I'm increasingly convinced that posturing works. In the words of a wise and experienced teacher, "Fake it till you make it." What I think she means by that is, roughly, practicing the outward form of the kind of life you admire, even in a superficial and flawed way, can bring about some significant changes.
If you don't achieve anything else, the act of posing as [insert desired character attributes here] aligns the body, outward appearance, and attitude in a certain way that gives the impression that you actually know what you're doing. Assume the posture. Do it again. Repeat until all the weight-bearing structures and all their supporting levers and pulleys adapt.
On one level, posturing is a practical way to replace one set of habits with another, hipper and more enlightened, set of habits, kind of like buying new clothes can make the same old dork feel like a new man for about an hour. Sometimes the shoe fits, and you can wear the new persona immediately. (This has happened maybe once that I can remember.) Other times the fu shits, you wash it off and try again.
Usually it takes a long time (gongfu) to take on the attributes of the form, the guru, or the role model, so there is a gap between the objective, fumbling 'me' and the ideal, integrated 'it'. My hips don't want to rotate wide enough, my head doesn't want to rest vertically on top of my spine, my mind won't focus with crystaline clarity. There's a reaction (oops) and a resumption (there), followed by a relapse (damn) and a reset (okay), and so on indefinitely. This chain of events can resemble a rote drill more than a peaceful meditation, and there might not be much difference, at least for a beginning poser.
I suppose I've been posturing on and off for forty-plus years, and my skill in posturing has improved markedly. As a little kid I was just Sven. My friends knew me and other people didn't. Then at some point, probably adolescence, I decided to be somebody, so it became necessary to act the part of an athlete, a cool guy, a writer, a responsible young man, a deep thinker, or whatever attracted girls. If you're paying attention, there are role models from whom to pick up moves, and if you're not paying attention, well, never mind.
A big part of it in my circumscribed world was body language. Standing, sitting, or walking a certain way, physically placing the muscles, bones, and joints in a certain relationship with gravity, conditions malleable soft tissues, brain, and nervous system with the know-how and disposition to act like the jocks, the hipsters, the guys chicks dig. We were all in training, and for those who persevere, the body takes on the shape of the aspiration. Practice, practice, practice, and hope it takes.
But you knew that. Did you also know that posturing is related to all these wonderful words in that fabulous lexical landscape we call the English language?
A. positive
B. impose
C. posit
D. expose
E. oppose
F. component
G. dispose
H. position
I. postpone
Now, use all of them in a sentence, you poser.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Monday, June 01, 2009
Have fun, be good, take a nap
When we were kids, Mom would feed us breakfast and send us off to school in the morning with the admonition, "Have fun, be good, learn lots." Concise, to the point, and very Helen. I went to see Mom and Dad for a weekend recently, and now her mantra is "Have fun, be good, take a nap."
I'm beginning to learn how to take a break at the appropriate moment, step back from an issue, and just chill. There was one such moment, I think it was Day 3, when something random and unintentional got to me. Maybe I was tired, or I missed my own space, whatever. I stopped what I was doing, took my laptop out on the deck and listened to Simon and Garfunkel. It was restful and a source of stimulation at the same time, allowing me to step back from my reaction to Mom's reaction to Dad's reaction to some other dysfunctional faux pas in the peasant family dynamics. I'm not going to over-analyze it, just acknowledge it.
The whole visit went well, and I'm grateful that I can hang out with my aging parents at their house in their comfort zone and their daily rhythms, enjoy their company, and get a couple of chores done. Dad had a project or two underway, as usual, and he welcomed my participation as much as I welcomed having something tangible to do. That kind of reciprocity has not always been the case, so we seem to be making progress in that area.
The deck he built with the help of a friend has deteriorated over the course of 18 years of sun, wind, rain, and hickory trees, so Dad was replacing the spindles of the railing enclosing the north and west sides of the deck. My first job was to paint the new 1x1-inch 4-foot hardwood spindles--after first artfully arranging then on a dropcloth on the floor of the garage. This was nice solitary work that I could do in a deep squat taiji style like some Chinese-Norwegian Jackson Pollack.
My second job was to drill and screw the spindles onto the railing and deck. It's not rocket science, but as with any project, there are plenty of ways to get it wrong while measuring, spacing, and attaching stuff to other stuff, whether you're 12 feet up a ladder or bending over from above. This phase of the work required some communication, as well as trading off drill and screwdrivers, so Dad and I carried on a focused dialog as we worked through the process step by step.
Because Dad is 88 (and I'm not), I handled the ladder climbing, securing the bottom of the spindles to the deck frame while he attached the tops to the railing. Because he has degrees in industrial arts and a lifetime of experience in building and fixing things, he had a pretty clear idea of how to go about the task safely and effectively. Because I'm not 12 (or 18, or 24, or 30) anymore and have been to school and work awhile myself, I was able to offer a few suggestions on how we could organize and execute the work, though I usually deferred to his judgment. Because he recognized my contributions and valued my efforts, he listened to my ideas with an open mind and heart and mostly let me do my part my way.
By the end of the day, we had one side of the deck done and were ready for a vodka and Squirt. Mom had cooked a fine dinner of country ribs and scalloped potatoes, and I think I ate enough for three people. The deck railing was only one job in a to-do list compiled by a local construction expert, and I spent a little time reading through the other repairs that would bring their house up to marketable condition. Not that anyone is in a big hurry to sell the house and move to a condo up the road. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
The roof figures prominently in about half of the list, and a quick look from the back deck provided a clue to the problem. I had some downtime the next day, so I climbed up on the roof with a broom intending to spend half an hour sweeping off debris from the trees that tower over The Little House on the Fairway. You guessed it, half an hour turned into half a day, and a quick sweep turned into a sparring match with a ton of damp hickory droppings, gravity, the pitch of the roof, and the hot Tennessee sun. Luckily I kept my maize and blue Michigan baseball cap on, so I maintained a cool head and didn't succomb to heat exhaustion, vertigo, or delerium. My legs got a workout, and the accumulation of debris in low spots showed me how a minor design flaw led to the need for some of the repairs on the list. I'm looking forward to the next project.
I'm beginning to learn how to take a break at the appropriate moment, step back from an issue, and just chill. There was one such moment, I think it was Day 3, when something random and unintentional got to me. Maybe I was tired, or I missed my own space, whatever. I stopped what I was doing, took my laptop out on the deck and listened to Simon and Garfunkel. It was restful and a source of stimulation at the same time, allowing me to step back from my reaction to Mom's reaction to Dad's reaction to some other dysfunctional faux pas in the peasant family dynamics. I'm not going to over-analyze it, just acknowledge it.
The whole visit went well, and I'm grateful that I can hang out with my aging parents at their house in their comfort zone and their daily rhythms, enjoy their company, and get a couple of chores done. Dad had a project or two underway, as usual, and he welcomed my participation as much as I welcomed having something tangible to do. That kind of reciprocity has not always been the case, so we seem to be making progress in that area.
The deck he built with the help of a friend has deteriorated over the course of 18 years of sun, wind, rain, and hickory trees, so Dad was replacing the spindles of the railing enclosing the north and west sides of the deck. My first job was to paint the new 1x1-inch 4-foot hardwood spindles--after first artfully arranging then on a dropcloth on the floor of the garage. This was nice solitary work that I could do in a deep squat taiji style like some Chinese-Norwegian Jackson Pollack.
