this story in person) was extremely compelling. Granted, it took me a few pages to get used to, but I quickly learned to love and devour it. Then you have the contents of the novel. His ideas and interpretations of man and nature were stark and unremitting. The speed and depth of his character development was devastating. And the resolution (if you can call it that) of his story left me in a state of profound thought, leaving me to mull meaning from his passages still even a week after I finished the book.

I opened with the Fish quote because it resonates with the tone of McCarthy's book. The West in which we find the Kid is a cold, sensible place; yet it is also abhorrent, particularly if you seek to compare its existence with norms of culture and society developing in settled, more urban areas of the East and West.

You don't get much dialogue from the Kid, nor does the author provide much in the way of a window through which to see the Kid's reactions to the scenes that pass as his days in the West. However, indirectly, you learn much in the way of the things the Kid is willing to accept and not accept through his acquaintance with the Judge.

The Judge (Judge Holden) is a character who's mark has likely been left in the annals of literature much as that left by Iago, Jay Gatsby, John Galt, Mersault, and others whose force of philosophy stands both alone and inclusive of the greatness that has become the text to develop them. You are simply forced to accept the Judge's existence, since you are unable to reconcile his existence with any conventional justification provided by religion, science, or rationality. He may be God or he may be the Devil. He could be both.

Appreciating Blood Meridian for more than its bloody story, you are left asking "how could this have transpired?, wondering whether the sum of human social development really could be condensed into the metaphor of "War is God."

In developing his brutal homily, McCarthy invokes "total war" as exhibited by Stonewall Jackson's "march to the sea" or through the eyes of Charles Marlow as he searches for Kurtz in Conrad's Heart of Darkness. Barbarity and compassion are found almost equally, and the reaction shown to either is almost the same, exhibited by the kindness shown the Kid and the Priest by some Mexican settlers as they are fed and housed as by John Joel Glanton's head being cleaved (to the Thrapple) by a Yuma Indian.

The truth about the world, he said, is that anything is possible. Have you not seen it all from birth and there by bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tentshow whose ultimate distinction after many a pitch in many a muddy field is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning. (256)

The point: neither compassion or barbarity really matters in the context of "life." What does matter is the philosophy by which the Judge, Glanton, and the Kid lead/led their lives. I'd hazard such a summary: (echoing Fish) it matters little how society or a compassionate God might judge acts of man. What matters more is the resolution of man to exist and to dominate within the world he finds himself, and in no other situation can this resolution be tested than in that of violence and war. In this context, the simplicity is clear: live or die. It is the ultimate test, and it seems the Judge views that to be about as good as man will get it in life.

Despite the shadow cast by the Judge in the book, the Kid really is the main figure; therefore, I believe some final meaning must be resolved from the arc the Kid's journey portrays through the story, and perhaps it is this. Survival matters; the Kid did and more-or-less accepted what he had to to survive. Yet, in the end, he chose a different path, one that was not typified by a morally blind brutality, which is why his end was such that it was. I'd like to believe that, in the end, despite the likelihood that neither good nor bad really matters in the reckoning of one's existence, the morality we place in life and death does matter, and that we can accept compassion as almost equally as significant a precept of life as survival.

I'm sorry to mix in the pop culture with these thoughts on a very important, poignant novel, but I thought a parting thought from the movie Shutter Island relevant--and it goes right to the importance of how we perceive the life we lead (regardless of survival): "would you rather live as a monster or die as a good man?"

Leave Your Livestock Alone

2011-01-29T11:46:00.003-05:00

[Writer's note: I started this shortly after the New Year and am now returning to it shortly before the end of January... The New Year is assuming a brisk pace!]

There were some unfamiliar faces that I saw while on my run today. I could probably explain many of those unfamiliar faces on account of the fact I was running during the day (I typically only run during the morning). But I suspect that many of those new faces were people recently-resolved to start running (or to run more) this New Year.

The New Year is an interesting time. The run afforded some time for me think about this time of year, a time when many people take stock of their lives and resolve to change something about them.

There are the traditional, possibly cliche resolutions:
- I'll eat / drink less
- I'll go to the gym more
- I'll find a new job
- I'll finally do something about that part of my life that seems to irk me so

Part of me thinks we are so prone to imagine a change around this time of year due to the odd month that is the American December, full of holidays, gluttony, strange weather and other stimuli. Who really looks forward to the start of January? Maybe we all enter the New Year with both an existential hangover as well as a real hangover.

But I think there is something deeper amidst this (my observation) rampant ennui.

The urge to change is something I have struggled with many times (and continually, even unto this day) over the years. In my humble observation, there are several main-line vehicles typically used. The most common ones:

1) You can go back to school
This is a good one--particularly for the mid- to late-20 something. You're on your own, trying to chart your course, and you just feel like you could do better. So you go back to school and get a professional or graduate degree. The catch is that you should really have a strong sense of what it is that you actually want to do (other than just "to make more money"). This expensive ploy can pay great dividends or saddle you with debt (inducing a panic, typically causing you to take a job that you don't love so that you can pay off those school loans).

2) You can try and escape
Who hasn't read a great story of travel--and escape. I'm thinking about Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Eat, Pray, Love or In Patagonia (though Chatwin was really a travel correspondent; still, he pretty effectively got the hell out of wherever he started, didn't he?). During those tech go-go years of the 1990s, I remember many a story about people who--fed up with their lucrative tech jobs--sold the farm and bought a round-the-world ticket. There's something to dropping everything and putting yourself out on the road. My experiences studying and living in Denmark and Poland certainly comprise some of the most formative years in my social development. But something I eventually realized (after my third or so escape plan ended) was that you almost always have to return to some aspect of the life that you began prior to your journey. You can recast yourself in a new place, but until you've made peace with that whom you are "at home" you are never really going to escape anything. If by traveling / adventure / immersion in an experience you can come to peace with yourself, that's another thing. But many fail to do that; instead, they spend a great deal of money--albeit seeing some cool stuff--only to return to the same issues from which they fled.

3) You can try and throw money at the situation
Well, see numbers 1 and 2 above for ways to try and throw money at change. Apart from throwing money at more school or at travel, I've seen many people throw money at material objects to distract them from immediate challenges or at food / drink. This one can leave you feeling particularly hallow--a wraith of the (now, because you are in consumer debt) self-perpetuating, negative feedback loop that you created.

4) You can try and throw relationships / sex at the situation
I always slightly cringe when I hear Coldplay's song, Fix You (off of their X&Y album). It's a nice sentiment but a terrible idea. Why? Because after many a good and bad relationship, I've come to the conclusion that you can't fix someone--and they can't fix you. You don't go into a relationship (hoping for a healthy relationship, that is) with the intention of improving yourself (or another). All that relationship becomes is some object for a new obsession: fixing someone. That's a job, not a relationship. The (hopefully) healthy sex life that relationships bring will distract you, but eventually you will want for for the emotional connection that the relationship will forever lack because it is a relationship built on a connection between two people who don't know themselves well enough to--or who just don't want to-- share the good and the bad things about their real selves.

Relationships are actually a great segue to talking about what I think is at the heart of all this New Year change and self-improvement. I think it all comes down to confidence. Most importantly, the confidence about which I write is the confidence one feels from believing that--regardless of what is going on around you--at least you know yourself.

Dating is a great test of confidence, because it is fundamentally what you date. I think you essentially date the the confidence that another projects (or fails to project) that they have confidence about who he / she is. I understand the impulse with number 4 above: many people are trying to fill the void they feel inside themselves where some sense of self or purpose should be. But I am highly skeptical that you can find it through a relationship (well, maybe if it is a really bad relationship that causes you to bring into focus the things in which you know you believe (in visible contrast to that of your partner).. this is called a [very] "mixed blessing").

So those are some of my broodings on resolutions in the New Year, change, and whatnot. In summary, I think the New Year can bring equal parts crises in confidence and inspiration to aspire to something greater than what we currently are. Maybe that's existence: a tension between acceptance of what we perceive as our reality and confidence in it.

I like a quote from the movie Gross Point Blank on this subject (though the context is about going to a high school reunion and not surviving transition to a New Year):

Hey, I know everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone.

And one more from a t-shirt I saw a while ago while running (on the subject of adopting physical fitness as a New Year resolution):

"Be well; stay fit; die anyway"

The Dark Ages

2010-11-20T12:00:00.001-05:00

As I watch John Boehner on the nightly cable news programs ascend dais after dais, I cannot shake the sense that America is simultaneously descending, with each step Boehner takes, into its Dark Age. I won't pretend I had the philosophical thought or wherewithal at whatever grade school age I was when I first learned about it to question just how Europe, after such a period of prolonged advancement, careened into the Dark Ages, when knowledge, science and general human development was lost (I mean, how does a society forget the Renaissance??). But now that I am older (imbued possibly with more capacity for philosophical thought than when I was sitting in Ms. Eppich's 3rd grade class at Mercer Elementary), I find myself wondering about that.

America does seem in the midst of a profound societal shift. I say "seems" because I am aware that the passage of time and progress may always seem this way to those who live through those times. Yet, with some grounding in history and social-political development, I think these shifts underway are more significant than just the growing pains of natural social evolution, and the midterms may have been a good indicator of that.

Simplistically, I have always believed that democracy, particularly in its incarnation in the U.S., was about a fundamental choice between small government and big government. Small government is defined by less Government (big “G,” notice.. ) regulation and by fewer Government social programs that amount to a broad social safety net. Big government is defined by a greater degree of regulation and a strong social safety net. The platforms of the dominant Republican and Democrat U.S. political parties do not break neatly between these two choices, and I find it difficult to draw a conclusion about what Americans really want from their Government (or in terms of what direction they desire their Government to proceed) based on the midterms. However, despite my take on the blurred lines that actually divide the Republican from the Democratic ethos, the rhetoric is still there: Republicans traditionally stand for smaller government and less regulation, and the Democrats stand for larger government and more regulation. That the hooey of this real choice actually existing anymore has dawned on many people, I think, and from that observation I proceed with the rest of my thoughts.

Sickness and Spite
It was Election Day, and I was in Panama City, FL. I was stopped behind a pick-up truck at a stop light, when I noticed its bumper sticker: "Don't Re-elect ANYBODY." Like most people with cable tv service, I had spent the past several months watching the cable news channels, listening to predictions on the outcome of the looming election and the possible impact of the Tea Party. What did it all mean? Voter sentiment seemed to be polling away from incumbents and towards Tea Party (and Republican) candidates. Were Americans choosing smaller government? Was this a repudiation of Obamacare?

That bumper sticker made the most sense to me. Americans were just fed-up with cynical American politics. Moreover, as echoed in several articles I have recently read, Americans felt a strong sense to spite the establishment through their vote, and the Democrats currently held the majority in that establishment. On Obamacare in particular, I thought the following sentiment from an article in the October 14th, 2010 Economist Magazine seemed most plausible:

Perhaps the most convincing reason to think Republicans will not win as much applause as they hope comes from Drew Altman of KFF. A recent poll by his organisation found 49% in favour of the new laws and 40% against. Crucially, of those who were angry about the reforms, 77% said it reflected a broader anger about the shortcomings of the federal government—and only a fifth had specific grievances against Obamacare.

Some Sense of Direction?
I don’t offer many data points here to support this suspicion, but I think that Americans are trending toward a choice between big and small government, and that choice is towards big government. The rise in the level of benefits and the amount of regulation presumably demanded by Americans strongly supports this suspicion. On top of that, I offer two other fundamental arguments.

The development of the state and its interaction with a society serves one primary purpose: the conservation and perpetuation of wealth. The state (i.e. laws) and its maintenance and regulation of a market reduces risk for those who own capital. It is classic development theory and it is as good as gold.

The second argument comes from the sage prognostication of economists much wiser than myself, specifically Schumpeter and (wait for it; hold your boo’s) Marx (yes, his social commentary was actually rather astute). Both of these economists picked up on the trend that, as a society ages and more wealth is generated—wealth that those wealthy want conserved—the apparatus of the state seems to develop appendages and digits most suitable for the execution of a flavor of socialism than a more Adam Smith-like / Ayn Rand-ian free market democracy. Why? My simplified assessment: as the risks to the conservation of wealth become more numerous and complicated; as a society’s population grows; the mechanisms required to keep the majority copacetic enough to maintain a certain production / consumption dynamic require a bigger state offering more robust social services. These services fundamentally level standards of living, reducing risk of near-term social unrest.

The Bad News
The bad news is that—although I do think that the role of the state and furthermore of big government makes sense—the “boorishness of the masses” (Marx, I think) should not be overlooked. Stability is a pendulum: the state might try and reduce its rock, but, as our boy Einstein noted, things get interesting when the pendulum accelerates and gains momentum (i.e. the mass of an electorate). This might be a good time to give From Dawn to Decadence another earnest try.

And I predict pushback from my invocation of Marx up there. To that, I’ll just say this: Communism wasn’t Marx’s bright idea. To understand the folly that was (eventually, finally) Communism, an historical understanding of how some Marxian principals were borrowed (and then altered) by Lenin, Stalin, and then a host of other Communist party bosses is needed. To clarify: in no way is this any kind of an endorsement of either socialism or Communism!

Rather, I am trying to make a point, and that point is two-fold: Americans should recognize this fundamental choice they need to make, and that the political choices they may choose need to represent more clearly this spectrum between big and small government. What is so frustrating is that this election has become more an indication of the spite of American people than some referendum on the path voters want the U.S. to proceed. Frankly, either path is acceptable. That the dominant U.S. political parties don’t seem to offer a platform of vehicle on which to approach either is just maddening.

For now, I think I will do some reading about the fall of European societies prior to the Dark Ages. Hopefully, I will not find signs similar signs in the development of our modern society.

The Boy Who Lived

2010-10-24T14:46:00.000-04:00

The overall story begins with death. But love, pain, fear, loss, joy, surprise, disappointment, courage, patience, diligence, trust, wisdom, acceptance / fear of death, friendship, faith, betrayal, forgiveness, and finally triumph through perseverance (some might say redemption)—and more, I am sure—are all experienced as well.

I would be a little ashamed to find myself writing about the Harry Potter series were it not for the fact that I enjoyed it so. I think it’s fair to repeat a critique I had heard as I embarked on the effort (joy, really) of reading the seven-part series of books, one after another: Rowling’s writing is rather poor (particularly at the start), though it improves (as does the complexity of her story telling) the further the reader gets into the series. But after reading all seven books, I find that questions about the quality of her initial (or general) writing do not really matter to me much. Instead, I am left in awe at how richly she draws the long arc of the story, as objects subtly and inconsequentially introduced in early books (such as the cursed necklace Harry finds in Borgin & Burkes in the first book, or the diadem he finds in book six) make more prominent appearances later in the series. Moreover, the extent to which the characters develop over the seven books is truly satisfying. In keeping integrity to as organic a development of particularly the younger characters as she can, Rowling seems to capture perfectly so many of the then-tumultuous moments of young childhood and later adolescence that I still vividly remember.

But what sticks with me the most is this notion that Rowling attempted to write a story that could pass on to her children the many things a mother might have learned about “life” in a way that it likely both to entertain them and to stick with them for the rest of their lives. Her attempt to do this has probably been documented as such; it wouldn’t surprise me if it were overt. Still, it remains, intentional or not; the stories are very effective drawing out value lessons from difficult situations. Moreover, I would speculate that her effectiveness inducing such value lessons will only be appreciated as time passes, since it is the parables of our youth that continue to instruct us through life until the end of our days.

As employed by many authors, part of Ms. Rowling's effectiveness spinning the Harry Pottery story comes from her ability to simplify components of what can be very non-simple dynamic: the difference between (and discerning) good and evil. Lord Voldemort = evil and Harry Potter = good. The distinction is clear; yet, Rowling does muddy the boundaries a bit, particularly in her later characterization of Professor Dumbledore's early years; possible motivations for Tom Riddle's development; and even through Harry's own struggles living up first to his notoriety and later his prophesied role. A point I gathered from these struggles is that so many of the good things we can take for granted in heroes, from bravery to courage to fortitude, are simple concepts that can be extremely difficult to uphold in real life--even for those of us who do not possess magical abilities or who are not predestined to be a hero. Simple, undramatic decisions underlie a larger attempt to be "good," and one constantly has to consider whether the means justify the end (think of the failures of Dolores Umbridge, deigning the stain of using the cruciatus curse was justified by her attempts to discover information or instill order).

I am sure it is fodder for sneers from those very sophisticated and enlightened readers, but I also appreciated the time and care Rowling gave to stress the importance of love. The power that Harry possessed that would ultimately permit him to destroy a more powerful (magically) Lord Voldemort was Harry's power to love. The presence and power of love penetrated all corners of the story, in fact, from its ability to save Harry's life in the opening scenes to its role protecting all of the non-Death Eaters at the end of the story. I also saw a clear distinction drawn between those characters in the books who had some component of love in their lives versus those who did not. The Malfoys are a good example. As loathful as the Malfoys as a family seem to be, they still had the capacity for love, and that saved them in the end.

I think in the end, the clearest distinction Rowling drew was between Voldemort's inability even to have real relationships (epitomized by his inability to love) in contrast to the many relationships that Harry had that both sustained him and enabled his success. I can only imagine that, as a kid growing up, the values of many relationships can seem dubious. Even for adults, there are so many opportunities to eschew the complexity of relationships; for failing to learn how to trust and to believe in friendship. Perhaps one of the most satisfying continuities throughout the stories was Harry's friendship with Ron and Hermione. As I have written previously here--and as evidenced in the story--these friendships ultimately were Harry's greatest strength, weapon, and treasure.

Ah, Asia ...

2010-09-01T02:10:00.000-04:00

... where interesting toilet technology is only the start to your adventure.

Competition

2010-08-07T10:36:00.000-04:00

I hadn’t given the notion of competition too much thought before this past spring, and it is odd. Throughout my life, I have always been involved in competitive events. Being born a twin, I can argue that I have had effectively to compete for scarce resources since Day 1 (although this isn’t technically true in the sense of food; more in the sense of other, less-scarce resources, such as attention, distinction, and identity). I searched for a few definitions of competition and came up with the following:

(1) Competition is a contest between individuals, groups, nations, animals, etc. for territory, a niche, or allocation of resources. It arises whenever two or more parties strive for a goal which cannot be shared.

(2) Competition is a Biological interaction structure.

Competition is fundamental to development. As both a society and as individuals, we compete for the right to allocate scarce resources so as to ensure our survival (and to conserve our wealth / maximize utility). If you are reading this, then you are likely also one of those who has very successfully competed in more personal pursuits, from excelling in school to ascending some ladder of distinction such that for some ability of yours you are either recognized or remunerated. Past a certain point, however, there are limits to what competition can actually produce. At some point, after you have excelled in many events or have received many salary increases, most still confront the existential question of what else is there to life than competition and distinction?

I think that a part of that answer is some sense of emotional fulfillment that comes only from knowing who you are; what really defines you; and being able to share that with the world (and probably some one person in particular) without having to compete for scarce resources with them. Thinking about a range of emotions and actions that could exist between competition and sharing, it makes sense that they might exist on opposite poles of a plane: one pole is focused on completion for a goal “which cannot be shared,” while the other is focused just on sharing (typically things that are difficult to condense into a goal).

As I get older, I sense that I need to spend time at both of those poles. Testing myself through (for example) athletic competition continues to help me understand (feel) who I am, and it is also a way for me to share with many others those things that I love, such as running, biking, other multi-sports, and pretty much anything that involves teams. I’m not going to gloss over the fact that sometimes I really want to win, but I think that most of the time I care about participating and competing just for the sake of competing. I also feel the strong desire to share more with some one person in particular. For that, I seek out (and invest in) relationships with loved ones, family and friends.

The existence of that plane between competition and sharing as it coexists with loved ones, friends and family can be challenging. Sometimes a competitive urge is engaged between people who share their lives together, and that quest to share something that cannot be shared can cause emotional strife. It takes a very strong person to avoid totally that slippery slope. It takes even a stronger person to confront that situation when it occurs and deal with it in a productive, compassionate way. I suspect that the main difficulty that arises from competition between loved ones isn’t so much an inability to share something that cannot be shared, but is the effect that trying to “keep up” with another has one one’s identity and sense of confidence.

It occurs to me that the trouble with trying to keep up with someone else is how often it requires assimilation. After all, to really compete, don't separate parties have to be attempting to do the same thing, be it attain some goal or cross a finish line first? Yet assimilation may be the last thing you want in a dating relationship. After all, one seeks out another's company (I would speculate) less because that person is like you and more because he/she compliments you.

I don't have a way to resolve these thoughts into some kind of a cohesive point (not that I often do anyway)--which is why this post has sat on a shelf since about May. Instead, I guess I am throwing that out there as a brooding though about which I continue to ponder.

Priceless...

2010-08-04T22:34:00.000-04:00

Ingredients to make mac and cheese "like Mom (Grandma Chloe) used to make:" $23.67

New toilet plunger from Frager's: $11.99

Amount of time you have gone without needing a toilet plunger in your apartment: 3 years

Finding out your 3 year-old nephew--who refused to eat the mac and cheese--clogged your toilet: priceless

Matter

2010-07-12T18:49:00.000-04:00

The origins of everything are a little murky. On what scientists seem to agree is that, at some point in the very distant past, there was nothing; something then occurred (e.g. a Big Bang); and then there was something, probably the most elemental specks of matter. From that point, fast forwarding a few million (billion?) years, we have us, clothes, food, iPods, and this shiny titanium notebook in which I am penning these thoughts.

But what preceded the Big Bang? Some posit that swirling nothingness actually begat mass, leading to matter. I pause to reflect on that. Extrapolating a bit (and simplifying that overall theory), I realize it is possible to observe this creation of matter and mass in the creation of relationships.

I'm not sure it is fair to say that relationships start with actually nothing. However, I do observe that--from a void where nothing exists--two people can create something that fills that void, a relationship. Relationships are both tangible and intangible, a fact proven by how one feels where one exists and where one no longer does.

I'm a little hazy on the exact difference between mass and matter (from a quantum physics standpoint); however, I do know that--once mass is created--mass cannot be destroyed, or so concludes the law of the conservation of mass. Moreover, by that logic, one must conclude that--since mass can neither be created or destroyed--all mass (and its eventual matter) existed immediately at the time of the Big Bang, including relationships.

I guess I want to pause there to appreciate the implication: that relationships will always exists, despite the mitigating, temporal circumstances that may cause their corporeal existences to ignite and to extinguish.

Of course, upon further research on what, exactly, mass is, I read that mass commonly refers to any of three properties of matter (generally, anything that has mass and occupies volume): inertial mass, active gravitational mass, and passive gravitational mass. Relationships do not really exhibit any of those three properties of matter, nor do they seem to occupy volume.

