She doesn't have a name yet, but we found ourselves a dog. She's part golden retriever, part Labrador, and maybe a little Irish setter. She has the long wavy hair and medium size of a golden but a reddish brown almost like an Irish setter, and a big head like a lab.
She likes to prance around the back yard checking out the flora and fauna, leap up at the bugs, stalk the squirrels, and wallow in the mint, lamium, and strawberries. She's gradually adjusting to our house, figuring out where to lie down, where the humans do what they do, and how to fit into the new pack. You can see her start to move, hesitate, change direction, and go somewhere else. Most of the time she's following Gven, the Mama.
It's settled. Her name is Ruby, or Rhuby, aka Rhubarb, Rhube, Mrs. Rubenstein, Rubiks Cube, and occasionally Pookie, just cuz she's so cute.
All this came about during a whirlwind search online by the Mama of our pack, who decided it was time to find a dog. Our house has been without nonhuman animals since last fall when Dali and Isabel died. It's spring, it's Gven's birthday/week, and both kids are here, so it's time. And she found the right dog.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
On writing badly
It's refreshing to read something well written once in a while, even if it's this article about bad writing.
Good writing makes you keep reading. It's like good cooking. It draws you into the act of reading (eating), makes you not just enjoy reading but want to read and imparts an increased appreciation of the content and substance - but also the craft of making it. So satisfying, how did they do that?
Bad writing makes you wonder why they even bother to put random words on paper, as if they gave a damn how a thought comes across to the poor disrespected reader. An overly generous response to bad writing is: well, it's better than not writing at all.
Sorry, I'm not that generous. Bad writing does more damage than not writing. Like bad music, it inflicts pain on the senses, but it also conveys false, confused, or distorted information in the guise of facts and explanations, one step forward, two steps back.
Worst of all, bad writing numbs the senses to language the way bad architecture can make people hate their house. Bad writing in the jargon-laden, formulaic mode of most business and academic dreck, conveys the impression that this is all there is, information is dull by definition, and you can only get used to it. Just kill me now.
The trouble is, most of us have to do a lot of bad writing before we have the chops to do any good writing. It's a practice like any other. How are you going to play good basketball, chess, or piano unless you put in a lot of time playing bad basketball, chess, or piano? I wish it were otherwise.
Maybe I'm overlooking the difference between bad writing and novice writing. The neophyte or the uncoached player can easily be forgiven a multitude of sins. The craft takes practice, and the first few thousand attempts are going to fall short of excellence. It's a neophyte critic who is too harsh on the early attempts.
It's the careless, inattentive player who won't make the effort that is intolerable. If the first draft doesn't measure up, well too bad. You can't understand what I'm trying to say? That's your problem. With extremely rare exceptions, every first draft is badly written. It follows that everyone who refuses to rewrite (and rewrite and rewrite) writes badly.
The opposite problem can be just as infuriating. In contrast to the George W. Bushes of the world, who don't care enough to construct a coherent sentence, we have the terminally self-absorbed writer who finds every line flowing out of his or her mellifluous pen or word processor incredibly poignant and precious.
I plead guilty. Why else would anyone write, then write some more, and come back repeatedly to keep on writing without getting paid for it, unless they just love the sound of their own amazing writerly voice? Give me a freaking break and get over yourself. I'll try.
Good writing makes you keep reading. It's like good cooking. It draws you into the act of reading (eating), makes you not just enjoy reading but want to read and imparts an increased appreciation of the content and substance - but also the craft of making it. So satisfying, how did they do that?
Bad writing makes you wonder why they even bother to put random words on paper, as if they gave a damn how a thought comes across to the poor disrespected reader. An overly generous response to bad writing is: well, it's better than not writing at all.
Sorry, I'm not that generous. Bad writing does more damage than not writing. Like bad music, it inflicts pain on the senses, but it also conveys false, confused, or distorted information in the guise of facts and explanations, one step forward, two steps back.
Worst of all, bad writing numbs the senses to language the way bad architecture can make people hate their house. Bad writing in the jargon-laden, formulaic mode of most business and academic dreck, conveys the impression that this is all there is, information is dull by definition, and you can only get used to it. Just kill me now.
The trouble is, most of us have to do a lot of bad writing before we have the chops to do any good writing. It's a practice like any other. How are you going to play good basketball, chess, or piano unless you put in a lot of time playing bad basketball, chess, or piano? I wish it were otherwise.