My second job was to drill and screw the spindles onto the railing and deck. It's not rocket science, but as with any project, there are plenty of ways to get it wrong while measuring, spacing, and attaching stuff to other stuff, whether you're 12 feet up a ladder or bending over from above. This phase of the work required some communication, as well as trading off drill and screwdrivers, so Dad and I carried on a focused dialog as we worked through the process step by step.
Because Dad is 88 (and I'm not), I handled the ladder climbing, securing the bottom of the spindles to the deck frame while he attached the tops to the railing. Because he has degrees in industrial arts and a lifetime of experience in building and fixing things, he had a pretty clear idea of how to go about the task safely and effectively. Because I'm not 12 (or 18, or 24, or 30) anymore and have been to school and work awhile myself, I was able to offer a few suggestions on how we could organize and execute the work, though I usually deferred to his judgment. Because he recognized my contributions and valued my efforts, he listened to my ideas with an open mind and heart and mostly let me do my part my way.
By the end of the day, we had one side of the deck done and were ready for a vodka and Squirt. Mom had cooked a fine dinner of country ribs and scalloped potatoes, and I think I ate enough for three people. The deck railing was only one job in a to-do list compiled by a local construction expert, and I spent a little time reading through the other repairs that would bring their house up to marketable condition. Not that anyone is in a big hurry to sell the house and move to a condo up the road. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
The roof figures prominently in about half of the list, and a quick look from the back deck provided a clue to the problem. I had some downtime the next day, so I climbed up on the roof with a broom intending to spend half an hour sweeping off debris from the trees that tower over The Little House on the Fairway. You guessed it, half an hour turned into half a day, and a quick sweep turned into a sparring match with a ton of damp hickory droppings, gravity, the pitch of the roof, and the hot Tennessee sun. Luckily I kept my maize and blue Michigan baseball cap on, so I maintained a cool head and didn't succomb to heat exhaustion, vertigo, or delerium. My legs got a workout, and the accumulation of debris in low spots showed me how a minor design flaw led to the need for some of the repairs on the list. I'm looking forward to the next project.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Oxygen debt
Leonard Cercone was old school. Win all your intervals, go all-out on every down, beat the other guy, even if he's your best friend. Especially if he's your best friend. Leonard Cercone was the track coach at Wylie E. Groves High School, also assistant football coach and world history teacher, in that order.
I went out for track my sophomore year, and after failing miserably in the hurdles, I tried the quarter mile because Coach had been a quarter-miler and his default setting was to run the quarter. But I didn't have the speed, so I tried the half mile. I passed people on the second lap, and Coach Cercone said, "Dunc, you're a half miler because you get stronger as you go along."
I remembered that phrase, stronger as you go along. It would help me in a lot of things that didn't come easily. I wasn't much of a half miler either, at least not on a team like ours that was loaded with talent, not to mention that I had no idea what training was all about. So I ended up a high jumper my senior year and did alright once I switched to the Fosbury flop.
Yet I still didn't know what a workout was, and it was years later, after high jumping was all over and I needed something else to do, that the concept of aerobic conditioning entered my world. Like many aspects of physical nature, it is a harsh and beautiful thing. You can strengthen your existing muscle fibers by overloading them with progressively increasing resistance. You can cause your heart and lungs to get stronger by demanding that they do more than they are prepared to do. Push the instrument and the instrument responds.
The opposite is also the case. If you decrease the resistance, muscle fibers get weaker, and if you stop using them, they atrophy. Go a week or two without asking the cardiovascular system to rise to the occasion, and the system loses the capacity to do it. Like trying to run a marathon when you've trained for 10K, at some point there's an oxygen debt, and it ain't gonna happen. If there's insufficient oxygen delivered, there's no ATP and no go.
Back in March when the weather got nice, I was riding the old Schvinn and feeling pretty confident about putting some miles on it. In my endorphin-fueled excitement, I actually thought I could bike three times a week, with one long ride on the weekend, and keep increasing the distance week by week. If I add just half an hour a week to my long ride, I'll be up to a hundred miles by summer.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Not that I seriously believed I would do that. I just saw that it was possible and briefly entertained the notion that, in the abstract, it could be done. So what happened? It rained. It got cool and windy. It wasn't 65 degrees and clear every day during April. It rained again. Note the whiny tone. I thought about riding, but I had other things to do.
Consequently, when perfect weather returned the second week of May, I saddled up old Schvinn and moseyed on up the trail, and guess what. No gas in the tank, no wind in the sails, no ATP in the muscles to climb the long, gradual, half-assed central Ohio hill on County Line Road. Use it or lose it, and in a couple of weeks I lost it.
The first day was bad, and the second day was horrible. Where I come from - and Coach Cercone would certainly endorse this - being fit has moral weight. If you let the body go all slack, this demonstrates your failure as a person and reveals an undeniable character flaw. He would give you that glare.
The third day was better, much better, as if my sins had been redeemed and I was a good person again. The fourth day I was unstoppable. Cars ate my dust, and I climbed hills in high gear. Westerville to the Park of Roses? No problemo! Legs, heart, and lungs hitting on all cylinders. Mind and body humming on all chakras. Oxygen delivered on demand, and the endorphin bar is open.
Let's see how long this lasts.
I went out for track my sophomore year, and after failing miserably in the hurdles, I tried the quarter mile because Coach had been a quarter-miler and his default setting was to run the quarter. But I didn't have the speed, so I tried the half mile. I passed people on the second lap, and Coach Cercone said, "Dunc, you're a half miler because you get stronger as you go along."
I remembered that phrase, stronger as you go along. It would help me in a lot of things that didn't come easily. I wasn't much of a half miler either, at least not on a team like ours that was loaded with talent, not to mention that I had no idea what training was all about. So I ended up a high jumper my senior year and did alright once I switched to the Fosbury flop.
Yet I still didn't know what a workout was, and it was years later, after high jumping was all over and I needed something else to do, that the concept of aerobic conditioning entered my world. Like many aspects of physical nature, it is a harsh and beautiful thing. You can strengthen your existing muscle fibers by overloading them with progressively increasing resistance. You can cause your heart and lungs to get stronger by demanding that they do more than they are prepared to do. Push the instrument and the instrument responds.
The opposite is also the case. If you decrease the resistance, muscle fibers get weaker, and if you stop using them, they atrophy. Go a week or two without asking the cardiovascular system to rise to the occasion, and the system loses the capacity to do it. Like trying to run a marathon when you've trained for 10K, at some point there's an oxygen debt, and it ain't gonna happen. If there's insufficient oxygen delivered, there's no ATP and no go.
Back in March when the weather got nice, I was riding the old Schvinn and feeling pretty confident about putting some miles on it. In my endorphin-fueled excitement, I actually thought I could bike three times a week, with one long ride on the weekend, and keep increasing the distance week by week. If I add just half an hour a week to my long ride, I'll be up to a hundred miles by summer.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Not that I seriously believed I would do that. I just saw that it was possible and briefly entertained the notion that, in the abstract, it could be done. So what happened? It rained. It got cool and windy. It wasn't 65 degrees and clear every day during April. It rained again. Note the whiny tone. I thought about riding, but I had other things to do.
Consequently, when perfect weather returned the second week of May, I saddled up old Schvinn and moseyed on up the trail, and guess what. No gas in the tank, no wind in the sails, no ATP in the muscles to climb the long, gradual, half-assed central Ohio hill on County Line Road. Use it or lose it, and in a couple of weeks I lost it.
