I'm one of those snooty guys who self-righteously proclaims that he hardly ever watches TV. Other than sports, I don't spend much time with the boob tube. Never seen OC, Lost, Cold Case, Veronica Mars, etc. I've watched Office a couple of times. House once or twice. And occasionally Jeopardy, or reruns of The Simpsons, Seinfeld, Everyone Loves Raymond or King of the Hill.
And for the most part, I've even avoided the DVD collections of TV series. But last week someone gave me a season of 24. I started the first episode Friday night at 11 p.m., and finished the 24th episode exactly seven days and three hours later. This was 'Crack TV' and I was a hopeless addict. I wanted to watch into the wee hours of the morning, even on weekdays. I missed two trips to the gym because I was up late the night before. Twice I watched an episode in the morning before work. And almost every day the thought crossed my mind that I could skip work for the day and binge my way into a 24-induced stupor.
I started to dream about Jack Bauer saving the world. I was ready to sign up to volunteer for David Palmer's campaign, except that I was so disgusted by his wife. I started looking at everyone in my real life with a suspicious eye, wondering if they were part of a conspiracy against me, or worse, against all things good in the world as we know them.
I can no longer look down my nose at Lanee for religously turning to Gilmore Girls every Tuesday night. I can't shake my head at friends or family who talk about who made the cut on Survivor, The Apprentice or Dancing with the Stars. No, because now I have faced the fiendish television addiction, with no signs of recovery.
It's 10 o'clock at night. Season Three is in the cabinet. And my hands are shaking.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Home Field
Now that the snow is finally gone for another year, I walked the lawn to survey conditions before I jumped in with with rakes and hoes and a stream of trips to the nursery.
Mine is not a rich, luscious lawn, and there was a time I would have found that disappointing. Not now; not at this stage of my life. I noted the badly worn grass on the north side, trampled by countless touch football games last fall, and smiled at the memories of passes thrown and caught, or being juked by Sam as he raced past me into the end zone, or standing in the living room and watching the neighborhood boys running and shouting in spirited action.
I gazed at the grass still struggling to survive in what is clearly the best position for home plate in our makeshift field, where many a batter has swung and missed at wiffleballs, or knocked out a trivial grounder, but occasionally launched one over the driveway and into the hedge, the ultimate achievement in our home-run derbies.
And I smiled at the large brown patch where last fall we gathered up a giant pile of leaves for Layla to jump in, her very first autumn, and laughed quietly at how they buried her for an instant, while we all rushed for our cameras.
I would not trade my lawn for a richer, greener, neatly manicured alternative. It is a good yard for me to labor in, for Sam to edge and mow, for Jazz to do her business and for the family to gather together to rake leaves on an October Monday night. And it is a good yard for growing memories, a perennial which blooms abundantly in the back half of our lives.
Mine is not a rich, luscious lawn, and there was a time I would have found that disappointing. Not now; not at this stage of my life. I noted the badly worn grass on the north side, trampled by countless touch football games last fall, and smiled at the memories of passes thrown and caught, or being juked by Sam as he raced past me into the end zone, or standing in the living room and watching the neighborhood boys running and shouting in spirited action.
I gazed at the grass still struggling to survive in what is clearly the best position for home plate in our makeshift field, where many a batter has swung and missed at wiffleballs, or knocked out a trivial grounder, but occasionally launched one over the driveway and into the hedge, the ultimate achievement in our home-run derbies.
And I smiled at the large brown patch where last fall we gathered up a giant pile of leaves for Layla to jump in, her very first autumn, and laughed quietly at how they buried her for an instant, while we all rushed for our cameras.
I would not trade my lawn for a richer, greener, neatly manicured alternative. It is a good yard for me to labor in, for Sam to edge and mow, for Jazz to do her business and for the family to gather together to rake leaves on an October Monday night. And it is a good yard for growing memories, a perennial which blooms abundantly in the back half of our lives.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Interviews
This week I interviewed a number of individuals for jobs in our company. All of them were for professional positions, paying over $50,000 per year. And without exaggeration, these things really were said by candidates:
--"I assume that all companies are going to be bad."
--"I didn't really leave that company on good terms. My boss was a schmuck."
--"My wife and I have had problems."
--"I have no expectations of longevity in any job I take."
--"When my father-in-law lends me money, he always calls me a loser."
What else? Let's see, someone brought a two-year old child, who was barefoot and wandered around the office while we interviewed in another room. Someone else broke down and cried in my office. One person came in wearing glasses with only one bow.
At times it felt like I was living a Kafka novel. And in case you were wondering, none of them will be joining us.
--"I assume that all companies are going to be bad."
--"I didn't really leave that company on good terms. My boss was a schmuck."
--"My wife and I have had problems."
--"I have no expectations of longevity in any job I take."
--"When my father-in-law lends me money, he always calls me a loser."
What else? Let's see, someone brought a two-year old child, who was barefoot and wandered around the office while we interviewed in another room. Someone else broke down and cried in my office. One person came in wearing glasses with only one bow.
At times it felt like I was living a Kafka novel. And in case you were wondering, none of them will be joining us.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Spring in My Step
A row of crocuses appeared in my garden this week, welcomed in by the 75-degree temperatures and announcing with their muted fanfare that Spring has once again arrived. There are many signs of Spring, but I can think of no better than the dainty crocus, with its slender leaves and lavender blossoms. The first days of Spring are a time of rebirth, and best accompanied by classical music and a comfortable pace. Spring needs no artificial adornment. Just pick up the flotsam and jetsam left by the falling tide of melting snow and let nature's splendor reveal herself again.
One should pay attention at this time of the year; walk slowly and repeatedly over the same course, noting the new arrivals of the day. Listen to the birds as they return and build their nests. Walk out in the morning and feel the change in the air. Wait for the first daffodil, the perennial second-place finisher, that rises taller to look down upon the crocus line, already in formation.
It was different when I was young. Then Spring was fast-moving water and building dams and muddy shoes and t-shirts well before the actual temperature might suggest them. Spring was two days off of school and Easter candy and Opening Day of the baseball season. But most important, Spring meant that summer vacation was only a few months away, which was the time of year we all really looked forward to.
I don't look past Spring any more. In fact, I don't look past any time or season. As I approach my 50th year I try to appreciate the simple pleasures of the days I have been given. So I welcome the arrival of the crocuses, and smile as I pass them every day, noting that yet another has sprung up to join his mates. He does not require my approbation, and though it means nothing to him, I yet mark his arrival with an approving eye as I make my self-appointed rounds.
One should pay attention at this time of the year; walk slowly and repeatedly over the same course, noting the new arrivals of the day. Listen to the birds as they return and build their nests. Walk out in the morning and feel the change in the air. Wait for the first daffodil, the perennial second-place finisher, that rises taller to look down upon the crocus line, already in formation.