Yet among all of the tangible items of matter one will encounter (and then probably lose, like an iPhone), based on the few years I have spent on this Earth, I see no evidence to contradict a suspicion that it will be those relationships you make that will stay with you forever.

The Wall

2010-07-12T18:31:00.002-04:00

I had no idea that Pink Floyd's, The Wall, is about relationships. I don't think I had watched the movie since I was in grade or high school--and possibly once in college (I have vague memories of watching the movie in a Phi Mu's room one summer). There are some key elements to the whole--for lack of a better description--"story" (metaphor? anecdote? allegory?). The first is, of course, The Wall. "Of course momma's gonna help build the wall..."

It makes sense that the wall is the male psyche, and that the urge to "build the wall" (or so it is implied) is some reaction to a sense of loss of one's mother's love (specifically in the context of the movie). More broadly, I see an identity issue here: the notion that the significant (and first) relationships that a man has with a woman in his life will somehow define who he is as a man.

But I would also be remiss not to acknowledge an historical reference in the film, namely the impact that Britain's involvement in World War II had on so many of the fatherless men that subsequently grew up in Britain during the post-war period.

You are meant to associate with the main character of the film, Mr. Floyd. Mr. Floyd personifies both the struggles men encounter with their identity as they define it through significant relationships with women and through the loss of a fatherly role model early in life.

But relationships are tough--and nonsensical (no matter how smart or confident you are):

Day after day,
Love turns gray,
Like the skin on a dying man.

And night after night,
We pretend it's alright.

But I have grown older,
And you have grown colder,
And nothing is very much fun, anymore.

And I... can't... feel,
Below my toes coming home.

I... feel... cold as a razor blade,
tight as a tourniquet,
dry as a funeral drum.

The wall is what we build to protect ourselves from the outside world, and the bricks are our fears. But the bricks are also excuses as to why we do not emotionally engage the real world.

And the antidote (or response) to that fear is predictability and order, personified by the fascist-appearing uniforms and decorum of Mr. Floyd after he is discovered in the hotel. I would guess: this is man adopting a persona so as to shield his fears or by assuming some aesthetic so as to combat fear.

Because you will always fear that which you do not understand.

I suppose a point made through the inquisition at the end of the film is that--despite a man's hardest efforts--you can't sustain the wall; you must let relationships (and all they entail) in; you must confront and accept your fears; or this all will destroy you.

Frightened Rabbit covers The Lemonheads

2010-07-02T09:08:00.005-04:00

Frightened Rabbit covers The Lemonheads

Redemption

2010-06-11T14:08:00.003-04:00

"Sometimes you have to get lost to find yourself."
- Frightened Rabbit, "Yes, I Would"

There is no solace in making the right decision. Only history will bear you out. In the interim, you will suffer the ridicule of your values or misinterpretations.

The Cold, Soft Places of Death

2010-04-30T09:20:00.001-04:00

Source: NYTimes 30 April 2010 Article, Pakistan, in Shift, Weighs Attack on Militant Lair

I was looking at the above-linked photograph on NYTimes.com today and thought about the places where we really end up when we die--insofar as our bodies, as they wind down their corporeal existence, represent "us."

As sentient beings, our perception of our reality is bounded by the nature and environment around us. We are deeply connected to urban areas, nature, and to relationships with people and things. But when we die, despite our notions to imagine a freedom from the facets of that existence I just described, it occurs to me that the actual places where we end up are so much more subdued than the notional reality into which we are born. Take this picture for instance: is this where we end up when we die? On a gurney, below ground, shattered, cold, and alone? The answer is yes.

I find some comfort to that recognition actually. Maybe that is because the uncertainty associated with death is probably its most frightening minion. This is the humble reality of being deceased. It is both sad and comforting; comforting insofar as knowing something, being able to recognize it and to possibly understand it, feels much better than not knowing it at all.

My mother occupied such a place. Sometimes I think about the last morning when I saw her. She was being carried down the stairs in our family home in Ohio and out to a black Chrysler minivan that was parked in the driveway, the rear windows of which were blackened out and replaced with the horizontal, squiggly lines that one might come to associate with the traditional detailing of funeral vehicles. She was wrapped tightly in a cream-colored blanket that the morticians had brought with them. They loaded her into the back of the minivan, closed the doors, stood in a somber stance looking in our direction for a moment, and then they drove away. I presume she was taken to a room not unlike the one pictured here, and I presume there she lay until the time came when she was cremated (and all that process implied). The next time I saw her was on December 1st (I believe it was), at Markille Cemetery in Hudson, OH, in an urn on a podium in the front of a small chapel. I overlooked it when I first walked in that day. It had started to snow as we arrived at the cemetery, and family and friends were arriving. I remember almost freezing once I saw the urn, realizing that was all that remained of Mom.

I suppose I bring up this topic to ask: what are our expectations about what happens when we die? Why not such a cold, soft place as the one pictured?

Force Majeure

2010-04-29T21:35:00.003-04:00

I know that I am not really using this phrase correctly, force majeure. I am familiar with the term from grad school classes in real estate development and finance. "Force majeure" is technically a part in a real estate clause that limits liability due to "acts of god," or otherwise situations that one cannot reasonably foresee. It is kind of a catch-all for other funky situations. Regardless of its proper usage, I invoke it here because of how frequently the term popped into my head as my best friend and I confronted two weeks ago the very real possibility that we might be stranded in Istanbul, Turkey for an indefinite period of time due to a volcanic eruption in Iceland (and its effect on European airspace).

Sitting in an increasingly dreary hotel room in Istanbul, longing for comforts of the U.S. and a reunion with my girlfriend, I ruminated on our situation. We weren't really stuck; rather, we were bogged down by some confluence of uncertainty and a lack of any response from Air France to address the closure of all European airspace (in hindsight, this was understandable). As bummed as we were about our current situation, watching CNN over those intervening hours in the hotel room, I was struck by how many other "acts of god" were occurring around us: from earthquakes in China and Indonesia, plane crashes in Russia that killed not just the Polish President but many other significant Polish political and cultural leaders, the world seemed awash in acts of god.

Maybe we were too close to the problem; maybe acts of god were the norm, and we were just making more of a deal about it than we should have: I don't know for certain. But what seems certain is that a broader movement is at play, one that I cannot quite find the words with which to sum up the coincidence of our predicament in Istanbul, simultaneously at the heart of larger events occurring around us.

I don't mean to presage some coming of the apocalypse or anything. But I do try and observe the development of society. At the heart of social and human development is our relationship with nature. A fundamental precept to social development has been the exploitation of the natural resources of a country in order to create wealth to effectively buy modernity. For a more dour explanation of that pattern, I recommend reading such books as Confessions of an Economic Hitman by John Perkins, Ishmael / My Ishmael / The Story of B by Daniel Quinn, or just go and watch Avatar. But a point here is that there is tension between nature and humanity because of this relationship. One doesn't have to search too far to find the portrayal of this tension in popular media (and I am not even going to get into M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening), and I thought to wonder how closely art resembles reality.

One might argue that the sole purpose of a society (insofar as it is a unnatural construct meant to affect human behavior) is to reduce risk for those seeking to conserve wealth. If wealth is a direct (if not eventual) byproduct of nature / natural resource exploitation, then there is some irony to the concurrent role of nature as a destroyer as well as a source of wealth. Looking at that, it strikes me that the concept of a force majeure clause in a contract is a bit of a paradox: it's like wanting to have your cake and eat it.

As they say, you can't have your cake and eat it.

Danger! Guam could capsize...

2010-03-26T11:33:00.001-04:00

Evidently, there is a distinct danger that the island of Guam may capsize...

Failing and Flying (by Jack Gilbert)

2010-02-23T10:27:00.001-05:00

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It's the same when love comes to an end,

or the marriage fails and people say

they knew it was a mistake, that everybody

said it would never work. That she was

old enough to know better. But anything

worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that

anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her

like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back

through the hot stony field after swimming,

the sea light behind her and the huge sky

on the other side of that. Listened to her

while we ate lunch. How can they say

the marriage failed? Like the people who

came back from Provence (when it was Provence)

and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,

but just coming to the end of his triumph.

"Failing and Flying" by Jack Gilbert, from Refusing Heaven. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2005 .

Dark City

2010-02-14T20:01:00.002-05:00

Dark City has a dark air about it. The movie begins with a brilliant view of the galaxy, the camera panning slowly down to a gritty street scene, and then into a building to find a man naked in a bath tub, suddenly awakening from what seems to have been a long, unconscious soak.

The noir is familiar, or perhaps I think that because one of the reasons I chose this movie (based on the recommendation of my brother) is that it has been suggested this movie served as the creative basis for several movies, most notably the Matrix series--and the look I now recognize, in hindsight, is distinctly Wachowski (as seen in the Matrix [the original] and Bound).

The basic plot is this: this man, John Murdoch, awakens without any sense of who he is. He can remember nothing. Quickly he stumbles into another room only to discover that a dead woman lies on the floor. Presumably, he is the murderer. As he discovers this, the telephone rings. A man is on the other end of the phone (a la Morpheus in Matrix) who communicates his knowledge that John cannot remember anything. The man on the telephone proceeds to instruct John to get out of the building as quickly as possible because some people are about the enter the apartment to get him. As John flees out the back, we see some alien-like creatures (a la the Smiths in Matrix) arrive, presumably in an attempt to take John into custody. A chase thereafter ensues, and John escapes through the discovery of powers that he has to change the world around him (or "tuning") (a la Neo... you get the idea).

These alien-masters "tune" the world each night using the same power that John has discovered he possesses as a way to test the humans that inhabit the city which the aliens created. The point of tuning is to switch around humans from one life to another. The result is a collectivization of the memories of the humans in that city. The aliens are interested in observing the consequences of this collectivization of memories, primarily since their alien memory is a collective one to begin with. The aliens postulate that--by testing humans in this way, that is altering their minds each night through the "tuning"--the aliens will deduce what makes humans "human."

I'm sure this movie sounds ridiculous, and maybe it was. But I like the question posed by the aliens: what does make humans "human?" I think is implies the importance of perception in the way each of us interacts with "life." A point that was made in the movie through the tuning was that, despite multiple lives that each person seemed to live as they were switched from one life to another, the perception each had on that new life changed. Some residual, ethereal quality transcended those shifts in memory that the aliens ultimately failed to distill into that information for which they were looking.

I've wondered along similar lines of thought in the past. That is, sometimes I wonder if the "world" we perceive is actually only the one which is internalized inside of us, a collection of experiences, interactions, thoughts and ideas. We get to try and share that world with others through our interactions (which, growing up, we learn to modify based on conventional, societal expectations). Outwardly, it looks like a rough transition: sharing (when that is really occurring) this realm that we interpret internally (and particularly as the interpretation of that world suggests mostly internal emotions) for an external effect.

In the canon of human thought and philosophy, I see many signs where people have thought about this in the past. For example, the word "solipsism" seems to relate to this issue, or "the view or theory that the self is all that can be known to exist." I wonder if one could extrapolate the meaning of that word to conclude that "real life" is nothing like what we think it is, and in fact it is possible that life is all a construct within our own perception of our environment.

Several words come to mind that describe ways we or others try and alter our perception of the world, knowingly or unknowingly. For example, "Pollyannaism" is excessive cheer or optimism, typically implying a false perception of reality. There is also the notion of "sophistry," or the use of a fallacious argument, especially with the intention of deceiving--or changing "reality." I am drawn to wondering about these words for a specific reason. Why would it matter how someone is internally or externally influenced? That is, for what ends would such influence or an attempt to alter someone's perception of reality matter? I can think of some economic reasons; however, I think the greater reason has to do with the act of influencing someone's perception of reality. Once you control the way someone perceives life, in a way, you control their life.

The world was a sophistry in Dark City. People--unknowingly the victims of the aliens' experiments--were Pollyannaish in their perception of life in that city, even after John Murdoch--who had gained an awareness that defied the sophistry of the aliens--tried to tell them they were being deceived. As a result, he chose to make the world that existed in the fragments of memories that remained in him the real world for everyone. I suspect there is a lesson in all of this relating to how we might truly save ourselves from whatever ill it is that infects our current realm of perception.

John Murdoch, after he has saved "humanity" from the aliens, had a moment at the end of the movie to deliver his monologue on why the aliens failed. His final words to the arch-alien, Mr. Hand:

You know how I was supposed to feel. That person isn't me... never was. You wanted to know what it was about us that made us human. Well, you're not going to find it... [Murdoch points at his head]

...in here. You were looking in the wrong place [Murdoch points at his heart]

Snowed-in: Day 4! and Beyond

2010-02-14T08:39:00.004-05:00

I wish that I had a new 2010 wall calendar, since I no longer can keep straight what actual day it is anymore. [conferring a mobile calendar] Today is Thursday [editorial note: I didn't finish this until later]. It is getting a little rough out there, though today the sun is out. I've collected the leading names that people have come up with to describe these past few snow storms. The best: s-no-more, snoverkill, snow-pocalypse, and snow-maggedon.

The cross-country skiing conditions during "take 4" of the storm on Wednesday were not spectacular. While the snow was colder, and the strong winds that accompanied the storms made it drift more, because of all of the old snow still in place that was by now rutted and salt-infused, I never found a good path for skiing. I embarked nonetheless.

From the perspective of a kid who grew up in Northeast, OH, Washington, DC has an interesting set of laws concerning public space and what property owners are required to do (under penalty of fine should they not do these things). In Shaker, public service workers would literally drive little snowplows on the sidewalks to clear them. I remember how they always used to destroy the planter we had by our driveway (and it would remain destroyed until spring, when I would finally venture out to rebuild it). In DC, it is law that property owners are required to clear the snow from the sidewalk in front of their house "within 8 hours of the end of a snowstorm." Had I not known about it, I wouldn't take it for granted. But since I am aware of this law, I found myself cursing homeowners who hadn't bothered to clear their sidewalks (since, by now, the streets are actually more impassible than the sidewalks).

And now, several days after the end of the storm, "normal DC life" continues to try valiantly to return. At least in my SE neighborhood, that means that--while cars are now not getting stuck while driving as often--most roads are still passable with only one lane. In addition to that, curb cuts are practically non-existent. Some kind soul may dig out a cut one day only to see that nice work completely buried by the next snow plow to pass through (and it is worth noting that the snow plows have been piling snow in the middle of the road in some place; this is why they continue to ruin the nicely shoveled curb cuts in their process to move that snow elsewhere). From a running perspective, I think the whole month of February will emerge as a wash. As proof: fearing turned ankles and chicken competition with cars, I chose to do my 2 hour long run yesterday on the track. The real bummer is that it was only an eighth of a mile track, and so lots of turning and laps were made. Damn that was boring.

But in observing the passing of this storm, I can't help but feel a tinge of remorse for the passing of the excitement that surrounded the "snow-pocalypse." Maybe I won't have too long to wait before I feel it again: snow is in the forecast for Monday...

Action Is Integrity

2010-02-11T17:07:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking about a saying that I came across recently, "[there is] integrity in action." Its source is from a line I heard while watching the movie, "Bright Star," which depicts the romance between the poet John Keats and Fanny Brawne. I like it, and I feel strongly about inculcating it in a more conscious way in how I lead my life. But I also acknowledge the difficulty implied in acting with integrity, particularly when the practice of this honesty falls more on the side of "brutal" honesty.

The context for my thinking about it is the observation that moments of my life have been characterized by anxiety and paralysis in the face of important decisions--a fear which drove me to hide under often self-contrived, convoluted interpretations. I value integrity; yet I run from it, and then I hate myself for it.

Arguments for honesty in the sense of telling the truth are pretty clear. You should try and always tell the truth. But where this situation gets messier is in the caveats, such as "try not to lie about something, even if it means not divulging critical aspects of the "whole truth" that you think might be uncomfortable for others to hear (or for you to say)." What occurs to me is that one thing we all cannot escape is the reality that we are all fallible. Once that axiom is accepted, it doesn't seem to make much sense to try and change the view from which our foibles is seen. Instead--and this is doubly the case when honesty has a bearing on a relationship with someone--it makes sense to me that you have to give other people the choice of dealing with whatever it is that you might perceive as being "too brutal" of honesty. That's what we offer the world to love or hate, whether it (or we) like it or not. You have to give people the choice either way. Pretending it's otherwise won't help you or them.

The last point I will offer has to do with the ramifications of failing to be honest in your interactions with people, particularly insofar as they pertain to how you feel about someone. You can't love yourself or another without sharing the honesty of your thoughts. I've learned that when you don't share that honesty, you end up hating your deception--or you try and change the way you really feel about something (which is probably not possible).

Having said all of that, I rest on the observation that integrity isn't easy, and perhaps that is ultimately the source of our fallibility. Action is integrity; but sometimes it carries a terrible price. Maybe that is the price you pay to save your soul from the filth of deception. Yet at the same time, it is also proof that honesty and integrity can change the world in small ways.

"And the gaitered shall inherit the Mall..."

2010-02-06T16:12:00.004-05:00

Snow-pocalypse 2010 UPDATE

It's beautiful out there, and I found redemption. In the buildup to what some viewed as the end of the world, I forgot that all people are not inclined to behave in the same way. Nary a roaming, Mad Max-like hoard could be found on the Mall this morning (unless you want to count the numerous CNN and other news crews out there snapping shots of Your Humble Zubronie (YHZ) skiing). Presumably, all of the survivalists I saw in the local grocery store are hunkered down in their homes whereas others are enjoying what nature has bestowed.

That's something to remember: even in the ash of an erupted volcano will you find some flowers sprouting to life. Likewise, as some huddled in front of their tvs, presumably clutching their guns and chugging soda, others awoke to find the snow fast-falling, and, as moths to a flame, ventured out to discover this new world.

East Capitol St. was full of people. As I skied west towards the Capitol, I chatted with those I passed. These friends didn't seem to fear the snow, and nary a soul seen was without a smile. Something amazing occurs even in a moment of another's catastrophe if only you allow your eyes and heart to see it.

I expected the Hill to present a challenge down which to ski. However, I found the slope much more gradual than the many morning runs I had done on it had led me to believe. As I mounted a large snow pile at the base of Capitol Hill and tipped down to the road towards the Mall, I passed tourists and other skiers. It has been a long-held dream of mine to cross-country ski on the National Mall. I crossed 3rd St NW and started skiing west down the mall on the northern walking trail. The snow was about 20 inches deep, and, unlike on most of the roadways, few had tried to break much of a trail. As vivid and as romantic an image I had in my head of skiing actually on the Mall, it was just much more practical to ski on Madison. So I did. Only moments before I actually arrived at 14th St NW did I see the Washington Monument.

The wind had started to whip up as I made my way around the Monument. My goal was to make it to the Lincoln Memorial, so I continued west crossing 17th St NW and around the WWII Memorial. The visibility was similarly reduced as I neared the Lincoln.

As I've noticed on many a running loop around the Lincoln, more people tend to congregate in front of it in comparison to, say, the Washington Monument or the Capitol. Three students were building a snowman on the plaza west of the steps to the Memorial. I briefly skied up to the first landing of the Lincoln's steps and surveyed the Reflection Pool.

It was nice to be there. Sometimes I have to remind myself about the place in which I live; sometimes I have to remind myself about all of the history to which these monuments and these streets are entrusted. Given the profound influence that Lincoln had on our country, from emancipation of the slaves to the Civil War, it is meaningful that so many are drawn to the shadow his memorial casts, even on such a snowy day as today.

I'm not going to lie: the trip back was pretty brutal. As I crossed back over 17th St NW heading east, the wind sweeping over Seaton Park made me want to stop and... well, I don't know; cry? It was at that point that I realized that I had been skiing for almost 2 hours (and about 7 miles). It was time for me to head home. I made it to the base of Capitol Hill and felt better. Now that I am back in my apartment, I feel a little sadness not being outside anymore. Despite the prognostications of apocalypse, I feel that this storm in a small way completes / defines me. There is something to the notion that it is those things in life that challenge and inspire you that ultimately help you understand who you are. I love snow, and I am a cross-country skier. I know that much.

Snow-pocalypse 2010

2010-02-06T08:29:00.007-05:00

As I surveyed the scene in my neighborhood Harris Teeter last night, it occurred to me that this might actually be the end of the world--or at least, it seemed like many people in that store believed that it might be the end of the world. The newscasters these past few days haven't helped. DC residents have been warned to prepare to "shelter in place" for between "3 and 5 days," stock water and non-perishables, and to stay off the roads. Gun sales have evidently been up (in Virginia and Maryland, since you aren't allowed to keep a handgun at home in DC (though I suppose now things might be changing)). I'm not looking for a Pollyanna-like assessment for the next couple of days, but are guns really going to be necessary!?

From a meteorological perspective, this imminent dump-age is a bit of a perfect storm. Cold air and rain pushing in from the west is colliding with warmer, coastal air from the south to produce an isolated box of heavy, wet snow over just the DC and Baltimore areas. It's a "direct hit" (another term that I picked up watch a weather report). The "forget-you-overreacting-idiots-because-I-grew-up-in-the-Midwest" response is tempting, but I have to concede that the accumulation that we have already received is a bit more than what even we Clevelanders would call a "dusting." It's getting kind of thick out there! And it sounds like the President agrees with me. He was quoted on CNN this morning as having said, "Being born in Hawaii and having grown up in Chicago, even I have a healthy respect for a forecast of two feet of snow..."

But having experienced many a large winter storm, I think I'll be okay. So what is more interesting for me (other than the chance to cross-country ski around the Capitol) is watching the pandemonium that has been induced in the lead up to this storm. My snap assessment: the gentile Southerner turns quickly to a boorish caricature of a less-gentile Northern animal. Heath Ledger's line as the Joker in the Dark Knight comes to mind:

They need you right now, but when they don't, they'll cast you out. Like a leper. See, their morals, their "code"... it's a bad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as the world allows them to be. I'll show you. When the chips are down, these "civilized people", they'll eat each other. I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve.

Source: Heath Ledger in the Dark Knight

I realize I have a base assumption that is a bit confirmed by what I have seen so far in anticipation of "snow-pocalypse" 2010: that people are animals, and that society may just be an avaricious construct that functions only during times of convenience. When no gains may be possible through avarice, people will eschew the false pretenses of a civil society for some base notions about what is required just to survive--to perpetuate life and not just perpetuate wealth.

That line of musing reminds me of a previous post on violence. To summarize, I believe that even in as advanced and as civil a society as that in which we live (particularly as an urbanite in an American city), we are not far removed from a more basic world; a world where violence and the need to know how to manage it is still very much a large part of existence. In that quote from the Dark Knight, I'd even suggest that the Batman--as the Joker's interlocutor--is just a metaphor for society, and that the Joker's comments are really about society and not just the Batman. And I'm not going to lie: I took my knife to work today as a precaution, since you never do know what could happen...