The first day was bad, and the second day was horrible. Where I come from - and Coach Cercone would certainly endorse this - being fit has moral weight. If you let the body go all slack, this demonstrates your failure as a person and reveals an undeniable character flaw. He would give you that glare.
The third day was better, much better, as if my sins had been redeemed and I was a good person again. The fourth day I was unstoppable. Cars ate my dust, and I climbed hills in high gear. Westerville to the Park of Roses? No problemo! Legs, heart, and lungs hitting on all cylinders. Mind and body humming on all chakras. Oxygen delivered on demand, and the endorphin bar is open.
Let's see how long this lasts.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Generaniums
Just another weekend of epochal proportions. Clean the house, weed the garden, play a drum, bake bread, plant geraniums, celebrate the non-Hallmark Mother's Day holiday and the daughter's twenty-fifth birthday. Another week, another quarter-century of life as we know it. This season within a season could be named Offspring.
Every time I get the urge to be somewhere else, I am reminded how many attachments I have in central Swingstate. After topping off the compost pile with weeds in the morning, I went to the biweekly drum circle at the rec center, and I knew about half of the people there. I guess I'm not the new guy anymore. Two of three of the regulars I've seen at other events in other places, so there is more of a community-like context, which adds texture, and we'll see where, if anywhere, that goes.
Because I was in the neighborhood (and out of flour), I went to the coop, where I saw two more familiar faces. The nursery was on my way home, so I stopped to buy geraniums, and wouldn't you know it, I ran into a former co-worker who is an avid gardener. We chatted awhile - our gardens, other co-workers, my kids, her kids - and she returned to her reverie in the perennials while I picked out two flats of annuals.
After pulling more weeds - there are always more weeds - Gven and I went to Zelda's house for a birthday party. Her housemate David also had a birthday this week, so they cleaned the house and had a lot of people over. We arrived early and left early, had one drink, nibbled on Cheez-its, mixed with a few of their friends, and met a couple new ones. One, coincidentally, I had seen last weekend at a rest stop on I-80 in the middle of Pennsylvania. She was coming back from a film festival in New York, and I was on my way to New York to visit Zelda's brother Jessi. What are the odds? I figure it's the red hair.
Church on Sunday was focused on the theme of imperfection and the value of failure, in stark contrast to the safe, suburban liberalism that I see around me, which should be no surprise, since I undoubtedly project that same risk-averse attitude among that same congregation, whom I chose to hang out with, so pardon the digression. [Note to self: pick up Bruno Bettelheim's A Good Enough Parent.]
Since it was Mother's Day, after all, it was imperative that I go home and get busy potting geraniums in window boxes, the ritual that began some time in the 1980s and has become a sacred seasonal rite. The process is getting a little easier too. This time I used a square-bladed shovel to mix old potting soil in a wheel barrow, then filled several pots with soil and little plants from 4-packs, watered them in, and there you go. Just like Dad used to do back in Michigan.
I had to get it done quickly and efficiently because Gven and I had plans to go out to dinner with Zelda at the Tip-Top downtown, her choice of restaurant. The two of them decided to celebrate her birthday and Mother's Day together, and I had no objection. It felt entirely appropriate, as they have entered a new phase in the mother-daughter relationship, which, for lack of another term I will call friendship. It is quite a sight to behold.
Every time I get the urge to be somewhere else, I am reminded how many attachments I have in central Swingstate. After topping off the compost pile with weeds in the morning, I went to the biweekly drum circle at the rec center, and I knew about half of the people there. I guess I'm not the new guy anymore. Two of three of the regulars I've seen at other events in other places, so there is more of a community-like context, which adds texture, and we'll see where, if anywhere, that goes.
Because I was in the neighborhood (and out of flour), I went to the coop, where I saw two more familiar faces. The nursery was on my way home, so I stopped to buy geraniums, and wouldn't you know it, I ran into a former co-worker who is an avid gardener. We chatted awhile - our gardens, other co-workers, my kids, her kids - and she returned to her reverie in the perennials while I picked out two flats of annuals.
After pulling more weeds - there are always more weeds - Gven and I went to Zelda's house for a birthday party. Her housemate David also had a birthday this week, so they cleaned the house and had a lot of people over. We arrived early and left early, had one drink, nibbled on Cheez-its, mixed with a few of their friends, and met a couple new ones. One, coincidentally, I had seen last weekend at a rest stop on I-80 in the middle of Pennsylvania. She was coming back from a film festival in New York, and I was on my way to New York to visit Zelda's brother Jessi. What are the odds? I figure it's the red hair.
Church on Sunday was focused on the theme of imperfection and the value of failure, in stark contrast to the safe, suburban liberalism that I see around me, which should be no surprise, since I undoubtedly project that same risk-averse attitude among that same congregation, whom I chose to hang out with, so pardon the digression. [Note to self: pick up Bruno Bettelheim's A Good Enough Parent.]
Since it was Mother's Day, after all, it was imperative that I go home and get busy potting geraniums in window boxes, the ritual that began some time in the 1980s and has become a sacred seasonal rite. The process is getting a little easier too. This time I used a square-bladed shovel to mix old potting soil in a wheel barrow, then filled several pots with soil and little plants from 4-packs, watered them in, and there you go. Just like Dad used to do back in Michigan.
I had to get it done quickly and efficiently because Gven and I had plans to go out to dinner with Zelda at the Tip-Top downtown, her choice of restaurant. The two of them decided to celebrate her birthday and Mother's Day together, and I had no objection. It felt entirely appropriate, as they have entered a new phase in the mother-daughter relationship, which, for lack of another term I will call friendship. It is quite a sight to behold.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Whether Report
Should I stay or should I go? The eternal dilemma nailed by the Clash was alive for me last week, on the horns of deciding whether to go to New York to see Jessi. Or not. I had an itinerary and the vacation days, but I also had a ton of things to do at home. You know how it is. You have to just go. Or not.
Gven couldn't find substitute teachers on short notice, so I would go by myself. Or not. The first weekend of May is garden planting season and comes but once a year, yet the forecast called for rain in central Swingstate, so I wouldn't get much done in the yard, and I might as well get out of town. It's good to know all those courses in the Department of Rationalization at The Swingstate University went to good use.
By the time I had baked a loaf of bread to take along, consulted Mapquest, made a list, checked it twice, read the paper, checked Facebook, done a taiji form and sat for 20 minutes, it was getting late. Gven says I have too many disciplines, and she is right, of course. So many must-do practices add up to one bad habit of keeping late hours.
So I slept a little later than usual, packed a bag, brewed a thermos of coffee, stopped at the bank, and headed up the road. A few miles up the interstate, I realized I had forgotten my sleeping bag and water bottle. Call me easily distracted. I was leaving an hour later than planned; the fan belt whined, I needed air, I needed water, and it rained in northeast Ohio and northwest Pennsylvania. Then it cleared and the countryside was beautiful. Central Pennsylvania looks a lot like central Michigan, except older; maybe it's all the pine and poplar trees.
A random barrage of music came through the air to Ranger Hank Ford from a succession of NPR stations. From WOSU to WKSU to WPSU to WVIA to WBGO, I heard the same news all day along with a Beethoven violin concerto, Pink Floyd's "Money," the Chiffons' "One Fine Day," and Booker T's nearly perfect "Time Is Tight" (from 1969) during an interview with Teri Gross. I didn't mind having to switch stations and take what they gave me.
