As I'm rounding the corner into the parking lot from Orion's Belt, the local public alternative is doing its segue from the news into morning programming with an ethereal techno number that immediately becomes the soundtrack of this rainy scene of people with umbrellas walking from their cars to the entrance of the building, somehow reminding me of last night's dream involving an elusive white Mustang.
I learned to drive in a light blue '66 Mustang, 3-on-the-floor, straight-6, AM radio, very basic, very cool. When I was a senior, it became essentially "my car" which it eventually was halfway through college, when the whole adventure started really taking off - often in road-trips in the light blue Mustang.
Ford introduced the Mustang halfway through the 1964 model year, a clever marketing decision that Hank the Deuce, Lee Iacocca, and their people in Dearborn no doubt planned carefully. We lived in Garden City at the time, a working-class suburb on the Westside of Detroit. Bob Solano, scion of a prominent Garden City family with a big house on Ford Road and a pool, was the first person I knew to own a '64 1/2 Mustang. He could be seen driving his own royal blue convertible to and from GC High School with a select group of friends. Classy.
We were GM people mostly - Pontiac, Oldsmobile, Buick - although Chas Golly went in for the exotic and bought a cute little gray Renault once, and a light blue Falcon. I guess it was like big GM family car and the small EuroFord for economy. My older sisters got to share the Falcon while they were in high school. After the girls had graduated, we moved to a more uptown suburb, and I got the Mustang to myself. No sexist double-standard here, just the luck of the birth-order, sure, uh-huh.
Mac, my best friend in high school, drove a yellow Mustang. Marco, my best friend in college after I transferred to Michigan, drove a red Mustang. This was Detroit, of course, where cars define people, though it's probably not much different anywhere in America - you are what you drive. Think of "American Grafitti," the pop culture testament to existential lust, youthful longing, and hot cars. Most of us were part Richard Dreyfus, on a quest for the white Thunderbird, and part Ron Howard, torn between big city, bright lights, State U., and hometown Peggy Sue.
So what the heck is this white Mustang doing in my rainy morning dreamspace, now that I drive a gray Ranger to my office job? Maybe I don't want to know.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Year of the Dog
Every 12 years, each of us has a birthday that completes a cycle in the Chinese zodiac, that big wheel of time where each year has its spirit animal. So if you were born in the Year of the Rabbit, you will have (with luck) your 12th, 24th, 36th, 48th, 60th, etc., birthdays in another Year of the Rabbit. Each of those 12-year birthdays will occur in a different 5-year cycle of the elements, so if you're born in a metal year, you will cycle through the water, wood, fire, and earth years and on the fifth cycle of 12 years, return to your birth animal and element.
My middle sister, Jeanie Beanie Golly Bert, celebrated her fifth cycle of 12 this past June, right in the middle of the Year of the Dog. I'm too lazy to look up which of the five elements rules this year, possibly because I was born in the Year of the Sloth. I was not able to attend the big surprise party that her cool, thoughtful husband Barney Bert threw for her down in Flower State, but I bet it was fun.
To add to my guilt, I've been carrying around a card (with pictures of dogs) all summer, neglecting to mail it for one reason or another. Which I finally did this weekend, three months late, and don't give me that "It's the thought that counts" bullshit because it's the act that counts. Knowing Jeanie BGB, she noted the slight, took it personally, forgave me, and retained her doggedly loyal, tenacious, devoted, fiercely protective, watchful character, birthday or no birthday, card or not card. I will see her at another family gathering at the end of September, on the occasion of another momentous birthday, and we'll talk. Maybe we'll talk about dogs.
This weekend was also my son's birthday. Jessi Golly was also born in the Year of the Dog, about three turns of the 12-year wheel after his Aunt Jeanie Beanie and therefore a different element, but he has some of the same protective, loyal, tenacious character. I sent him a card, and I talked to him on the phone. He was at a party, having fun among his friends, and his girlfriend Alex had made him a cake.
MoreGardens summer camp is over for the year, and the kids took a field trip to a farm upstate for their culminating camp experience. They got to hang out with the animals, help out with the gardening, had a great meal, and apparently it went really well. Jessi got around to re-assembling his bike, so he's been riding it, and life is good. He won't be at the other family gathering this month, so I'm glad to get to talk to him.
There's no definitive time line for these things. A few years ago, my friend Bay, who works at Old Progressive College and incidentally has a son around the same age, made the observation that Jessi and I were 'friends'. I said no, not really, the father-son relationship was much more tangled than that, but we were still able to communicate on fairly good terms, though I wouldn't call us 'friends'. I guess the wheel has turned enough since then to make a difference, and at this point I would say that Bay is right.
My middle sister, Jeanie Beanie Golly Bert, celebrated her fifth cycle of 12 this past June, right in the middle of the Year of the Dog. I'm too lazy to look up which of the five elements rules this year, possibly because I was born in the Year of the Sloth. I was not able to attend the big surprise party that her cool, thoughtful husband Barney Bert threw for her down in Flower State, but I bet it was fun.