It was different when I was young. Then Spring was fast-moving water and building dams and muddy shoes and t-shirts well before the actual temperature might suggest them. Spring was two days off of school and Easter candy and Opening Day of the baseball season. But most important, Spring meant that summer vacation was only a few months away, which was the time of year we all really looked forward to.
I don't look past Spring any more. In fact, I don't look past any time or season. As I approach my 50th year I try to appreciate the simple pleasures of the days I have been given. So I welcome the arrival of the crocuses, and smile as I pass them every day, noting that yet another has sprung up to join his mates. He does not require my approbation, and though it means nothing to him, I yet mark his arrival with an approving eye as I make my self-appointed rounds.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
My Vegetative State: Final
For the health of it. It's healthier to go meatless. Healthier in theory. Healthier in practice. And there is a mountain of data to support this.
Vegetarians have less obesity, less heart disease, less diabetes, less hypertension, less cancer, less osetoperosis and fewer gall stones. And they live longer. I can't say they all run without weariness, but they generally have more energy because their bodies run on cleaner fuel.
I suppose that if you scrupulously avoided the modern meat factories, and only ate what you killed, then eating meat wouldn't be quite so bad for you. But the fact is, virtually all meateaters in this country eat factory beef, factory pork, factory poultry or some other type of factorized hormone-injected hyper-grown sodium nitrate-infused scientifically-modeled production-efficient meat.
Our bodies weren't built for meat. Our teeth aren't right. Our colons are way too long. And our blood vessels don't like it. Don't talk to me about the need for protein and all of that nonsense--I don't believe a word of it. I've gone for a year eating just fruit and was perfectly healthy and happy. And you can now get all the protein you need as a supplement--in chocolate no less.
I think we'd be better off without milk and dairy as well, but it's hard for me to live without cereal (and I'm greatly looking forward to switching to raw milk).
Thus endeth this series. I try not to preach. I almost never criticize. I am deeply grateful that I have a wife who has been kind enough to make me alternatives at meal time for so many years. I have many dietary faults, and I make no allowance for them. I never claimed to have it all right. But this is one thing I do, for numerous reasons, which are now available for public consumption, and at least as easily digested as your average hamburger.
Vegetarians have less obesity, less heart disease, less diabetes, less hypertension, less cancer, less osetoperosis and fewer gall stones. And they live longer. I can't say they all run without weariness, but they generally have more energy because their bodies run on cleaner fuel.
I suppose that if you scrupulously avoided the modern meat factories, and only ate what you killed, then eating meat wouldn't be quite so bad for you. But the fact is, virtually all meateaters in this country eat factory beef, factory pork, factory poultry or some other type of factorized hormone-injected hyper-grown sodium nitrate-infused scientifically-modeled production-efficient meat.
Our bodies weren't built for meat. Our teeth aren't right. Our colons are way too long. And our blood vessels don't like it. Don't talk to me about the need for protein and all of that nonsense--I don't believe a word of it. I've gone for a year eating just fruit and was perfectly healthy and happy. And you can now get all the protein you need as a supplement--in chocolate no less.
I think we'd be better off without milk and dairy as well, but it's hard for me to live without cereal (and I'm greatly looking forward to switching to raw milk).
Thus endeth this series. I try not to preach. I almost never criticize. I am deeply grateful that I have a wife who has been kind enough to make me alternatives at meal time for so many years. I have many dietary faults, and I make no allowance for them. I never claimed to have it all right. But this is one thing I do, for numerous reasons, which are now available for public consumption, and at least as easily digested as your average hamburger.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
My Vegetative State: Part 3
This just in: The United Nations said that raising animals for food generates more greenhouse gases than all the cars and trucks in the world combined. A few excerpts from recent articles in Envirohealth and GoVeg.com:
"Last month, the United Nations published a report on livestock and the environment with a stunning conclusion: "The livestock sector emerges as one of the top two or three most significant contributors to the most serious environmental problems, at every scale from local to global." It turns out that raising animals for food is a primary cause of land degradation, air pollution, water shortage, water pollution, loss of biodiversity, and not least of all, global warming.
"... In fact, while animal agriculture accounts for 9% of our carbon dioxide emissions, it emits 37% of our methane, and a whopping 65% of our nitrous oxide.
"...The United States alone slaughters more than 10 billion land animals every year, all to sustain a meat-ravenous culture that can barely conceive of a time not long ago when "a chicken in every pot" was considered a luxury. Land animals raised for food make up a staggering 20% of the entire land animal biomass of the earth. We are eating our planet to death. What we're seeing is just the beginning, too. Meat consumption has increased five-fold in the past fifty years, and is expected to double again in the next fifty.
"...Animal agriculture accounts for most of the water consumed in this country, emits two-thirds of the world's acid-rain-causing ammonia, and it the world's largest source of water pollution -- killing entire river and marine ecosystems, destroying coral reefs, and of course, making people sick. Try to imagine the prodigious volumes of manure churned out by modern American farms: 5 million tons a day, more than a hundred times that of the human population, and far more than our land can possibly absorb. The acres and acres of cesspools stretching over much of our countryside, polluting the air and contaminating our water, make the Exxon Valdez oil spill look minor in comparison. All of which we can fix surprisingly easily, just by putting down our chicken wings and reaching for a veggie burger."
"... a vegan prevents approximately 1.5 fewer tons of carbon dioxide from entering the atmosphere each year than a meat-eater does."
Honestly, this came up in conversation today completely unprovoked by me. But it certainly fit in the context of this series.
Are you serious about saving the planet? Worried about the future for your children and grandchildren? The UN study concluded that you can do more for the environment by being a vegetarian than by switching to driving a Prius. Soy there.
http://goveg.com/environment-globalwarming.asp
http://www.alternet.org/envirohealth/47668/
"Last month, the United Nations published a report on livestock and the environment with a stunning conclusion: "The livestock sector emerges as one of the top two or three most significant contributors to the most serious environmental problems, at every scale from local to global." It turns out that raising animals for food is a primary cause of land degradation, air pollution, water shortage, water pollution, loss of biodiversity, and not least of all, global warming.
"... In fact, while animal agriculture accounts for 9% of our carbon dioxide emissions, it emits 37% of our methane, and a whopping 65% of our nitrous oxide.
"...The United States alone slaughters more than 10 billion land animals every year, all to sustain a meat-ravenous culture that can barely conceive of a time not long ago when "a chicken in every pot" was considered a luxury. Land animals raised for food make up a staggering 20% of the entire land animal biomass of the earth. We are eating our planet to death. What we're seeing is just the beginning, too. Meat consumption has increased five-fold in the past fifty years, and is expected to double again in the next fifty.
"...Animal agriculture accounts for most of the water consumed in this country, emits two-thirds of the world's acid-rain-causing ammonia, and it the world's largest source of water pollution -- killing entire river and marine ecosystems, destroying coral reefs, and of course, making people sick. Try to imagine the prodigious volumes of manure churned out by modern American farms: 5 million tons a day, more than a hundred times that of the human population, and far more than our land can possibly absorb. The acres and acres of cesspools stretching over much of our countryside, polluting the air and contaminating our water, make the Exxon Valdez oil spill look minor in comparison. All of which we can fix surprisingly easily, just by putting down our chicken wings and reaching for a veggie burger."