Crossing New Jersey, it started raining again as it was getting dark, and I had trouble reading my directions on the bumpy surface of I-280, but roadsigns made it self-evident how to get to the Holland Tunnel. Coming out the other end in Manhattan, everything suddenly seemed more peaceful and orderly. Canal Street swept me along southward toward the Manhattan Bridge, and by this time I had to pee like a racehorse, but there was nowhere to stop with five lanes of one-way traffic jockeying for position on a Friday night in Chinatown.
After crossing the bridge into Brooklyn, stopped at a red light on Flatbush Avenue, a parking space miraculously appeared at the curb to my right. At the next corner I walked into a watering hole called Junior's Bar, and in my black jeans, boots, and T-shirt brazenly strode past tables with white tablecloths, up the stairs to the restroom, and found relief. I even tipped the attendant who handed me a paper towel.
It was a short drive down Flatbush, out Eastern Parkway, and around the block to Jessi's house. It's not as good as a bicycle, but driving through neighborhoods is a good way to get the lay of the land. Jessi and his housemates were grilling chicken, pork chops, and vegetables in their little back yard, and I got a nice reception and a Guinness. Besides Johnny, Chuck, Corey, Gabi, and Caroline, there were the cats, Lewis and Opie. Inside, the house was littered with musical instruments, bicycles and bicycle parts, books, and vinyl records. I found it remarkably livable.
It started raining again, so we ate a delicious meal inside. Jessi and I took the subway to Grand Army Plaza and walked up and down 5th and 6th Avenues in Park Slope, half looking for a place to stop but primarily walking and talking while getting a good look at a nice lively neighborhood. Jessi let me have his room, so I crashed early and slept like a rock.
It was cool but clear Saturday morning in beautiful Brooklyn. We went for a walk along a different route and saw another side of Park Slope, ending up at the Donut Diner for breakfast. It was early afternoon by the time we got to the MoMA and met up with Alex, who was working at the information desk in the lobby. She kindly got us complimentary tickets and took a break to go upstairs to "Compass in Hand" with geographical themes: spaces, directions, grids.
Jessi and I went up a couple of flights to "Tangled Alphabets," the exhibit I ostensibly came for, and it exceeded my expectations. Leon Ferrari and Mira Schendel have produced a lot of work with text, diagrams, equations, hieroglyphics, mobiles, floorplans, codes, scribbles. The web site doesn't do it justice, and I can't describe it either, so if you're interested in the graphic/spatial/visual qualities of language and symbols, you will have to go see it yourself. I was somewhat enthralled.
And somewhat exhausted, so at closing time a little walk in the park was just what the doctor ordered. Jessi and Alex indulged my need to take half an hour to do a taiji form in a perfect little grove of pine trees in Central Park, and I felt much better. I young man played a flute nearby. You can't plan these things; they just happen sometimes.
We found a bar in the East Village that looked inviting and watched a replay of the Kentucky derby. Jessi had a mint julep in honor of the occasion; I opted for a margarita, and Alex had red wine. Veselka was half a block away, so we enjoyed a hearty Ukranian dinner: beef stroganoff for her, cabbage rolls for him, bigos (hunter's stew) for me.
A quiet evening at home in Crown Heights included part of a Martin Scorcese documentary on Bob Dylan; I think they were indulging me again, but that's okay, it was worth seeing. I slept like a rock again. It was raining Sunday morning, but Jessi had a really big umbrella, so we walked to a bagel shop on Troy Ave. for breakfast. I am such a tourist; every street, every restaurant, every subway, every bookstore is another little pocket of New York culture in my midwestern mind, and it's all kind of welcoming. I had a good time. Thank you.
Even in the rain, the trip back up Flatbush, across the bridge, and Canal Street was smooth. Traffic? What traffic? Crossing Pennsylvania from the Delaware Water Gap into the Chesapeake watershed and across the broad Susquahanna River, I'm getting a different perspective on this big, wide, peculiar state.
The rain stops by the time I re-enter Ohio, and I meet my freshman roommate for our annual vigil at Northeast Swingstate University. Even after the fieldhand omelette at Mike's Place on Water Street, my expenses for the weekend are under $200. Hey, I could do this every few weeks. Or not.
Gven couldn't find substitute teachers on short notice, so I would go by myself. Or not. The first weekend of May is garden planting season and comes but once a year, yet the forecast called for rain in central Swingstate, so I wouldn't get much done in the yard, and I might as well get out of town. It's good to know all those courses in the Department of Rationalization at The Swingstate University went to good use.
I get all the news I need on the weather report.
I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile...
The only living boy in New York. (Paul Simon, 1970)
By the time I had baked a loaf of bread to take along, consulted Mapquest, made a list, checked it twice, read the paper, checked Facebook, done a taiji form and sat for 20 minutes, it was getting late. Gven says I have too many disciplines, and she is right, of course. So many must-do practices add up to one bad habit of keeping late hours.
So I slept a little later than usual, packed a bag, brewed a thermos of coffee, stopped at the bank, and headed up the road. A few miles up the interstate, I realized I had forgotten my sleeping bag and water bottle. Call me easily distracted. I was leaving an hour later than planned; the fan belt whined, I needed air, I needed water, and it rained in northeast Ohio and northwest Pennsylvania. Then it cleared and the countryside was beautiful. Central Pennsylvania looks a lot like central Michigan, except older; maybe it's all the pine and poplar trees.
A random barrage of music came through the air to Ranger Hank Ford from a succession of NPR stations. From WOSU to WKSU to WPSU to WVIA to WBGO, I heard the same news all day along with a Beethoven violin concerto, Pink Floyd's "Money," the Chiffons' "One Fine Day," and Booker T's nearly perfect "Time Is Tight" (from 1969) during an interview with Teri Gross. I didn't mind having to switch stations and take what they gave me.
Crossing New Jersey, it started raining again as it was getting dark, and I had trouble reading my directions on the bumpy surface of I-280, but roadsigns made it self-evident how to get to the Holland Tunnel. Coming out the other end in Manhattan, everything suddenly seemed more peaceful and orderly. Canal Street swept me along southward toward the Manhattan Bridge, and by this time I had to pee like a racehorse, but there was nowhere to stop with five lanes of one-way traffic jockeying for position on a Friday night in Chinatown.
After crossing the bridge into Brooklyn, stopped at a red light on Flatbush Avenue, a parking space miraculously appeared at the curb to my right. At the next corner I walked into a watering hole called Junior's Bar, and in my black jeans, boots, and T-shirt brazenly strode past tables with white tablecloths, up the stairs to the restroom, and found relief. I even tipped the attendant who handed me a paper towel.
It was a short drive down Flatbush, out Eastern Parkway, and around the block to Jessi's house. It's not as good as a bicycle, but driving through neighborhoods is a good way to get the lay of the land. Jessi and his housemates were grilling chicken, pork chops, and vegetables in their little back yard, and I got a nice reception and a Guinness. Besides Johnny, Chuck, Corey, Gabi, and Caroline, there were the cats, Lewis and Opie. Inside, the house was littered with musical instruments, bicycles and bicycle parts, books, and vinyl records. I found it remarkably livable.
It started raining again, so we ate a delicious meal inside. Jessi and I took the subway to Grand Army Plaza and walked up and down 5th and 6th Avenues in Park Slope, half looking for a place to stop but primarily walking and talking while getting a good look at a nice lively neighborhood. Jessi let me have his room, so I crashed early and slept like a rock.