I am reminded that--with the specter of hard times in sight--we, as humans, need the promise of redemption and, more acutely, faith: faith in a "civil society," "rule of law," and, when all else fails, a "merciful god" ... and not to be too tongue-in-cheek about it, but probably in that order. As bad or as hard as things can get, despite the fact we have a basic side to all of us, it is comforting to find those examples where our capacity for good (thus redemption) shines through.

So as I awake to what looks like a foot or so of fresh snow out there, I prepare to go and engage it: I will look for hope as well as pandemonium; I will try and stay sane and help my fellow wo-/-man in what ways I can; and I will let you know how is goes.

Love in the Time of Cholera

2010-01-25T15:45:00.003-05:00

What is love?
Is it an illness (a terminal one, at that)? Is it fleeting or enduring? Does it live in the letters we write or the music we make? Does it only exist once in a lifetime or can it occur several times, between more than just two people? It is physical? Emotional? Rational or irrational? Does it require loyalty (can it survive infidelity or must it survive in monogamy) and trust?

I'm not sure that it is accurate to say that Gabriel Garcia Marquez tried to answer those questions in Love in the Time of Cholera. But I found that in his telling the story of Florentino Ariza, Fermina Daza, and Dr. Juvenal Urbino (and the menagerie of other characters that filled their respective and collective lives), Marquez did just that: he surveyed how love developed and changed over the long lives of each of these characters, and he offered many vantages from which love really could be seen (even if you had to look more closely sometimes to see it). The book was extrodinarily beautiful, and it had a profound effect on me.

I brought into its reading the things that were occurring in my life, the most dramatic being the end to what I had thought was a relationship that would lead to marriage. There were issues in that relationship that we had yet to work out, no doubt. But it didn't occur to me until minutes before the relationship ended that, in fact, it would end. I guess I had assumed that love had its fickle elements, but that you learned to transcend those elements through a good relationship, however you define it. I think I was wrong--or maybe what I think now is that my understanding of love was too constrained; that you aren't meant to understand love; but instead that you must learn how to feel it at the source of its many forms. And one of those forms is illness.

Cholera was epidemic when Florentino Ariza first met Fermina Daza, and so the effect that Florentino's love for Fermina had on him was first confused as cholera. Love made him sick. The love was not unrequited, at least initially. But time, society, and the ideas about what Fermina construed as love changed, and she eventually married Dr. Juvenal Urbino, a man she did not "love" in comparison to how the letters given to and the music played for her by Florentino Ariza affected her. Love with Dr. Urbino was a calculated act, and over the many years of their marriage it became love nonetheless.

What can you say for certain about love?
And what do I think about all of this, from the words of Marquez to the lessons I have learned from my recent breakup (and I guess I'll throw into the mix those things I am learning right now through a foray into Internet dating)? There really can be no preconceptions and there is no right way. I believe that you have to get to know someone and that love cannot be possible without really knowing what it is that you love (and are not trying to love, because I don't believe that you can love an idea--something Internet dating will tempt you to believe).

The ideas in love--loving someone because you love the way they write, the music to which they listen, or because they come from or also like a place with which you feel some affection--are just props that either distract you from or compliment the act that is going on around you. One oft-uttered adage is even, I believe, incorrect: namely, that one has to love even the bad things of a person in order to love them truly. That, too, misses the ultimate point. In fact, perusing the many profiles erected on this Internet dating site, I am struck by how similar most of the people are (or come across) in my generation. So many run, listen to similar music, enjoy good food, coffee and drink, identify themselves as "outdoorsy" or "laid-back," and suggest they are looking for someone else vaguely looking for the same things. So many people seem to be looking for someone who will make them laugh. It seems almost absurd that--what with all of these people on this same site casting similar reflections of personality type and looking for about the same thing--that dating (or "finding love") should be so difficult. Yet it is. I think that Marquez got that, and he tried to convey it as best he could over the long life that Fermina and Florentino lived when they had almost no interaction.

After the death of Dr. Urbino, on the eve of Fermina's new widowhood, Florentino Ariza repeated his pledge of undying love for Fermina and was summarily rejected. Florentino continued to confuse the emotion and nostalgia that Fermina expressed for his writing with love--a developed love, such as what Fermina, through many years of marriage, learned. So Florentino had to start from scratch, which he did. As the book ends, they are enjoying what might be an endless river cruise through the nostalgia of a time that has passed them by. Even discovering that, they try to preserve at least that moment, now as they are both over 80 years old.

I found in the arc of the story and the vignettes of "love" provided by Marquez the sense that love is a relationship between fallible people that encompasses a lifetime. The things critical to defining love are all of those things that happen during that lifetime as long as the relationship exists. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to find love, and that is a guiding point of the book. Viewed separate from that lifetime, no one except those in love is really bound to understand it.

A Letter from One's Young Self

2010-01-14T08:11:00.001-05:00

You have become your demographic. You are somewhere in the middle: you lust after European cars; you drink expensive beer and you are aware of it when you drink 'swill;' you wonder if there is a way to slow your hair loss or slow the hair now erupting on your back, nose and ears; you may want a family soon; you could be dissatisfied with your job, but you remember your jobless friends and fear unemployment; you dream how you would revolt, then reproach yourself for your lack of imagination (everything you imagine was in some movie scene, book read or anecdote heard). You take stock meticulously and often. You tally platitudes.

But your state is not a conclusion. Lo your investments, wardrobe, career development may languish from this passage through what is perhaps a refining-youth crisis (sans the anxiety and energy to give it real teeth), but there is yet reason for hope beyond your apathy. That hope is rooted in your ennui: you SEE yourself denuded, your ideals gradually mellowed by the compromises you make heeding well-recommended opportunities. By recognizing this you are empowered. You can change. You can plan your decisions—engineer the antidote to your merely ongoing, bloodless existence. In you is something riotous and elemental; something seeking expression via forms savage, visceral and unapologetic. Fear of the mundane drives you back into those corners of yourself where you are without pretense or control; where you are not reticent; wherein lies the wellspring of your angers, primal and fierce. And because you can still react—because even the mere idea of slipping quietly into less potent forms culls your indignation—you might still be redeemed. If evolution has tamed the man to coexist in peaceful civilization with the rest of his species, then it's that society that has drawn the beast back from the man. Energy is the sole remaining variable: if you will strive, give action to your activism. You will stem your descent into a life so ordinary, so conservative.

Consider Eminem. Find some expression to vent your anger—an expression in which some aspect of who you are is represented.

- Consider Eminem. WHG (11-6-2002)

Meaning: Dark Humor (sarcasm, facetiousness, cynicism, macabre, flip, irony)

2010-01-02T18:17:00.000-05:00

I somewhat have to deal with all of these figures of speech at once, since they seem so commonly confused, misused, and mixed up. Thoughts about their usage were on my mind this morning as I walked on the icy "sidewalks" from the Pentagon City Metro stop to my office building. Due to DC's recent snow, these presumed pedestrian paths are nothing short of bobsled chutes. For those unwary office workers traipsing along these icy paths less steeped in the proper approach to balancing while operating on ice (as I am, due to my many years playing ice hockey), I can only imagine the number of injuries that must result. Fretting hip pointers, wrist fractures and other possible ice-related injuries, my mind wandered to thoughts about how my health care is such that the treatment for any of these injuries is likely only to cover the barest of needs. Judging from the debate raging in Congress, such also seems to be the state of health care in this country.

And I don't see that the current "health care bill" emerging from the Senate (or that has emerged from the House) will do much to improve the state (and cost) of health care in this fine country. Pausing at that thought, I mused to myself that, extending myself the liberty to oversimplify this whole health care issue, the crux of it all seems to come down to this: do we have a right to life or do we have a right to death (and let's assume that we don't have a right to both)? Now, this is where I will get into how these dark humor figures of speech fit in...

I am a fairly sarcastic person. My inclination is to argue that we only have a right to death. In fact, if one wants to try and preserve his/her life, he/she has to be willing to pay for it. The economist in me agrees: why should health care be different than any other market good? Presumably, leaving the market for health care services alone to "clear" by itself, the equilibrium cost for various health care practice areas would be such that only those with higher means would be able to afford those services. Leaving alone for a moment discussions on natural selection (or eugenics), one might also argue that--should one's physical health be properly valued through the market--we might find people more willing to invest in activities that make us healthier (such as exercise and better diet) and live longer (ceteris paribus). Moreover, such an approach to health care is also likely to yield more effective treatments for certain ailments, particularly when private fortunes are literally staked to save someone's life. The bottom line: how much are you willing to pay to live? And are you willing to invest in your corporeal and mental health in the interim (ostensibly to mitigate risk of health failure later in life)?

I will only acknowledge here very persuasive arguments in support of health care as a public good, thus the real cost for which not being able to be determined through market means (generally, due to the negative externalities associated with poor public health as a whole [e.g. cholera, weak labor forces, national competitiveness, etc.]).

SO. Having ranted as I have done, I ask am I being sarcastic, facetious, flip (or glib), ironic, macabre, cynical, all or none of the above? Let's see what the definitions say...

Sarcasm - Sarcasm seems actually not to be a figure of speech. Rather, Wikipedia suggests that sarcasm is the rhetorical device of using someone or something as a means to express contempt. This definition also says that it is closely related to irony. Am I being sarcastic in my assessment of the crux of the healthcare debate--or with the notion that we, as people (and Americans), literally should have to pay to save our lives? Let's see: am I using the subject of the healthcare debate to express contempt? Yes, most definitely. But for what? Good question. I won't go Freud quite yet in this post and will just table that question for later study. But undoubtedly, I think that I am being sarcastic.

Irony - Am I being ironic? That's a good question, since I frequently confuse the definition of irony. As with sarcasm, irony, too, seems to be a rhetorical device (situation or literary device) "in which there is an incongruity, discordance, or unintended connection that goes beyond the most evident meaning." If one were to assume (or deduce) that there was an UNintended connection between what I wrote and a more obvious meaning, I think that person would be wrong. I am not being ironic here: I'm being sarcastic. It would seem that irony could only be possible were my statement to draw an obvious connection to some related issue, one that was not an intended subject of that little diatribe. ...rereading that passage, I'm still not sure I understand irony. Let's go back to that later.

Facetiousness - I'm definitely being facetious. I don't even need to look at the definition; though, for the sake of congruity, I will provide it anyway. Facetiousness describes an attempt at humor, wit, or a general lack of seriousness. Actually, I am being serious here; it's just that I am trying to use rhetorical devices to make a serious point. Wait; does that mean that I am being ironic?!

Cynicism - Cynicism is not a figure of speech. The act of cynicism is a virtue related to a group of ancient Greeks called Cynics, who rejected all conventions, whether they be related to religion, manners, housing, dress or decency, advocating the pursuit of a simple and un-materialistic lifestyle. That's interesting. My understanding of the meaning of that word has always been rooted in the use of it as a technical term suggesting the accused cynic operated from a stance of unilateral self-interest or selfishness. Therefore, cynicism describes the act of interpreting another's activity in a way that only considers the self interest at stake in that activity. Based on this Wikipedia passage, I can see why I thought that; though I think I have oversimplified (or just plain confused) the actual meaning. Wikipedia says that cynicism actually means "a distrust toward professed ethical and social values, especially when there are high expectations concerning society, institutions and authorities which are unfulfilled." It is interesting to read about the evolution of the Cynic's beliefs. Classical Greeks purportedly believed that virtue was the only necessity for happiness. However, cynics followed the belief of neglecting all things that did not further their sense of happiness, rejecting conventional notions of what could lead to personal happiness (such as money, power, family, etc.) and live in a manner more harmonious with nature. Huh. That's almost animist. Getting back to this post, no, I am most certainly not being cynical (though for reasons other than why I first thought).

Macabre - Macabre is also not a figure of speech. But in moments such as these, I sometimes wonder if, in fact, I am not employing a figure of speech but instead am just being, well, negative (for lack of a more sophisticated adjective). Macabre may just be that adjective. But maybe not. The ol' Mac Dictionary program defines macabre as meaning "disturbing or horrifying because of involvement with or depiction of death and injury. That's interesting. This issue is definitely related to death and injury. However, I have to rule in this situation that that connection is a bit stretched and removed: better adjectives (or figures of speech) exist.

Flippant - Yet another adjective. I'll dispense with the discourse on this word by confirming that (at a straightforward glance), yes, I am most certainly lacking respect or seriousness in the production of that sentiment on the health care debate.

So what is the ruling here? By my tally, sarcasm, facetiousness, and flip work here; irony is a little beyond my powers of analysis; and the remaining two or three don't really work. But the trouble with all of this is that the ultimate test comes down to what the author actually means. Even I might never know that.

On Aging

2009-12-12T15:38:00.000-05:00

His father's posthumous letter, more than the telegram with the bad news, hurled him headlong against the certainty of death. And yet one of his oldest memories, when he was nine years old perhaps, perhaps when he was eleven, was in a way an early sign of death in the person of his father. One rainy afternoon the two of them were in the office his father kept in the house; he was drawing larks and sunflowers with colored chalk on the tiled floor, and his father was reading by the light shining through the window, his vest unbuttoned and elastic armbands on his shirt sleeves. Suddenly he stopped reading to scratch his back with a long-handled back scratcher that had a little silver hand on the end. Since he could not reach the spot that itched, he asked his son to scratch him with his nails, and as the boy did so he had the strange sensation of not feeling his own body. At last his father looked at him over his shoulder with a sad smile.

Love in the Time of Cholera (p 113, First American Edition), Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Traveling Funk

2009-12-09T07:57:00.000-05:00

This is the second time today that I have endured 6:40 am. I awoke about 14 hours ago in Guam for a 6:40 am flight on December 9th. I got on that flight, flew about 7 hours to Honolulu and landed at about 5:40 pm on December 8th. I got on a 7:10 pm flight in Honolulu for a 7 hour flight to Houston, arriving in Houston just after 6 am on December 9th . . . again. Holy shit am I tired. And I desperately need a shower and a bed.

Here are a few images from Guam.

Breaking Up as Seen Through Pop Culture

2009-12-05T00:57:00.003-05:00

I am inclined not to write about this subject, particularly in such a direct way. I love meaning that has to be wrung from stone. But for the past few weeks, I have not seemed able to wrap these thoughts in any sort of complicated metaphorical construct that has provided any comfort.

I guess there are a few thoughts I want to share--thoughts that I think provide some comfort, mostly because they explain better than I can how I feel about the end of my recent relationship.

The first is based on a quote that inexplicably arrived unannounced in my head a few days ago and seems damned if it will leave any time soon. The quote is from the movie Cast Away, which I probably haven't seen (at least in its entirety) for years now.

We both had done the math. Kelly added it all up and knew she had to let me go. I added it up, and knew that I had lost her. Cause I was never gonna get off that island. I was gonna die there, totally alone. I was gonna get sick, or get injured or something. The only choice I had, the only thing I could control was when, and how, and where it was going to happen. So, I made a rope and I went up to the summit, to hang myself. I had to test it, you know? Of course. You know me. And the weight of the log, snapped the limb of the tree, so I couldn’t even kill myself the way I wanted to. I had power over nothing. And that’s when this feeling came over me like a warm blanket. I knew, somehow, that I had to stay alive. Somehow. I had to keep breathing. Even though there was no reason to hope. And all my logic said that I would never see this place again. So that’s what I did. I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am. I’m back. In Memphis, talking to you. I have ice in my glass… And I’ve lost her all over again. I’m so sad that I don’t have Kelly. But I’m so grateful that she was with me on that island. And I know what I have to do now. I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?

The line that really sticks out is when Tom Hanks says that he is so sad that he doesn't have Kelly anymore; yet he is so grateful that he had her for the time that he did, even if the manner in which he had her in his life was not ideal. To me, it underscores one of the many conflicts that exist in dating: a conflict between having a relationship with someone--being with someone--and trying to possess them (perhaps as a foil for loss, or for things that you cannot control). Sometimes I cannot bear the sadness that I feel. Sadness is not a complicated emotion; but the reasons for that sadness are, swirling around a loss of a relationship, an idea, maybe a dream, possession, all of it.

I wish breaking up were as simple as the lyrics to Your Ex-Lover is Dead by the band Stars.

There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to say

I'm not sorry there's nothing to save...

Or to believe it is possible to follow Regina Spektor's lead, in On the Radio.

...this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again

If I could step out of my emotions and rely on a rational slice of my soul, I suspect I would feel this way. I wish I could feel so cavalier or nonchalant about the end of a 3 year relationship.

It occurs to me that--were I able to step out of my emotions here (and aging body)--there is a naturalness to all of this that I lose sight of. For most, this is just the process that we endure as we get older and find someone with whom to spend the rest of our lives. To be sure, it does not happen to everyone. I hope I don't fall into that category.

The new Harry Potter was playing for the in-flight movie on the way here to Guam, and there was a scene in that movie that struck me. Ron Weasley was in bed recovering from some almost-poisoning. Harry and Hermione were at his side, when his then-girlfriend, Lavender, came charging in and accosts Hermione for being at his bedside. Just as Lavender suggests that Ron would rather she be by his side than Hermione, Ron, in a stupor, mumbles Hermione's name, causing Lavender to flee in shame. Dumbledor and several other professors were there watching it all, and, at the sight of Lavender fleeing, he comments, "Ah, to be young and feel love's keen sting."

And one more reference to weave into this post. I also ponder something I heard recently in a History Channel special on the Star Wars series. Evaluating parallels between Star Wars 2 (where Anakin loses his hand in battle) and Star Wars 5 (where Luke loses his hand to Darth Vader), the narrator pointed out the similarity of that plot progression to that of Cain and Able, in which Able is fated to bear his father's scars. The parallelism of biblical lessons aside, the narrator pointed out the broader life lesson of which those two scenes remind us: that as we mature and grow older, we are destined to carry emotional and physical scars of our path to adulthood. These scars fundamentally make us, and to deny their existence is to dilute the complexity of our character.

In light of that "wisdom" (for lack of a better term), I suppose I should feel grateful to feel "love's keen sting." I can't find much solace in the rationalization: losing someone you love sucks.

Meaning: Figures of Speech

2009-11-22T09:06:00.002-05:00

Of the several things on which I like to explore in this blog, the meaning of words--that literal, figurative, and implied--is one of my favorite subjects. I have mentioned previously that my mother was an English teacher in a former life prior to settling in to the field of Speech Pathology. Born from lessons and guidance she provided as I grew, I am now an adult who tries to be mindful of the meaning of the things I say and write. Accuracy in communication is a primary goal, particularly as the meaning of that which I want to try and convey is meant to veer from the literal meaning of the word.

There is a special set of words with which I consistently parry for accuracy (and creativity), the elements of which forming hurdles in the path of my communicated existence over which I leap and, frequently, face plant. I will start to try and collect them here, both as a way to clarify their meaning and for my own personal benefit but also has an homage to Mom. I think she would have liked that. This special set of words are encompassed by what constitutes a "figure of speech" (and I believe I am being accurate here suggesting that the term "figure of speech" is the accurate root from which many sorts of figures of speech sprout).

Doing some research to determine whether I even correctly understand what a figure of speech is, I see that (a) I might have the meaning of the term right, and (b) this is a little more complicated than I first thought.

Wikipedia says that a figure of speech is "use of a word that diverges from its normal meaning, or a phrase with a specialized meaning not based on the literal meaning of words in it such as a metaphor, simile, or personification. Figures of speech often provide emphasis, freshness of expression, or clarity. However, clarity may also suffer from their use, as any figure of speech introduces an ambiguity between literal and figurative interpretation."

I have been developing a list of figures of speech for several years now, accumulated with the thought in mind that I would someday try and really understand the differences between these different figures of speech. This list includes: aphorism, metaphor, simile, anecdote, pun, homily, bromide, idiom, trope, and allegory.

First off, for the several of you who read this blog and have interest in the meaning of other such figures of speech, please do not hesitate to propose the expansion of that list. Second off, that list itself--upon investigation of the meaning of what is exactly a figure of speech--is already reduced.

The Wikipedia entry suggests the division of figures of speech into two general categories: schemes and tropes. I will try and refrain (when possible) from diving into their Latin and Greek etymology. But I will try and summarize the distinction between their lay-meanings.

"Schemes are figures of speech that change the ordinary or expected pattern of words." For example, rather than saying, "I love my Schwessy-poo greatly," I could say, "Schwessy-poo, the siostra whom I love greatly." This would be an example of the scheme known as apposition.

"Tropes change the general meaning of words. An example of a trope is irony, which is the use of words to convey the opposite of their usual meaning." Here is my shot at applying that definition (based on the structure of the Wikipedia example) to provide example of a statement that is ironic: "Man, Obama sure has his hands full. I'm not sure this country is improving that quickly. Too bad we don't have that sage leader George Bush the junior and his administration at the helm anymore. They'd have this whole recession and war thing wrapped up in a jiffy."

As you can see, since trope seems to be a sub-classification of a figure of speech, I will have to eliminate it from my list. That leaves--barring new additions to that list--about nine to go. Once more into the breach, my friends! (Shakespeare, Henry V)

[Note, that last quote would be an example of an allusion, which is a scheme. I think it could also be a snowclone, but, honestly, that word is new to me and a little scary, so I don't think I am going to deliberately try and go there."]

Life as Solitaire

2009-11-20T08:43:00.003-05:00

I got up this morning around 5:20 am to run (as I often do). When I returned, I turned on the kitchen faucet to draw some hot water to fill the coffee carafe (it's a trick that I learned to keep the coffee hotter for longer). After starting the coffee, I started preparing some oatmeal. I probably do this 4 mornings out of 5 (when I am not on the road, that is). As the oatmeal is cooking, I usually prepare a lunch for the day: carrot sticks, a pb&j sandwich, and a piece of fruit. Since there is a potluck at work today (hence lunch will be served), I bided my time playing solitaire on my iPod (Solebon: best solitaire app out there). I do this a lot; though typically I do not play solitaire at 6 am on a work day morning. The solitaire game I was playing (Free Cell) briefly confounded me. Most of the aces were in primary positions; yet I still kept getting myself stuck with the reserve decks loaded and still one or two more cards to move before I could clear the piles. Thank goodness for the "restart" option on the game. Sitting there, mulling over a strategy to win, I pondered the similarities between solitaire and life. In short, life is seldom about the path on which you would like to find yourself. More often, it is about the path on which you find yourself and then making the most with the decisions you have based on what you really can do.

The metaphor and the pun of solitaire are apt for me these days. Times are a changing, and I am single; I live in a 1 bedroom apartment (again, finally); and I have been thinking about life and its vagaries more than usual lately, particularly as the 4th anniversary of my mother's death approaches on the 21st of November. Sitting in a dark apartment at 6 in the morning, alone, waiting for coffee to brew and oatmeal to congeal, playing solitaire, the irony of the situation is not lost on me. I ponder this apparent lesson from playing solitaire: sometimes life's not about what you want to do, but about what you can do.