To add to my guilt, I've been carrying around a card (with pictures of dogs) all summer, neglecting to mail it for one reason or another. Which I finally did this weekend, three months late, and don't give me that "It's the thought that counts" bullshit because it's the act that counts. Knowing Jeanie BGB, she noted the slight, took it personally, forgave me, and retained her doggedly loyal, tenacious, devoted, fiercely protective, watchful character, birthday or no birthday, card or not card. I will see her at another family gathering at the end of September, on the occasion of another momentous birthday, and we'll talk. Maybe we'll talk about dogs.
This weekend was also my son's birthday. Jessi Golly was also born in the Year of the Dog, about three turns of the 12-year wheel after his Aunt Jeanie Beanie and therefore a different element, but he has some of the same protective, loyal, tenacious character. I sent him a card, and I talked to him on the phone. He was at a party, having fun among his friends, and his girlfriend Alex had made him a cake.
MoreGardens summer camp is over for the year, and the kids took a field trip to a farm upstate for their culminating camp experience. They got to hang out with the animals, help out with the gardening, had a great meal, and apparently it went really well. Jessi got around to re-assembling his bike, so he's been riding it, and life is good. He won't be at the other family gathering this month, so I'm glad to get to talk to him.
There's no definitive time line for these things. A few years ago, my friend Bay, who works at Old Progressive College and incidentally has a son around the same age, made the observation that Jessi and I were 'friends'. I said no, not really, the father-son relationship was much more tangled than that, but we were still able to communicate on fairly good terms, though I wouldn't call us 'friends'. I guess the wheel has turned enough since then to make a difference, and at this point I would say that Bay is right.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
farm follows function
What could be more obvious than the truism that gardening is grounding? And how many ways can I belabor the fact? You stick a shovel in the ground, you sow seeds in the ground, you plant seedlings in the ground, you pull weeds from the ground, you slice ripe tomatoes that grew (magically) out of the ground, and you go back to the office the next day with some of the ground still under your fingernails.
So this weekend, Labor Day Weekend, I ritually observed the unofficial end of summer by doing some seasonal transitional chores that couldn't be much more mundane and put me into the rhythm of the earth, as if I could ever leave it.
Like thinning the little patch of lambs ear to make a border the whole length of the walk. Then dividing some of the daylilies to fill in gaps in the same bed. Next year it will look fuller.
Like moving three big, mound-shaped perennial geraniums from a back bed next to the veggies to a central location close to the patio, then transplanting three spindly little columbine from the same bed, where they weren't doing well, to a sunny spot near the salvia, where they might do better. Then thinning the strawberry patch to fill up the space left by the geraniums and columbine. Next year, with any luck, there could be twice as many strawberries. Then watering everything in. Buckets, hoses, whatever.
Like dividing the big, thick hostas with a slice of the spade and transplanting the dividends to the edge of the wedge-shaped bed to expand it further into the back corner where Gus the cat rests in peace. Then digging up clumps of mint (or lemonbalm, or whatever it is) that's been steadily encroaching on the hostas and anything else that's in its way, moving it to the weedy wasteland of the front corner, where the oldest, biggest Norway maple shields the sun and rain from everything under it, so nothing much grows there; we'll see if the mint/lemonbalm survives there long enough to cut back the tree and let some light in. That's a chore for later in the fall.
Like picking up apples and trying to find ways to use them up. A few fall every day, and half of them have bites out of them by the squirrels, or worm-holes, or they're too small to bother with, and those go in the compost. So by the time the weekend rolls around I've got a basketful of winesaps to do something with. What? So far, I've made apple cobbler, Gven has made apple crisp, and we've frozen a few.
It's labor-intensive, time-consuming work to peel, wash, core, and slice, even before the actual mixing, baking, and all that. But it's something to do on the weekend when I'm not copyediting, checking, tracking, proofing, revising, or answering e-mail. And I'm convinced that it's a lot more ergonomically correct to walk around all day carrying a shovel, moving from one plot to another, as long as I remember to switch hands. And you know what? I sleep better.
So this weekend, Labor Day Weekend, I ritually observed the unofficial end of summer by doing some seasonal transitional chores that couldn't be much more mundane and put me into the rhythm of the earth, as if I could ever leave it.
Like thinning the little patch of lambs ear to make a border the whole length of the walk. Then dividing some of the daylilies to fill in gaps in the same bed. Next year it will look fuller.
Like moving three big, mound-shaped perennial geraniums from a back bed next to the veggies to a central location close to the patio, then transplanting three spindly little columbine from the same bed, where they weren't doing well, to a sunny spot near the salvia, where they might do better. Then thinning the strawberry patch to fill up the space left by the geraniums and columbine. Next year, with any luck, there could be twice as many strawberries. Then watering everything in. Buckets, hoses, whatever.
Like dividing the big, thick hostas with a slice of the spade and transplanting the dividends to the edge of the wedge-shaped bed to expand it further into the back corner where Gus the cat rests in peace. Then digging up clumps of mint (or lemonbalm, or whatever it is) that's been steadily encroaching on the hostas and anything else that's in its way, moving it to the weedy wasteland of the front corner, where the oldest, biggest Norway maple shields the sun and rain from everything under it, so nothing much grows there; we'll see if the mint/lemonbalm survives there long enough to cut back the tree and let some light in. That's a chore for later in the fall.