"... a vegan prevents approximately 1.5 fewer tons of carbon dioxide from entering the atmosphere each year than a meat-eater does."
Honestly, this came up in conversation today completely unprovoked by me. But it certainly fit in the context of this series.
Are you serious about saving the planet? Worried about the future for your children and grandchildren? The UN study concluded that you can do more for the environment by being a vegetarian than by switching to driving a Prius. Soy there.
http://goveg.com/environment-globalwarming.asp
http://www.alternet.org/envirohealth/47668/
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
My Vegetative State: Part 2
If you're trying to follow the outline logic from the previous post, forget it. As the master of my blog domain, I changed the structure. This is Part 2 in a series of why I don't eat meat.
The Moral Imperative
B. Be kind. Rewind. Ok, it really has nothing to do with videotapes, but it's the same principle. Sometimes we do things for the benefit of our faceless brothers and sisters on Planet Earth.
When I was a freshman in college I read a book called Diet for a Small Planet which talked about the inefficiency of consuming calories from meat. As I recall (and at that time), it requires 13 times more grain to deliver calories via meat than if the grain were to be consumed directly by humans. Since so many people on this earth are starving, it struck me that if we all shifted to a meatless diet, more people could be fed. I suppose the practical applications of this logic could be challenged in a hundred ways, but I also suspect there is an inescapable truth at the heart of the matter.
I am quite aware that my individual actions don't make much of a difference. But over the course of my lifetime, and with perhaps the slightest power of example, maybe I will do a little good. At the very least, it seems like an objective worthy of my effort.
In addition, rain forests are being cleared aggressively for cattle farming, which is a very bad thing. (By the way, demand for tropical hardwoods like rosewood, teak and mahogany also drive aggressive rainforest destruction.) Here's an excerpt from an Amazon Rain Forest website:
As the demand in the Western world for cheap meat increases, more and more rainforests are destroyed to provide grazing land for animals. In Brazil alone, there are an estimated 220 million head of cattle, 20 million goats, 60 million pigs, and 700 million chickens. Most of Central and Latin America's tropical and temperate rainforests have been lost to cattle operations to meet the world demand, and still the cattle operations continue to move southward into the heart of the South American rainforests.
Admittedly, there are many other ways to contribute to society. We should all have our pet causes, but respect the ways other people try to make a difference. I don't get involved in Big Brothers/Big Sisters, or Habitat for Humanity, or Feed the Children. But I do eat vegetables.
The Moral Imperative
B. Be kind. Rewind. Ok, it really has nothing to do with videotapes, but it's the same principle. Sometimes we do things for the benefit of our faceless brothers and sisters on Planet Earth.
When I was a freshman in college I read a book called Diet for a Small Planet which talked about the inefficiency of consuming calories from meat. As I recall (and at that time), it requires 13 times more grain to deliver calories via meat than if the grain were to be consumed directly by humans. Since so many people on this earth are starving, it struck me that if we all shifted to a meatless diet, more people could be fed. I suppose the practical applications of this logic could be challenged in a hundred ways, but I also suspect there is an inescapable truth at the heart of the matter.
I am quite aware that my individual actions don't make much of a difference. But over the course of my lifetime, and with perhaps the slightest power of example, maybe I will do a little good. At the very least, it seems like an objective worthy of my effort.
In addition, rain forests are being cleared aggressively for cattle farming, which is a very bad thing. (By the way, demand for tropical hardwoods like rosewood, teak and mahogany also drive aggressive rainforest destruction.) Here's an excerpt from an Amazon Rain Forest website:
As the demand in the Western world for cheap meat increases, more and more rainforests are destroyed to provide grazing land for animals. In Brazil alone, there are an estimated 220 million head of cattle, 20 million goats, 60 million pigs, and 700 million chickens. Most of Central and Latin America's tropical and temperate rainforests have been lost to cattle operations to meet the world demand, and still the cattle operations continue to move southward into the heart of the South American rainforests.
Admittedly, there are many other ways to contribute to society. We should all have our pet causes, but respect the ways other people try to make a difference. I don't get involved in Big Brothers/Big Sisters, or Habitat for Humanity, or Feed the Children. But I do eat vegetables.
Monday, March 05, 2007
My Vegetative State: Part 1
Three times in the past few weeks I have been asked why I am a vegetarian. (For the record, I eat dairy products and seafood, but not mammals or reptiles. I could go either way on amphibians.) Since I do not believe I have ever recorded an answer to this question, I will do so here, in a short series on the subject.
Part I: The Moral Imperative
A. Be nice to animals. I don't think it's necessarily wrong to kill animals for food. I just think it's better not to. It seems to me that if you had to look the live creature in the eye and then watch it butchered for your meal, you would more often than not choose a grain, fruit or vegetable--anything without eyes and guts. Most of us intuitively believe that it's better not to kill animals needlessly. We disapprove of the child who takes the life of the squirrel for the experience, or the hunter who lets his kill rot in place, or even the big game hunter who shoots and kills for sport and trophies. Why? Because we respect all life, and these deaths were unnecessary and wasteful. But if we have perfectly healthy dietary alternatives, isn't it equally wrong to create demand through a carnivorous diet? And generally we do have alternatives, and they are almost universally healthier.
This logic is made all the more compelling by the inhumane conditions most animals face in today's farms. When we eat a chicken, we are responsible for genetically engineering a creature whose life experience was in a crowded cage in a darkened building with its beak cut off and fed a steady diet of hormones for quick growth and a short life. And cows don't have it much better. If I treated a dog that way I would get arrested. So why do we let industrial farmers do this to their "product"? (For more on this in a very humorous, animated fashion, go to www.themeatrix.com.)
Now to be fair, the same argument can be constructed concerning seafood, which I eat regularly. And I plead guilty as charged. But I truly believe that fish are less sentient than fowl (which are less sentient than mammals). And insects farther down the sentience scale, followed by vegetables I suppose, which are alive but not at all conscious. I think it would be better not to eat seafood either, and I don't defend where I've drawn my line. I'm just explaining my logic.
There is an old Jewish tradition that prior to receiving our eternal reward, animals will sit in judgment of us for how we treated them as our stewardship. If that's the case, I like my chances better if I haven't eaten the jury in a previous life.