Solitaire teaches us to fight. That's why the restart button is there. Even if it takes 24 hours, most solitaire games can be won. You just need patience and determination. Although a useful lesson for life, in the case of Mom, I see a divergence here between the practice and the reality, and what causes me to think about this is the image of my mother's work briefcase leaning against the table in our house where she would typically deposit the bag after a long day's work. That bag must have sat there for a year after she died, untouched. I imagine that--on the day of it being placed there for the last time--she did not know that she would never again carry it into work.

life is seldom about the path on which you would like to find yourself; more often, it is about the path on which you find yourself and then what you do with the decisions you have

Solitaire also is a lesson in control (or our lack thereof). Even a modicum of strategy does not ensure success in any particular game. Theoretically, those cards are dealt with utter randomness. Sometimes the ensuing deal confounds any high-probability strategy, and you are forced to question your fundamental assumptions and approach. Sometimes the only way to win is to throw out all that you think you know and think you can control.

In life, such an existential retrenchment is both harrowing and (maybe after a time) thrilling. I find confirmation of that suspicion in a recent Economist magazine obituary for the renowned anthropologist, Claude Levi-Strauss. With the benefit of 100 years of observation, on randomness and finding structure from it in life, Mr. Strauss notes:

events without any apparent connection, and originating from incongruous periods and places...suddenly crystallise (sic) into a sort of edifice conceived by an architect...

As November 21st, 2005 approached, I think back and wonder whether we knew, as we wound down a long night and fell into bed, that it was so close to the end? Did Mom know? Perhaps. Could / should anything have been done differently?

With four years of hindsight, the disorder of those months leading to that night now do reflect some structure. And I can see some sense in the acceptance of the lesson that life is not about what you want to do, but about what you can do.

I will continue to play solitaire now.

Hello November, Old Friend

2009-11-16T07:49:00.005-05:00

The late autumn. I miss living in Cleveland, but I do have to say that mild, late autumn weekends in DC, such as the one we just had this past weekend, are great. Most of the leaves have fallen from the trees. However, the bright reds and the electric yellows still shine through in abundance. Riding a bike through DC's center and into Virginia, you see so many colors (and you also don't have to dodge as many of the summer tourists).

My excitement for late fall is tempered by an awareness of the approach of the 4th anniversary of a date that I never will likely forget, the 21st of November, the date my mother died. I've caught myself reading through old, old emails from her lately with more frequency. How the "normal" and banal, seasoned by emotion and a sense of loss, can become so poignant. There are things in life that will always be "yours," in the sense that their connection to you can become so immutable that only you will perceive their value (or even existence). It's an interesting thing. Here is an email sent by Mom on this date years ago:

Dear Dan,
I was thinking about Robert Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken." I haven't read it in years so I'll go home tonight and look it up. In relation to your situation and decision, ask yourself how you will feel 2,5,10 years from now when you look back on this period of your life and on the decision to stay or not to stay to completion of your Fulbright. You have pressing current concerns, and these dominate for now. But, don't be short-sighted. Think ahead 2 years and ask yourself where you would like to be. Will having or not having the Fulbright experience help you? With respect to the Fulbright experience, try to wring as much out of it as you can. There must be a way to get to some of the movers and shakers or their staffs in Warsaw. Getting a foot in the door is an old challenge. You're young; be brash. Find a way to offer something they might want. Dad and I have been thinking about you. We want you to have a good experience and succeed in this.

Much love,
Mom

Hoping for the "Right" to Emerge from the Right

2009-11-10T08:12:00.006-05:00

Paul Krugman offered a very sobering assessment of the development of the Republican party recently in a NYTimes Op-Ed.

I live in D.C. However, I did not witness the protests, though they have become a painfully regular sight around the Capitol, on the National Mall, and even in front of the Pentagon. These aren't advocates or protesters delineating a specific value or belief and lobbying for its support by Congress and the President; these are the disaffected masses and the ideological sheep lulled into the service of (in my humble estimation) an ascending form of nationalism (fascism?) for which the New Republican Party has become a vessel. Krugman does a very good job drawing out how this has played out.

I was forlorn at the election (and then re-election) of George W. Bush as President. He made me (and many others) long for the "good ol days" of Bush 41. Bush 43--and the Republican party at the time--represented such a cynical depiction of American politics: mobilizing a disaffected base so as to seize power only--once power has been gained--to push ahead with a political agenda that held little chance of benefiting the majority of the base who voted for that administration. As a student of development and economics, it was evident to me there were serious issues in society for which public policy needed to find an answer. I saw clearly that the market failed to ensure some precepts necessary for the conservation of a democratic, free-market society. I believed there was a public role to ensure Americans had proper access to health care; to provide for older Americans who no longer earned a salary; and for the navigation of international relationships (balancing a sound national defense policy). For all of 43's faults, at least he parodied the historic interplay between conservative and more liberal administrations: he helped the rich stay rich (and get richer) by lowering taxes and cutting government (supposedly), and he eschewed support for broader social programs. At the very least, many sensible Americans knew where he was coming from. As Krugman observes, it is less the case now.

I see clearly now the ascendancy of the disaffected base in the form of overt power over the Republican Party. If I had to oversimplify the tell-tale signs, people such as Limbaugh, Palin, and Beck care only about power and consider ruinous US policies acceptable if only for spite. To borrow Ayn Rand's words, "[they] care about power and [they] aren't kidding."

It's scary shit. Historically that sort of reckless wielding of power, combined with various cults of personality and playing on broader social struggles, has led to fascism.

The simple fact is that America cannot survive without the multiparty system, and that multiparty system must have at its base clear distinctions between the proper role of government. Historically, I'd characterize the interplay between the two parties as a choice between a stronger free-market and the conservation of existing wealth (Republicanism) and a stronger government role in the market commensurate with an expansion of the social safety net. Power alone is no platform from which productive public policy may be created. Instead, it is an ominous gateway to social ruin.

The Sum of Man (by Norah Pollard)

2009-10-28T12:21:00.001-04:00

In autumn,
facing the end of his life,
he moved in with me.
We piled his belongings—
his army-issue boots, knife magazines,
Steely Dan tapes, his grinder, drill press,
sanders, belts and hacksaws—
in a heap all over the living room floor.
For two weeks he walked around the mess.

One night he stood looking down at it all
and said: "The sum total of my existence."
Emptiness in his voice.

Soon after, as if the sum total
needed to be expanded, he began to place
things around in the closets and spaces I'd
cleared for him, and when he'd finished
setting up his workshop in the cellar, he said,
"I should make as many knives as I can,"
and he began to work.

The months plowed on through a cold winter.
In the evenings, we'd share supper, some tale
of family, some laughs, perhaps a walk in the snow.
Then he'd nip back down into the cellar's keep
To saw and grind and polish,
creating his beautiful knives
until he grew too weak to work.
But still he'd slip down to stand at his workbench
and touch his woods
and run his hand over his lathe.

One night he came up from the cellar
and stood in the kitchen's warmth
and, shifting his weight
from one foot to the other, said,
"I love my workshop."
Then he went up to bed.

He's gone now.
It's spring. It's been raining for weeks.
I go down to his shop and stand in the dust
of ground steel and shavings of wood.
I think on how he'd speak of his dying, so
easily, offhandedly, as if it were
a coming anniversary or
an appointment with the moon.
I touch his leather apron, folded for all time,
and his glasses set upon his work gloves.
I take up an unfinished knife and test its heft,
and feel as well the heft of my grief for
this man, this brother I loved,
the whole of him so much greater
than the sum of his existence.

"The Sum of Man" by Norah Pollard, from Death & Rapture in the Animal Kingdom.

I Had Been A Polar Explorer (by Mark Strand)

2009-10-26T09:09:00.003-04:00

I had been a polar explorer in my youth
and spent countless days and nights freezing
in one blank place and then another. Eventually,
I quit my travels and stayed at home,
and there grew within me a sudden excess of desire,
as if a brilliant stream of light of the sort one sees
within a diamond were passing through me.
I filled page after page with visions of what I had witnessed—
groaning seas of pack ice, giant glaciers, and the windswept white
of icebergs. Then, with nothing more to say, I stopped
and turned my sights on what was near. Almost at once,
a man wearing a dark coat and broad-brimmed hat
appeared under the trees in front of my house.
The way he stared straight ahead and stood,
not shifting his weight, letting his arms hang down
at his side, made me think that I knew him.
But when I raised my hand to say hello,
he took a step back, turned away, and started to fade
as longing fades until nothing is left of it.

"I Had Been a Polar Explorer" by Mark Strand, from Man and Camel.

Egg Salad (and Herring) for the Soul

2009-09-29T04:10:00.007-04:00

I needed comfort food last night. It wasn't inexplicable why. I suppose that the notion of the meal originated on Sunday, in Red Hook, Brooklyn, where I went shopping at the Fairway with a friend. The Fairway seems to be this magical grocery store that sells all sorts of exotic and high-end (as well as mundane) groceries. Of all the things I passed in the store that could have been of interest, I picked up but one thing (not including my normal Boathouse Farms drink): a jar of Danish pickled herrings in tomato sauce.

Pickled fish evokes simpler and enjoyable times. I was introduced to them while studying abroad during my junior year of college in Denmark. Ellinor, my hostmom, fixed traditional Danish frokost most Sunday mornings, a meal that almost always included coarse rye bread, jams, cheeses, liverpostej, schnapps, Tuborg, and pickled herring (maybe lox sometimes as well). I don't recall being much of an adventurous eater prior to Denmark. But I remember leaving with a more liberal palate.

And it must have been good preparation for Poland, where I was similarly introduced to wild and wonderful foods. I think I started to back away from the true void that can be Polish cusine after realizing that I was eating tripe soup (flaczki!) at some holiday party in 1998. Regardless, in Poland as well tins of such pickled fish were widely available, and I remember buying those tins, some coarse bread and cheese, and taking off for a hike or something in the woods.

But my image for the meal that I wanted last night did not stop with the fish. Something was missing: my Dad's tartar sauce / egg salad.

I'm still getting the recipe down. The richness of the sauce / salad I made may account (partially) for the insomnia I feel tonight. I had to call Dad for the recipe, and, as with all good, family-made concoctions of your youth, its measurements were imprecise:

[for about 8-10 oz of sauce / salad]
1 hard-boiled egg
1 "dallop" of mayo
1 "dallop" of lemon juice (to cut the fat)
1 T olive oil
1 T butter
1 T chopped up dill pickles
a healthy portion of chopped scallions
garlic salt to taste
garlic pepper to taste

That sauce is rich. But--as evidenced by Dad's execution of it--it is also the perfect accompaniment for fish dinners. More importantly, it was easy and safe. I have learned that I could not take for granted a sense of safety and comfort in routines. It's nice that such a simple meal could remind me of those sensations.

A Day in the Life of . . Me

2009-09-02T21:26:00.007-04:00

I wake up at 5:50 am in DC for a 8 am flight to Raleigh-Durham.

I arrive in Raleigh-Durham at 9 for a 2.5 hour drive to New Bern, NC (Cherry Point MCAS).

I stop at Captain Ratty's Seafood Rest for lunch. I eat a shrimp wrap.

At 1:30, I arrive at Cherry Point MCAS for the helicopter tour. We receive the safety brief.

We then head out to 1 of the CH-53 Marine helicopters that will take us on the tour. We are provided two helicopters: one for the tour, and one for backup (in case we have to ditch).

As VIPs, we embark for the helicopter on a red carpet.

From 14:00 to 15:00 I survey the land uses from Cherry Point MCAS to New River MCAS. I get drenched in hydraulic fluid, evidently par for the course when traveling in a CH-53.

As we survey the land from Cherry Point to New River; from New River to Camp Lejeune; and from Camp Lejeune back to Cherry Point, I observe multiple harrier take offs and landings. I also observe a V-22 taking off and landing from New River.

At 18:30, I return to Cherry Point and disembark. We make our way to Jacksonville for the night.

Watchmen

2009-08-29T17:52:00.006-04:00

Let's start with the notion that the world is a big joke and that the Comedian is a parody of it. I have to say that I didn't really grasp that concept fully until I saw Watchmen, the movie. I read the book last summer over 4 frantic days while in Monterrey, CA. It affected me. It built on familiar themes: that humans are innately animal, and that any attempt to control that base humanity was ultimately (in the sense of the Second Law of Thermodynamics) futile. But Watchmen made the statement more pointedly: control was a joke. And in society's role as this foisted, contrived reality meant to control people, society itself was a joke. The movie really drove that home for me (despite the fact that the movie generally received poor reviews).

Starting with that as a base, I have a few reflections to provide. The first is that--if one should accept that the true nature of man is towards violence and the world towards disorder--it is more than a little ironic that, biblically-speaking, we are all children of God and are in fact cast in his image. In many ways, God and the religious precepts presumably espoused by God are conventional mechanisms of control. So doesn't it seem odd that true human nature could be in direct contravention to God's nature? Looking at that a moment, and thinking about all of the controversy that exists surrounding human origin and theology, one might even conclude that this discrepancy suggests that God does not exist. And for an even more persuasive argument on that, I recommend the Story of B by Daniel Quinn. But I digress.

A second reflection I have is on the tree of knowledge, presumably one explanation why humans have deviated so from God's ideal. So the story goes, man (and wo-man) eat from the tree, acquire knowledge, and are cast from the Garden of Eden (aka all hell breaks loose). I ask myself what humans would be like without the fruit of knowledge. An image of docile, cow-like humans gently grazing naked on the Elysian plains comes to mind. Actually, that explains a lot. That explains why I find so many of the people with whom I interact (particularly when driving) slow, dumb, and, well, rather cow-like. I'd also presume that distance from that ideal, Eden-like human state is extended through the acquisition of additional "knowledge," this forbidden fruit. I guess it is no wonder why I feel so damned lonely much of the time when I travel outside of larger cities, since--the further I get from the decadence of the dense city--the more I find people to be a little closer to the docile cow. And the loneliness makes sense, too. A friend recently suggested to me that loneliness is less a function of the number of people around you as it is your ability to relate to those people (in the sense of shared experience and parity in knowledge).

Then again, maybe it is our notion of humanity that is the contrivance: this rarefied state where noble and high values are that to which the truly developed (wo-)man aspires, and it is this baseness that is found in society that is the true culprit; the idea that packing humans together weakens humanity and foments a baser human nature. Such could be the implication in Watchmen.

Doubling-up my movie reviews here a bit, I am caused to think about District 9, which I saw last night, and the counterpoint to "human culture" (exhibited in the film through MNU, among other things) in the "prawns." The prawns exhibit a baseness that the "humans" abhor. Yet in the motivations that the humans exhibit, the movie quite effectively shows that humans were no more civilized than the aliens. And by the end of the movie, one might wonder whether humans were really any more advanced (relative to their origins) than the "uncivilized" aliens, who were at least (probably) acting the way they were supposed to and in fact had always behaved.

Equally as significant was the Comedian's view on violence. Violence can only exist when one does not accept disorder. Violence can only exist when one puts too much faith in a society to effectively provide control. Without any expectation for society, one wouldn't even interpret by definition violent acts as anything not normal. The Comedian, dressed as a masked superhero, parading ostensibly for the good of control, yet meting out violence and destruction, was both a parody of the notion of a true superhero and a joke on society. If I were trite (I am), I'd end by asking: should we laugh? And if we aren't laughing, then maybe it is because it hits a little too close to the truth.

More Zip-lining . . and screaming like a little girl

2009-08-14T10:37:00.000-04:00

Montana

2009-08-12T23:40:00.008-04:00

I've learned that, if you sit still long enough outside, the world adapts. In this case, I am talking about the world as it exists someplace on Flathead Lake in Montana. I first came out here in 1997. I was going into my senior year in college, and I was working in Glacier National Park along with several of my best friends (who I had just met in Denmark). I remember that summer so vividly. Coming back here for this trip (my first visit back here in about 5 years), I am surprised how far back to those times I feel I have been taken.

There are the little things. Such as the sound of the bugs here as they strike your windshield (driving in Montana, for some reason, causes you to strike many a large insect, afterwards colorfully splayed on your windshield), or the shrouded look of the mountains on days that are overcast. Most of all, I remember the smell of the air: it is what my olfactory sense conjures when I try and evoke the scent of "fresh air." Taking it in, allowing it to linger on my senses and thought, I realize that it is so full of memory--joy and happiness--that it almost drowns me.

I remember the preternatural calmness and quiet moments of evening. Back to my opening comment, if I sit long enough on the dock, the fish start to jump in the lake, and the bats and birds buzz by, flying off to god-knows-where into the void of the lake.

But what strikes me so about these thoughts and memories is how different they are--as are my feelings--compared to how I feel in other places, on other vacations. I can't think of a time since starting work that I could really "escape" the activities of my job. I can't think of a time when I felt at peace with the existence as I found it. I can't remember in recent time not thinking and living for some future moment.

I could convince myself that this might be a sign that I should move to Montana. I'm not sure how wise that would be. But I will say that I have the notion to cherish the moments I am here and experiencing (and feeling) this. I am cautious of how short life is. As far as I know, I won't remember this after I die. BUt I can say that I will search for this as long as I live. If I am lucky, maybe I will either return here and find it or I will rediscover it someplace else.

Nathan's Cabin, Flathead Lake, Montana

2009-08-11T18:49:00.000-04:00

Love Bites

2009-07-29T22:37:00.000-04:00

Be with me CC
We'll ignore each other's differences until the sex goes bad
And then we will walk away bitter and angry

30 Rock, Season 2

The Edge

2009-07-26T14:41:00.006-04:00

It was a "boy's weekend" this past weekend, a periodic event when I get together with my best friends from high school and when we try not to revert totally to the good-natured buffoons we were back in high school. We try and work in some kind of an event. Previous boy's weekends were centered around paintball outings, crab boils, or hiking. For this boy's weekend, we went to the shore (Stone Harbor, NJ) and went to a concert. Rise Against was the headliner, opened by Rancid. As the several of you who read this can probably guess already, attending this concert was not my idea.

But I enjoyed the concert despite myself. I'm not saying that I liked the music very much, but the whole event got me thinking. I like seeing live shows; but more importantly I enjoy people watching, and Rise Against fans are an interesting lot.

First of all, it was a younger crowd. But the more obvious observation is probably that they are a pretty punk and hardcore rock crowd, decked out in black, tattooed, and rowdy. Plastic bottles (thank god) were tossed aplenty into the boiling crowd, and frequent crowd-surfers tossed themselves up onto the rest of the fray. I stood in the back for a bit and just watched.

I think it would be fair to characterize the subculture that underlies the Rise Against fan base as somewhat extreme: the edge of a spectrum between introverted dork and uncontrollable hellraiser. There were hellraisers there alright, but I was surprised by how many of those same fans who I wouldn't like to pass in a dark alley also were very polite when trying to get around me in the crowd. A few even thanked me, "Sir," for opening a door for them. There were some common values underneath all of those tattoos, piercings, and black, torn clothes afterall.

What occurred to me was that these people--despite their scary appearance--were not angry and vengeful. They seemed happy and content, particularly in a mosh pit among their peers.

A speculation that I wanted to think about was how hard it is to find oneself. As conservative (relatively) a stick-in-the-mud as I have become, I guess the site of how close those fans are (in my perception) to a pole of cultural acceptability would make me more than a little nervous. But based on last night, it has dawned on me that--to really find yourself and to learn to be comfortable in your own skin--you probably have to push the edge of what might be conventionally-construed as acceptable and then rely on your instincts to tell you how you are doing. If you are happy, fantastic. If not, go further toward that pole or backtrack from wherever it is you are. The point is that you might never find out what makes you happy if you don't bother to go out, ink yourself indelibly, put on some black, and allow your ears to get damaged and your flesh bumped around in a mosh pit. It's something of which to remind myself.

Accidents

2009-06-26T17:00:00.002-04:00

NABLOPOYO: Obligatory June Post

2009-06-25T08:54:00.014-04:00

I have been blogging here since 2004, but somehow I have not managed to go a year posting at least one post a month. This post is my lame attempt to get in something for June in the course of my National Blog Posting Year (+ an extra "O," because it sounds better--which is a contrived thing anyway).

I should have something to talk about. I have been traveling for work for the last month and a half or so, and God knows I have lots of thoughts about what I see. Most of those thoughts are probably better left unrepeated (Mr. Hyde is a frequent traveling companion), but there are thoughts I should starting sharing. I guess that I will start with a few about Kansas.

I-70 west of Kansas City (though this picture was taken just west of Topeka) is not as flat as you'd think. The serious flatness doesn't begin in earnest until you drive west of Council Grove, out of the Flint Hills area of Kansas.

I was in Parsons, KS Monday night for work, and a colleague there suggested that I take some of the back roads on my way to Manhattan, KS, instead of just sticking to the highways. She said that this would put me through the Flint Hills area of Kansas, which was ranked by some site as among the 10 most picturesque areas in the country. How could I pass up that opportunity?

I turned off of 75 going north onto 56 west. Driving to Manhattan from the southeast corner of the state, the countryside was not as flat as I had expected. The countryside driving west on 56 became rolling hills, which reminded me of the countryside in Northeast Poland, just outside of Wigierski Park Narodowy. I remember a lake I once passed, just outside of Suwalki, with such rolling hills and wildflowers. I never knew the name of that lake--or where I was, for that matter. But I remember thinking it was the most beautiful, peaceful place I had ever seen. The Flint Hills reminded me of that lake. The countryside is probably best described as high pasture, and maybe that is what all high pastures look like: rolling hills, greenery, and kept homes. Kansas is a wreck of towns forgotten and fled; yet the homes and the community seemed to remain along 56, and I was sad to turn from it to head north once again as I neared Council Grove.

I think that the Flint Hills to which my colleague referred was what laid beyond 99, a countryside without the same greenery, pastures, and ponds. Here the rocks crept out from underneath rolling hillsides, stacking upon themselves, over and over, layers upon layers. It was striking but was more barren than eastern Kansas. Looking over the end of the Flint Hills from atop a plateau off of 177 just north of 70, you could see the plains start, in all their hot, barren glory.

I was driving a big, huge, Lincoln Town Car. It was like hunter Thompson's Great White Shark (though the Lincoln was beige). I got the sense of deja' vu as I drove, perhaps from the many roads and miles I had driven in other nondescript rental cars, somewhere else in Middle America. I wondered about time travel; I wondered how you would know if you had actually traveled through time. If indeed you had gone back in time, it occurred to me that maybe you would have only faint, fleeting reminders of what you once knew from the time that you had erased. Maybe that is deja' vu, and maybe this was my second chance to do something again, something I had hoped to reverse in some future (now past) time. If only I could remember what it was.

Boquete Tree Trek

2009-05-18T19:26:00.000-04:00

What it is like to zip line through a rain forest . . .