Like picking up apples and trying to find ways to use them up. A few fall every day, and half of them have bites out of them by the squirrels, or worm-holes, or they're too small to bother with, and those go in the compost. So by the time the weekend rolls around I've got a basketful of winesaps to do something with. What? So far, I've made apple cobbler, Gven has made apple crisp, and we've frozen a few.
It's labor-intensive, time-consuming work to peel, wash, core, and slice, even before the actual mixing, baking, and all that. But it's something to do on the weekend when I'm not copyediting, checking, tracking, proofing, revising, or answering e-mail. And I'm convinced that it's a lot more ergonomically correct to walk around all day carrying a shovel, moving from one plot to another, as long as I remember to switch hands. And you know what? I sleep better.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
snakes in the plains: a midwestern kundalini dream
But first a little backstory. I hadn't been sleeping soundly, and it was one of those nights. First the dog was whimpering. Then my legs were aching. My own fault for eating a late supper and neglecting the usual physical practices that I depend upon to work out the kinks. And who knows what other issues found an outlet in dreamspace.
I'm in a camp or small rural settlement with a row of small buildings. I need to find my backpack and bring it with me. I seem to be going somewhere to teach or attend a class, and there is something I need in the pack. Flat, expansive landscape, semi-arid with only a few small trees.
When I reach the last cabin and find my backpack, there is a small snake lying still beside it on the floor. When I reach to pick up my pack, the snake wakes up and gets aggressive, raising its head off the floor the way you see in pictures of cobras. But instead of striking, it just got in the way, and when I tried to push it to the side, it resisted with surprising strength. The little sleeping snake grew into a long, thick, tough animal, even though its actions were benign, not a threat, just a nuisance.
With the snake out of the way, I took my pack out the door and down a long incline, then remembered that there was something else I needed for my class. Walk back past the cabins to a big square frame house. Go upstairs in the house to an empty room. Find the missing item. Into the house comes my old friend S.H. with his usual sly half-smile. He asks me something about the house; I reply something like yeah, pretty nice house.
I'm in a camp or small rural settlement with a row of small buildings. I need to find my backpack and bring it with me. I seem to be going somewhere to teach or attend a class, and there is something I need in the pack. Flat, expansive landscape, semi-arid with only a few small trees.
When I reach the last cabin and find my backpack, there is a small snake lying still beside it on the floor. When I reach to pick up my pack, the snake wakes up and gets aggressive, raising its head off the floor the way you see in pictures of cobras. But instead of striking, it just got in the way, and when I tried to push it to the side, it resisted with surprising strength. The little sleeping snake grew into a long, thick, tough animal, even though its actions were benign, not a threat, just a nuisance.
With the snake out of the way, I took my pack out the door and down a long incline, then remembered that there was something else I needed for my class. Walk back past the cabins to a big square frame house. Go upstairs in the house to an empty room. Find the missing item. Into the house comes my old friend S.H. with his usual sly half-smile. He asks me something about the house; I reply something like yeah, pretty nice house.
Friday, August 25, 2006
fight fascism everywhere
In government, in the workplace, at home, at school, in your relationships, in yourself.
When someone justifies their arbitrary and unilateral use of power by saying they'd rather ask for forgiveness than ask for permission.
When someone tells you what you have to do, because that's the way it's done here.
When someone informs you that from now on, all questions will go through him/her, and if they want your input, they will ask you for it.
When someone says you can forget those old rules you used to follow, they are no longer in effect, and they will tell you what the new rules are, and if you have a problem with that, they're sorry but according to the new rules, that's your problem.
When someone takes your stuff and says it's really their stuff, because they need it for something more important than whatever it was you were going to do with it.
When someone says your ideas are fine, but here's how we're going to do things.
When someone says everybody here is equal, except those other people, and we all know who they are and why they're not as good as us, and if you don't understand or agree, you're probably one of them.
When somebody says they're doing this for your own good, and you'll thank them later, but they can't tell you why because it's better that you don't know.
When somebody says your ideas are interesting, but everyone knows that in reality things are very different. When someone says your ideas are just like theirs, so you must be right.
When someone says that it offends her/him, therefore it is morally wrong, unjust, unfair, and unfit. When someone says they like it, therefore it is morally right, just, and correct.
When someone justifies their arbitrary and unilateral use of power by saying they'd rather ask for forgiveness than ask for permission.
When someone tells you what you have to do, because that's the way it's done here.
When someone informs you that from now on, all questions will go through him/her, and if they want your input, they will ask you for it.
When someone says you can forget those old rules you used to follow, they are no longer in effect, and they will tell you what the new rules are, and if you have a problem with that, they're sorry but according to the new rules, that's your problem.
When someone takes your stuff and says it's really their stuff, because they need it for something more important than whatever it was you were going to do with it.
When someone says your ideas are fine, but here's how we're going to do things.
When someone says everybody here is equal, except those other people, and we all know who they are and why they're not as good as us, and if you don't understand or agree, you're probably one of them.