Next Blog: The Moral Imperative, Part B
Part I: The Moral Imperative
A. Be nice to animals. I don't think it's necessarily wrong to kill animals for food. I just think it's better not to. It seems to me that if you had to look the live creature in the eye and then watch it butchered for your meal, you would more often than not choose a grain, fruit or vegetable--anything without eyes and guts. Most of us intuitively believe that it's better not to kill animals needlessly. We disapprove of the child who takes the life of the squirrel for the experience, or the hunter who lets his kill rot in place, or even the big game hunter who shoots and kills for sport and trophies. Why? Because we respect all life, and these deaths were unnecessary and wasteful. But if we have perfectly healthy dietary alternatives, isn't it equally wrong to create demand through a carnivorous diet? And generally we do have alternatives, and they are almost universally healthier.
This logic is made all the more compelling by the inhumane conditions most animals face in today's farms. When we eat a chicken, we are responsible for genetically engineering a creature whose life experience was in a crowded cage in a darkened building with its beak cut off and fed a steady diet of hormones for quick growth and a short life. And cows don't have it much better. If I treated a dog that way I would get arrested. So why do we let industrial farmers do this to their "product"? (For more on this in a very humorous, animated fashion, go to www.themeatrix.com.)
Now to be fair, the same argument can be constructed concerning seafood, which I eat regularly. And I plead guilty as charged. But I truly believe that fish are less sentient than fowl (which are less sentient than mammals). And insects farther down the sentience scale, followed by vegetables I suppose, which are alive but not at all conscious. I think it would be better not to eat seafood either, and I don't defend where I've drawn my line. I'm just explaining my logic.
There is an old Jewish tradition that prior to receiving our eternal reward, animals will sit in judgment of us for how we treated them as our stewardship. If that's the case, I like my chances better if I haven't eaten the jury in a previous life.
Next Blog: The Moral Imperative, Part B
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Martin Scorsese
They have come not to bury Martin Scorsese, but to praise him, which is a glaring reflection of the sad state of Hollywood values. Poor Marty, snubbed for so many years by the Academy of Motion Pictures, but finally taking home an Oscar for his latest work, The Departed.
I cannot muster much sympathy for Mr. Scorsese. Nor can I revel in his current glory. He is a talented filmmaker, to be sure--an excellent craftsman. But when I stand back and consider his body of work, I am left with the sad conclusion that his legacy is empty, base and degrading, that he has done far more harm than good, and that the real tragedy is that Hollywood is willing to elevate his debauchery into something almost iconic.
Who has seen Taxi Driver that came out a better person? Who really enjoyed this movie? Hardly anyone, I bet. Who thought Casino contributed to society? Or Goodfellas, Mean Streets, Raging Bull, Last Temptation or Gangs of New York? Even most of his tamer work feels morally void to me, including The Color of Money and The Aviator. In fact, only his documentaries have left me feeling the least bit inspired, and I think The Last Waltz (The Band) is one of the great rock-n-roll documentaries, and No Direction Home (Bob Dylan) one of the most interesting.
And now The Departed, with language even more vulgar than its stock of 237 F-words. With more brutal, graphic violence and sex and sacrilege and racism and ... But what is important to the industry is that finally with Oscar in hand, Scorcese is crowned a demigod, and in his now transcendent state will be held above any mere mortal directors who might make films that educate, ennoble and inspire.
Have it your way, Hollywood. But I wouldn't trade one good Frank Capra movie for the whole of his work.
I cannot muster much sympathy for Mr. Scorsese. Nor can I revel in his current glory. He is a talented filmmaker, to be sure--an excellent craftsman. But when I stand back and consider his body of work, I am left with the sad conclusion that his legacy is empty, base and degrading, that he has done far more harm than good, and that the real tragedy is that Hollywood is willing to elevate his debauchery into something almost iconic.
Who has seen Taxi Driver that came out a better person? Who really enjoyed this movie? Hardly anyone, I bet. Who thought Casino contributed to society? Or Goodfellas, Mean Streets, Raging Bull, Last Temptation or Gangs of New York? Even most of his tamer work feels morally void to me, including The Color of Money and The Aviator. In fact, only his documentaries have left me feeling the least bit inspired, and I think The Last Waltz (The Band) is one of the great rock-n-roll documentaries, and No Direction Home (Bob Dylan) one of the most interesting.
And now The Departed, with language even more vulgar than its stock of 237 F-words. With more brutal, graphic violence and sex and sacrilege and racism and ... But what is important to the industry is that finally with Oscar in hand, Scorcese is crowned a demigod, and in his now transcendent state will be held above any mere mortal directors who might make films that educate, ennoble and inspire.
Have it your way, Hollywood. But I wouldn't trade one good Frank Capra movie for the whole of his work.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Beaver Mountain
Last weekend I joined Merritt and his friend Daryl on a cross-country skiing trip on Beaver Mountain. Actually, we were guiding a couple of scout troops who had signed up for the overnight trip, which covered about three miles backcountry to a rustic lodge, followed by a backcountry tour in the morning and a return trip after Saturday's lunch.
I'd never been to this part of the state, and found the mountain incredibly beautiful. There was about a foot of new snow, and more fell softly as we skied in Friday night. Come Saturday the sky was clear and blue, and the sun sparkled off the fresh blanket of snow in the meadows. The snow hung heavily on the spruce branches, which made our meanderings through the woods quiet and serene.
This is a beautiful world that we live in, although it is easy to miss so much of it for lack of effort. I count as one of the great blessings of my life the appreciation and enjoyment of the wilderness.
I'd never been to this part of the state, and found the mountain incredibly beautiful. There was about a foot of new snow, and more fell softly as we skied in Friday night. Come Saturday the sky was clear and blue, and the sun sparkled off the fresh blanket of snow in the meadows. The snow hung heavily on the spruce branches, which made our meanderings through the woods quiet and serene.
This is a beautiful world that we live in, although it is easy to miss so much of it for lack of effort. I count as one of the great blessings of my life the appreciation and enjoyment of the wilderness.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
No More Peas
When I was a child, we would make up our own games. I spent hundreds of hours rolling dice and keeping statistics for a baseball card game I invented. And my friend Randy and I had a daily ritual of setting up action figures and plastic army men at each end of our hallway, then rolling balls down the wooden floor to see who could wipe out the other side's army first. And every spring we would get out our marbles and make rings in the dirt and compete in games of our invention, along the way winning and losing fortunes measured in Steelies, Cats-eyes and Bumblebees.
We made a lot of our own stuff back then, like horns out of cardboard tubes, waxed paper and rubber bands. And along the way we learned about the physics of our creations, as Christmas wrapping rolls were too big, toilet paper rolls too small (and revolting) but paper towel rolls just right for a fine baritone riff.
The most memorable toy of my early childhood was a wooden rifle that my foster father, Ross Toomer, had cut on his table saw, sanded down, and painted black and silver. It was an individualized plaything, customized for my size, age and tastes, and thus it became a crucial part of my identity. Many nefarious characters met their fate by that gun, as I crouched behind the peonies in my backyard, sneaking up on the enemies that were alarmingly prevalent in my suburban Bloomington neighborhood.