Angels & Demons

2009-05-15T22:03:00.004-04:00

I watched the movie Transsiberian tonight. Forgetting for a moment the comment from my GF about how lame it was that I, a 33-year old male in the "prime of his life" sat at home watching a movie on a Friday night, I watched the movie with ambivalence. I enjoyed the scenery of the movie. Some of it seemed as though it might have actually been filmed in eastern Europe. But I didn't find the story very interesting, and I had a hard time identifying with any of the characters. That is, it is always easy to identify with fear; however, I don't think the context of the fear was very compelling. There was an interesting quote in the movie that I'd like to remember (even though it is evidently a mis-quote):

Kill all of my demons and my angels might die too.

What Tennessee Williams actually said was "if I got rid of my demons, I'd lose my angels." The wisdom of that resonates with me. For example, mulling over my lame-ness sitting in on a Friday night tonight, I browsed the many events that could possibly have contributed to my relative isolation. No doubt I have come to things later than most: I never was much of a dater; it took me some time to figure out what I really wanted to do with my life; and, now that I have found something I like, I question for how long I should stay at it out of fear of becoming staid professionally and intellectually. I suppose one of my "demons" is this lingering fear of mediocrity, and one of my angels is the ability to stick something unpleasant out, even if it makes me unhappy.

But I am apt to apply Williams' notion to experiences as well. Specifically, as I rode in that motorboat away from Isla de Bastimentos and away from that robbery, I had this sense that a part of me would always be on that island, on that trail, being preyed upon by my attackers, and even here in DC tonight can I feel that it is so. But watching Transsiberian--watching those scenes of passing Russian (?) forests as the train drove endlessly through the Siberian landscape towards Moscow--I saw my Bialowieza Forest; the orderly narrow logging roads that intersperse the borders of the forest; and I could still see myself walking those trails quietly, in awe of their beauty and tranquility.

I couldn't have one memory or experience without the other, and it is something I need to accept.

Mother's Day: A Case of You

2009-04-28T08:16:00.003-04:00

Taking time out for my semi-daily personal pity party, I fired up my iPod to find Joni Mitchell's A Case of You queued up to play. I love Joni Mitchell, and I have heard this song many times over the years. Something that jumped out at me the other day, though, was this verse:

I remember that time you told me, you said, "love is touching souls." Surely you touched mine cause, part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.

I love that verse. I think a lot about the experiences I have had, and decisions I have made, in the past, and inevitably thoughts drift to the people whom I have known--platonically and otherwise. It sometimes feels like a struggle to be an independent person; that is, the temptation is great to fall into the personality or charm of another. Relationships are about trust and sharing strength, right? So it seems natural that we would take parts of another person's self as we get to know them. The painful part is when that part becomes severed from the whole, either because you no loger have that relationship anymore or because you have supplanted a part of you with someone else's character.

I like the thought of a piece of someone else pouring out of us as we continue to navigate our lives. I realize that I firmly believe that, in many ways, I am my mother; at least insofar as the mannerisms and beliefs I absorbed from her pour out of me on a daily basis. From an odd penchant to correct others' grammar to a resolve not to own a motorcycle (lest I forget the lessons of Motorcycle Mike), these are actually the small embodiments of my mother that live on everyday, pouring out of her son.

That verse also stresses something sentimental and tender about loss, and I have found that--buffered by time--memories lose their edge as well, and it can be a welcome visit to see aspects of someone formerly or presently close to you that is now a part of you. I guess that is comfort for the future. I am sure that I will continue to struggle and experience relationships. It is nice to remember that good moments can come out of those that may have been painful at the time.

Violence

2009-04-26T18:59:00.008-04:00

This is a picture of Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. I ran into him in the Newark Airport. It was serendipitous seeing him, since I had been thinking about him (well, one of his characters) only the day before while watching Walking Tall in the Panama City, Panama Marriott. In Standing Tall, I watched him single-handedly take down a casino full of bad guys. The violence was packaged in a palpable way: instead of using a gun, he merely pummeled the crap out of these many men with a 4 x 4. He was the good guy and they were the bad guys. More than anything, watching his performance made me really think about how skewed a perception Americans (and maybe most Hollywood-consuming audiences) have about violence. I think it is an understated element in most of our lives, and I wouldn't give pause to think about it had I not been a victim of it / encountered it viscerally on April 19th.

I have so many thoughts about being robbed by three black-masked men wielding machetes. They emerged from out of the jungle and descended on me and my girlfriend as we were walking from Wizard Beach at 5 PM on Isla de Bastimentos in Panama. They threatened us and scared us, but mostly they just got out cameras, money, and whatever else we happened to have on us before instructing us to run back to the beach (away from the main "town" on Bastimentos, Old Bank).

We are fine physically. But emotionally I at least can say that the experience shook me. Mulling over the event, I am beginning to realize how much an element of "life" violence really is--particularly in other cultures. Elsewhere in Panama, often we saw men walking around with machetes. They are the most basic of tools for many in Panama, but--and this was confirmed reading a Lonely Planet article on Antigua, Guatemala--they are also accepted basic protection. For most in the Western world, we don't have any idea what it is like to really plan for (and possibly just accept) the real element of likely violence in our everyday lives.

The urge to wish vengeance and hurt on these attackers is strong. But in thinking about violence, in trying to see things through their eyes, I am not convinced that things are as black and white as it might seem: that they are the bad guys, deserving of punishment, and I the good guy, deserving of justice. Two specific thoughts on that suggestion: 1) Real "life" is probably more like piracy and banditry than the contrived societies we have created in the "developed" world. After all, we didn't begin as a civilized race: we, as a people, selectively conjured rules and customs to make more predictable the creation and conservation of wealth. I keep getting stuck on the observation that we are the only animals that went that route. The rest of our known world still operates under different rules and customs. 2) As seen in this issue with the recent (and persistent) Somali pirate attacks, there are two sides to every story. Sure, those Somali pirates are probably not nice people. But they probably do have a point that they have resorted to piracy because shippers (and the rest of the developed world, generally) have ruined their local fisheries by polluting and overfishing them. On top of that, they don't have a functional civil society to protect their collective interests. As such, who really is the "good" guy, and who really is the "bad" guy?

But I also recognize another likely outcome of all of this, which I guess works to satisfy those nasty, vengeful thoughts I have. I recognize that the money they stole from me and the wealth my stolen objects create for them is probably their ultimate death sentence. Bastimentos is so impoverished. They have literally zero chance for social advancement--let alone anything resembling an education (even if their local, West Indian culture endorsed education . . which it doesn't). Because of that, they will never do better than what they can do with the momentary spoils from poor, robbed tourists (or villagers). Someday they will either get caught doing that or the supply will dry up. Either way, they will have glimpsed the economic equivalent of the tree of knowledge, and I suspect their desire to re-taste that economic power will get them killed. Such are the dangers of Western tools of development used by those without an understanding of their power and consequences.

I thought about trying to tell The Rock about these thoughts; about how violence looks nothing like what he portrayed in his movies. I wanted to warn him of the danger, but, alas, I didn't. The poor guy probably doesn't care and is already sick with half-deranged fans. So I am left with this question: how does one really learn about violence without these such encounters? And can one really do it without accepting the risk that violence--real violence--does not operate in a controlled structure, and it can and will easily kill you.

The Proverbial Attic

2009-04-11T17:11:00.008-04:00

Maybe ghosts really do live in attics.

They are in the little things that live there--things that belie another life and time.

But those items are not just found in an attic; they are found in an entire house in which a family has lived together for many years.

And ghosts are sometimes guests that never left after a visit.

It's interesting. I can see why ghosts in movies so often don't know what year it is anymore.

But I can also see a lesson here (after spending the weekend cleaning out the attic at my father's house): the ghosts that do live in your attic are often only the ones you place there yourself.

So Old, So Young

2009-04-02T20:04:00.013-04:00

I take the DC Metro to work every morning, and I typically stand. I stand not just because there aren't any seats when I get on. I stand because I can't fit in the damned seats even if one were available. My knees hit the plastic backs of the Metro seat in front of me immediately. It's ridiculous. But I digress . .

I have observed something while riding the Metro over the last three years. Initially it just annoyed me, how many riders--sharing an Orange or Blue line train from Potomac Ave to L'Enfant Plaza--intentionally stood up (thereby blocking the doorway and, more frequently, the standing places in the aisle and in front of the door where I tend to stand) as early as Capitol South (and particularly when the train got near Federal Center SW). It was absurd: all these go-getters, so eager apparently to get to their jobs (or so caught up in the daily cattle call) that they would race to stand in front of the door, making them the first person to confront the hoard of people waiting for them on the platform at L'Enfant Plaza. But as I thought about it, I realized that I had seen this scene played out before.

I had a great childhood in many ways. But one of the aspects of my childhood that I have only recognized as so great more recently (as so often happens) has to do with how I got to elementary school most days: I took a big yellow bus. Although I remember dreading it at the time, I awoke most mornings (because Mom did drive us in sometimes, which was awesome), ate my cereal (never a sugar cereal), packed a lunch (I actually had a yellow Mork & Mindy lunch pail, if I remember correctly), grabbed my backpack, and headed down the block to stand in line with the rest of the neighborhood kids to board the bus.

We'd stand in the mouth of the Kipp's driveway. In the early years, I think I remember John Chapman and Heather Kipp would stand there with Jen, Will and I to wait for the bus(1). The first person to the stop would usually throw his bag on the ground to mark his / her first place in line. Despite this unspoken approach, competition would eventually arise as the bus' arrival time approached, and prospective riders would jostle to be the first in line so as to . . . what? That's right: be the first one on the bus, getting you to school nanoseconds earlier than you would have being at the back of the line. Wait; this photo says that this was Will and my first day of school (below). Jen, I think we need a caption next to this photo that explains your grimace: "Attending school now with your annoying younger twin brothers: PRICELESS."

I actually remember thinking about that tendency since then, wondering why I ever cared about or wanted to be the first in line to get someplace where I didn't want to go anyway. But on the Metro, seeing that pattern mimicked by adults, I am confronted with proof that such petty competitions are just innate to some of us. I mean, that's probably why I shoulder people out of the way to be the first person to stand in front of those Metro doors too. I tell myself that I am just doing it to spite those other idiots, but who am I really kidding, right?

Actually, in defense of my practice as a youth, I can find somewhat believable justification for getting on first (other than for the right to say I was first in line). We were the first stop on the whole route, and the first kid on the bus usually chose one of two places to sit: the very back of the bus, where the bench seats of the bus would rocket you up into the air in wicked ways, or in the front of the bus, from where you could get off quicker. I liked the back of the bus. The small joys from being launched into the air whenever the bus would hit a pothole or a patch of bumpy road was about as good as it got for me. This simple joy might not be possible if I wasn't one of the first on the bus. I find no similar justification (other than spite) for being the first out of the door of the Metro.

And one of the real ironies of this observation is that many of these people who do crowd the door still wear backpacks to go to work. Even the men wearing suits: they wear a backpack over the suit jacket. Isn't that a little strange?

(1) Was that right? Let's see: Dave Blazer went to US; the Harveys went . . . somewhere; Steve Jawsokowski went to Gesu (I think); Kate Peterson moved after 1st grade; the Tieds (Chris and Ryan) didn't go to Shaker Schools; this was before the time of the Faders (Jake and his brother . . . whose name I forget); and I think that Jennifer Stevens went to HB or to Laurel.
(2) A Zingerman's treat to anyone who can guess which twin is who in those pictures. I'm frankly stumped on the first pic.

A Few Images . .

2009-03-21T15:22:00.004-04:00

Poland- Bialowieza

2009-03-12T21:22:00.004-04:00

By far, bufo bufo looks the worst ground into asphalt. Particularly females, since they can be up to 50% larger than males of the same age. It's like an explosion. In contrast, rana arvalis just looks like a miasma of dull colors: not much to see after one has been squashed by some Lada hurtling between Pogorzelca and Bialowieza. Between Hajnowka (Czerlonka really, though I am not sure Czerlonka counts as much of a real habitation) and Bialowieza you are lucky to find the splat (not that “lucky” is really the right word here). But my job was to count and catalog the dead and the live alike, mend fences where required, and then help the little zaby on their momentarily-interrupted journey to the other side of the road, where they would breed, grow, and eventually cross back across the road to hibernate once again for winter. We didn't bother with the fences when time came for them to cross back.

Even as I travel on a train from Philadelphia to DC today, some day in March 2009, years and thousands of miles away from the Puszcza, the landscape that passes by reminds me of those fields and bogs in that Polish countryside. I compare the puddles I see to the ponds of the forest, and I think about the amphibian fences that might be erected--and where, between roads and lowland water areas, I'd try to catalog and count the amphibian species.

I suspect we wouldn’t find much. One of the reasons for the Bialowieza Forest’s amphibian fecundity was the local population’s tradition in non-intensive, subsistence agriculture. The lack of fertilizers and pesticides (I’m not even sure the local population could have afforded those things if they had wanted them) and the lowland habitat of the Forest generally--and specifically those areas surrounding the village of Bialowieza--suited amphibians. Likewise, those surroundings suited bociany as well. Migrating back to the north from winter locations in Africa, they fed on amphibians. Had there been fewer amphibians, there would have been fewer storks.

I got to know these roads and the changing seasons of Bialowieza well. I was the only PCV within a range of 4 or so hours, backed up as I was to the Belorussian border and planted as I was in the middle of one of Europe’s last primeval forests, the Bialowieza Forest. It became home, and its environment became my company. Comprising my environment for the 2 years I spent in Poland in the Peace Corps, it became My Poland.

Prologue

2009-03-12T17:30:00.005-04:00

What is the starting point for this story? When do things really begin, or where is an appropriate place from which to construct the arc of this narrative? A place to begin might be based on an idea that I think of often, one told to me once by an engineer friend. It is one of the most basic lessons taught to students starting out in the field of engineering.

As I understand it, one of the first lessons taught engineers is that things are not designed or built to last forever. For every structure or object created, there comes a point in its existence when it will lose the bonds of its construction and return to its fundamental elements. Applying more academic rigor to this concept, we recognize this observation as the second law of thermodynamics: the law of entropy.

I observe that all things are entropic. I am interested in the application of this observation to nearly all things, including structures and objects. But what draws me to comment on the observation that no things last—those things built by man or created by nature—is really a thought I have had about the vulnerability of life and relationships. And indeed, I believe that the greatest creation man has ever made is that of the relationship he develops with other humans. I find few other examples of creations in life displaying such complexity, and I find few other examples of such relationships either in the realm of the animate or the inanimate.

So perhaps that is where this story starts, with thoughts about the transience of the things we make and the relative permanence—for the time we live on this Earth—of the relationships we make. Among those things, we develop as members of a society.

Ecclesiastes 2:11

2009-03-03T06:56:00.005-05:00

Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun.

I'm trying to remember where I recently heard this. The comment I would like to write in reference to this, while banal, is still true: people have to put meaning in their lives, and it is not possible to do that through the pursuit of income, status, or "meaningless" interests. A challenge, to be sure.

The Bar: I love you, I hate you

2009-03-02T19:35:00.003-05:00

I had a great time this past weekend with a few close high school friends. We rallied in Philadelphia, my good friend's home base. Ours was a high school experience probably like most people's: we worked on our grades, but we concentrated on having as good a time as possible; we avoided getting in as much trouble as we could; and we calculated the maximum extent to which we could risk our good grades and names yet still run amok.

Getting back together with DD and DL reminds me of what it was like to have a "best friend." I think that notion is too quaint to survive youth and adolescence. The BF label is suggestive of a relationship that is deep and extended. As I have aged, I see how far we have strayed from each other, due to things such as distance but also by the choices that we have made in life. Almost 20 years after graduating high school, its takes us hours to piece back together some of the strands of our friendship before we find that niche again. It's like we are groping for a road map.

I think that friendships are different for adults. I wonder if that isn't because the natural progression for an adult (I'm really generalizing here) is to pair up with someone, monogomize what were previously multiple relationships, and notionally spend the rest of your life with that someone. Then you have kids. You've expanded (and reinforced) that insular circle. What place does life really have for the good friends anymore?

And that brings me to the bar. I used to take such comfort in the intimate, cozy neighborhood bar. It was a place where one could take refuge from the anonymity of outside life. But lately I've noticed that for me the bar has become yet another place where I am anonymous. When I arrive at a bar, it is often not to dig in with a friend to enjoy a good conversation and to celebrate a relationship. Instead, the bar has become the "watering hole," and the conversation has been replaced by the desire to see people and be seen. It's a hallow experience.

DD, DL and I visited three bars before we found one where we could plant roots (which in this case meant one where at least 66% of our party could sit). Once we did so, I felt better; we could look each other in the eyes, talk to each other, laugh, and spend time, not just money on an experience.

On Sunday we parted ways for our respective lives. We are once again the 30-something men whom we have become in our different positions. We have left that friendship and those conversations back in a bar someplace in Philadelphia. I hope it is still there when next we get together.

Ghosts

2009-02-26T23:30:00.005-05:00

But as I mature, I sense that I am growing tired of the ghosts that linger just beyond my present reality, the small hopes that I used to greet as we saw each other. Maybe that is a reflection of a skepticism that I have for romance, or maybe I am just tired of making excuses for the relationships I don't have.

It is odd though, as I ponder it; the things I see in our respective lives that seem so parallel. Or the irony of overlapping relationships--such as the one I am in now--which make it hard to sustain hope or to take a risk. But as so many have told me in the past, not making a decision, not taking a risk, is making a decision in itself.

And so those are the sorts of thoughts that go through my mind as I think about you--most often prompted by some failure on my part to be a good correspondent.

I am reminded of something I heard in a Guillermo del Toro movie recently, The Devil's Backbone (I applaud your attempts to learn Spanish, by the way). That is, the notion of what a ghost really is. "Maybe a ghost is really some event that is bound to keep occurring; the false momentum of an act that never will occur. Maybe it is really those thoughts that haunt us."

The Inauguration of Barack Obama

2009-01-20T18:44:00.001-05:00

Asking for Directions (by Linda Gregg)

2009-01-09T09:50:00.004-05:00

We could have been mistaken for a married couple
riding on the train from Manhattan to Chicago
that last time we were together. I remember
looking out the window and praising the beauty
of the ordinary: the in-between places, the world
with its back turned to us, the small neglected
stations of our history. I slept across your
chest and stomach without asking permission
because they were the last hours. There was
a smell to the sheepskin lining of your new
Chinese vest that I didn't recognize. I felt
it deliberately. I woke early and asked you
to come with me for coffee. You said, sleep more,
and I said we only had one hour and you came.
We didn't say much after that. In the station,
you took your things and handed me the vest,
then left as we had planned. So you would have
ten minutes to meet your family and leave.
I stood by the seat dazed by exhaustion
and the absoluteness of the end, so still I was
aware of myself breathing. I put on the vest
and my coat, got my bag and, turning, saw you
through the dirty window standing outside looking
up at me. We looked at each other without any
expression at all. Invisible, unnoticed, still.
That moment is what I will tell of as proof
that you loved me permanently. After that I was
a woman alone carrying her bag, asking a worker
which direction to walk to find a taxi.

"Asking for Directions" by Linda Gregg, from Chosen by the Lion. © Graywolf Press, 1994.

This poem was broadcast on today's Writer's Almanac.

The Big 7-0

2008-12-21T20:34:00.005-05:00

Review: Grizzly Man

2008-12-13T08:03:00.011-05:00

"On this point I have to disagree with Timothy. I believe the common denominator of the universe is not harmony but chaos, hostility and murder”

Timothy [Dexter] Treadwell was a guy who was born on Long Island and made it to California in search of who he was. He didn't find what he was looking for in California; however, he did do a good job of messing up his life through booze, drugs, and bad decisions. Somehow, he got the notion to go to Alaska to see bears, and he discovered the brown grizzly bears of Kodiak Island, Alaska. He went up to Alaska for 13 consecutive summers to live with the grizzlies. Over the last 5 seasons, he filmed much of his experience. He died on Kodiak Island in September 2003, mauled to death--along with his companion--by a grizzly.

Werner Herzog got a hold of the story as well as Treadwell's film, and--from the man who brought you such interesting and sometimes twisted pieces of film making as Fitzcarraldo, Cobra Verde, and Rescue Dawn--directed the self-narrated documentary, Grizzly Man. There is poignancy to Herzog's effort, and I think that he tried to approach the--at times--ridiculous spectacle of Treadwell's existence with a compassionate eye. Grizzly Man itself is a beautiful film, full of breathtaking natural scenery and scored by deep, great folk and classical music. I think I had expected the film to be more kitsch and spectacle than it turned out to be. As a result, I added Herzog's Encounters at the End of the World to my Netflix queue. I digress . .

There are some obvious--but important--themes featured in the movie. I think the most important is how we (humans) choose to live, particularly in contrast to life as evidenced by the natural world. Grizzly bears and Kodiak Island are about as real as natural life can get, and I agree with Herzog that Treadwell likely found an opiate (similar to that found in religion . . a nod to Marx) living up there as he did for so many seasons. But ultimately I, as the film viewer, am forced to go beyond the legend of Treadwell and Herzog and recognize Timothy Treadwell for that which he was: a broken human being. And I think the break was emotional, leaving him unable to exist by the "natural laws" that have emerged in a human society.

I have tremendous empathy for Treadwell. Just as young grizzly bears must learn to adapt to their den and to their species, humans must do the same. I believe that you find ample example each day of people who have not successfully adapted to human society. I don't defend the shortcomings of humanity; I make this point because it was arguably the cause of Treadwell's death.

We All Die at the Crossroads of Society and Our Humanity
I think that Herzog did an excellent job scientifically deconstructing the facets that built Treadwell's life, from his beginnings to his relationships to his wordview. By the end of the film, I was left with the notion that--while Treadwell found a way to understand the grizzly bear (and foxes) well enough not to get killed by them for 13 years--he never succeeded in understanding his own species well enough to live among them. Though he could (for the most part) avoid being mauled by a bear for 13 years, I got the sense that he bore the scars of a lifetime of perceived attacks by humans.

Of course, another obvious theme in the film are humans' relationships with animals. I think that Treadwell saw a simplicity in the interaction between animals and he satisfied an emotional need for stable relationship and companionship. Just watching the news this morning, I saw two other similar stories about humans seeking this through companionship with animals (have you seen the Christian the lion story?). For Treadwell, this just underscored his failure to relate to his own species, and I think it was his last encounter "with a fat airline representative" that probably killed him (from the standpoint of being a living member of human society).

In all, I found Grizzly Man a sad story and one with which I can sympathize. I also think it underscores the complexity of determining the right way for humans to live with each other. In contrast, humans living with grizzly bears may be much easier.