When somebody says they're doing this for your own good, and you'll thank them later, but they can't tell you why because it's better that you don't know.
When somebody says your ideas are interesting, but everyone knows that in reality things are very different. When someone says your ideas are just like theirs, so you must be right.
When someone says that it offends her/him, therefore it is morally wrong, unjust, unfair, and unfit. When someone says they like it, therefore it is morally right, just, and correct.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Owners approve expansion of solar system
The dateline in Wednesday's paper is WASHINGTON. So now we know where the owners of planetary franchises have their headquarters. And the reportage provides insight into how business decisions are made on the macro-level. As predicted by ESPN, NYSE, and IAU analysts, expansion has once again hit the solar system. It seems nine planets don't provide a big enough viewing audience, so we're going to a 12-planet league.
What's next - revenue sharing? Think of how a 12-planet format will affect the playoffs! This could be as influential as the BCS (Bowl Championship Series to the layperson). Or not.
To solar system purists, of course, this is an outrage. Geez, they're letting Charon, Xena, and Ceres in, next every freaking asteroid between Mars and Jupiter will want planetary status. Then it will become an entitlement. What's to keep every large hunk of celestial debris from thinking it's a planet? What was wrong with the nine real planets anyway?
"More planets will be added later," astronomers from the International Astronomical Union (IAU) stated. Ya see? You let three upstart heavenly bodies into the solar system, and there goes the neighborhood. Like Reagan said about the Panama Canal, it's OUR solar system, and we intend to keep it.
Besides, it says right here that two of the newcomers - Charon and Xena - are "distant odd-balls wandering outside Neptune in weirdly shaped orbits," just like Pluto. You know, Pluto never did really fit in. Too small, too peculiar, too far out, it just wasn't like the other, normal planets, and frankly it didn't get along, you know, traveling in an irregular orbit as it does. So now the weirdos are called "plutons" but we have to treat them as if they were regular planets, sort of an affirmative action program.
The other newcomer, Ceres, was apparently treated as a planet back in the nineteenth century, and now it's a planet again. Sort of. Kind of a small-market planet, like Pittsburgh. It's been around for a long time, so we might as well call it a planet, in a marginal, tolerant kind of way, you know, like Milwaukee, even though it will never be in a position to compete with the big planets - your Jupiters, your Saturns, Uranuses.
Speaking of bureaucrats, all this is still very much "up in the air," so to speak. Nothing is final until the recommendation of the Planet Definition Committee is approved by the 3,000 astronomers of the IAU meeting this week in Prague. Imagine the tension in the air. The conditions for planethood include being at least 500 miles wide, and Ceres just barely squeaks in at 580 - much smaller than our moon. It has to be round, and it has to orbit a star.
At least there are standards, like roundness, even though Earthlings are bound to be suspicious of any aspiring planet with an irregular orbit. So don't get any big ideas, you plutons! We'll always know you're different. And those other icy bodies out there lobbying the IAU and their local chapter of Planned Planethood, don't think this leaves the door open for just any asteroid to join the planet club.
What's next - revenue sharing? Think of how a 12-planet format will affect the playoffs! This could be as influential as the BCS (Bowl Championship Series to the layperson). Or not.
To solar system purists, of course, this is an outrage. Geez, they're letting Charon, Xena, and Ceres in, next every freaking asteroid between Mars and Jupiter will want planetary status. Then it will become an entitlement. What's to keep every large hunk of celestial debris from thinking it's a planet? What was wrong with the nine real planets anyway?
"More planets will be added later," astronomers from the International Astronomical Union (IAU) stated. Ya see? You let three upstart heavenly bodies into the solar system, and there goes the neighborhood. Like Reagan said about the Panama Canal, it's OUR solar system, and we intend to keep it.
Besides, it says right here that two of the newcomers - Charon and Xena - are "distant odd-balls wandering outside Neptune in weirdly shaped orbits," just like Pluto. You know, Pluto never did really fit in. Too small, too peculiar, too far out, it just wasn't like the other, normal planets, and frankly it didn't get along, you know, traveling in an irregular orbit as it does. So now the weirdos are called "plutons" but we have to treat them as if they were regular planets, sort of an affirmative action program.
The other newcomer, Ceres, was apparently treated as a planet back in the nineteenth century, and now it's a planet again. Sort of. Kind of a small-market planet, like Pittsburgh. It's been around for a long time, so we might as well call it a planet, in a marginal, tolerant kind of way, you know, like Milwaukee, even though it will never be in a position to compete with the big planets - your Jupiters, your Saturns, Uranuses.
Speaking of bureaucrats, all this is still very much "up in the air," so to speak. Nothing is final until the recommendation of the Planet Definition Committee is approved by the 3,000 astronomers of the IAU meeting this week in Prague. Imagine the tension in the air. The conditions for planethood include being at least 500 miles wide, and Ceres just barely squeaks in at 580 - much smaller than our moon. It has to be round, and it has to orbit a star.