But as we got older, imaginary battles were not nearly as exciting as those fought with functional weapons and live ammunition. And thus our highest level of ingenuity was reserved for our personal armory, which would reflect upon the bearer as not only a matter of pride, but also, at times, one of personal preservation. Most of us had clothespin guns that when strung with a fat rubber band would inflict just enough pain from medium range to make things interesting, particularly with the feared neck-hit. We also had sling shots, which were difficult to make well, but when properly crafted and with the right piece of innertube and a smooth rock could wound a bird or kill a mouse with a lucky shot; or with a small green apple could strike a friend with sufficient force to set off a battle of raging intensity. We looked forward to Christmas for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that my mother traditionally put out a nut bowl, which provided perfectly sized ammunition for a well-designed slingshot.
But of all the childhood ordnance, the most common was the pea shooter, which was, I suppose, the equivalent of the Old West sidearm. You could buy a pea shooter at any store for 25 cents, although occasionially you'd run across a fat straw that worked about as well. Pea shooters were extremely accurate, had impressive range, were noiseless and easy to conceal: Basically, the perfect elementary school accessory. You could shoot tiny paper balls, or when feeling nasty, spitwads. But as might be expected, the most effective ammo was peas. In those days, every mom made pea soup and every kitchen had dried peas. We'd put a handful in our corduroys before school and be ready for a full-scale battle at recess. But for the more intrepid boys there was an almost overwhelming temptation for occasional sniper action during class, where a surprise shot from an unseen corner of the room could, with the right combination of accuracy and lung-power, cause even the biggest bully to holler out in pain in the middle of one of Miss Mlodzik's endless soliloquys on fractions.
I haven't seen a pea shooter for years. I suppose they were done in by modern gadgets with LCD screens and microchips, but maybe more so by a dearth of dried peas, which have been replaced in most kitchens by sanitized versions of pea soup packaged in a cup, to be filled with water and heated in a microwave; a dietary shift which has resulted in tragic and unintended consequences for today's young boys.
We made a lot of our own stuff back then, like horns out of cardboard tubes, waxed paper and rubber bands. And along the way we learned about the physics of our creations, as Christmas wrapping rolls were too big, toilet paper rolls too small (and revolting) but paper towel rolls just right for a fine baritone riff.
The most memorable toy of my early childhood was a wooden rifle that my foster father, Ross Toomer, had cut on his table saw, sanded down, and painted black and silver. It was an individualized plaything, customized for my size, age and tastes, and thus it became a crucial part of my identity. Many nefarious characters met their fate by that gun, as I crouched behind the peonies in my backyard, sneaking up on the enemies that were alarmingly prevalent in my suburban Bloomington neighborhood.
But as we got older, imaginary battles were not nearly as exciting as those fought with functional weapons and live ammunition. And thus our highest level of ingenuity was reserved for our personal armory, which would reflect upon the bearer as not only a matter of pride, but also, at times, one of personal preservation. Most of us had clothespin guns that when strung with a fat rubber band would inflict just enough pain from medium range to make things interesting, particularly with the feared neck-hit. We also had sling shots, which were difficult to make well, but when properly crafted and with the right piece of innertube and a smooth rock could wound a bird or kill a mouse with a lucky shot; or with a small green apple could strike a friend with sufficient force to set off a battle of raging intensity. We looked forward to Christmas for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that my mother traditionally put out a nut bowl, which provided perfectly sized ammunition for a well-designed slingshot.
But of all the childhood ordnance, the most common was the pea shooter, which was, I suppose, the equivalent of the Old West sidearm. You could buy a pea shooter at any store for 25 cents, although occasionially you'd run across a fat straw that worked about as well. Pea shooters were extremely accurate, had impressive range, were noiseless and easy to conceal: Basically, the perfect elementary school accessory. You could shoot tiny paper balls, or when feeling nasty, spitwads. But as might be expected, the most effective ammo was peas. In those days, every mom made pea soup and every kitchen had dried peas. We'd put a handful in our corduroys before school and be ready for a full-scale battle at recess. But for the more intrepid boys there was an almost overwhelming temptation for occasional sniper action during class, where a surprise shot from an unseen corner of the room could, with the right combination of accuracy and lung-power, cause even the biggest bully to holler out in pain in the middle of one of Miss Mlodzik's endless soliloquys on fractions.
I haven't seen a pea shooter for years. I suppose they were done in by modern gadgets with LCD screens and microchips, but maybe more so by a dearth of dried peas, which have been replaced in most kitchens by sanitized versions of pea soup packaged in a cup, to be filled with water and heated in a microwave; a dietary shift which has resulted in tragic and unintended consequences for today's young boys.
Leaving Layla
Angelica formally moved to Phoenix this week, where Ryan has been awaiting her presence. They closed on their house and now begin a new phase of their lives which I expect will be very good for them. The immediate tragedy to all of this was, of course, that she took Layla with her. We had all come to depend on the presence of that delightful child. Every morning she and I would spend time together, smiling and laughing, and I would read her books and bounce her on my knee and fly her through the air and it would be such a lovely way to start my day that I never wanted to go to work. And of course Mother could hardly stay away from her when she was at home. She would forgo her studies to sing songs and change her diaper and I suppose Layla cost her at least 2/10ths on her GPA, which was more than a fair trade.
She is a sweet and darling child and a pleasure to be around. Babies can be nice that way (although you probably couldn't convince Merritt and Stacie of that right now), sharing a magic innocence with those around them, spreading a peaceful testimony that there are corners in the world where smiles can warm the soul and coos melt even the hardest heart.
We will see Layla again before long, but I doubt that it will ever be the same as those weeks when we shared a house and blended our routines into an extended family. This has happened for thousands of years, and still does in most countries. But ours is a transient society and like I did a generation ago we are often inclined to allow our careers to dictate our geography, rather than the other way around.
I am by no means qualified to judge these events, and even if I were, I couldn't tell right from wrong. But I know this, that we will miss Layla (and her parents) when she is gone, but that the reunions will be all the sweeter. And life will go on and relationships will find their way into something of value. Time alone will do her business and things won't stay the same. Memories will continue to be made no matter what, but let me take the time occasionally to cherish those that are now so pleasantly fresh upon my mind, and look forward to the time when I will see my granddaughter again.
She is a sweet and darling child and a pleasure to be around. Babies can be nice that way (although you probably couldn't convince Merritt and Stacie of that right now), sharing a magic innocence with those around them, spreading a peaceful testimony that there are corners in the world where smiles can warm the soul and coos melt even the hardest heart.
We will see Layla again before long, but I doubt that it will ever be the same as those weeks when we shared a house and blended our routines into an extended family. This has happened for thousands of years, and still does in most countries. But ours is a transient society and like I did a generation ago we are often inclined to allow our careers to dictate our geography, rather than the other way around.
I am by no means qualified to judge these events, and even if I were, I couldn't tell right from wrong. But I know this, that we will miss Layla (and her parents) when she is gone, but that the reunions will be all the sweeter. And life will go on and relationships will find their way into something of value. Time alone will do her business and things won't stay the same. Memories will continue to be made no matter what, but let me take the time occasionally to cherish those that are now so pleasantly fresh upon my mind, and look forward to the time when I will see my granddaughter again.