It was cool but clear Saturday morning in beautiful Brooklyn. We went for a walk along a different route and saw another side of Park Slope, ending up at the Donut Diner for breakfast. It was early afternoon by the time we got to the MoMA and met up with Alex, who was working at the information desk in the lobby. She kindly got us complimentary tickets and took a break to go upstairs to "Compass in Hand" with geographical themes: spaces, directions, grids.
Jessi and I went up a couple of flights to "Tangled Alphabets," the exhibit I ostensibly came for, and it exceeded my expectations. Leon Ferrari and Mira Schendel have produced a lot of work with text, diagrams, equations, hieroglyphics, mobiles, floorplans, codes, scribbles. The web site doesn't do it justice, and I can't describe it either, so if you're interested in the graphic/spatial/visual qualities of language and symbols, you will have to go see it yourself. I was somewhat enthralled.
And somewhat exhausted, so at closing time a little walk in the park was just what the doctor ordered. Jessi and Alex indulged my need to take half an hour to do a taiji form in a perfect little grove of pine trees in Central Park, and I felt much better. I young man played a flute nearby. You can't plan these things; they just happen sometimes.
We found a bar in the East Village that looked inviting and watched a replay of the Kentucky derby. Jessi had a mint julep in honor of the occasion; I opted for a margarita, and Alex had red wine. Veselka was half a block away, so we enjoyed a hearty Ukranian dinner: beef stroganoff for her, cabbage rolls for him, bigos (hunter's stew) for me.
A quiet evening at home in Crown Heights included part of a Martin Scorcese documentary on Bob Dylan; I think they were indulging me again, but that's okay, it was worth seeing. I slept like a rock again. It was raining Sunday morning, but Jessi had a really big umbrella, so we walked to a bagel shop on Troy Ave. for breakfast. I am such a tourist; every street, every restaurant, every subway, every bookstore is another little pocket of New York culture in my midwestern mind, and it's all kind of welcoming. I had a good time. Thank you.
Even in the rain, the trip back up Flatbush, across the bridge, and Canal Street was smooth. Traffic? What traffic? Crossing Pennsylvania from the Delaware Water Gap into the Chesapeake watershed and across the broad Susquahanna River, I'm getting a different perspective on this big, wide, peculiar state.
The rain stops by the time I re-enter Ohio, and I meet my freshman roommate for our annual vigil at Northeast Swingstate University. Even after the fieldhand omelette at Mike's Place on Water Street, my expenses for the weekend are under $200. Hey, I could do this every few weeks. Or not.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
with a broad brush
The abrupt change of seasons couldn't have come at a better time. Lately I've been living for the weekend, and this was a convincing argument in favor of that generally misguided attitude. It began with breakfast on the patio, of course, an indulgence that is worth many undone chores.
Shortly after Gven came home from her morning classes, I went to a drum circle at the rec center and reconnected with that creative, loosely cohesive group. Pretty soon they will begin congregating outside in the park, and that will likely change the dynamics considerably, which might be a good thing.
The backyard potluck for a men's group member visiting from Santa Fe was comfortable like an old pair of shoes. The presence of spouses and significant others makes it a very different gathering from our serious weeknight meetings. One of the guys had just come back from ten days in Russia; another is about to move to Arizona. I think we will stay in touch.
Next morning: coffee and fruit on the patio with the Times. Must get a jump on the weeds. Maybe I can place the trunk of a spruce tree along the edge of the vegetable beds as a border. Eventually I'll move stacks of sticks to the woodshed for next year's kindling.
It's about time to change out the compost with shovel and rake, the first stage of soil prep in the veggie beds. There are bare spots where something should be growing, and there are crowded spots that need to be thinned. In other words, I will move things around. I have big plans, but here I sit.
This is the hands-on, labor-intensive, time-consuming part of spring when the forces of earth and sky won't wait. Groundcovers are jumping out of the ground from all that rain and all this sunshine, and so are their competitors the wild things humans call weeds.
I'm the new sheriff in town. It's my job to eliminate some of the competition and make it easier for the more privileged sentient beings to flourish. Maple seedlings, dandelions, and wild strawberry are deported to the compost; ajuga, vinca, and lamium have their green cards.
So I did a little of this and a little of that and kicked the big projects down the road. Painting the garage will take three weekends and counting. Gven put a coat of primer on the side today. The mysterious door-shaped piece of sheet metal was removed, revealing nothing but perfectly good wood siding underneath.
Nobody said this was going to be the most efficient farm on the prairie, but it has to resonate with a rhyme or reason for this or any project to make any improvizational sense. Today was like a dab or two on the coarse fibrous canvas, hardly enough to make a dent.
Shortly after Gven came home from her morning classes, I went to a drum circle at the rec center and reconnected with that creative, loosely cohesive group. Pretty soon they will begin congregating outside in the park, and that will likely change the dynamics considerably, which might be a good thing.
The backyard potluck for a men's group member visiting from Santa Fe was comfortable like an old pair of shoes. The presence of spouses and significant others makes it a very different gathering from our serious weeknight meetings. One of the guys had just come back from ten days in Russia; another is about to move to Arizona. I think we will stay in touch.
Next morning: coffee and fruit on the patio with the Times. Must get a jump on the weeds. Maybe I can place the trunk of a spruce tree along the edge of the vegetable beds as a border. Eventually I'll move stacks of sticks to the woodshed for next year's kindling.
It's about time to change out the compost with shovel and rake, the first stage of soil prep in the veggie beds. There are bare spots where something should be growing, and there are crowded spots that need to be thinned. In other words, I will move things around. I have big plans, but here I sit.
This is the hands-on, labor-intensive, time-consuming part of spring when the forces of earth and sky won't wait. Groundcovers are jumping out of the ground from all that rain and all this sunshine, and so are their competitors the wild things humans call weeds.
I'm the new sheriff in town. It's my job to eliminate some of the competition and make it easier for the more privileged sentient beings to flourish. Maple seedlings, dandelions, and wild strawberry are deported to the compost; ajuga, vinca, and lamium have their green cards.
So I did a little of this and a little of that and kicked the big projects down the road. Painting the garage will take three weekends and counting. Gven put a coat of primer on the side today. The mysterious door-shaped piece of sheet metal was removed, revealing nothing but perfectly good wood siding underneath.
Nobody said this was going to be the most efficient farm on the prairie, but it has to resonate with a rhyme or reason for this or any project to make any improvizational sense. Today was like a dab or two on the coarse fibrous canvas, hardly enough to make a dent.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
My Face Goes to a Class Reunion
I took the bait. Now my life is an open Facebook.
It was relatively easy at first to put my mug shot out there in the vast global social network, with limited exposure to intersecting circles of family and friends. I could be as guarded or as candid as I wanted to be, and my standard profile information likely wouldn't shock anyone. Or would it? And if it did, what difference would it make?
As my Friends list grew longer, I was contacted by more cousins and in-laws, more co-workers and churchfolk, and the game began to change a bit. I see more posts I don't understand from more people I don't know very well. But that's life in the big networking digital city, and maybe that's the purpose - to extend beyond the circle of the known. I can choose to pay attention to them or not, to respond in kind or not, and if anyone wants to write inside jokes or inane stuff, that's their business.
I think I've kept my own inappropriate comments to a minimum, at least I haven't received any restraining orders yet. Nor have I made contact with any mysterious strangers, long-lost friends, or agents whose only desire is to publish my collected works.