At least there are standards, like roundness, even though Earthlings are bound to be suspicious of any aspiring planet with an irregular orbit. So don't get any big ideas, you plutons! We'll always know you're different. And those other icy bodies out there lobbying the IAU and their local chapter of Planned Planethood, don't think this leaves the door open for just any asteroid to join the planet club.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
suspicious behavior
The recent experience of a couple of young guys from Detroit should be a lesson to all of us: you are subject to arrest and detention if you are ABC (Arab Buying Cellphones), AQA (Anyone Questioning Authority), or DWB (Driving While Black).
The latter category of criminal activity, of course, has been well known for some time here in the land of the free and the home of the owners of the factors of production. Regardless of region, state, or neighborhood, you are putting yourself in jeopardy with law enforcement officials (LEO) if you choose to engage in suspicious behavior such as Driving While Black (DWB). Like DWI (Driving While Intoxicated), Driving While Black automatically makes one a threat to law-abiding citizens (LAC), at least in the perceptions of vigilant LEO. Whether you are driving a Cadillac on the South Side of Chicago or a pickup truck in Macon, a new Range Rover in Beverly Hills or an old Saab in Columbus, real Amerikan LEOs and LACkeys know enough to use common sense and avoid DWB, ABC, or AQA.
AQA has also been a crime for long enough that any fool should know better than to Question Authority. It didn't just start in the 1960s, when a large collection of dissenters started dressing funny and otherwise disrespecting the police, the military, and other protectors of freedom by asking questions. The gall. The nerve. There have always been troublemakers on the lunatic fringes of respectable society for as long as there have been authoritarian fear-mongers to protect us from deviants, malcontents, and ourselves. It's only recently that it has explicitly become public policy that dissent = treason.
The events of last week, not only in British airports but on U.S. highways, are only an extension of that proud tradition. Two young men of Southwest Asian descent can't buy cell phones in quantity without being arrested for conspiracy to commit terrorist acts. Okay, so Sheriff Bubba from southern Ohio got a little carried away in his patriotic zeal to nail a couple of foreign devils, can ya blame the guy when it's the policy and practice from the top-down to report and detain those who are guilty of, you know, "suspicious behavior"?
I know I'm over-reacting; that's what I do in this space. I'll try not to harm any human or animal subjects in the process. What this "suspicious behavior" issue - and the zeal with which patriotic citizens are encouraged to report each other - reminds me of some other incidents I have encountered.
Back in the day when I was between freelance jobs, I did some landscaping for an acquaintance in the campus area of town. We met several times to discuss their needs in the back yard of their large, beautiful home on a ravine, and I spent several hours a day for several weeks working alone in the yard with hand tools and ladders. I had conversations with his wife about the condition of the trees, the shrubs, the groundcover, and the weeds. I knew their son, a well-connected lawyer. I met some of their neighbors.
One day when the family was on vacation, someone broke into their house, tripping an alarm system that alerted the police. A vigilant law enforcement officer in his high-tech vehicle spotted me from the ravine carrying landscaping stones and called for backup. The LEO questioned me, heard my explanation of what I was doing, handcuffed me, and locked me in the back seat of his car. An hour or so later, when my identity had been confirmed, he let me go, rationalizing his actions by saying that if it were my house, I would have wanted him to do just what he had done.
No.
The latter category of criminal activity, of course, has been well known for some time here in the land of the free and the home of the owners of the factors of production. Regardless of region, state, or neighborhood, you are putting yourself in jeopardy with law enforcement officials (LEO) if you choose to engage in suspicious behavior such as Driving While Black (DWB). Like DWI (Driving While Intoxicated), Driving While Black automatically makes one a threat to law-abiding citizens (LAC), at least in the perceptions of vigilant LEO. Whether you are driving a Cadillac on the South Side of Chicago or a pickup truck in Macon, a new Range Rover in Beverly Hills or an old Saab in Columbus, real Amerikan LEOs and LACkeys know enough to use common sense and avoid DWB, ABC, or AQA.
AQA has also been a crime for long enough that any fool should know better than to Question Authority. It didn't just start in the 1960s, when a large collection of dissenters started dressing funny and otherwise disrespecting the police, the military, and other protectors of freedom by asking questions. The gall. The nerve. There have always been troublemakers on the lunatic fringes of respectable society for as long as there have been authoritarian fear-mongers to protect us from deviants, malcontents, and ourselves. It's only recently that it has explicitly become public policy that dissent = treason.
The events of last week, not only in British airports but on U.S. highways, are only an extension of that proud tradition. Two young men of Southwest Asian descent can't buy cell phones in quantity without being arrested for conspiracy to commit terrorist acts. Okay, so Sheriff Bubba from southern Ohio got a little carried away in his patriotic zeal to nail a couple of foreign devils, can ya blame the guy when it's the policy and practice from the top-down to report and detain those who are guilty of, you know, "suspicious behavior"?
I know I'm over-reacting; that's what I do in this space. I'll try not to harm any human or animal subjects in the process. What this "suspicious behavior" issue - and the zeal with which patriotic citizens are encouraged to report each other - reminds me of some other incidents I have encountered.