Thoughts of the Day

2008-11-30T17:51:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I kind of beat myself up trying to remember something that I am not sure I ever forgot.

Christmas in Ireland

2008-11-23T21:51:00.006-05:00

A friend and I worked on a recipe this past week for a Christmas stout that I first brewed back in 2002. I'm an "ale pale" (i.e. plastic bucket) kind of brewer. However, my friend is a glass carboy type of brewer, of which I was / am skeptical, mostly because those things seem like a pain in the ass to clean but also because--after you put 5 gallons of unfermented wort in there--there's not much air left at the top of the carboy between the beer and the opening. That became significant this past weekend.

The Christmas stout we cooked up has a tremendous amount of fermentable sugar in it. Its specific gravity when it is pitched is 1.070. The temperature of the room in which Max stores the brewing carboy is just shy of 70 F I'd say, which is a warm temperature that can make for a fairly robust initial fermentation. I suspected we'd see some action after Max called me on Saturday to say that it was bubbling like crazy. Fewer than 24 hours after it had been pitched, because there wasn't much room for the brewing beer to go before it got to the "bubbler," I suspected the beer might seep a little through the bubbler plug. But I didn't dream that it would explode the plug (and bubbler) from the top of the carboy and spray a swath of fermenting wort 8 feet high along the wall of a room. The crazy thing: the specific gravity of the beer when we racked to a secondary fermenter (the reasons why being obvious from these pictures) was still 1.040. When I brewed this beer last time, I got it down to 1.026. We have a couple more days of this . .

Why do I feel like the roles have changed?

2008-11-22T10:25:00.007-05:00

What I Am Thinking About

2008-11-17T20:06:00.007-05:00

Death Does Not Perseverate

2008-11-12T22:40:00.006-05:00

I am on a plane in flight. We have just taken off and the airplane is just starting to peak through the cloud layer, now skimming the billowy, white "kingdom of heaven." I am reflecting on what I really believe about where the departed really go. I don't believe that souls go to heaven--maybe heaven as confined within the physical realm of these fluffy clouds. And I don't have a better suggestion for where people might actually go. Thinking about death, I recognize the void; the finality of that event, and it becomes hard for me to imagine that anything might lie beyond. That is, unless darkness and the void of life as I know it constitute something. And maybe they do. I just can't imagine it right now.

I am thinking right now about all of the things that I wish I'd have done with John. Obviously, just making some attempt to capture a facsimilie of life doens't do anything to convey the true presence of life itself. Still, I'd have liked to have taken a better picture of the two of us together, or to have thanked him for the kindness and mentoring he showed me. I wish I'd had more time to enjoy the conversation we had, or more of a sense not to take for granted his visits down the hall to my office to chat. The guilt and regret aside, even if things would have been different, I know that I would still miss him.

And I am haunted by a vision of him that I never saw. Returning to work the Friday following his death, someone came down to ask me what John and I had talked about on Friday. I answered that we hadn't talked, since I wasn't in the office. My coworked remarked that he made several trips down to my office, peeked in, and she assumed that we were working on something together because of the number of projects that we shared. I am haunted by the vision of John visiting my empty office, turning around, and leaving forever. How I'd like to have been there for that last visit. Instead, our last meeting occurred in a funeral home in Severna Park, MD, and John lay in a casket. That image haunts me even more.

Review: Don't Let Me Die on a Sunday

2008-10-14T21:30:00.004-04:00

I almost have to stop the film right here. In just the first ten minutes of Don't Let Me Die on a Sunday, the plot begins by showing a woman--optimistically--"consenting" to group sex (more probably being gang raped) at a rave. She stumbles out of the encounter, limbs akimbo in the pulsing lights and music, and apparently falls dead on the floor. The scene cuts to a morgue, and a group of orderlies talking their bawdy tales about women. A new body arrives at the morgue. It is the girl. She is certified as dead and put into cold storage. The man who put her body into the locker, Ben, proceeds to shower, shaving off his mustache in the process (on purpose). Pausing while looking in the mirror, he goes back to the cold locker and decides to have sex with the girl's dead body. The scene cuts to Ben running out of the room in which he was having sex with the dead girl, right into the arms of a coworker. You assume he is running out out of realization at what he is doing. No. The girl has come back from the dead. The scene cuts to a police station. The girl refuses to press charges. The other morgue workers start calling Ben "Jesus Christ." Seriously, I don't know where a film can go from here. . .

I'd often wished that you'd die. Or I'd die . . . because I loved you and loving was all we managed to do.

The movie was not romantic. It was anything but romantic. Rather, what I think the movie did convey was a mood of sentimentalism. I think that the fundamental prism through which one could view the movie is that we grasp at straws seeking for a meaning in life. In many cases, we only stumble upon meanings in life for fleeting moments and typically during moments of extreme emotion. Certain life experiences can cause this emotional connection, experiences such as death, pain, or extreme joy. What are memories? Maybe the memories we have that really capture an essence in life are those spawned from those very emotional experiences. The rest of the time, life assumes a banal comfortability. The characters portray this. Ben, the mortician who revived Teresa (who, incidentally, was from a Polish home . . amazing the coincidences that poor ol' Poland stumbles into), literally cannot feel a sense of life without some element of pain. As described by his ex-girlfriend, "He doesn't ask about anything and doesn't want to know anything." I ask myself, "what do I think about that?"

What do I think about that? I think that I can see truth in that notion, that life is best viewed through events such as death; through moments of pain (probably better than those of joy). Another notable quote from the movie: "Love is weak; pain allows us to remember much better." Actually, that is not an exact quote but you get the point.

I'm not sure it is possible to capture the overall quality of the movie in a word. "Complex" comes close, but what I really think you might say is that the film attempts to be about life: it introduces theories, supports them, and then shoots them down. In the muck of the discarded notions of love and death, the viewer finds shards of meaning, assembles them, and develops an opinion on the film--like a phoenix rising from the ashes. I'm not convinced that the movie isn't about death. I'll close with a final quote from the movie. On dying:

It's best to look at what you leave behind. You'll have time to know where you are going when you get there.

Lipstick, Pigs, Sarah Palin, and ICE HOCKEY

2008-10-01T21:51:00.007-04:00

My mother was a hockey mom--and my dad was a hockey dad--so I have been interested in the apparent ascendancy of these parental stereotypes since the introduction of Sarah "Lipstick is the difference between a pit bull and a hockey mom" Palin. And hearing the joke--which, by the way, is not new; I had heard it in the context of "hockey moms" before--was actually interesting for me, because the joke falls not very far from the truth. But I would also like to elaborate on that one-liner: pit bulls are hockey moms too, except they tend to be the moms of the opposing players.

I remember playing a few teams whose players had pit bulls for mothers. Growing up in the Cleveland area, I remember that those games played against Tri-County or the Parma Flyers were always pretty interesting. As a Squirt B, I remember one game when my dad almost got in a fight with another father in the stands for nothing more than being a father of a Shaker player. We probably played about 30 games a season starting off as a Squirt B, progressing rapidly up to almost 70 games a season as a Pee Wee AA player. Bantam AA season, we came in second in the states. But hockey moms and dads weren't just troopers because they trucked their kids all over the goddamned eastern Midwest, frequently on interstate roads that should have been closed (a 6 am game in Erie, PA? During a blizzard? No problem!), enduring the grunts and jeers from socioeconomically alien populations year after year (in my case, it was about 16 years). Hockey moms and dads are the unique breed they are because their devotion to the early mornings, the expensive equipment, the smells, and the odd bedfellows that fellow hockey parents were began with much more labor-intensive tasks.

Most of the real "hockey moms" you find are products of kids who had been playing for the better part of their natural lives--and the kids start young. Do you think that Wayne Gretzky, undoubtedly the greatest hockey player off all time, got out of bed one morning when he was 15 (or even 11), and just stepped onto the ice to shoot a perfect wrist shot? Wayne started skating two months before his third birthday. In an attempt to provide a more accurate picture, I'd say that many hockey kids (who eventually stick with the sport) start when they are between 5 and 10. Kids that age can barely stand on skates, let alone tie their skates, put on (and take off) their equipment, drive themselves to games, and--probably most importantly--afford ice time, equipment, league registration fees, hotels, and all of the gas that is necessary to hone a young Mighty Mite into the star Junior A player for the Sault Ste. Marie Greyhounds that Gretzky became.

It is these creds that really imbue the nary mortal mom with "hockey mom" status. Because, god knows, after enduring all of that crap, your kid's team better win (and your kid better play), and any other parent who would deign to contest that assertion will likely meet the wrong end of a Starbucks coffee cup.

What disturbs me about Sarah Palin and her invocation of the cult of "hockey mom" is the rumor that her kid didn't play long before quitting hockey. I've done some due diligence: Track Enfield Palin seems to have played Junior A for the Alaska Avalanche and then go on to play Midget AAA in Michigan in the Portage (Traverse City) area. To get to the Junior A, my experience in hockey tells me that Track probably played for a while.

But is Sarah Palin really a hockey mom? I don't know. My Mom was undoubtedly such a creature--as she was a swimming mom, for that matter. And the proof lay in the time she devoted to her son's hockey (see inset picture). Though I have yet to prove it, something tells me that--though you can put lipstick on Sarah Palin--you can't make her a true hockey mom.

"What are you thinking about?"

2008-09-29T19:18:00.003-04:00

"What are you thinking about?" People ask me this question often, and I admit that I don't really like it. I don't like it because the thoughts that I really have don't fit nicely into a box, and they rarely have something to do with pop culture. If you want to engage in a riveting conversation about the new 90210, go find someone else. Having said that, if I had to try and answer this question, I would say . .

Fame
I am thinking about the notion of fame, and the idea that fame can split a person in two. Fame seems to be this situation where people have a sense of who you "are" that may not be indicative of reality. The problem with fame seems to be that--despite any attempts you may make to disabuse people of a wrong notion they may have about you--most people don't have to the strength to see beyond the image that they want to see, an image that they think is accurate.

Because of all of that, it seems that the "famous" person has to figure out how to live as two separate identities: one that is what people may expect, and the other the person they really are at their core.

I suspect those two identities get muddled, and that divided person probably doesn't help rectify that confusion. The effects of "fame" aren't born just by those culturally famous; I think that the temptation is always out there to let some perceived image of ourselves obscure the identity that may be more accurate.

Truth
Maybe that is because it is a challenge to disabuse people of a wrong notion--particularly when that wrong notion may flatter a person's sense of ego and pride. But in general, I observe that it is just plain hard to tell the truth. I think that the urge is stronger--particularly for those afflicted by a heightened sense of compassion--to tell people what you think they want to hear or believe, or to try and simplify someone's notion of something even if it is not an accurate notion.

Patton explained it thusly:

"Moral courage is the most valuable and usually the most absent characteristic in men."

Second Languages
It occurs to me that it should be more difficult to speak in a non-native tongue. I think that the reality is that it is both easier and more difficult than it seems to speak a second language. The reason for that is because, when you are first learning to speak a second language, often when you do is just mimic those you see around you who are speaking that language. There is little room for an organic awakening to spoken communication in that language, an awakening similar to what you may have encountered growing up in your own language. As a result of that, non-native speakers erect somewhat a barrier to others as they learn to speak that second language. With that barrier in place, it is difficult to impact your core being that lies beneath.

Life Lessons
Two life lessons occur to me:
1) You sometimes can't fix something, even if you [think you] really want to. Sometimes the only thing that you can really do is to walk away from that thing you can't fix. It may seem noble and principled to do otherwise; but if it impinges on your ability to live, then you need to excise and move on. This idea relates to a second life lesson that I have been thinking about.

2) To move on in life, particularly in cases when you are dealing with an event you perceive as a wrong or just an event that has struck you deeply emotionally, you cannot move on without forgiving the agent of that event, usually yourself or someone else. I note that some people may work diligently on learning how to forgive their whole lives without acquiring the strength to do so. The act of forgiveness comes from the core; it cannot be manifested out of principled devotion to theology or born from a rational process. An important first step, I believe, in learning how to fogive others requires that one learn how to forgive themselves.

Death is somewhat an exception to this, and I won't deal with it here.

Quiet Desperation

2008-09-18T12:12:00.002-04:00

“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.”

- Henry David Thoreau

Oh, Hail Yes . .

2008-09-15T08:29:00.001-04:00

0 Comments

2008-09-06T18:50:00.009-04:00

Your post is probably just banal or boring. Those other chords are seldom struck. But when they are, I observe that you get the same reaction as when you aren't "on:" silence.

There are few things you can't shake off with a little well-timed wit.

But the stuff that you can't, the stuff that hits too close to home, well, it leaves nothing to say. That's when you know you have observed a moment. I have come to believe that those moments in life provide the only windows through which we really can witness (understand?) humanity--humanity in the sense of what it is actually like to live.

I remember seeing a picture in the NYTimes not long ago that I thought showed that. The remains of an Israeli soldier were recovered from Hamas, remains that had been kept for a long time. The wife of the deceased soldier is pictured standing over the coffin of her dead husband. It is touching. And there is nothing that anyone in the world can do to change that moment, the thing that widow is experiencing: death.

Death is either an experience or an event that cannot be changed. Only later can you really reflect on it after experiencing it. But you cannot share it (unlike joy).

Pain and death, a sense of loss; these are experiences that really cannot be morphed under the hard shells that we develop and use to navigate the other moments in life (the banal, the boring moments).

When you hit closer to that, and it is in a way where someone else can see it, that person is left only as the observer. Because ultimately, no other person's wit or experience will help you live that moment of real life.

I have a theory on death, both from the context of experiencing it and closely observing it, and that theory is that it can never be shared. A close friend's father of mine died. Hearing about his death, I traveled to my friend's city to spend time with him and attend the funeral. Over those days, I observed some of the difficult experiences that a family must endure when a family member dies: organizing the funeral, greeting guests and family, accepting condolences (the awkwardness of accepting a guest in the context of receiving condolences, only no one really wants to bring up the subject of the family member's death), and most of all the crushing weight of needing to take those few moments you have left before the funeral, the moments you have to say goodbye, and actually make any progress at the task. It's impossible. Maybe because it is impossible, and maybe because you cannot share how you eventually will start to feel about all of that (you have no idea how you are feeling while enduring it), I have observed that there is a tendency to distance yourself from those whom you might otherwise share some aspects of that experience. In joy, you want those same people who shared that joy with you around so that you can talk about it--try to relive it. But not with death. It is the opposite. In some ways it makes sense that this would happen as it relates to the death of someone who is not family. But I think that it may also apply to families as well. The reason being, it is not really a question of relation: it is a question of how we, as individual humans, process loss.

It is no surprise that many returning military service members show difficulties "reintegrating" back into society. We call it "post-traumatic stress syndrome," or PTSD. That anesthetizing name doesn't help others understand what is really going on. Instead, I offer another option: Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, and Frodo's decision to leave to go wherever it is that Elves were going (after Middle Earth is saved). Frodo realized that his scar would never heal and explained that was why he had to leave. I suspect that Tolkien, who experienced death while fighting in the trenches of World War I, understood something about war and death, and I suspect that Frodo's decision was indicative of that. That is, I wonder if the wounds of death ever heal for anyone. I don't doubt that our hard shells regain their strength over time. But I wonder if anything ever is really resolved or healed. How can you "heal" death?

I also wonder whether the relationships affected by death ever heal. Maybe humans exhibit a biological process to isolate, excise, and move on, lest our souls will always wrestle with vestiges of the passing of a loved one. That said, it makes more sense to me: we can't heal, but we can move on. And in moving on, grief is all but expended for the things (and people) we have to leave behind.

Random Synapse Firings: "Piss and Vinegar"

2008-09-05T08:13:00.011-04:00

I consider myself a morning person, though sometimes I don't really do well in the mornings. I blame all sorts of things for this: lack of good sleep, an overactive mind, drinking, latent stress from the deteriorating environment . . Today the grouch* in me was set off while walking behind another guy on the gravel paths and parking lot surfaces that represent the pastoral walk to my office building each day once I am in the rural state of Virginia. This guy walking in front of me was clearly trying to out-do me or stay ahead of me: he cut me off crossing at the light on EADS, he tried to shoulder me off of the path walking next to the Verizon substation, he took a line to the door that--while walking on his left--required me to step into the street, and finally he tried to block me at the door to the building.

I brooded over the supposed passive aggressiveness of my morning encounter, wondering if it wasn't I who was really creating this assumedly aggressive incident. While pondering that--and as so often it happens--my mind randomly spitted out something that might (or might not) be relevant to this particular situation: the idiom "piss and vinegar." Going out on a limb, I attempted a use of that idiom in this situation: "I am full of piss and vinegar after my morning's encounter." To me, that saying would suggest that I am bitter, moody, and pissed-off after feeling as though, rightly or wrongly, I was being confronted by some random guy. Leaving alone for a moment the question of "why my brain sees to introduce these random and stupid thoughts into my consciousness (a la the title of this post)?", let's see if I actually used that idiom correctly. Somehow I doubt I did.

The reference I found for the etymology of "piss and vinegar" is interesting. A random reference to the author's Norwegian heritage makes me wonder whether exhibiting "piss(-y) and vinegar(-y)" qualities isn't hereditary; though I also have to face up to the fact that I am about as Norwegian as Jamie Lee Curtis is male (by my calculation, I am only about 1/5th Norwegian). At any rate, it seems that I may not be using this idiom correctly. Rather than describing a stormy state of mood, showing "piss and vinegar" qualities seems to imply that you are full of youth and vigor. The origin of that idiom can be traced to John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath. But it is not clear from where Steinbeck borrowed the phrase. In all, I think this research suggests that my findings are inconclusive. Maybe being bitter and nasty really is like being full of "piss and vinegar."

Reflecting on how pedantic an exercise this all has been, I feel compelled to refute proactively the possibility that I am just that obsessive compulsive. Instead, I look to the interactions of my family as a better explanation. My family is one where--instead of a tv being propped on the kitchen's most prominent perch (though, at one time there was a tv in the kitchen)--the Oxford Unabridged English Dictionary is about the only thing that occupies such a position. My parents weren't exactly bookish, but they were / are prone to running to that dictionary so as to see if they are (or more frequently "I" am) really saying what they (I) mean to say.

I also suspect that my Mom would have undertaken the same kind of exercise had she heard me use such an idiom. Incidentally, I always have to look up the difference between what exactly an "idiom" is in contrast to a "metaphor," a "simile," an "anecdote," an "allegory," "slang," or a "trope." Mom would probably have done that as well. In deference to that likelihood, I concede that "piss and vinegar" may not even be an idiom, or a saying that has a colloquial usage that does not imply the actual meaning of the words being used. That is, if being full of "piss and vinegar" means being full of youth and vigor, then the saying is probably an idiom. But if the saying does actually convey bitterness, then I would argue that what we have here is really a metaphor. Uh, can you say "morass"?

For the record, after writing all of this, I think I feel less full of piss and vinegar now, whatever in the hell that saying really means. . . . can an idiom or metaphor also be a "saying" . . . ?

* Random note: whenever I use the word "grouch," I literally think of Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street. Therefore, in my mind, a grouch is someone who sits in a garbage can on the street all day and heckles people as they pass.

Washington Morning 101

2008-09-04T07:41:00.004-04:00

It is typically not a good time to blog when you have nothing about which to write. However, reading many blogs these days, that seems to be one of the first comments that I do read: "I don't really have anything to say today [but I am going to draft a blog entry anyway]." It is an absurd predicament. Having said that, I don't really have anything to say today but I am going to write something anyway.

I live in Washington, DC. I live here because I like my job, not because I like the place (though I suppose it could be worse). Walking into work this morning (walking into work: that is important to me), I mulled over my options. I could live in New York City; that city might be nice because of all of the public transit and activity. I could live in Denver; that city would be nice because I would be nearer to my sister--and the climate would be milder. I could live in Portland (OR); that city would be nice because I would be nearer to my brother--and the weather is milder (and I really like Portland). Each of those places has something to offer. But at the moment, reality is returned to me with the reminder of--at least when it comes to questions of my mental state (i.e. sanity and relative satisfaction with life)--one of my discovered truisms: "it's the job, stupid." In short, I have always moved and lived places because of the job I seek, not because of the place where I would like to live. This presents a natural conflict--an entrenched conflict, so I propose we move on.

So it goes that I find myself in Washington, DC this morning. I am in DC because my job is in DC, but one of the reasons that my job is in DC is because I work for the Federal Government. I suspect there are other Federal workers such as myself in the same predicament. That is, others who don't love DC but are compelled to stay at their Federal jobs for some reason. For others, I am sure it has something to do with the benefits. But for me, it has to do with public service (and scale: I suspect I would be bored as a public servant for just a city, county, or state).

I have always been interested in public service and public policy. I have always been interested in politics--though I have suppressed this latter interest due to the circumstances of the last 8 years (God, 8??! Really?!?). I remember watching the results come in (or not come in, depending on which conspiracy theory to which you subscribe) in the house of my sister's uncle in 2000 in Boulder, Colorado, thinking, "the next few years are going to be really hard." And from my emotional, value-driven perspective rooted in a sense of public service and policy, they have been. But an even greater fear that I have now is that I cannot suppress some kernel of optimism for the next 4 years. I cannot help but wonder if things will start to change--if many of the issues that I see plaguing the US on a daily basis due (in my estimatation) to poor and avaricious public policy won't be turned back.

Thus, on a sunny, humid morning here in Washington, DC, a place far from those whom I love, I feel compelled to stay a little while longer, and I feel weak denying a hope that things will begin to change soon.

Leaders

2008-06-29T12:28:00.006-04:00

I returned Friday night from a 5-day leadership training course. I learned some nuggets of knowledge and theory of "leadership" there. But what I also learned was that I loathe leadership training, and that I would rather volunteer to be drawn, quartered, and dragged over hot coals with even hotter pokers impaling my eyes.

Having said that, there are a few anecdotes I take away from this "leadership" training that I wanted to highlight.

My Homegirl, Elinore Roosevelt
I am reminded here of a good anecdote attributed to Elinore Roosevelt. Elinore Roosevelt was probably the first (and arguably greatest) woman leader of modern times. Her husband, FDR, relied greatly on her strength in the process of being an effective president, particularly after his paralysis from polio. But like most men blessed with a loving, devoted partner, he was not always a good steward of her trust and devotion. Ol' FDR, in true political fashion, had a girlfriend, Lucy Page Mercer Rutherfurd. Elinore discovered FDR's philandering and elicited a promise from him [date?] that he would never see Lucy again. But when Elinore learned of FDR's passing, she departed for their "Little White House" in Warm Springs, GA (side note: I drive by the Little White House about once a month on my way down to Columbus, GA), only to discover (from FDR's jealous, loathsome cousin, Laura Delano) that Lucy had been with FDR when he died. Elinore was quite upset hearing about that. Subsequent to FDR's death, Elinore went back to the DC White House, and--even though Truman told her she could have a couple of months to pack up, since the Roosevelt's had been living in the White House for 12 YEARS--packed up all their stuff in just a week. In the process of packing up their stuff, Elinore found a painting of FDR painted by Elizabeth Shoumatoff, a prominent painter at that time (who coincidentally was painting another portrait of FDR in Warm Springs the day he died). Instead of smashing the portrait on the nearest table corner or burning it, Elinore sent the portrait to Lucy Mercer. When asked why she did that, Elinore responded that the act allowed her to move past her anger with FDR's betrayal. Her point: you cannot move on in life, work for change, if you can't get past forgiving someone or something. That's something to think about.