On the contrary, my creative output has dwindled from the usual ten blog entries a month - or about 10,000 words - to a cryptic one-liner every couple of days. As the noted author and Twitter critic Shaquille O'Neal has said, "What can you say in 140 characters?" Yes, well, first you have to have something to say. That's always been the would-be writer's hang-up: all dressed up and nowhere to go.
But that's not really point anyway. Facebook is not about writing, yet it has the potential to thwart writing, especially if one hangs out there when one would/could/should be expressing the Great Ideas of Midwestern Civilization here at Istandcorrected. Ahem. Where was I?
So in the throes of Facebook, I started to get email from the Wylie E. Groves High School Class Reunion Committee, aka The Big People. Since I was on the mailing list, the messages included exhortations to participate in the reunion process as well as photos of fellow members of the class of '69. My multiple reactions of fascination, repulsion, and ambivalence have surprised me a bit, though they are probably typical.
A few faces I've seen on the reunion web site are just as familiar 40 years later as they were back in the best of times, or was it the worst of times, whatever that tale of two suburbs was. Other people I wouldn't have recognized without the caption. I suppose it's typical for those of us with a certain amount of "seasoning" to alternate between "You haven't changed a bit" and "Whoa, you look completely different."
A few photos have been quite touching. To see someone I knew at 18 standing beside their 25-year-old kids, or to see their parents as they are now, is quite remarkable.
Inevitably, someone created a Facebook Group for our graduating class and invited the other 600 souls to join it and do the Facebook thing. So I took the plunge; it felt like a plunge to disclose my profile of trivialities to the peers I most wanted to impress 40 years ago. Still in need of validation, still not really an adult, it's strange to revisit that adolescent intersection this far down the line.
So far I've been in real, authentic, personal Facebook contact with only one high school friend. She happened to be the copyeditor of the school paper when I was sports editor, so maybe that's the link. We were not close friends back then, and we've gone in widely different directions since, but it has been very interesting to get a Facebook-sized glimpse inside her world. I don't know if she will make the trip to Detroit from Los Angeles in July, and I doubt whether I will either. I think I prefer it at a distance.
It was relatively easy at first to put my mug shot out there in the vast global social network, with limited exposure to intersecting circles of family and friends. I could be as guarded or as candid as I wanted to be, and my standard profile information likely wouldn't shock anyone. Or would it? And if it did, what difference would it make?
As my Friends list grew longer, I was contacted by more cousins and in-laws, more co-workers and churchfolk, and the game began to change a bit. I see more posts I don't understand from more people I don't know very well. But that's life in the big networking digital city, and maybe that's the purpose - to extend beyond the circle of the known. I can choose to pay attention to them or not, to respond in kind or not, and if anyone wants to write inside jokes or inane stuff, that's their business.
I think I've kept my own inappropriate comments to a minimum, at least I haven't received any restraining orders yet. Nor have I made contact with any mysterious strangers, long-lost friends, or agents whose only desire is to publish my collected works.
On the contrary, my creative output has dwindled from the usual ten blog entries a month - or about 10,000 words - to a cryptic one-liner every couple of days. As the noted author and Twitter critic Shaquille O'Neal has said, "What can you say in 140 characters?" Yes, well, first you have to have something to say. That's always been the would-be writer's hang-up: all dressed up and nowhere to go.
But that's not really point anyway. Facebook is not about writing, yet it has the potential to thwart writing, especially if one hangs out there when one would/could/should be expressing the Great Ideas of Midwestern Civilization here at Istandcorrected. Ahem. Where was I?
So in the throes of Facebook, I started to get email from the Wylie E. Groves High School Class Reunion Committee, aka The Big People. Since I was on the mailing list, the messages included exhortations to participate in the reunion process as well as photos of fellow members of the class of '69. My multiple reactions of fascination, repulsion, and ambivalence have surprised me a bit, though they are probably typical.
A few faces I've seen on the reunion web site are just as familiar 40 years later as they were back in the best of times, or was it the worst of times, whatever that tale of two suburbs was. Other people I wouldn't have recognized without the caption. I suppose it's typical for those of us with a certain amount of "seasoning" to alternate between "You haven't changed a bit" and "Whoa, you look completely different."
A few photos have been quite touching. To see someone I knew at 18 standing beside their 25-year-old kids, or to see their parents as they are now, is quite remarkable.
Inevitably, someone created a Facebook Group for our graduating class and invited the other 600 souls to join it and do the Facebook thing. So I took the plunge; it felt like a plunge to disclose my profile of trivialities to the peers I most wanted to impress 40 years ago. Still in need of validation, still not really an adult, it's strange to revisit that adolescent intersection this far down the line.
So far I've been in real, authentic, personal Facebook contact with only one high school friend. She happened to be the copyeditor of the school paper when I was sports editor, so maybe that's the link. We were not close friends back then, and we've gone in widely different directions since, but it has been very interesting to get a Facebook-sized glimpse inside her world. I don't know if she will make the trip to Detroit from Los Angeles in July, and I doubt whether I will either. I think I prefer it at a distance.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Happy Accidents
The warmest day of the year so far called for breakfast on the patio with sunglasses and the Style section of last Sunday's paper. The neighbors were tearing down an old shed, but I was too absorbed in the sun hitting my face to notice. I cleaned up the kitchen, did a little yard work, and lunch was also on the patio, with another section of the paper. Bread dough rises in a bowl on the tile table in the sun. Life is good.
I started scraping old paint off the back side of the garage, not a bad job if you don't mind a little elbow grease in alternating arms - wax on, wax off - and it's kind of satisfying to smooth out a rough, peeling 80-year-old coat of dark brown paint, getting the point of the scraper down into the grooves between the boards right down to the naked wood. I took a turn scraping, then Gven took a turn while I took a break to knead the bread. Gven is the resident painter, so I will leave the fun part - priming and painting - to her.
Zelda came over for dinner, so I had to stop scraping to start a fire in the Weber, which has survived another winter out in the weather, though its days are numbered. We grilled turkey burgers, but first we grilled Zelda about her trip to New Orleans with her friends for another friend's wedding. She liked the Garden District and will live there someday when she's rich. The French Quarter, at least the touristy stretch of Bourbon Street, was not so great. The reception was in a nice hotel across from Jackson Square, with good food, open bar, a good band, and a view of the river.
The turkey burgers were a little, uh, well done on the outside but still juicy in the middle and delicious with potato salad. I made the fire extra hot to simulate the classic Cajun cuisine of Chez Sven's Norwegian Creole blackened turkey burgers, known only to an obscure bayou colony of beignet-eating crab catchers. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
We lit a candle and ate cherry pie a la mode. The embers made their way from the Weber into the brick fire pit and turned into a campfire. Gven and Zelda went inside, never running out of things to talk about, and I stationed myself in the Adirondack chair off to the side of the fire pit. A big bird perched on a low limb of the maple tree in the front yard, just visible over the roof from the back yard. It was bigger than any hawk I've seen, thick around the middle; it might have been an owl. It flew past me, swooping down across the back yard and up through the pine trees, wingspan must have been six feet or more, and then was gone in an instant.
The next day something rather odd and a little embarrassing happened at the morning meditation. While drinking tea, I talked to a tall woman I hadn't seen before about choosing - or finding - the right practice. She told an interesting story about meditating while bicycling in Arizona, but before we could continue the conversation, other people's conversations and a moment of awkwardness intervened. While I drank my green tea, I saw an article open on the table about how certain personality types fit certain practices, so if you know one you can infer the other. Interesting.