Back in the day when I was between freelance jobs, I did some landscaping for an acquaintance in the campus area of town. We met several times to discuss their needs in the back yard of their large, beautiful home on a ravine, and I spent several hours a day for several weeks working alone in the yard with hand tools and ladders. I had conversations with his wife about the condition of the trees, the shrubs, the groundcover, and the weeds. I knew their son, a well-connected lawyer. I met some of their neighbors.
One day when the family was on vacation, someone broke into their house, tripping an alarm system that alerted the police. A vigilant law enforcement officer in his high-tech vehicle spotted me from the ravine carrying landscaping stones and called for backup. The LEO questioned me, heard my explanation of what I was doing, handcuffed me, and locked me in the back seat of his car. An hour or so later, when my identity had been confirmed, he let me go, rationalizing his actions by saying that if it were my house, I would have wanted him to do just what he had done.
No.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Style, text, world
A bizarre three-part dream ran through my sleeping mind the other night, the loopy kind that keeps repeating with only slight differences the same general plotline, then looping through it again, and again, pretending to change and faking the dreaming self into believing the changes, only to fiendishly return with the same damn problem embedded in the style/text/world of the dream.
The problem that kept recurring was, simply put, that changing the style - the presentation or appearance of the work - doesn't necessarily alter the actual text - the content of the information in the message of the work - that the style is intended to shape; and even when you succeed in altering the style in a way that makes it possible to convey a change in the text that actually says something differently, the disparity in the world that the text refers to remains untouched.
It wasn't a restful night, and it took a while to get myself in gear the next day, but function I did in the two-dimensional space of writing words on pages. It did help to sort it out in this space, however, to put into words the multivalent experience of what can't be done with words. Then at lunch it was very therapeutic to describe the dream to my favorite intern in the universe, who understood what I was talking about. A miracle.
The problem that kept recurring was, simply put, that changing the style - the presentation or appearance of the work - doesn't necessarily alter the actual text - the content of the information in the message of the work - that the style is intended to shape; and even when you succeed in altering the style in a way that makes it possible to convey a change in the text that actually says something differently, the disparity in the world that the text refers to remains untouched.
It wasn't a restful night, and it took a while to get myself in gear the next day, but function I did in the two-dimensional space of writing words on pages. It did help to sort it out in this space, however, to put into words the multivalent experience of what can't be done with words. Then at lunch it was very therapeutic to describe the dream to my favorite intern in the universe, who understood what I was talking about. A miracle.
Monday, August 14, 2006
State Fair
Perfect weather. The sheep barn, shearing ewes, just a touch-up by a practiced hand, and judging the rams, hanging onto the big curly horns of the willful beasts. The butter cow, butter Brown, butter Bengal, and butter boy; ice cream hits the spot on a hot day.
The beef cattle show in the Voinovich building is a lot like a football crowd, with human sons and daughters resembling their beefy fathers and mothers as they stand around and talk the talk after showing their animals. Nextdoor in the coliseum ponies pulling wagons, getting ribbons from the pony queen, smiling and standing gamely in the soft dirt in her heels and gown, while the organ plays on, one continuous farm medly blending "Anchors Aweigh" with the Marine Hymn, the Notre Dame fight song, "If They Could See Me Now," and finally "God Bless America."
A cow gives birth to a calf in front of a small outdoor audience. Swine lounge and nap in fresh beds of clean wood shavings, twitching slightly as they dream of corn, or soybean meal, or other swine, or pearls, who knows what hogs dream of?
We stroll out past a stage where gypsy music from several eastern Mediterranean lands suggests dancing and centuries of trading tunes and riffs on the violin, guitar, and bass. We take our time looking at visual art from all over Ohio, a few quite arresting and a lot more all over the map in quality, subject, and medium, like the folks viewing it. We did see one painting called "Searching," which is what my eye was doing, by a friend named Sky.
Finally arts and crafts, quilts, stitchery, leather, barrel making, woodworking, jewelry, and a Lego City that looks just like downtown Columbus. I bought a pair of stoneware baking pans from a pottery in Zanesville, and on the way home a six-pack of Old Speckled Hen.
The beef cattle show in the Voinovich building is a lot like a football crowd, with human sons and daughters resembling their beefy fathers and mothers as they stand around and talk the talk after showing their animals. Nextdoor in the coliseum ponies pulling wagons, getting ribbons from the pony queen, smiling and standing gamely in the soft dirt in her heels and gown, while the organ plays on, one continuous farm medly blending "Anchors Aweigh" with the Marine Hymn, the Notre Dame fight song, "If They Could See Me Now," and finally "God Bless America."
A cow gives birth to a calf in front of a small outdoor audience. Swine lounge and nap in fresh beds of clean wood shavings, twitching slightly as they dream of corn, or soybean meal, or other swine, or pearls, who knows what hogs dream of?
We stroll out past a stage where gypsy music from several eastern Mediterranean lands suggests dancing and centuries of trading tunes and riffs on the violin, guitar, and bass. We take our time looking at visual art from all over Ohio, a few quite arresting and a lot more all over the map in quality, subject, and medium, like the folks viewing it. We did see one painting called "Searching," which is what my eye was doing, by a friend named Sky.