Maybe I'm overlooking the difference between bad writing and novice writing. The neophyte or the uncoached player can easily be forgiven a multitude of sins. The craft takes practice, and the first few thousand attempts are going to fall short of excellence. It's a neophyte critic who is too harsh on the early attempts.
It's the careless, inattentive player who won't make the effort that is intolerable. If the first draft doesn't measure up, well too bad. You can't understand what I'm trying to say? That's your problem. With extremely rare exceptions, every first draft is badly written. It follows that everyone who refuses to rewrite (and rewrite and rewrite) writes badly.
The opposite problem can be just as infuriating. In contrast to the George W. Bushes of the world, who don't care enough to construct a coherent sentence, we have the terminally self-absorbed writer who finds every line flowing out of his or her mellifluous pen or word processor incredibly poignant and precious.
I plead guilty. Why else would anyone write, then write some more, and come back repeatedly to keep on writing without getting paid for it, unless they just love the sound of their own amazing writerly voice? Give me a freaking break and get over yourself. I'll try.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Golly Plumbing
"This Old House" it's not. We don't use only the best tools, wear designer flannel shirts, and speak in Boston accents. And we don't make everything look easy like on TV. But we git 'er done, eventually.
First, you grab a bunch of screwdrivers, wrenches, a hammer, and start taking things apart. Take the handles off the hot and cold water valve to the tub. Unbolt the tank from the toilet, drain all the water, and unbolt the bowl from the floor. Oh, don't forget to shut off the incoming water pipes before you start taking things apart. That would be a mess.
And it's a mess regardless. Get used to it. But this outfit cleans up frequently (I almost said continuously, not true) if only to breathe a minimum of dust and dirt, keep track of the tools lying everywhere, and see a semblance of the room this will eventually be. The back bathroom of Om Shanty has been in some stage of slow transformation so long that no set of before-and-after photos (which I haven't taken, sorry) would do it justice.
Once we got started in the demolition phase of the project, it was only slightly more complicated to detach the drain pipe from the tub, accessible from either the other side of the wall through a removable panel in the adjacent kitchen wall or from underneath in the dim and dank cellar. It was a big nut, so the pipe wrench came in handy, and once it was off, the whole tub lifted right out of there. Tub gone, toilet gone, sink long gone, it's easier to see how much (or how little) room there is in this room.
Then it's time to reconfigure the space. In this old house, that involves taking down lots of old plaster, some drywall, and a few studs I had put up when I recessed the fridge into a former doorway into the bathroom. This experiment a couple of years ago sort of worked for a while, and now Gven and I are rethinking the fridge placement, moving it a few inches to make better use of space in the transformed bathroom.
Tearing into the plaster and lath on two ancient walls was big fun. For this, Jessi Golly and I donned our handkerchief masks, gloves, wielded hammers, and did a convincing imitation of Samurai cowboy plumbing train robbers. It took awhile, but we got it down to the original 1884 brick wall and 1925 framing. Let the wiring begin.
Jessi did all the real work; I consulted, fetched tools, cleaned up, asked questions, and offered uninformed suggestions of improbable alternative solutions to the inevitable problems that come up. He's the one with the skills, the mind-set, the analytical ability, the physical strength and agility to crawl around in the attic, drill holes through old 2x4s that are actually two inches by four inches and pull old wires from an old switch box across the room to a new switch box mounted next to the door where it should have been in the first place.
Wall Street buzzes: Golly Plumbing merges with Jessi Electric, construction futures soar!
First, you grab a bunch of screwdrivers, wrenches, a hammer, and start taking things apart. Take the handles off the hot and cold water valve to the tub. Unbolt the tank from the toilet, drain all the water, and unbolt the bowl from the floor. Oh, don't forget to shut off the incoming water pipes before you start taking things apart. That would be a mess.
And it's a mess regardless. Get used to it. But this outfit cleans up frequently (I almost said continuously, not true) if only to breathe a minimum of dust and dirt, keep track of the tools lying everywhere, and see a semblance of the room this will eventually be. The back bathroom of Om Shanty has been in some stage of slow transformation so long that no set of before-and-after photos (which I haven't taken, sorry) would do it justice.