Halfway through the article, someone else recognized me from a drumming group that meets at the rec center, and I realized why they looked so familiar. I knew them from somewhere but hadn't figured out where. Having established where we knew each other from, we talked about this and that, and I said something about taiji. They asked if I also do qigong, and it turns out they used to do qigong in the same group I did many moons ago at a church I no longer attend. It took me a minute. They looked different from the people I remembered from the little qigong group, but I probably looked different too.
I hope I have a chance to renew both of those chance encounters. It seems a shame to waste an opportunity to make a connection with someone who is working on a similar endeavor, and second chances are never guaranteed. As Dorothy observed in Oz, people come and go so quickly here.
I started scraping old paint off the back side of the garage, not a bad job if you don't mind a little elbow grease in alternating arms - wax on, wax off - and it's kind of satisfying to smooth out a rough, peeling 80-year-old coat of dark brown paint, getting the point of the scraper down into the grooves between the boards right down to the naked wood. I took a turn scraping, then Gven took a turn while I took a break to knead the bread. Gven is the resident painter, so I will leave the fun part - priming and painting - to her.
Zelda came over for dinner, so I had to stop scraping to start a fire in the Weber, which has survived another winter out in the weather, though its days are numbered. We grilled turkey burgers, but first we grilled Zelda about her trip to New Orleans with her friends for another friend's wedding. She liked the Garden District and will live there someday when she's rich. The French Quarter, at least the touristy stretch of Bourbon Street, was not so great. The reception was in a nice hotel across from Jackson Square, with good food, open bar, a good band, and a view of the river.
The turkey burgers were a little, uh, well done on the outside but still juicy in the middle and delicious with potato salad. I made the fire extra hot to simulate the classic Cajun cuisine of Chez Sven's Norwegian Creole blackened turkey burgers, known only to an obscure bayou colony of beignet-eating crab catchers. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
We lit a candle and ate cherry pie a la mode. The embers made their way from the Weber into the brick fire pit and turned into a campfire. Gven and Zelda went inside, never running out of things to talk about, and I stationed myself in the Adirondack chair off to the side of the fire pit. A big bird perched on a low limb of the maple tree in the front yard, just visible over the roof from the back yard. It was bigger than any hawk I've seen, thick around the middle; it might have been an owl. It flew past me, swooping down across the back yard and up through the pine trees, wingspan must have been six feet or more, and then was gone in an instant.
The next day something rather odd and a little embarrassing happened at the morning meditation. While drinking tea, I talked to a tall woman I hadn't seen before about choosing - or finding - the right practice. She told an interesting story about meditating while bicycling in Arizona, but before we could continue the conversation, other people's conversations and a moment of awkwardness intervened. While I drank my green tea, I saw an article open on the table about how certain personality types fit certain practices, so if you know one you can infer the other. Interesting.
Halfway through the article, someone else recognized me from a drumming group that meets at the rec center, and I realized why they looked so familiar. I knew them from somewhere but hadn't figured out where. Having established where we knew each other from, we talked about this and that, and I said something about taiji. They asked if I also do qigong, and it turns out they used to do qigong in the same group I did many moons ago at a church I no longer attend. It took me a minute. They looked different from the people I remembered from the little qigong group, but I probably looked different too.
I hope I have a chance to renew both of those chance encounters. It seems a shame to waste an opportunity to make a connection with someone who is working on a similar endeavor, and second chances are never guaranteed. As Dorothy observed in Oz, people come and go so quickly here.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
This is not a pipe
Jessi fixed a leaky pipe in his house in Crown Heights. Now it works. The pipe, not the house.
These are photos of projects he made for his plumbing class. They are made of copper and black iron. The projects, not the photos.
The teacher designed this one.
Jessi designed this one and put it together over a couple days. It got a very good grade.
I like the way it looks like it's walking (or running).
These are photos of projects he made for his plumbing class. They are made of copper and black iron. The projects, not the photos.
The teacher designed this one.
Jessi designed this one and put it together over a couple days. It got a very good grade.
I like the way it looks like it's walking (or running).
Sunday, April 05, 2009
The Good News
My burgeoning new social life is preventing me from writing more than three lines a day under the annoying heading 'What's on your mind?' All my new friends are occupying every free moment informing me what famous author, punk rock star, or Grey's Anatomy character they are, and all this newfound human contact enriches my life with the joys of relationship and community, so my blogging pen has all but dried up.
What a terrible loss, I know. In the meantime, half the newspapers in the country have either closed or cut back to three days a week and laid off half their staff, and I didn't know about it because I stopped getting the Dispatch a year ago. As Pogo said, we have met the enemy, and he is us. On the other hand, the startling events of my own circumscribed life continue apace, that is, nothing much has happened, and maybe that's the good news. March was not terribly prolific. There will be no life-crisis to share today.
But it's April now, which promises more prolificity. Daffodils and tulips are up and out; tiny purple buds are appearing on the redbud trees; dandelions and noisy neighbors are making an appearance. Work is sporadic and the future is uncertain, but I'm ensconced in writing three-paragraph features about Swingstate at a third-grade level, and I find I'm pretty good at thinking like a third-grader. Love is in the air. Take a look at the birds and bees and flowers and teenagers. Then get back to work.
What a terrible loss, I know. In the meantime, half the newspapers in the country have either closed or cut back to three days a week and laid off half their staff, and I didn't know about it because I stopped getting the Dispatch a year ago. As Pogo said, we have met the enemy, and he is us. On the other hand, the startling events of my own circumscribed life continue apace, that is, nothing much has happened, and maybe that's the good news. March was not terribly prolific. There will be no life-crisis to share today.
But it's April now, which promises more prolificity. Daffodils and tulips are up and out; tiny purple buds are appearing on the redbud trees; dandelions and noisy neighbors are making an appearance. Work is sporadic and the future is uncertain, but I'm ensconced in writing three-paragraph features about Swingstate at a third-grade level, and I find I'm pretty good at thinking like a third-grader. Love is in the air. Take a look at the birds and bees and flowers and teenagers. Then get back to work.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Married filing jointly
The caldron holds nourishment for the benefit of civilized people, as the flame below prepares the food within for consumption; one grows beyond oneself in spirit by consolidating matters and maintaining a correct position.
Union endures when one has somewhere to go, finding self-renewal in movement; in and out, contracting and expanding, in the end standing firm. (I Ching)
It can be confusing to try to reconcile (a) the discriminating mind that compares, evaluates, and judges after half a lifetime of training to become a better critic, and (b) the practical benefits of seeing through arbitrary and hair-splitting distinctions to the commonality and the connection. But if things in the macro or the micro economy are as much of a mess as they appear to be, there might be hope after all. In that case, the material world in all its ugly, destructive wastefulness is not simply a reflection of a negative attitude. But that might be too optimistic.
Don't worry, be happy. It's the weekend. Get a grande Americano with a shot of espresso and a blueberry scone. Enjoy the freak show walking by in the strip mall paradise of value-added goods and services, secure in the knowledge that you are one of them, no better and no worse.