Finally arts and crafts, quilts, stitchery, leather, barrel making, woodworking, jewelry, and a Lego City that looks just like downtown Columbus. I bought a pair of stoneware baking pans from a pottery in Zanesville, and on the way home a six-pack of Old Speckled Hen.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Let the harvest begin
The first ripe tomato of the year. The last of the mesclun greens for a salad.
The second bean picking might be the last because the Japanese beetle invasion has devoured most of the leaves, the remnants of which look like a lacy network of green, more space than leaf. The third or fourth week of slow and steady pepper picking, mostly the light green Hungarian peppers, a handful of tiny cayenne, and that's it; the experimental planting of peppers at the far end of the garden might be backfiring, or maybe they just need rain. A couple of small cabbages might make a little sourkraut. A basket of onions and more where they came from.
It's fun to pick vegetables, put them in containers, and look at them for a while before washing, cooking, storing, eating.
The second bean picking might be the last because the Japanese beetle invasion has devoured most of the leaves, the remnants of which look like a lacy network of green, more space than leaf. The third or fourth week of slow and steady pepper picking, mostly the light green Hungarian peppers, a handful of tiny cayenne, and that's it; the experimental planting of peppers at the far end of the garden might be backfiring, or maybe they just need rain. A couple of small cabbages might make a little sourkraut. A basket of onions and more where they came from.
It's fun to pick vegetables, put them in containers, and look at them for a while before washing, cooking, storing, eating.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Mating Habits of the North American homo sapiens
Does everyone I know have relationship problems, or is it just my imagination? No, not everyone, only those who are in a relationship. Members of my family, my small circle of male friends, my co-workers. It must be the mating season. Or the unmating season.
So much hinges on timing, so much depends on readiness. Let's say you meet a really beautiful, fantastic person who answers something deep inside you, and the feeling is mutual. There's physical chemistry, there's an intellectual connection, there's a spiritual phenomenon that's hard to explain but impossible to deny, and if you're really lucky, there's a time and place to be together and have some common experiences. Maybe, just maybe, you discover that you care deeply about the same things.
An amazing time. You might as well enjoy it, because it doesn't happen every day, and I'm not sure it happens every lifetime.
In how many ways do the stars have to align for this to work - even short-term? Is one person or the other, or both, at a point in the trajectory of their life where they're able to make a major decision about the direction of their life? At what point is a growing, changing, autonomous individual ready to start operating as half of a couple? When do you start making long-term plans? At best, a person can know what they might be doing in one or two or five years. When do you start remodeling, renovating, or revisiting those long-term plans?
What makes it complicated is that nothing is ever evenly balanced and equally shared. The romantic/erotic picture takes on more shades of blue when love is unrequited, or when one flame burns hotter than the other, or one light shines brighter than the other, or one is ready to make commitments and the other isn't. The variations on those themes fill works of literature, and usually someone gets hurt.
Should I go the autobiographical route? The short version goes something like this. High school sweetheart goes away to K College and, to her parents' enormous relief, meets a guy who better meets their standards. Good for her, bad for me, or so I thought. I saw her at a class reunion 20 years and two kids later; she was divorced and I wasn't, so who's to say.
Kind of like "Groundhog Day," I guess I had to make that mistake a few more times before I got it right. There was that girl from Canada whose parents didn't approve, and they were right, it wasn't meant to be. There was another girl from high school, but that was something different, more like an intimate friendship; we still communicate, but she went her way and I went mine. It wouldn't have worked.
There was someone pretty remarkable the second time around in college, when I was ready to discover there are more kinds of fish in the sea. So my education continued for quite a while, as I explored different waters and made enough mistakes with other people's feelings to last a lifetime, sometimes receiving pain and sometimes inflicting it. I'm probably still working off some of that karma. Is that just the way it works - when it doesn't work? Does it even out in the end?
I have several close acquaintances who are going through relationship transitions. That sounds cold, clinical, and impersonal. They're going through some shit with a lover, okay? Nah, that's not it either. They've got some issues. Who doesn't? They're in a world of pain. Too dramatic. Things are not working out. Understatement. Mid-life crisis? Cliche.
I'm not naming names, and I'm not disclosing incriminating details - or else I won't have any family, friends, or co-workers left. There's the guy about my age whose wife abruptly left him after 30-some years. There's another who has had a few girlfriends since splitting with his wife several years ago. And another who's been divorced for ten years, and his most recent and most healthy girlfriend just moved in with him. Is there something in the water? Everybody I know needs healing, and I wish them all luck.
None of these stories is over, of course, and some of them are already novel-length sagas, not adolescent coming-of-age tales. The awful truth is that there's no formula, no rule, no magic key to working them out. Dr. Phil, Rev. Rod, Judge Judy, my Dad, and every other self-appointed Source of Great Wisdom will quote you a simple rule that makes it all clear. They're either lying or deluded.
So much hinges on timing, so much depends on readiness. Let's say you meet a really beautiful, fantastic person who answers something deep inside you, and the feeling is mutual. There's physical chemistry, there's an intellectual connection, there's a spiritual phenomenon that's hard to explain but impossible to deny, and if you're really lucky, there's a time and place to be together and have some common experiences. Maybe, just maybe, you discover that you care deeply about the same things.