Monday, February 12, 2007
All in the Family
We had the whole family together this weekend. Zach and Julie were here from Los Angeles. Ryan came up from Phoenix. Merritt and Stacie stuck around for the weekend. Courtney came by twice (once with Truman) and Brandon was here for a few hours on Saturday.
We didn't do much. Ate too much. Played a lot of games. Watched movies. Talked. We also took family pictures on Saturday. Really nothing eventful. But it was fun (for me, at least) and satisfying (again, for me). I love all of them, but as important, I like every one. When we were together there was no contention. We are an opinionated, outgoing and competitive lot, but somehow we manage to overlook each other's flaws for the sake of the family organism as a whole. We are bees in a hive, buzzing around rather sweetly, our stingers tucked away safely.
There are two grandchildren now, and things seem to revolve around them. Certainly it limits our range of motion in activities. But they are harbingers of a new era, a signal that the old is getting old, and the new will soon be arriving en masse, and that in the not-too-distant future power will shift to those in the middle. I don't mind any of this, and am happy to be both an active participant in this ancient play, as well as a bemused spectator at the proceedings (sometimes with eyes closed, but listening intently to the quiet rustling of the winds of change).
It is gratifying to look over my creations and see that they are good, and understand a little about the eternities. And sometimes I ache inside, and sometimes I am warmed from within, both natural results of the heart turning toward the children. Some day I will walk into the sunset. I would like to depart both satisfied and not, but with wisdom in my satchel, waving quietly to my posterity.
We didn't do much. Ate too much. Played a lot of games. Watched movies. Talked. We also took family pictures on Saturday. Really nothing eventful. But it was fun (for me, at least) and satisfying (again, for me). I love all of them, but as important, I like every one. When we were together there was no contention. We are an opinionated, outgoing and competitive lot, but somehow we manage to overlook each other's flaws for the sake of the family organism as a whole. We are bees in a hive, buzzing around rather sweetly, our stingers tucked away safely.
There are two grandchildren now, and things seem to revolve around them. Certainly it limits our range of motion in activities. But they are harbingers of a new era, a signal that the old is getting old, and the new will soon be arriving en masse, and that in the not-too-distant future power will shift to those in the middle. I don't mind any of this, and am happy to be both an active participant in this ancient play, as well as a bemused spectator at the proceedings (sometimes with eyes closed, but listening intently to the quiet rustling of the winds of change).
It is gratifying to look over my creations and see that they are good, and understand a little about the eternities. And sometimes I ache inside, and sometimes I am warmed from within, both natural results of the heart turning toward the children. Some day I will walk into the sunset. I would like to depart both satisfied and not, but with wisdom in my satchel, waving quietly to my posterity.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Super Bowl 2007
That Great American Institution, the Super Bowl, took place tonight. Like many Americans (and millions of others around the world) we gathered with friends and family and watched the game and the commercials and ate more food than any of us needed and generally had a good time.
I am a football fan and have always enjoyed the game. But more than that, I appreciate the Super Bowl as a magnetic entertainment event, gathering humans into groups like so many metal shavings, some on one side and some polar opposites. We clump together into huddled masses, fans and neophytes alike, attracted by this unseen social force. And if we're fan enough to care, then all is better when our team wins, yet all is eventually forgiven when we lose. In any event, the stakes--being emotionally invested in the result--improves the game.
And after it is done, we go to work and talk about the game and the commercials and who we were with and we relive our social experience and are glad that football was invented and that we are Americans and have TV's.
No public benefit emerges from this game--but there is social utility nonetheless, and gatherings like this can be good for the soul, if a bit hard on the waistline. Colts 29, Bears 17.
I am a football fan and have always enjoyed the game. But more than that, I appreciate the Super Bowl as a magnetic entertainment event, gathering humans into groups like so many metal shavings, some on one side and some polar opposites. We clump together into huddled masses, fans and neophytes alike, attracted by this unseen social force. And if we're fan enough to care, then all is better when our team wins, yet all is eventually forgiven when we lose. In any event, the stakes--being emotionally invested in the result--improves the game.
And after it is done, we go to work and talk about the game and the commercials and who we were with and we relive our social experience and are glad that football was invented and that we are Americans and have TV's.
No public benefit emerges from this game--but there is social utility nonetheless, and gatherings like this can be good for the soul, if a bit hard on the waistline. Colts 29, Bears 17.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Prospice
I'm in a poetry groove lately. The other night again I finished work in the wee hours and sat down in the big chair with every intention of falling asleep quickly. But I picked up a book of poetry and before long I was furiously memorizing Prospice, by Robert Browning. An hour later I finally drifted to sleep, my lips unintelligibly repeating the stanzas. The next day I kept repeating it, until it was mine--a companion for life.
Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat,
the mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form
Yet the strong man must go.
For the journey is done, and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight 'ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter; so,--one fight more,
The best and the last.
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,
And bade me slip past.
No! Let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,
The heroes of old.
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave;
The black minute's at end,
And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend, shall change,
Shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
'O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
Poetry is so personal and so subjective. "Prospice" is to look forward. Browning wrote this poem a few months after the death of his dearly beloved Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And yes, he is looking forward to seeing her again. In many ways, that is his reward. But it's important to him that he die well--with courage and honor. Maybe to deserve to be in her presence. But I think, perhaps, more because it is part of his being a real man.
Does he fear Death? Well, yes. Like a man would fear a harsh storm in the night, like he would fear an enemy sentinel, like a warrior fears battle, or a condemned man the firing squad. But like a good sailor, we will head out into the storm, wtih the fog in his throat and the mist in his face; he will walk past the sentinel; he will fight the last battle and face his executioners without a blindfold.
He does this because he has overcome his fear of death. That is duty and honor--to discipline yourself to do what is right no matter the challenge. He has put it in perspective. If this world is a test, then surely this is the final passage, and to live life well is to die well too. Is it painful? Well, yes, but instead of running from the pain, embrace it heroically. Death is the price we pay for life, and until we meet our death, we are in arrears, and in fact we will never clear the balance without an honorable death, that is, the measure of our lives will be found wanting.
And then, as the light expires, everything changes. Our existence is transformed from temporal travails to a celestial existence, the apex of which is to be reunited with the love of his earthly life. How beautifully, emotionally, hopefully and lovingly he describes this passage, where Elizabeth waits on the other side. Read it deliberately:
And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave
Shal dwindle ... shall blend ... shall change ...
Shall become first a peace out of pain ...
Then a light ...
Then thy breast ...
'O thy soul of my soul ... I shall see thee again!
And with God be the rest.
The last line is interesting.
I think--that now we will spend the rest of eternity together with God.
But maybe--I have passed my earthly test well, and judgment is in God's hands?