The good news is that there are many fun things to do in the meantime, things that may or may not make a difference in the scheme of things but would at least keep the lights on without doing great harm. Things like reading the paper, cleaning up the back yard, playing manic right-brain rhythms in a drum circle at the rec center on a Saturday afternoon, discussing a friend's next revision of a book he is writing, cooking lentil soup, meditating, doing laundry, watching basketball on TV. That's where the juice is.
Let the latent meanings turn and bend in the wind, free from authoritative comment. (Don DeLillo, Falling Man, p. 12)
Making derivative utterances about other people's pain, while not necessarily a bad thing, is working in the third-person, kind of like making money by moving other people's money and letting them take the risk. Rather than believing that human nature is good, or souls are reincarnated, or the pursuit of private interest promotes the public interest, rather than believing anything in particular, we could just suspend disbelief and treat it as a movie in which we act as if it's true and see how it turns out.
At least the paradigm shift, like deciding which movie to watch and which premise to provisionally get behind, offers the possibility of changing the way you handle your business, pay your bills, make deposits and withdrawals, process information, respond to inputs and outputs. What if we put 5 percent of every paycheck into savings for next year's shortfall, proactively rather than reactively making ends meet?
Suddenly the sun came out in the strip mall freak show, and I finished my grande Americano.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
untitled random bike ride
Only at a certain time of year is it a perfect day for a bike ride and an ideal night for a fire. It happens to be the first week of spring, and my sedentary winter body was needing something - anything - after work, and luckily I seem to have stumbled onto the right decision for once.
Maybe it's because I wore a purple shirt. The email went out to the whole department several days ago that Thursday was the day to wear purple for cerebral palsy research, and uncharacterisically I complied. Usually I ignore the charity fundraising gift-basket raffle for restless leg research, but this time for no particular reason I wore purple. A Facebook friend wrote in purple prose; MadLab Theater is doing The Color: Purple this weekend. What's up with the zeitgeist?
Otherwise it was an ordinary workday. I got some stuff done, got a little lost, got found, amazing grace, corrected some mistakes, consulted with the content editors, and of course took longer than the guidelines indicated. By late afternoon I was bleary-eyed from staring at the screen, so I did a little qigong outside, but it was too little too late to be very productive past five o'clock. I wrote a little vignette for third graders about cars and suburbs in central swingstate that I will have to rewrite tomorrow. Put a fork in me, I'm done.
But the sun had come out in the meantime, and I paused near the basketball hoop in the parking lot on my way out, started to get out and shoot a few, but instead continued on home not looking forward to anything in particular. It was a bit chilly despite the sunshine, and I didn't even change clothes, just hopped on the old black Schvinn, checked the wind direction (north), and adhering to MacKenzie's First Law, headed north.
East on Park, north on Otterbein, east on College, north on Juniper, east on County Line, north on Spring, and I'm beginning to feel human again, breathing rhythmically and starting to break a slight sweat under my purple corduroy shirt. Being off the residential streets seemed to make a difference, and out on the exurban roads of Delaware County. Maybe I justed needed to get out of Dodge. Not that it really matters where you ride, as long as you get on your horse and ride.
I did pause to check the time, trying to gauge how far to go before turning around, in order to get back before it's totally dark outside, as I'm not a good judge of the sun's distance from the horizon in relation to my return trip from Galena or wherever I happen to end up. I started out thinking that 45 minutes out and 45 minutes back, or roughly 18 miles, is all I would have time and energy for, but this was not to be a systematic, clockwork orange handlebars kind of ride.
When I got to where Tussic intersects Old 3C, where you can see Hoover Reservoir through the trees on probably the prettiest part of the ride, I went north and took a left on Plumb, but instead of cutting south on the bike trail along Route 3, I kept going west on Plumb and hung a right on Rome Corners. I don't think I'd ever been there before, at least not on an early spring day like this, certainly not on a bike. It's a quiet country road with slight hills and a great place to daydream. I've found my spot, but the sun is about to hit the horizon, so I turned around and headed back, 45 minutes out.
Uneventful return trip: south on Rome Corners with the wind at my back, hang a left on Lewis Center, right on the bike trail by Route 3, cut across the Home Depot parking lot to McCorkle and I'm home at the stroke of eight. I'm not exhausted but I've had a nice workout, and that makes the Great Lakes Edmund Fitzgerald Handcrafted Porter taste so much better. It's already chilly, so I start a fire in the stove, read the Sunday paper while eating a veggie burger, and then spend an inordinate amount of time recounting the details of my day for a vast readership, but hey, oh ye of little faith, I guess I had something to look forward to after all.
Maybe it's because I wore a purple shirt. The email went out to the whole department several days ago that Thursday was the day to wear purple for cerebral palsy research, and uncharacterisically I complied. Usually I ignore the charity fundraising gift-basket raffle for restless leg research, but this time for no particular reason I wore purple. A Facebook friend wrote in purple prose; MadLab Theater is doing The Color: Purple this weekend. What's up with the zeitgeist?
Otherwise it was an ordinary workday. I got some stuff done, got a little lost, got found, amazing grace, corrected some mistakes, consulted with the content editors, and of course took longer than the guidelines indicated. By late afternoon I was bleary-eyed from staring at the screen, so I did a little qigong outside, but it was too little too late to be very productive past five o'clock. I wrote a little vignette for third graders about cars and suburbs in central swingstate that I will have to rewrite tomorrow. Put a fork in me, I'm done.
But the sun had come out in the meantime, and I paused near the basketball hoop in the parking lot on my way out, started to get out and shoot a few, but instead continued on home not looking forward to anything in particular. It was a bit chilly despite the sunshine, and I didn't even change clothes, just hopped on the old black Schvinn, checked the wind direction (north), and adhering to MacKenzie's First Law, headed north.
East on Park, north on Otterbein, east on College, north on Juniper, east on County Line, north on Spring, and I'm beginning to feel human again, breathing rhythmically and starting to break a slight sweat under my purple corduroy shirt. Being off the residential streets seemed to make a difference, and out on the exurban roads of Delaware County. Maybe I justed needed to get out of Dodge. Not that it really matters where you ride, as long as you get on your horse and ride.
I did pause to check the time, trying to gauge how far to go before turning around, in order to get back before it's totally dark outside, as I'm not a good judge of the sun's distance from the horizon in relation to my return trip from Galena or wherever I happen to end up. I started out thinking that 45 minutes out and 45 minutes back, or roughly 18 miles, is all I would have time and energy for, but this was not to be a systematic, clockwork orange handlebars kind of ride.
When I got to where Tussic intersects Old 3C, where you can see Hoover Reservoir through the trees on probably the prettiest part of the ride, I went north and took a left on Plumb, but instead of cutting south on the bike trail along Route 3, I kept going west on Plumb and hung a right on Rome Corners. I don't think I'd ever been there before, at least not on an early spring day like this, certainly not on a bike. It's a quiet country road with slight hills and a great place to daydream. I've found my spot, but the sun is about to hit the horizon, so I turned around and headed back, 45 minutes out.
Uneventful return trip: south on Rome Corners with the wind at my back, hang a left on Lewis Center, right on the bike trail by Route 3, cut across the Home Depot parking lot to McCorkle and I'm home at the stroke of eight. I'm not exhausted but I've had a nice workout, and that makes the Great Lakes Edmund Fitzgerald Handcrafted Porter taste so much better. It's already chilly, so I start a fire in the stove, read the Sunday paper while eating a veggie burger, and then spend an inordinate amount of time recounting the details of my day for a vast readership, but hey, oh ye of little faith, I guess I had something to look forward to after all.
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