God will not be impressed with the morals of this nation when accounting for the lives it has chosen to abort.
Pray - pray fervently and long.
Why?
Because abortion is wrong
G.
This bit of bullshit needs some refutation. The person who wrote those words calls himself religious (I'll call him G.), but the morality of his life is in doubt no more or less than those he seeks to condemn.
And have no doubt. These are the words of condemnation. These are the sort of words that have given religion the bad name it deserves. G.'s appeal to pray is not an attempt to reconcile with those who might have doubts about their actions and are thus seeking spiritual and religious advice. No, in this case the call to prayer is a threat. The subtext says quite clearly that the consequences will be unfavorable, and, lest you have any doubt, the writer reinforces his point by being blunt and speaking for God directly.
I can only imagine what God will do to all those fools who have chosen to speak on His behalf while here on earth. If it turns out that He is the all-knowing guiding hand behind all of our actions and inactions, well, He is likely to be upset with the many conflicting interpretations of His Word. After all, I don't think He is going to take kindly to all those people who got it wrong.
I mean, let's say it turns out that God actually had a plan for aborting all those babies, what will He have to say to all those righteous zealots who tried to subvert His Plan? Why is it that God's Plan includes only those things deemed right and proper by the supposedly righteous religious interpreters of His Word and seeks to exclude all that is wrong and bad in the world? Why is it impossible that God's plan includes abortion? And why would a person, any person, be asked to step in for God and condemn his fellow creatures for their missteps in God's name? How arrogant.
Isn't it simple arrogance to assume that one can know God and/or His will? Many say that they can divine His intent through the Bible. Yet we know that the Bible is fraught with contradictions that are dismissed as anachronistic when they don't suit our needs (like the righteousness of stoning a woman who has committed adultery, for example) or are dismissed as ambiguous when they support the ideas of others (such as tolerance for others, like homosexuals, who somehow deviate from the 'norm').
Well, I've decided that if G. can talk with God and know what He will and will not 'be impressed with', I can too. So, I called Him up and asked Him if what G. said was true. Now, I can't quote Him here because He asked me not to, and, out of respect for His Word, I won't. I have to tell you though, given what He can do to me if I don't obey, I decided to honor His request. In our brief conversation (He was pretty busy this morning, what with the continuing U.S. financial crisis--apparently G.W. needs some personal guidance today), He was pretty clear about His intent though.
If you ask me, then, I believe that God will not be very impressed with those who have lived off the hard work of others, especially those who have not toiled in the service of Man but who have wasted their time on this earth by judging and condemning their fellow humans in the name of God. Collecting money to travel to the South Pacific to proselytize the 'natives' is a brazen example of how God's name is exploited by the pseudo-religious for personal gain.
Hell, I'd love to go to Tahiti on God's dime, wouldn't you? Lest you think I am inventing this, recall that last year, G. sent letters soliciting money to members of his extended family without regard for how they might feel about such blatant begging in the name of God. Whether or not he raised enough money to take his family on vacation is unknown to me. Likely he raised enough to get only halfway, then said, "The heck with it, let's just go to Canada".
Curiously, I agree with G. when urged to pray, for this may be the only way to get God to discipline arrogant idiots like G. who claim to speak for Him. So I will pray.
I fervently pray that those who have corrupted the mind of Man with empty promises of salvation shall find themselves at the mercy of their own creation.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Thirteen Things for My Daughter
I don't know exactly when I came up with these bits of advice for Maddie, but I wrote them before she left for Portland. I found them in a journal today and felt that they were worth posting.
1. Tell the truth. Always and especially to yourself.
2. Don't wait to be told. Pay attention and do what needs to be done.
3. Be your best friend. No one else can be.
4. Be your toughest critic. No one else will bother.
5. Laugh at yourself. Don't take yourself too seriously.
6. Cry when you have to. There's no shame in tears.
7. Don't gossip. Unless you want to hear about yourself.
8. Be proud of your body. It's the only one you'll get.
9. Say "Yes"! You'll figure it out.
10. Ask. The worst anyone can say is, "No".
11. When things don't look like they are going to work out, change direction. Your life has a rudder; it's called your mind.
12. There is no such thing as failure. It is only a change in direction.
13. There is no such thing as success. It is only a pause on the way.
1. Tell the truth. Always and especially to yourself.
2. Don't wait to be told. Pay attention and do what needs to be done.
3. Be your best friend. No one else can be.
4. Be your toughest critic. No one else will bother.
5. Laugh at yourself. Don't take yourself too seriously.
6. Cry when you have to. There's no shame in tears.
7. Don't gossip. Unless you want to hear about yourself.
8. Be proud of your body. It's the only one you'll get.
9. Say "Yes"! You'll figure it out.
10. Ask. The worst anyone can say is, "No".
11. When things don't look like they are going to work out, change direction. Your life has a rudder; it's called your mind.
12. There is no such thing as failure. It is only a change in direction.
13. There is no such thing as success. It is only a pause on the way.
Prufrock
One great pleasure that has come my way recently has been to help a young friend of Maddie study poetry.
As a college freshman, she is taking a basic literature class, Intro to American Literature Since 1865. This includes the poetry of Whitman, Frost, Stevens, Eliot and Cummings. I took the same class in 1976, read the same poems and, just like Tenisha, didn't understand them at all. It was as if they were writing in a foreign language. Dr. Pelen, my professor, got it, but I did not.