I have been given my reward (to be with my love), and let God turn his attention to everyone else?
Enough rambling--really steam-of-consciousness and excruciatingly long for a blog. Learning a poem is a beautiful thing.
Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat,
the mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form
Yet the strong man must go.
For the journey is done, and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight 'ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter; so,--one fight more,
The best and the last.
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,
And bade me slip past.
No! Let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,
The heroes of old.
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave;
The black minute's at end,
And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend, shall change,
Shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
'O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
Poetry is so personal and so subjective. "Prospice" is to look forward. Browning wrote this poem a few months after the death of his dearly beloved Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And yes, he is looking forward to seeing her again. In many ways, that is his reward. But it's important to him that he die well--with courage and honor. Maybe to deserve to be in her presence. But I think, perhaps, more because it is part of his being a real man.
Does he fear Death? Well, yes. Like a man would fear a harsh storm in the night, like he would fear an enemy sentinel, like a warrior fears battle, or a condemned man the firing squad. But like a good sailor, we will head out into the storm, wtih the fog in his throat and the mist in his face; he will walk past the sentinel; he will fight the last battle and face his executioners without a blindfold.
He does this because he has overcome his fear of death. That is duty and honor--to discipline yourself to do what is right no matter the challenge. He has put it in perspective. If this world is a test, then surely this is the final passage, and to live life well is to die well too. Is it painful? Well, yes, but instead of running from the pain, embrace it heroically. Death is the price we pay for life, and until we meet our death, we are in arrears, and in fact we will never clear the balance without an honorable death, that is, the measure of our lives will be found wanting.
And then, as the light expires, everything changes. Our existence is transformed from temporal travails to a celestial existence, the apex of which is to be reunited with the love of his earthly life. How beautifully, emotionally, hopefully and lovingly he describes this passage, where Elizabeth waits on the other side. Read it deliberately:
And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave
Shal dwindle ... shall blend ... shall change ...
Shall become first a peace out of pain ...
Then a light ...
Then thy breast ...
'O thy soul of my soul ... I shall see thee again!
And with God be the rest.
The last line is interesting.
I think--that now we will spend the rest of eternity together with God.
But maybe--I have passed my earthly test well, and judgment is in God's hands?
I have been given my reward (to be with my love), and let God turn his attention to everyone else?
Enough rambling--really steam-of-consciousness and excruciatingly long for a blog. Learning a poem is a beautiful thing.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Leaving Las Vegas
Having spent most of the week in Las Vegas at the Consumer Electronics Show, I am most happy to be leaving. Las Vegas is a metaphor for the very worst of our society, the lowest of our inclinations, and the basest misuse of our achievements.
For one thing, I am always taken aback by the unabashed marketing of sex, which is invasively pervasive. It is as if the rules of common decency have been proudly suspended. Near-naked women adorn the sides of building and busses, each sex show flaunting itself as grander than the rest, each "gentlemen's club" promising a more fulfilling night of fantasy. And alas, the entire service industry seems to have been caught up in the spirit of promiscuity, the restaurants and casinos filled with silicone-enhanced women eager to be tipped by half-drunk revellers with the fantasy of fulfillment in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other.
And of course there is the gambling, which is where the real money is lost and made (by the gamblers and the casinos, respectively). If P.T. Barnum was right and there is a sucker born every minute, then that explains the steady stream of hopefuls sitting thoughtfully at the blackjack tables and mindlessly at the slots. Pushed to explain, they would grudgingly acknowledge that the odds are stacked against them. Even those with skill and smarts would admit that for all their wiles at best they improve their chances to something less than 50-50. But in the name of entertainment, there are always those ready to spend their hard-earned money for the outrageous possibility that in the final tally they will beat the house.
But perhaps the most repulsive aspect to Sin City is the thin veneer of false glamour that has been laquered on in thick, gaudy brushstrokes to every element of the experience. It is the artistic equivalent of painting by numbers; the aesthetic sensibility of velvet likenesses of Elvis and wild horses. Walking through the hallways of even the most prestigious hotels I am embarassed by the clumsy monuments to cheap decadence made by crafty artisans at union wages.
So my favorite time in Las Vegas is the moment I say good-bye, turning in my hotel room keycard with the scantily-clad dancer and putting behind me the images of tawdry hucksters counting their money under the neon lights of Gomorrah.
For one thing, I am always taken aback by the unabashed marketing of sex, which is invasively pervasive. It is as if the rules of common decency have been proudly suspended. Near-naked women adorn the sides of building and busses, each sex show flaunting itself as grander than the rest, each "gentlemen's club" promising a more fulfilling night of fantasy. And alas, the entire service industry seems to have been caught up in the spirit of promiscuity, the restaurants and casinos filled with silicone-enhanced women eager to be tipped by half-drunk revellers with the fantasy of fulfillment in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other.
And of course there is the gambling, which is where the real money is lost and made (by the gamblers and the casinos, respectively). If P.T. Barnum was right and there is a sucker born every minute, then that explains the steady stream of hopefuls sitting thoughtfully at the blackjack tables and mindlessly at the slots. Pushed to explain, they would grudgingly acknowledge that the odds are stacked against them. Even those with skill and smarts would admit that for all their wiles at best they improve their chances to something less than 50-50. But in the name of entertainment, there are always those ready to spend their hard-earned money for the outrageous possibility that in the final tally they will beat the house.
But perhaps the most repulsive aspect to Sin City is the thin veneer of false glamour that has been laquered on in thick, gaudy brushstrokes to every element of the experience. It is the artistic equivalent of painting by numbers; the aesthetic sensibility of velvet likenesses of Elvis and wild horses. Walking through the hallways of even the most prestigious hotels I am embarassed by the clumsy monuments to cheap decadence made by crafty artisans at union wages.
So my favorite time in Las Vegas is the moment I say good-bye, turning in my hotel room keycard with the scantily-clad dancer and putting behind me the images of tawdry hucksters counting their money under the neon lights of Gomorrah.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
On Coleridge
I've been working very long hours lately, and have found relaxation in reading poetry. A few days ago at 3 a.m. I started reading Coleridge, thinking it would probably put me to sleep. Instead, for the first time in my life I read his most famous work: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and found it extraordinary in its compelling story line, lyrical verse and haunting imagery. I highly recommend it.
In the process, I learned that the poem has been the source for a number of commonplace expressions, including "an albatross around the neck," the line: "Water, water all around, nor but a drop to drink" (often misquoted), and the phrase: "a sadder but wiser man." Most surprising, I learned that the same poetic structure and cadence was, quite appropriately, used in the theme song of Gilligan's Island.
One stanza stood out, and I memorized it:
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk with fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
This was the dawn of romantic poetry, and he has certainly added a lilting flourish to an experience I suspect we all have known. He was also an opium addict, and perhaps that illuminates the stanza more insightfully.
I was also amused by this little epigram from Coleridge:
Sir I admit your general rule
That every poet is a fool.