An amazing time. You might as well enjoy it, because it doesn't happen every day, and I'm not sure it happens every lifetime.
In how many ways do the stars have to align for this to work - even short-term? Is one person or the other, or both, at a point in the trajectory of their life where they're able to make a major decision about the direction of their life? At what point is a growing, changing, autonomous individual ready to start operating as half of a couple? When do you start making long-term plans? At best, a person can know what they might be doing in one or two or five years. When do you start remodeling, renovating, or revisiting those long-term plans?
What makes it complicated is that nothing is ever evenly balanced and equally shared. The romantic/erotic picture takes on more shades of blue when love is unrequited, or when one flame burns hotter than the other, or one light shines brighter than the other, or one is ready to make commitments and the other isn't. The variations on those themes fill works of literature, and usually someone gets hurt.
Should I go the autobiographical route? The short version goes something like this. High school sweetheart goes away to K College and, to her parents' enormous relief, meets a guy who better meets their standards. Good for her, bad for me, or so I thought. I saw her at a class reunion 20 years and two kids later; she was divorced and I wasn't, so who's to say.
Kind of like "Groundhog Day," I guess I had to make that mistake a few more times before I got it right. There was that girl from Canada whose parents didn't approve, and they were right, it wasn't meant to be. There was another girl from high school, but that was something different, more like an intimate friendship; we still communicate, but she went her way and I went mine. It wouldn't have worked.
There was someone pretty remarkable the second time around in college, when I was ready to discover there are more kinds of fish in the sea. So my education continued for quite a while, as I explored different waters and made enough mistakes with other people's feelings to last a lifetime, sometimes receiving pain and sometimes inflicting it. I'm probably still working off some of that karma. Is that just the way it works - when it doesn't work? Does it even out in the end?
I have several close acquaintances who are going through relationship transitions. That sounds cold, clinical, and impersonal. They're going through some shit with a lover, okay? Nah, that's not it either. They've got some issues. Who doesn't? They're in a world of pain. Too dramatic. Things are not working out. Understatement. Mid-life crisis? Cliche.
I'm not naming names, and I'm not disclosing incriminating details - or else I won't have any family, friends, or co-workers left. There's the guy about my age whose wife abruptly left him after 30-some years. There's another who has had a few girlfriends since splitting with his wife several years ago. And another who's been divorced for ten years, and his most recent and most healthy girlfriend just moved in with him. Is there something in the water? Everybody I know needs healing, and I wish them all luck.
None of these stories is over, of course, and some of them are already novel-length sagas, not adolescent coming-of-age tales. The awful truth is that there's no formula, no rule, no magic key to working them out. Dr. Phil, Rev. Rod, Judge Judy, my Dad, and every other self-appointed Source of Great Wisdom will quote you a simple rule that makes it all clear. They're either lying or deluded.
full moon spontaneous film reflection
Not a review, not a recommendation, not an endorsement, not a critique, analysis, or interpretation of the Columbus premiere of The Journal of Short Film, 90 minutes of the world's best short films.
"Romantic" was the only thing I could say, although I'm not sure what that means. Wanting to do things that are worth writing about, wanting to write about things that are worth doing, wanting to go outside in the evening air and make something up, write something down, tell somebody about it. "Gravel" was great. Not great as in big, stupendous, extraordinary, but diamond-in-the-rough grate as in hard and shiny and a little irritating but also sweet. "High Plains" was gripping at first because I wanted to be there, I could imagine myself doing that, and then I didn't and I couldn't, and then the visually hypnotic physical location kind of took over. You never know what the filmmaker has in mind, what he or she is driving at, except maybe wanting to be watched. The one about the personals was well-done, compact, and well-written, starring the Murphy bed. Stillwell's animated figures were beautiful and compelling, reminding me rhythmically of the Triplets of Belleville but without the discernible story line, so I lost the thread and forgot to pay attention for a minute when I didn't know what those lovely figures with interesting eyes were doing exactly. "Formalist" is another word, as in what you can do with a puppet, dance, image to entertain the eye.
"Romantic" was the only thing I could say, although I'm not sure what that means. Wanting to do things that are worth writing about, wanting to write about things that are worth doing, wanting to go outside in the evening air and make something up, write something down, tell somebody about it. "Gravel" was great. Not great as in big, stupendous, extraordinary, but diamond-in-the-rough grate as in hard and shiny and a little irritating but also sweet. "High Plains" was gripping at first because I wanted to be there, I could imagine myself doing that, and then I didn't and I couldn't, and then the visually hypnotic physical location kind of took over. You never know what the filmmaker has in mind, what he or she is driving at, except maybe wanting to be watched. The one about the personals was well-done, compact, and well-written, starring the Murphy bed. Stillwell's animated figures were beautiful and compelling, reminding me rhythmically of the Triplets of Belleville but without the discernible story line, so I lost the thread and forgot to pay attention for a minute when I didn't know what those lovely figures with interesting eyes were doing exactly. "Formalist" is another word, as in what you can do with a puppet, dance, image to entertain the eye.
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