Once we got started in the demolition phase of the project, it was only slightly more complicated to detach the drain pipe from the tub, accessible from either the other side of the wall through a removable panel in the adjacent kitchen wall or from underneath in the dim and dank cellar. It was a big nut, so the pipe wrench came in handy, and once it was off, the whole tub lifted right out of there. Tub gone, toilet gone, sink long gone, it's easier to see how much (or how little) room there is in this room.
Then it's time to reconfigure the space. In this old house, that involves taking down lots of old plaster, some drywall, and a few studs I had put up when I recessed the fridge into a former doorway into the bathroom. This experiment a couple of years ago sort of worked for a while, and now Gven and I are rethinking the fridge placement, moving it a few inches to make better use of space in the transformed bathroom.
Tearing into the plaster and lath on two ancient walls was big fun. For this, Jessi Golly and I donned our handkerchief masks, gloves, wielded hammers, and did a convincing imitation of Samurai cowboy plumbing train robbers. It took awhile, but we got it down to the original 1884 brick wall and 1925 framing. Let the wiring begin.
Jessi did all the real work; I consulted, fetched tools, cleaned up, asked questions, and offered uninformed suggestions of improbable alternative solutions to the inevitable problems that come up. He's the one with the skills, the mind-set, the analytical ability, the physical strength and agility to crawl around in the attic, drill holes through old 2x4s that are actually two inches by four inches and pull old wires from an old switch box across the room to a new switch box mounted next to the door where it should have been in the first place.
Wall Street buzzes: Golly Plumbing merges with Jessi Electric, construction futures soar!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Are you happy?
It must be the zeitgeist. Have you heard? It's all about being happy.
Popular magazines, academic research, and religious messages are full of descriptions and prescriptions about happiness. Just this morning, Slate referred its unwitting readers to a TIME magazine article informing us that "The Internet is a key to happiness." No kidding. Now I know. What I really want is to be happy AND that going online will make me happy, according to unbiased research by that well-known authority on my happiness, the Chartered Institute of IT.
Yoga Journal, for example, has always had lots of pretty pictures of pretty people (You want to be just like them, and if you do yoga, you'll be pretty too!) performing amazing postures while wearing big smiles and chic yoga attire. But lately the articles too, rather than providing information about, like, you know, yoga, are about that most amorphous of subjects, 'happiness'.
My Buddhist friends seem to be unanimous in the assumption that everyone - Buddhist or not - ultimately wants the same thing - to be happy. Not wise, enlightened, virtuous, or powerful, just happy. Apparently all other human goals, aspirations, and drives are subsumed in that one nebulous, undefinable word. People's behaviors, beliefs, and justifications for doing what they do vary widely, but it's a given that we all really want the same thing.
And there's the rub: if somebody says they want something else - let's say health, wealth, freedom, sex, drugs, rock and roll - that aberrant desire can be attributed to the notion that it's only a means toward what they really want, you know (the H word).
What's the purpose of living? To survive, mate, procreate, and raise children? No, it's to be happy. What's the goal of all successful people? To advance to greater responsibility in a productive career? No, you idiot, it's to be happy. What is it that everyone has in common? A genetic predisposition to communicate, use tools, build things, and maintain relationships? Hell no, those are just placeholders, substitutes, or sublimated outlets for the one true desire, let me guess, to be happy!
What's the ultimate measure of your educational growth, parental influence, work ethic, perseverance, social standing, and lovingkindness? Altogether now: Are you happy?
But I protest too much. I'm no different from anyone else. Of course I want to be happy. But I want a lot of other things too, and they're not reducible to any single unit of currency that conveniently fits under the sugary category of 'happiness'. Have we all seen too many B movies in which boy meets girl, a bunch of unpleasant conflict occurs, and after 100 minutes of mild predictable plot devices, they live happily ever after? Does anyone really want their life to reflect that formula?
If so, you stopped reading this rant six paragraphs ago. If you're jaded, faded, and overrated enough to have read this far, join me in beseeching the Universe. Please, let there be more to life than smiley-faced signs of everyone being nice to everyone all the time, lest they be found guilty of that most heinous of crimes, being unhappy for even a minute.
Some obscure sources say that it's possible to be a responsible, somewhat intelligent person and not be absolutely giddy with joy every waking moment. I have a number of valued acquaintances who actually frown quite often. From their behavior, body language, and conversation, I discern that they have things on their minds that concern them, perhaps worry them, make them wonder about things going on around them that might not be just hunky dory. What's wrong with these people?