But you yourself may serve to show it
That every fool is not a poet.
He would have scored big in a poetry slam.
In the process, I learned that the poem has been the source for a number of commonplace expressions, including "an albatross around the neck," the line: "Water, water all around, nor but a drop to drink" (often misquoted), and the phrase: "a sadder but wiser man." Most surprising, I learned that the same poetic structure and cadence was, quite appropriately, used in the theme song of Gilligan's Island.
One stanza stood out, and I memorized it:
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk with fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
This was the dawn of romantic poetry, and he has certainly added a lilting flourish to an experience I suspect we all have known. He was also an opium addict, and perhaps that illuminates the stanza more insightfully.
I was also amused by this little epigram from Coleridge:
Sir I admit your general rule
That every poet is a fool.
But you yourself may serve to show it
That every fool is not a poet.
He would have scored big in a poetry slam.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Absolutions and Resolutions
We have come not to praise last year's resolutions, but to bury them. Their spirits have left their bodies and we will see them later on, perhaps on Judgment Day. It is now time to turn our attention to matters of relevance: today, and tomorrow.
I like goals, and I like resolutions. But they are mates of different sorts. Resolutions are completely within my control. Resolutions, whether great or small, are individual battles: My Will vs. The Seven Deadly Sins, or sometimes opponents with a less distinguished pedigree. It was not difficult to quit playing Free Cell a few years ago, and I dispatched that minor villain in short order, but Gluttony is less like a weekend scrimmage and more of an ongoing rivalry. We are scheduled to meet again this afternoon, his bowl of Chocolate Fudge Swirl met by my determined resolve not to replace all of my pairs of pants in 2007.
Goals are less tangible things, involving a combination of effort, ability, and generally at least a small helping of good fortune. I have a goal to publish a work of fiction. Whether this is possible I do not know, for I have not mustered the effort necessary to succeed. When I do, then I will look to tag-team with Lady Luck. (Seneca said "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.")
I will set my goals this week, as I have for the past 20 years. And I will resolve to do a few things as well. And every so often I will sneak a peek at both lists, to see who is ahead, me or my opponent.
I like goals, and I like resolutions. But they are mates of different sorts. Resolutions are completely within my control. Resolutions, whether great or small, are individual battles: My Will vs. The Seven Deadly Sins, or sometimes opponents with a less distinguished pedigree. It was not difficult to quit playing Free Cell a few years ago, and I dispatched that minor villain in short order, but Gluttony is less like a weekend scrimmage and more of an ongoing rivalry. We are scheduled to meet again this afternoon, his bowl of Chocolate Fudge Swirl met by my determined resolve not to replace all of my pairs of pants in 2007.
Goals are less tangible things, involving a combination of effort, ability, and generally at least a small helping of good fortune. I have a goal to publish a work of fiction. Whether this is possible I do not know, for I have not mustered the effort necessary to succeed. When I do, then I will look to tag-team with Lady Luck. (Seneca said "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.")
I will set my goals this week, as I have for the past 20 years. And I will resolve to do a few things as well. And every so often I will sneak a peek at both lists, to see who is ahead, me or my opponent.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Nary Christmas
It wasn't a very satisfying Christmas. Work was a major distraction. We didn't have a very spiritual Christmas Eve. And our family struggled to gather together at one time. But I think I could have gotten over all of those things were it not for the one missing ingredient: I didn't serve. Oh, we tried to do a few things. I bought a couple of gifts, but never really got into it. Lanee and I made almond bark, and the family visited some families to pass out the candy and do a little presentation. I bought a recent widow a book of poetry. And that was it. No real sacrifice. No sustained effort. Not much interest in brightening lives. And a Christmas virtually lost.
It is easy to decry the destructive forces of commercialism in Christmas. It's obvious that we have completely lost the meanings of the symbols we take from the attic every December to decorate our houses. And it's all too convenient to complain about the hustle and bustle every year, and Christmas sneaking up on us, like it does to everyone, every year.
It's easy to sing the carols without being touched. To wrap the gifts as a matter of course. To substitute funny Christmas movies for thoughtful ones.
But the one act that overpowers them all is when we give of ourselves for the sake of others; when our hearts are filled with love and compassion, and our hands are busy trying to make a difference. That is Christmas pure and undefiled, and without it nothing else matters.
It would be painful to have to wait until next year for redemption. Fortunately, only the holiday is confined to December. With that thought, I'm hanging a lovely Christmas ornament in my closet that I will see every morning and every night, to remind me that giving is also a beautiful thing, and that the spirit of Christmas can be all year long, even without the bells and tinsel.
It is easy to decry the destructive forces of commercialism in Christmas. It's obvious that we have completely lost the meanings of the symbols we take from the attic every December to decorate our houses. And it's all too convenient to complain about the hustle and bustle every year, and Christmas sneaking up on us, like it does to everyone, every year.
It's easy to sing the carols without being touched. To wrap the gifts as a matter of course. To substitute funny Christmas movies for thoughtful ones.
But the one act that overpowers them all is when we give of ourselves for the sake of others; when our hearts are filled with love and compassion, and our hands are busy trying to make a difference. That is Christmas pure and undefiled, and without it nothing else matters.
It would be painful to have to wait until next year for redemption. Fortunately, only the holiday is confined to December. With that thought, I'm hanging a lovely Christmas ornament in my closet that I will see every morning and every night, to remind me that giving is also a beautiful thing, and that the spirit of Christmas can be all year long, even without the bells and tinsel.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Cha-Ching!
After a month of soliciting and selling, convincing and cajoling, presenting and pleading, and grunting and groveling, we put our financing in place for our retail expansion. Money was wired to us yeterday, and we wired it out to display manufacturers, who wired it to China, who probably started parsing it out to the millions of workers who make stuff over there, to the tune of a few dollars a day.
I suppose I should celebrate, but I never do. It is both a blessing and curse. I breathe deeply for a few minutes, smile about a milestone reached, then immediately begin worrying about what needs to be done next to ward off disaster. I've never been able to enjoy any success for very long. But the bitterness of my failures is a taste that lingers on forever. As a result, I'm not driven by the trappings of success, but rather by the fear of failure.
We're all driven by different things. I've grown comfortable with my motivations and doubt that they will change. I wear them like an old pair of shoes--scuffed tops and worn heels, but they are comfortable and fit me well.
I suppose I should celebrate, but I never do. It is both a blessing and curse. I breathe deeply for a few minutes, smile about a milestone reached, then immediately begin worrying about what needs to be done next to ward off disaster. I've never been able to enjoy any success for very long. But the bitterness of my failures is a taste that lingers on forever. As a result, I'm not driven by the trappings of success, but rather by the fear of failure.
We're all driven by different things. I've grown comfortable with my motivations and doubt that they will change. I wear them like an old pair of shoes--scuffed tops and worn heels, but they are comfortable and fit me well.
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