Is the US the Next Roman Empire?
Another thing that I heard and found interesting (scary, actually) was this. Four reasons are generally provided as the reasons why the Roman Empire fell.
1) The declining state of political civility and general cultural civility in Rome.
2) The over-extension of Rome militarily.
3) A decline in fiscal responsibility (i.e. expanding public deficits).
4) Rome's inability to control its own borders.

Sound like any country you know?

Review: Sophie's Choice

2008-06-13T07:42:00.003-04:00

I have always thought of my family as closely knit. Maybe it was easier to see it when Mom was still alive. Circumstances have changed since then, but I think the tenets of my belief still hold true.

Mom as Glue
I didn't know that Mom liked William Styron so much. I remember, as one of her colleagues, Sue Anne, delivered a eulogy at her funeral for another of Mom's friends, Janet, that her friend told of how Mom had once suggested she read Sophie's Choice when that friend was going through a period of transition. Later, a good friend of mine's father committed suicide. Prior to his father's death, my friend told me how his father had tried to grapple with the depression that would eventually kill him. One of the ways he had tried to grapple with it was by reading Lie Down in Darkness by William Styron. Mom would later pick it up as well; though this was before she got sick, and I remember Mom saying that she had a hard time getting into it. But I do find it striking that, by the end, she battled her own depression, and that someone recollected Styron in her farewell to Mom.

And another thing occurs to me. Sophie's Choice begins with a scene where Kevin Klein (god I love that actor) is upbraiding Meryl Streep [sporting quite a good Polish accent] for something. As he finishes, he yells at her to "go back to Krakow [Poland]!" That was kind of interesting. To think that Mom had some connection to Poland--however tenuous, and surely unintentional--way back when she was giving this advice to Janet. About 25 years after that, her son would call her from Krakow, visiting that city often throughout the next 5 years of his life. He loves Krakow. He digresses . .

What in the Hell Is This Movie About?
We are at the point in the movie where Leslie Lapidus is introduced. Is this movie about romance? Sexuality? If so, am I really ready to think about these questions as I delve for meaning that might reveal something I didn't know about Mom? And now Sophie is talking about her internment in Oswiecim ("Auschwitz"). I'm confused.

What was Sophie's "Choice?"
I'd like to believe that we, people, don't really know why we do the things that we do. That is, I am sure that we can rationalize our actions in some way. But those rationalizations don't really answer the question of "why?" "Why" did it strike me so to hear someone say at Mom's funeral that this movie was somehow an influence on Mom, and "why" did I feel so compelled to watch the movie? Something else I'd like to believe is that, in some small way, we do come to understand some of the larger things in life by paying attention to life's smaller acts. In this movie, I see . .

There are really a few choices that Sophie made. Two of the most obvious are those relating to the selection of her son over her daughter while in the "weeding" line at Auschwitz, and the choice she made to leave Stingo in DC to return to Nathan, a choice that ultimately killed her. But I think there is a deeper meaning from the choices that Sophie made, something that unifies these individual choices under a more common theme. This theme is the trauma Sophie suffered from making that first choice, the choice of her son over her daughter in the concentration camp. This choice fundamentally shook the foundation from which she lived life. Later, when she had the choice to leave Nathan for Stingo when it was evident that Nathan had serious problems, she still chose Nathan, saying that what kept her alive was his (Nathan's) love for her (notwithstanding the fact that a life with Stingo probably would not have been that great). The trauma of Sophie's loss of her children rendered her incapable of her saving herself.

I return to my original question, what aspect of this story did Mom see that she deemed so profound so as to counsel Janet to read the book? Was it the cautionary tale of what might happen if a woman does not extricate herself from a bad situation? Was it the dangers of allowing oneself to become lost in the trauma of a past experience? Maybe the whole point Mom was trying to make is that Sophie--despite the outcome--did have a choice; it's just that her choice wasn't something that we would conventionally have an easy time agreeing with.

I think the most likely answer to my question is, "nothing." Mom probably saw but didn't mean to convey any deeper message from the book to Janet. The book (or movie, since it was made in 1982) was just a popular one--and it was a good movie--and so Mom just suggested Janet see it. Instead, what I think this experience shows is that I am grasping at straws for a mother than has passed, who has no secrets left to tell from the shards of her passed life that I have left and have scraped together. This experience tells more of my mental state than of Mom's deduced philosophy. And so maybe I have stumbled on a suggestion for myself, one that Mom surely did not intend to convey (once removed, through Janet [whose account was relayed by Sue Ann]): that I, myself, her son, am (is) stewing in her loss, and that if I don't make a choice to move on then my choice is about the same as Sophie's: to die clinging to something that no longer exists.

The Game

2008-05-20T22:09:00.006-04:00

Thank god most of you don't know me. Or thank god that most of you who do know me don't tell me that you read this blog. Otherwise, it would be difficult to talk about nudity. Specifically, it would be difficult to talk about my father's penchant for it. He dances around like a Roman cherub. There; you have it. Now we can move on.

I bring that up because something occurred to me today about it, and I want to talk about it in the context of a book that I am reading right now, the Game (thanks, Nathan). The thought that occurred to me today is that nudity is about acceptance. Especially when you find yourself at work all day, it seems like, when you get home at the end of the day, that nudity may be the only way you can really get back to whom you are--that person who is subverted at the [frequent] expense of going to work every day. Of course, nudity is a foil for the notion of emotional and psychological recognition of our "true selves." That is, I don't think that by getting naked you can actually get to that level of self-realization. But it is indicative of some attempt to get there, particularly in relation to its contrast: clothing. Or weight lifting, for that matter. We so often wear these apocryphal skins that only belie some truer meaning of ourselves that sometimes is never uncovered. Which brings me to what I really wanted to talk about in this blog, the Game.

The Game is ultimately about acceptance. Most PUAs (Pick-up Artists) are current or former nerds. They were ostracized as adolescents. Picking up women may be about "kiss-closing," "number-closing," or "f-closing" in their minds. But really it is about the validation that they never achieved as adolescents, which they now strive for as adults. Only the pivotal difference remains that they aren't actually relating to humans anymore; they are relating to objectifications of humans, whose opinions they care less about unless they validate some form of existence to which they now cling.

That explanation is both overly -simplified and -critical of a human instinct that is much easier to grasp. That instinct is the need for acceptance. Humans are social beings, and they need to feel accepted by their brood. That much is clear. A disassociation with that instinct can be very destructive. In most cases it doesn't occur; humans adapt in the way that they can, and they muddle through.

As I grow older and learn to navigate life in my own way, maybe I'd do well to practice my father's habit of stripping the fabrications of life from my physical self as soon as I can after work so as to commune with something more base. Besides the physical act of wearing nothing, there is an emotional step that must be taken: we must learn to accept the imperfections of ourselves, whether they be real or perceived. And maybe if by doing that, we will be able really to accept ourselves. Then, we won't need to cling to symbols, or to objectify or degrade others.

Mother's Day

2008-05-11T17:44:00.007-04:00

Lots of people live in this world without a mother. God knows that lots of people didn't even know their mother, so at least I have that going for me. But I still can't help but wince as this day approaches now, 2-odd years after the demise of my own mother.

Call Me the Party-pooper
I was in the company of some people this past weekend, enjoying a day of warmer weather in New York City. NYC, like so many northern cities, hasn't really gotten much spring weather up until this point, and so people were out in droves to enjoy the break in the weather after a long winter. On the lips and minds of these 20- and 30-something people was the immanency of Mother's Day. I can't remember it being this way during those halcyon days when--as I remember it--I relished the thought of taking advantage of the day when Mom was all that mattered OFFICIALLY: Mother's Day. But Mother's Day was to some of my friends just a trumped up dull day designed to deprive younger people of their normal weekend fun. I didn't want to break their fuming to caution that they should cherish their moms, this day, while they still have them. Someday mom will be gone.

And that kind of describes an undercurrent that has persisted in my world view for some time now, the notion that we should try and appreciate what we have while we have it. Things change awfully quickly.

It is the Wounds Inside of Us that Heal the Slowest
I don't discount the possibility that I am too sensitive to this kind of kidding around and joking. I mean, the reality here is that my friends were just communing with each other; they were just, in a way, celebrating their youth and freedom. I guess that I need to try harder to appreciate that. I remember a few months ago, when a brother of a good friend joked with me by saying something like "your momma!", I couldn't suppress pulling the dagger and responding "my mother's dead." The poor guy felt awful. There was an instinct there that just went off, but I also think that I wanted to elicit that response--to inflict that regret. The truth is that I simmer still with anger from despair at my mother's death, and I wonder if this condition will ever pass.

WAP

2008-01-29T09:38:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure that much really changes. We, as humans, probably struggle with that notion the most. Mainly that is the notion that--as vivid as our personal lives are and as visceral as our experience with life feels (and our lives are personal, and our lives are real)--not much that we do or think really represents something new. Humans have roamed this earth for some time now, and the gamut of human thought and experience has probably been pretty well covered.

As evidence, Tolstoy wrote widely about this in War and Peace (WAP). I continue to work to get my mind around his characters, and I think that my attempt is to simplify them into buckets of good and evil. But the truth is that they are all fairly equally humble and prideful; they show equal parts success and failure; and all struggle with the pride of their existence on this earth and in 19th Century Russian society, hoping, toiling to be distinguished, though nearly all realizing they are not.

Sometimes Pierre remembered stories he had heard about how soldiers at war, taking cover under enemy fire, when there is nothing to do, try to find some occupation for themselves so as to endure the danger more easily. And to Pierre all people seemed to be such soldiers, saving themselves from life: some with ambition, some with cards, some with drafting laws, some with women, some with playthings, some with horses, some with politics, some with hunting, some with wine, some with affairs of state. "Nothing is either trivial or important, it's all the same; only save yourself from it as best you can!" thought Pierre. "Only not to see it, that dreadful it."

(2007 Tolstoy 538)

So Tolstoy summed up the ends to our toil in life, and I can't say that I disagree. I find myself comforted. And I find additional comfort in the sense that each character, as mangled or as fallen as he/she becomes, finds some form of redemption in the tome the book becomes. Because only in the course of a long life, filled with experiences, does judgment really collapse, and does a sense of peace with our struggles settle in, reconciling the course we have chosen.

Reflections on the Homeland

2008-01-18T09:12:00.000-05:00

I wanted to reflect on a recent article in the NYTimes about an attack on a man in Shaker Heights, and what some of my feelings are about the things going on in Shaker--and having grown up there.

My family moved to Shaker Heights in 1979. We first lived on Warrington, across from what was then a seasonal, outdoor ice skating pond. Shaker had long since began to receive attention for its pro-integration housing strategies as well as for the quality of its public schools system. I'd like to think that my family was drawn equally to Shaker by those two qualities, but I think that the city's proximity to both of my parent's place of employment was also a strong factor. And I think that it is necessary to admit that Shaker's diversity--while important to my parents--was also a source of concern, eventually prompting us to move from the southern part of Shaker (the Onaway neighborhood) to the northeastern part of Shaker (the Mercer neighborhood).

Even as a young child making my way through the Shaker school system--all the way from Kindergarten through grade 12, in fact--I was quickly familiarized with aspects of Shaker's pro-integrative strategies. I remember the requests for interested students to transfer from Mercer, located in a predominately white area, to Lomond, located in a predominately mixed neighborhood. I also remember Shaker's attempts to attract gifted students to transfer to Ludlow, the neighborhood where the attack occurred.

And I can say that I think those pro-integrative strategies worked. In the course of continuing my social and academic development beyond Shaker's borders, I have found myself--and my Shaker peers--to be much more adapted to the notion of diversity. If anything, maybe it is a value and quality with which I find more of my Shaker contemporaries to be accustomed to, as evidenced by their location decisions, circles of friends, or other such social indicators (which I fully admit can be apocryphal as well).

But I am writing about this because I am interested in the prominence of the article. Obviously, I read the article because I grew up in Shaker (and retain an enduring interest in what goes on there); but I wonder why so many other NYTimes readers are interested in the article, judging from the period of time it remained on the paper's most emailed list.

I don't have a good answer for that question. Maybe it is not because so many people are like myself, from Shaker Heights, but because many places and people face the exact same issues: the challenges of integration, the challenges of white-flight to sub- and ex-urbia, and the challenges facing older industrial urban areas as they combat the ills of economic dislocation--and those pockets of concentrated urban poverty that have remained due to the lack of mobility of some of the populations left in those areas (i.e. black populations).

The Me Algorithm

2008-01-12T22:21:00.000-05:00

I rate things. My iTunes is loaded with 2-stars, 3-stars, and 4-stars music. I don't give out many 1-stars. Usually I would just throw that music out. And I give out few 5-stars, because I subscribe to the general notion of the bell curve. That is, I believe that most things in life will fall within 2 standard deviations of the cosmic mean. There is an impulse to reward most endeavors for mediocrity, but I agree that it detracts from an overall ability to express value. If I give a song 5 stars, then it better really be something I love. I also rate movies in Netflix, but I won't get into that.

Maybe my impulse to rate things is compulsive obsessive. Maybe it is just another attempt to create order in my life--the perception of order. A tendency to put things into piles so I know where they are.

Or maybe it is more complicated than that--more existential. It occurs to me that ratings are an incremental accumulation of indirect information about likes and dislikes--our preferences. Tolstoy once wrote that War & Peace was so voluminous because--in his estimation--it was the only way really to resemble what life was like in Russia at that time, or what his characters were really like. His theory is that one must exhaust the approaches from which a moment, an object, a characteristic in life may be described, so that--by increment--the true nature of that thing is revealed.

An image of life then exists in the center of those tangential approaches. So it occurs to me that--through these ratings--maybe I might be trying to create this finely-tuned virtual image of myself, as if, someday, a technique will be developed to determine--from that information--who I really am, an explanation that will let me pin down some fundamentals that I don't even understand about myself.

Or so marketers would hope. The thankful reality is that we continue to change with each passing day. At best, maybe we could pin down suitably a shadow of what we once were through such a technique, and that is both a scary and an exciting proposition. It means that we probably will never grasp conventionally some understanding of ourselves such to allow us to remain something or someone. But it also means that--through the process of recreating ourselves continually--we will be open to experiencing things so differently each moment for the rest of our lives.

Maybe all of this is the origins of what many call a mid-life crisis. I assume such a crisis has to do with fears of change--the change from getting older, and the change from the perception of a loss of youth. Experience has taught me that the only way to combat fear is to embrace its trigger, in this case going out and confronting those things that scare you. Familiarity trumps fear. Or, as a magnet that my sister once gave me says, "Do one thing each day that scares you."

Review: What the $#@! Do We Know?

2007-12-03T22:49:00.001-05:00

There is no spoon. There is no spoon, because there is not really matter--at least not in the way we think of it. Molecules break down into atoms, atoms into subatomic particles; yet even when we have weaved our way through the electron cloud surrounding the nucleus, revealing the protons and neutrons we are sure represent substantive matter, we realize that these protons and neutrons break down into even smaller fragments. Literally, we reduce into gas. It's miraculous that we don't fall through the floor at each step--not that there really is a floor to begin with.

And so begins my musings on the movie "What the #$!@ Do We Know?" I found it extremely fascinating, at times uplifting, while at other moments a little slow (I watched it over three nights). The gist of the film is that quantum physics calls us to question what we think we know. What we "know" is really not much more than conjecture. Even science is not ultimately proven in the physical spectrum that quantum physics studies. In some ways, it is just a series of ideas that are reasonably represented in the physical environment that we have come to accept. We are almost trapped in its rigor, for lack of the ability to see something other than the conventional explanations that science offers--even if our mind might suspect something else. One's mind could run wild with the possibilities.

Possibilities such as the lack of explainable connection between our bodies and souls. Could it be that we are trapped merely by the models that we see when we are born? The movie suggests that people can only see what they have the capacity to understand. For example, when the Native Americans looked out over the horizon in the direction of Christopher Columbus' ships as they approached land, the Native Americans couldn't see the ships approaching. They had no frame of reference with which to understand these floating objects; therefore, their minds did not register the approaching ships at all. Only when a passenger finally stepped on shore did the Native Americans see anything, since they were familiar with the concept of humans.

And at a far less sweeping level, I understand the direction that the movie headed in. I am familiar with the thought that we (humans) have relational memory, meaning that we understand most everything in the context of something else we have already seen or learned. In that way, it is not so hard to think that we (humans) couldn't have the capacity to learn something that it yet unknown--yet unfathomable--in the canon of human knowledge. Interesting.

The movie also had some interesting suggestions for what or who god might be. In all, while the movie probably can't compete with a Will Smith film if you are looking for something with a little action, I do recommend it for a good thought-provoking documentary.

Atlanta: the Next New Orleans?

2007-11-13T18:24:00.000-05:00

Atlanta reported this week they have fewer than 80 days of water left in their reserves, primarily Lake Lanier. Reading a separate article today about the sad state of our nation's infrastructure investment (NYTimes), and the mention that one of the reasons Atlanta is having such a hard time is because of their poor record developing reservoirs (ahem, "investing in infrastructure"), it occurred to me that in less than 3 years we might be facing the second instance of America having to evacuate one of its major cities due to shoddy infrastructure. Is Atlanta the next New Orleans?

New Orleans was pretty screwed to begin with. It was under sea level; it was originally a swamp; and it was in a location that was susceptible to hurricanes. However, the US Army Corps of Engineers--and the City of New Orleans' Mayor--knew this, yet they didn't shore up what were documented weaknesses in the City's levee system. And the US Congress didn't appropriate funds to pay for these levee upgrades either. Likewise, Atlanta, GA has been one of the fastest growing cities in the country. It has long been commented that Atlanta has no natural boundaries, which perhaps explains its sprawling development pattern. Given Atlanta's historical sprawl, it is not infeasible to think that someday "Atlanta" might just stretch all the way to North Carolina--indeed, the extent of the "Piedmont Megaregion."

Evacuating a city is unheard of. I can't think of similar examples of city evacuation in modern history anywhere else in the world. No, I am sure that some cities were evacuated that were directly in the Chernobyl fallout in Ukraine back when the reactor melted down. Cities have depopulated. I think that many Siberian cities have a problem with depopulation (let alone the Midwest states). But I can't think of other such extreme examples as that of New Orleans, and it can largely be attributed to the failure of the City (and this country) to invest in New Orleans' infrastructure. Thank goodness that cities such as Houston in the south were able to absorb those populations. But where do we suppose Atlanta refugees (in contrast to "Katrina refugees") are to go?

Hopefully, we will never have to answer that question. But one thing is for sure: this isn't the last drought that we will deal with in the US, and we are ill prepared to do anything more than pray for rain and evacuate the wealthy first.

Veteran's Day

2007-11-11T21:13:00.000-05:00

It is Veteran's Day in our nation's capitol, and I am trying to understand if I care. No, I care; that is, I care because I am moved deeply by human actions that--at least at one level--can be viewed as somewhat selfless. Actions where what the person does represents much less than the sum of its accumulated impact. But I digress, since I didn't really want to carve out the honor of patriotism in this post, or how unbelievable it is to discover individuals who do more than stamp out their positions on an issue: they actually back them up with their lives.

No, I want to write about some of the thoughts I had biking around the city today, seeing all of the people here to visit DC on Veteran's Day. I sense that many are more apt to believe that residents of DC are more patriotic than in other places. It's like we have all drank from the same Koolaid; therefore, we are more apt to show deference to the men wearing jackets that proclaim their participation in Vietnam, or we are more likely to buy a drink for a Marine in uniform in a bar (actually, I thought that service members weren't allowed to drink while in uniform?).

I'll grant that living in DC is a little surreal. We walk in the forests of these giant monuments to American history. "Lest we not forget" is cliche, since, when you can see the Washington Monument from nearly any spot in the District, it is a virtual impossibility to forget what all of that granite is used for.

What I feel like clarifying is that we, as residents of DC, care about these issues only too intimately, but not in the ways visitors might expect. We, like many city dwellers, don't overtly love the density of the city, particularly when that density is exacerbated by thousands of visitors who don't know or understand the implicit ways of the city. It drives us insane--and even when those visitors are wearing military uniforms or display some sign they were in a war. Rather, we are given a great deal of time to walk these streets in solemn reflection, and particularly for the ways our veterans have enabled the way of life we live today.

TNT has a series of war movies on this weekend. Tonight, I was watching Saving Private Ryan, and I couldn't help but cry during certain parts. What DC symbolizes, that solemnity it inspires in its residents, is what drove so many to storm the beach at Normandy, or to take on seemingly ridiculous missions. Maybe I can't fully understand that, since I have never been asked to risk my life for a cause for which I might never see the benefit. But I know it's there, and I can see it in veterans, sometimes in the desire for society's recognition of what they stood to represent.

My Stage of Life

2007-10-18T22:21:00.000-04:00

I haven't posted many blogs this year. I go through spurts of writing, and some years I am more prolific than others. However, this year I sense a change. I sense that I am coming to the end of something.

Lately I have been thinking about my outlook on things, and I wonder how it differs. I am chewing over the idea that I have spent much of my life up to this point acquiring knowledge and trying to decide how I feel about things. Recently, it has occurred to me that I am at a time when I need to begin to figure out how to use the knowledge that I have gained, and that I need to assume some kind of social role.

Review: The Rage in Placid Lake

2007-09-24T07:44:00.000-04:00

I haven't done a movie review lately--let alone blogged--so I wanted to write a few words about a film I recently saw, The Rage in Placid Lake. I liked the movie. Moreover, it caused me to think about the notion of society, and what it means to "live" in it.

The movie was about the tension between finding oneself according to what society probably wants (or at least what one thinks society wants) and accepting who you are. Placid Lake is the main character, a boy (well, initially) in whom his very new-agey parents imbue the value that one should "try and find the good in every situation," particularly in circumstances where he is being persecuted by school bullies (for example, due to his parents making him wear a dress to school at a young age). I'll just say that Placid--despite his parents--really grows to be a grounded, well-adjusted--albeit fearless--adult.

However, upon the end of his high school experience, these bullies who torment him for so many years cannot accept the fact that he refused to bow to their intimidation, so they apparently throw him off of a roof. Placid lives; though, the experience causes him to reexamine his approach to society, and he subsequently decides to assimilate at all costs.