In fact, at last count six out of six co-workers with whom I share a row of cubicles, could be described as borderline suspects of harboring less-than-happy thoughts. Every one of them is smart, funny, interesting, complex, witty, even erudite and highly skilled in their work, yet they seem to suffer that awful malady of occasional - and recurring - unhappiness. People say there's a cure, so maybe they should get a prescription.
Or maybe it's just me. They're all happy as clams, and I'm just not picking up on it. They recognized me early-on as the resident Knight of the Woeful Countenance, and they humor me by feigning deep existential concern for the dark undercurrent of horror in everyday life. Or not.
I have a confession to make. I'm not happy. I'm ecstatic.
Popular magazines, academic research, and religious messages are full of descriptions and prescriptions about happiness. Just this morning, Slate referred its unwitting readers to a TIME magazine article informing us that "The Internet is a key to happiness." No kidding. Now I know. What I really want is to be happy AND that going online will make me happy, according to unbiased research by that well-known authority on my happiness, the Chartered Institute of IT.
Yoga Journal, for example, has always had lots of pretty pictures of pretty people (You want to be just like them, and if you do yoga, you'll be pretty too!) performing amazing postures while wearing big smiles and chic yoga attire. But lately the articles too, rather than providing information about, like, you know, yoga, are about that most amorphous of subjects, 'happiness'.
My Buddhist friends seem to be unanimous in the assumption that everyone - Buddhist or not - ultimately wants the same thing - to be happy. Not wise, enlightened, virtuous, or powerful, just happy. Apparently all other human goals, aspirations, and drives are subsumed in that one nebulous, undefinable word. People's behaviors, beliefs, and justifications for doing what they do vary widely, but it's a given that we all really want the same thing.
And there's the rub: if somebody says they want something else - let's say health, wealth, freedom, sex, drugs, rock and roll - that aberrant desire can be attributed to the notion that it's only a means toward what they really want, you know (the H word).
What's the purpose of living? To survive, mate, procreate, and raise children? No, it's to be happy. What's the goal of all successful people? To advance to greater responsibility in a productive career? No, you idiot, it's to be happy. What is it that everyone has in common? A genetic predisposition to communicate, use tools, build things, and maintain relationships? Hell no, those are just placeholders, substitutes, or sublimated outlets for the one true desire, let me guess, to be happy!
What's the ultimate measure of your educational growth, parental influence, work ethic, perseverance, social standing, and lovingkindness? Altogether now: Are you happy?
But I protest too much. I'm no different from anyone else. Of course I want to be happy. But I want a lot of other things too, and they're not reducible to any single unit of currency that conveniently fits under the sugary category of 'happiness'. Have we all seen too many B movies in which boy meets girl, a bunch of unpleasant conflict occurs, and after 100 minutes of mild predictable plot devices, they live happily ever after? Does anyone really want their life to reflect that formula?
If so, you stopped reading this rant six paragraphs ago. If you're jaded, faded, and overrated enough to have read this far, join me in beseeching the Universe. Please, let there be more to life than smiley-faced signs of everyone being nice to everyone all the time, lest they be found guilty of that most heinous of crimes, being unhappy for even a minute.
Some obscure sources say that it's possible to be a responsible, somewhat intelligent person and not be absolutely giddy with joy every waking moment. I have a number of valued acquaintances who actually frown quite often. From their behavior, body language, and conversation, I discern that they have things on their minds that concern them, perhaps worry them, make them wonder about things going on around them that might not be just hunky dory. What's wrong with these people?
In fact, at last count six out of six co-workers with whom I share a row of cubicles, could be described as borderline suspects of harboring less-than-happy thoughts. Every one of them is smart, funny, interesting, complex, witty, even erudite and highly skilled in their work, yet they seem to suffer that awful malady of occasional - and recurring - unhappiness. People say there's a cure, so maybe they should get a prescription.
Or maybe it's just me. They're all happy as clams, and I'm just not picking up on it. They recognized me early-on as the resident Knight of the Woeful Countenance, and they humor me by feigning deep existential concern for the dark undercurrent of horror in everyday life. Or not.
I have a confession to make. I'm not happy. I'm ecstatic.
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