The story is ultimately about how a person is meld in his/her own fire of development. Ultimately, try as you might to change in accordance to what you think other people want or do, you cannot escape from yourself, the values you develop, and your accumulated being.

I love the poignancy of Placid going to a bar with his co-worker. He is completely out of his element and is trying to fit in. He just barely is succeeding, that is until he steps into the alley and runs into the bullies from his high school. They proceed to hit him over the head with a cricket paddle despite the fact he was now "like them." It was Emma, his life-long friend, who had to explain to him that--regardless of whom he tried to act like--the bullies were never going to see him any differently, and that is a good lesson in life. Yeah. Don't let the bastards get you down.

Society: Competition, Selfishness, and Urban Living

2007-09-18T07:28:00.000-04:00

"But for animals that live in groups, selfishness must be strictly curbed or there will be no advantage to social living." -NYTimes Article

We are animals. When we live in cities, when we live in groups, we are probably participating in "social living." It is interesting that this article should appear in the NYTime's Most Emailed list the same week as another article did, one that discusses (touts?) the selfish views of Ayn Rand.

Wise Men

2007-09-14T08:25:00.001-04:00

"The child who dwells in each of us
trusts there are wise men somewhere
who know the truth."

-Czeslaw Milosz, Native Realm

Houston, TX: The General Conditions of [not] Living Dangerously

2007-09-08T23:41:00.000-04:00

I hadn't been back to Houston since 2002. I left for the last time in July, just prior to being moved by my then-employer, Accenture, to Austin, where I would remain for a three week engagement, my penultimate engagement in my less than two year tenure with that firm. I had grown to like Houston.

I lived close to Shepherd and Westheimer, or at least it seemed as though I did judging from the frequency which I found myself at that intersection, driving maybe to the Whole Foods, Fresh Marketplace, or to the Galleria. I guess I had a few experiences there.

I am back now to learn about construction fundamentals, and, for the first time ever, flew into Hobby International airport, which is located on the southern border of the town. As I took my cab to the hotel, I passed converted hotels with wrought iron fencing. The streets were tidy, but they belied a poverty that I wasn't familiar with in the Houston area--which no doubt existed while I was there before, but which now I attributed (or wanted to attribute) to the Katrina survivors who had settled in the city. I was being nostalgic, brooding; it causes me to reflect on a concept I heard recently, the origin of which I can't entirely remember anymore.*

The concept is that we are limited in our capacity to empathize by the emotions we have felt only in our accumulated experiences. In effect, in the attempt to understand something confronting us, we first grasp for that personal emotion (born from experience) that we find most relevant. Thinking about that, it seems obvious the tendency to interpret that process of understanding as some form of conceit--a "one-upper," if you will, or the tendency by someone to reply constantly (apparently) to anecdotes that you share with what sound like (or what blatantly are) stories of his-/her-own, in apparent competition with your little story. It's easy to resent such a person, as it is easy to judge quickly on that individual's motivation (i.e. to one-up you).

But I am thinking here how it is also important to try and see an alternate possibility in this all. The flip-side of the concept that I presented above is the suggestion that we can really only understand certain experiences in relation to our own emotional reaction to them. Therefore, emotions being what they are, irrational responses to our own fears (to generalize), how can we ever really understand what another is experiencing? How can we have the temerity to judge another's emotional response to something communicated--possibly in the only way they can so as to describe (or circumscribe) their familiarity with an experience that is personal to ourselves? Nevertheless, we do react, and we do judge. That's just the way we are.

I guess that the best we can do--if we are really interested in not being challenged by our inability to empathize with new experiences--is to control our environment as tightly as we can, and many people do just that. I think that was one of the overarching themes of the construction fundamentals training: if you don't want to get screwed by your general contractor, stick to a very rigid process of limiting the potential for uncertainty through iron-clad contracts and agreements (such as in your general conditions), and be uber-vigilant in your review of invoices and, above all else, change orders. And that strategy is also something that I see in the book I am reading, the Year of Living Dangerously, in which it seems that all the characters are limited by the fears and dreams that circumscribe their own experiences (and I am particularly thinking about the interactions of Hamilton and Jillie around about the chapters of 13 and 14). But that's the whole point: all of these characters are living in a foreign world, surrounded by foreign things. They are challenged, they are changing, they are trying to rebel--and, at the same time, they are trying not to; they long for familiarity, and they wrap themselves around something they want to believe represents something familiar to them! The dangerous political environment of Indonesia is just a metaphor for the danger that is in their souls from trying to live without the restrictions of the tether to the bedrock of our past emotional experiences. It even kills some of them. Can we ever really go back to who we were?

But what has all of this to do with my triumphant return to Houston? I think this: I grasp to find the Houston contained in my experiences in the city between 2001 and 2002. I flash back to my memory of the area based on how I was feeling as I visited it, compounded by the other factors impacting my life at that time. But I don't return to the city now encumbered by those factors; therefore, I don't really have the lens through which I can understand what I am seeing as I drive from Hobby to my hotel, or even as I meet my uncle for dinner. And even if I did, it would be an anachronism (what I would "see"). It is a lesson of which I am trying to be more aware. By doing so, maybe I will be able to shed my preconceptions and expand my experiences in a fresh and meaningful new way. Isn't that what it means to develop?

*No, I take that back; I think this concept came from a Law and Order episode in which the detectives were trying to catch a serial killer who was also an actor working to prepare for a part in a film that portrayed a serial killer. That kind of takes the magic out of the thrill of philosophy, doesn't it? Television has always seemed so crude to me in that regard.

San Francisco, CA: 5:03 a.m. in Room 666

2007-09-03T22:40:00.000-04:00

I see signs announcing the closure of the Bay Bridge and the two guys in the Peet's Coffee line in front of me are scratching each other's back. I woke up in a strange place this morning and couldn't remember where I was or why I was there. "What in the hell is going on?!" "Ah yes, I am in San Francisco."

I am sorry that my first real exposure to "San Francisco" (as much as it is possible by flying through an airport) is from multiple flight delays and snafus. Arriving here late last night, I couldn't help but stew over the fact that I was stranded in a very unfamiliar place after sitting on an airplane for more than 8 hours straight, facing the indignity of having to get a hotel room (Room 666 at the SFO Westin; $140 for the Fed Govt rate; however, I did sleep pretty damned well) and being deprived of everything in my checked luggage. And as an aside, Jen, my sister, was stranded in DC due to similar storms and was trying to get back to Denver. Small world, eh? I digress. Anyway, my "reality check" instinct started to kick in: "Dan, you are doing something that most people don't have the opportunity to do and you are bitching about the transaction of it. I mean, Mom is dead, man; don't you think she would [proverbially] kill to BE ALIVE and go thruogh the toil that you are enduring?! Get a fucking life!" I concede my point. You know, Mom lived in San Francisco for a time. Huh; I didn't think about that until I got here and sat down in this concourse.

I also concede that people who fly as often as I (and more often than I) are, in my estimation, a pretty OCD lot. My sense is that we (travelers) get so used to flying that we develop a notion of what works best for us; what represents the least painful way to fly. That will typically include such things as gaining status on an airline, boarding the plane early and getting upgraded, sitting in the front of the plane so you can get off early, never checking a bag, and always praying that no one sits in the seat next to you. I (we) get so grumpy when I don't get my way--or when people in front of me in the security line don't pull the right stuff out of their carry-ons quickly enough, or they trip the metal detector. Idiots. If you fly as much as some of us do, you want to feel as though you belong to that clique, so you want the status that typically accompanies the battle scars of flying and the efficiency knowledge that one picks up trudging through airport after airport. At least that is my rationalization.

It is now 6:03 a.m., and I am walking down the jetway to the plane, about to alight onto my United Canadaair regional jet. The sun is just starting to rise, and I can see mountains and the famous (infamous?) San Francisco fog shrouding the city. It is striking and beautiful. I can see why Mom could have been taken by this view, and why the allure of her time in San Francisco stayed with her throughout the rest of her life. She moved out here shortly after finishing at Ohio Wesleyan (or was it after Stanford?). At first, she traveled out here to visit a sorority friend, Bitsy (is that really the correct name?). She worked as a personnel administrator in a hospital. She lived in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, and her stories of going to clubs and sipping on an occasional cocktail stick with me. That must have been about 1962 or so. My journals (and my blogs) end up being about someone or something. I thought this blog was about development. That is such an amorphous and broad notion that I guess it could still be. However, since Mom's illness, I think the truth is that this blog has become about Mom, about me, and about my dealing with Mom's death. I stopped writing for a long time because I was trying to avoid writing more about what I felt was a macabre subject. But the truth is that this is my lens to life right now; this is what I think about and how I view things. I can't escape it. And life has me in San Francisco at the moment, departing for Burbank at exactly this present moment. And I can't help but think about Mom while here in San Francisco, that--as I do today--she once took in this same view of the fog rolling over the city.

Parents (by William Meredith)

2007-03-09T10:55:00.000-05:00

"What it must be like to be an angel
or a squirrel, we can imagine sooner.

The last time we go to bed good,
they are there, lying about darkness.

They dandle us once too often,
these friends who become our enemies.

Suddenly one day, their juniors
are as old as we yearn to be.

They get wrinkles where it is better
smooth, odd coughs, and smells.

It is grotesque how they go on
loving us, we go on loving them.

The effrontery, barely imaginable,
of having caused us. And of how.

Their lives: surely
we can do better than that.

This goes on for a long time. Everything
they do is wrong, and the worst thing,

they all do it, is to die,
taking with them the last explanation,

how we came out of the wet sea
or wherever they got us from,

taking the last link
of that chain with them.

Father, mother, we cry, wrinkling,
to our uncomprehending children and grandchildren."

Parents

In Memoriam: Sam (1994 - 2006)

2006-12-14T22:36:00.001-05:00

Sam, beloved friend and companion, was put to sleep this morning at the Green Road Animal Hospital on Green Road in University Heights, OH. He was about 12.

Sam was a mixed breed; though, the exact make up of this mixture changed frequently and was a source of some debate. The black mask that circled his eyes hinted of Rotweiler or Doberman; his pointed ears suggested Shepherd; and his pelt could have been a Husky's. He smiled every time a family member or friend arrived home, a snarling grimace easily taken for a growl that caused many an unsuspecting guest in our backyard to run like hell. That smile, too, could have been Rotweiler. He was both a large and small dog: wide in girth, almost waddling as though he were a Bulldog, but small in stock, not much larger than a Cocker Spaniel. Late in his life, he suffered the ailments of a large dog, hobbled by arthritis and raked by tumors. Diminished as he became, his demeanor did not change, and he remained a loyal, loving friend.

Confusion over Sammy's breeding can largely be explained by his origins, which were inauspicious at best. Sam's parentage, I am sure, spanned a wide array of street dogs. Prior to Samuel, Sammy, Sam-bo or Sam--and before his ever-so-brief incarnation as "Garp"--his first calling was "No No." This name came from Dad's exasperation when finding Sam, recently delivered to his office at CWRU, defecating and miturating on Dad's floor. In some grasp for verbal control over this just-delivered animal, prior to any relationship being built, Dad warned, "no, no . . No . . No!" Will had found Sam only hours before in a trash can outside of CWRU's north campus dining hall. Will heard his whimpering, and brought home what became the 3rd dog found by one of us on the streets.

But I think it would be a mistake to say that Sam was Will's dog. The truth is that Sam was Dad's dog, who, before Sam's arrival, really claimed Max's love. Though I don't remember the decision reasoning this etymology, "Sam" is just "Max" backwards.

As we would like to think (correctly I'd say), Sam lived 12 years at our home in Shaker Heights in a way better than most people even live 12 years of a long life--and I think Sam knew it. He liked to stay close to home. Contradictory to the "smile" he showed people, Sam was a bit of a coward. I remember early in his life, when we first took him on a walk one winter day out into the field abutting our yard, Sam didn't make it much past the bend in the fence before hightailing it back home. What a departure from Max, possibly his namesake! Even though Sam was known to recoil at crossing bridges, or sniff suspiciously at an icy patch of sidewalk, he loved the nightly walks that Dad (and less often, Mom) would give him and Gretchen.

Sam hadn't left the garage in three days. As Cleveland's hard winter began to settle in, Dad looked at Sam with distress--when previously, because Sam (fortified as he was by his husky coat) loved winter so, he would dash out into the sleet and sleep on the frozen flagstones in our patio. As another winter approaches, I look at the snow and remember vividly the sight of Sam lying on the white ground, his coat catching the soft light that would bathe him from our deck lights, as flakes of snow fall slowly, turning a light blonde the hue of his golden coat. He sleeps contentedly.

Vignettes: "Be Well, Stay Fit, Die Anyway"

2006-12-10T15:12:00.000-05:00

I'm running through the park the other day, probably feeling smug in my attempts to keep up with my "health." It's hot; I'm not wearing a shirt. I haven't had a drink in days, have been good about biking and exercising, and I am feeling pretty good with my effort. I pass a man wearing a back shirt. He is smoking a pipe, and he wears a graying beard. His shirt: "be well, stay fit, die anyway." I started to walk.

Saving Your Life

2006-12-07T08:08:00.000-05:00

I saw the movie Stranger than Fiction this past weekend. I was a little down that day, and, when invited to go and see the movie, initially chose not to. However, I reconsidered and drove down to see it anyway. I liked the film. It has an interesting story, good soundtrack, and good acting. I'd say that the story is about saving lives, though--to editorialize here a moment on the quality of the movie--I think this aspect of the film sometimes got lost. The main character is a man named Harold Crick, and he is an Auditor for the IRS. It is assumed that people don't really like him. And for that matter, Harold isn't the most outgoing of guys. He kind of just is.

The catch is that he is also, unbeknownst to him, a character in a book that someone is writing, and that someone is trying to figure out a way to kill him. The plot unfolds as Harold is beginning to discover these two twists about himself and his future.

This twist in the movie sets up a fishbowl in which to view what an extremely ordinary person would do when confronted with the proverbial situation, "if you knew you were going to die soon, what would you do?" Seemingly confronted by this situation, Harold goes out and does several things. Firstly, he stops going to work, and then he goes out and learns to play the guitar (actually it was only one song that he learned to play, but it was also my favorite scene in the movie). But probably most importantly he pursues the amorous attention of Ana Pascal, a Beat baker, played by Maggie Gyllenhaal, whom I adore. That the movie kind of turns into a love story works to answer the posed question. But as the movie climaxes, and as Harold seemingly is presented with a choice between staying the person whom he has become (who will end up dead), or trying to go back to being the person whom he was, the audience sees more clearly the choices we all face as we choose how to live our lives.

As Harold Crick looks at this dilemma, the proverbial question becomes "how can he save his own life?" In the end, Harold decides that he can't. If this is whom he has become, he'd rather end up dead than lose (presumably) the joy of leading a life that he actually is excited about.

I left the movie seeing new context for the idea of "saving a life." Rhetorically, can (or should) you really save a life that is not being lived? The tension between Harold as a man who is not living his life, and Harold as a man who is, suggests that you can't really save that life--at least in the sense that the word "life" has a duality in meaning, in one instance describing a state of animate being and in the other encompassing a state of spiritual fulfillment. Ironically, the only way Harold Crick could really save his own life, the spiritual life he has found, was to accept the death posed by the author writing his story. By saving his animate life, he wasn't really saving anything. I thought that was an interesting point made in the film.

And I am chewing it over. I mean, that's the point of the movie, right, to make us examine our own lives? I get the sense that few people would really walk from that theater thinking they were really living their lives (in the sense of Harold Crick), so that makes this movie a little unfair. However, I think there also is much to be made of the point that we do get wrapped up in the minutiae, or in the trivial acts of daily life (very well known to those of us who suffer from OCD), that merely punctuate our daily lives and in no way describe (or shouldn't be used to describe) who we ARE, in an existential sense.

You know, that is one of the reasons behind the name of this blog, Existential Spaghetti. To me, it sums up this tension between existence and the attempt at order. In some ways, order makes our lives better; we use order to advance our place in the world through increasing levels of efficiency. But that is sometimes / often in conflict with the nature of existence, which is entropic. The trade off is that as we perceive order increasing, we become more detached from existence, life. But the more disorderly life becomes, the more unpredictable life becomes, which can make it hard to survive (as opposed to live), particularly in the ways humans tend to compare their existence with that of other people. In a perfect world we would just accept our spiritual, entropic beings. In a perfect world we would embrace the existential spaghetti of life. But oh how it takes much courage. Maybe that act would allow each of us to really save our own lives. To survive or to live?

How to Live (by Charles H Webb)

2006-11-03T23:09:00.000-05:00

"Eat lots of steak and salmon and Thai curry and mu shu
pork and fresh green beans and baked potatoes
and fresh strawberries with vanilla ice cream.
Kick-box three days a week. Stay strong and lean.
Go fly-fishing every chance you get, with friends

who'll teach you secrets of the stream. Play guitar
in a rock band. Read Dostoyevsky, Whitman, Kafka,
Shakespeare, Twain. Collect Uncle Scrooge comics.
See Peckinpah's Straw Dogs, and everything Monty Python made.
Love freely. Treat ex-partners as kindly

as you can. Wish them as well as you're able.
Snorkel with moray eels and yellow tangs. Watch
spinner dolphins earn their name as your panga slam-
bams over glittering seas. Try not to lie; it sours
the soul. But being a patsy sours it too. If you cause

a car wreck, and aren't hurt, but someone is, apologize
silently. Learn from your mistake. Walk gratefully
away. Let your insurance handle it. Never drive drunk.
Don't be a drunk, or any kind of "aholic." It's bad
English, and bad news. Don't berate yourself. If you lose

a game or prize you've earned, remember the winners
history forgets. Remember them if you do win. Enjoy
success. Have kids if you want and can afford them,
but don't make them your reason-to-be. Spare them that
misery. Take them to the beach. Mail order sea

monkeys once in your life. Give someone the full-on
ass-kicking he (or she) has earned. Keep a box turtle
in good heath for twenty years. If you get sick, don't thrive
on suffering. There's nothing noble about pain. Die
if you need to, the best way you can. (You define best.)

Go to church if it helps you. Grow tomatoes to put store-
bought in perspective. Listen to Elvis and Bach. Unless
you're tone deaf, own Perlman's "Meditation from Thais."
Don't look for hidden meanings in a cardinal's song.
Don't think TV characters talk to you; that's crazy.

Don't be too sane. Work hard. Loaf easily. Have good
friends, and be good to them. Be immoderate
in moderation. Spend little time anesthetized. Dive
the Great Barrier Reef. Don't touch the coral. Watch
for sea snakes. Smile for the camera. Don't say "Cheese." "

Dreams: History as an Airplane

2006-10-21T08:58:00.000-04:00

I dreamed last night that I was on a crashing airplane. This airplane was filled with parts of my life, scenes from one period or event or another. I was clutching to a railing in my hockey equipment next to Scott F., bracing for the impact. When the impact did not come soon enough, I started to move to the next room, one filled by a domestic scene. I cannot remember who occupied it. But just as I released my clutch on the rail, the plane showed a shudder of near impact, and I could see patches of a suburban landscape below as parts of the plane began to peel away. At that point, I did move to the other room--into the fusilage of the plane, as it were, since it soon broke away and I alone rolled away with it to some form of safety. I was thrown clear of the wreckage on the ground, though there was no wreckage that showed the crash of the plane. I stood in a sort of garden veranda, stumbling to an iron chair and collapsing with my injuries until someone found me and took me away.

My last images of the dream was of crossing a street lit brightly by bulbs on huge marquees. I sensed it to be the spot where my plane had crashed. While the time had seemed interminable on the plane before I crashed, there was a sort of amusement park ride at this spot that meant to simulate the exact amount of time that it took for my plane to crash, and it was a small amount of time. I remember being taken by a tremendous grief for surviving the event, as well as for those people I had been with who hadn't.

"Not everyone who reaches back into history can survive it."

I thought about what all this might mean. The idea I got was that maybe I was symbolically discarding, killing, pieces of my history that I need to jettison in order to go forward. Sometimes I do feel as though I hold things in my past too closely in my present, continually gnawing over their outcomes and implications. Maybe to live for the present and future, I have to choose what memories of that history will survive to the present and beyond.

Vignettes: The Mecklenberg Inn, Shepherdstown, WV

2006-10-11T08:19:00.000-04:00

The song playing is Tom Petty's "Last Dance with Mary Jane," and it is being played by a bluegrass ensemble accompanied by a gypsy dancer, a local drunk woman familiar to all local patrons. We ambled down from the EMDC and into the Inn, one of the town's two small taverns on German Street. The decor is draped in a deep stained wood, the kind of color that has been rubbed into hardwood over many years and over smokey nights, beer-soaked dirges, and intimate moments. The tavern's furniture is a contrived sort: wooden benches give way to century chairs. There is a back patio of cracked flagstone and black, wrought iron ivy chairs, teetering and tottering as we sit on the broken stones. Our table is a slab of garden stone concrete, adorned in Gothic design. You have to pass the gypsy to get to the bathroom or to get back to the bar. As I pass, she raises her arms in the air in mid-dance, inviting me to dance with her. I declined. She says, "I like your shirt."

Thoughts about Death and Dying, Almost a Year Later

2006-10-01T20:51:00.001-04:00

I remember this period around about 2003-2004 when the insurgency in Iraq was just beginning. This period marked the introduction of mutilation and atrocity as broadcast by mass media and as posted on the Internet. After hearing about the kidnapping of some poor person in Iraq on the news, I remember waiting with a sickening dread in my stomach for the ensuing announcement that the insurgents had "slaughtered" their captives, the "infidels." Quickly thereafter you could find pictures and videos of those acts through a simple Google search.

The impulse to witness those acts was strong. I think it is the same phenomenon that causes drivers to "rubber neck" accident scenes as they cruise (crawl) by. However, I always resisted the temptation to watch those videos. I allowed my curiosity to lead me only so far as to verify they existed. Confronting that precipe on several occasions, I felt as though, by watching those videos, the death of a father, a son or a loved one to someone, I would lose a part of myself; maybe a component of my humanity that delicately perched between life and death.

More recently I have come to conclude that my impression of that precipe was correct. Even almost a year after my mother's death, I still struggle everyday with emotions and images from her death. Conventional wisdom suggests that we "get through" these periods; though, I don't think that's really right. I think that the truth is that that experience, death and dying, scars us in a way that never really heals. What some people may learn to do is to adapt to that hurt. Others do not.

I feel as though I am a different person. I don't think I will ever recapture that person whom I once was before my mother died.

Family as an Idea

2006-09-30T08:56:00.000-04:00

Looking at my family picture, it occurs to me that that picture represents only an idea now. The family featured in that picture is fractured and now does not exist. A new family is left in its place.