But somehow those poems stuck with me. Reading Stevens' Sunday Morning made me choke up as I discovered that it was about me, 30 years later. And, at this point in my life, I even have some sympathy for Prufrock, whom I never thought I'd resemble. Yet now, the metaphors Eliot called upon appear to be not mere empty warnings to a facile youth, but serve as markers for what turns out to be a questionable life.
It is comforting, I suppose, to know that I have been a part of a long tradition, but because it is a history of failed ambitions and empty promises, it's a bittersweet flavor that lingers. I remind myself that it's just another poem and I am just another man.
Of course, at this bit of humility too, I fail, for I am still convinced that I am a poet, and that these great works that I ignored in my youth are but signs to guide me; passions on the path to inspiration.
I am not absent self-doubt, but I will press on as if I had no choice, which is, of course, the way it is.
As a college freshman, she is taking a basic literature class, Intro to American Literature Since 1865. This includes the poetry of Whitman, Frost, Stevens, Eliot and Cummings. I took the same class in 1976, read the same poems and, just like Tenisha, didn't understand them at all. It was as if they were writing in a foreign language. Dr. Pelen, my professor, got it, but I did not.
But somehow those poems stuck with me. Reading Stevens' Sunday Morning made me choke up as I discovered that it was about me, 30 years later. And, at this point in my life, I even have some sympathy for Prufrock, whom I never thought I'd resemble. Yet now, the metaphors Eliot called upon appear to be not mere empty warnings to a facile youth, but serve as markers for what turns out to be a questionable life.
It is comforting, I suppose, to know that I have been a part of a long tradition, but because it is a history of failed ambitions and empty promises, it's a bittersweet flavor that lingers. I remind myself that it's just another poem and I am just another man.
Of course, at this bit of humility too, I fail, for I am still convinced that I am a poet, and that these great works that I ignored in my youth are but signs to guide me; passions on the path to inspiration.
I am not absent self-doubt, but I will press on as if I had no choice, which is, of course, the way it is.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Fifty for Dinner, Please
It was Tuesday night. Ordinarily I am not in the restaurant on a Tuesday, but this night I was preparing for our first wine dinner of the season, so I was in one of the dining rooms near the front door, setting tables, folding napkins when I heard the exchange.
"Hi folks" said Sara, in her best and brightest hostess voice to the well dressed grey haired man who just walked in. "Have you got a reservation?"
I couldn't see his face, but I could hear his voice. "Oh yes," he said, putting away his Blackberry to talk with Sara face-to-face. "It's under Johnson" he said confidently, "Or possibly St. Ignatius Health Care". [Note, names have been changed]
I could hear Sara's silence as she searched for the name on the computer. The next question, I knew, came because in fact she had not fund either name in her book, "And how many people are in your party?"
We ask this because often people will arrive without knowing the name of their actual host. Doctors, for example, frequently attend functions held by drug companies and though they know the restaurant that they are supposed to go to, they have no idea what the name of the drug company rep--usually a twenty-something whom they've never actually met--nor the name of the 'sponsoring' doctor for the event.
"Um, well," he said slowly, as is figuring in his head, "I guess there's about fifty of us. You'll have to ask Brenda for the exact count, since she arranged all of this. In fact, she'll be here, along with the rest of them, in just a minute."
His optimism was premature. In fact, we had no idea that this group was coming. Now, to be fair, Sara cannot conceal this obvious fact from the customer, but neither can she appear rattled or unprepared to serve the horde about to descend upon us. To her credit as a tried and true professional, she did neither. She quickly discovers that this group has actually been scheduled for the next night, a Wednesday.
This had some good consequences, for it meant that we were not totally unprepared, just not ready on this night. The chef already had the food and most of it was already prepped. Considering that the menu involved passed hors d'oeurves and four courses, he had a lot to do in a very short time, but to his credit, he pulled it off beautifully.
As Robert marshaled his troops in the kitchen to prepare for the approaching wave of work, out front, we completely re-organized and re-set the entire restaurant in about ten minutes. This is a situation well know to those of us in the business, so to speak. We call it 'all hands on deck' and it means that everyone has to work on the problem at hand, now.
We had several long tables set up in the back dining rooms that would have accommodated them, but on her arrival, not only did the coordinator deny responsibility for the mix-up by claiming she had a 'string of emails' to show that this was in fact the day, but she also insisted, indignantly, that they had been promised the two front rooms.
A confrontation at this point would serve no one, so Sara judiciously said that we wouldn't worry about the 'blame game' for now, but just do what we had to do to pull it off. "Give us ten minutes" she said, and that's all we needed.
In ten minutes, like ants rebuilding their kicked over mound, we completely reset the two front rooms, moving, in the process, two couples that had already been seated in those rooms at our expense (meaning, we bought their meals). We also broke down the large tables in the back into a lot of smaller tables so we could seat the rest of the scheduled guests that evening.
Now, while Robert had all his food in house, I was actually short on the red wine. This was because the CEO had only just selected the wines the day before in a personal phone call to me, and having been ordered so late, it wasn't supposed to come in till the next day. Now, of course, I have some good wines in quantity in reserve, but it wasn't the wine he'd chosen. When he saw this after being seated, he called me over.
"I see you are not pouring the wine we agreed on," he said sternly.
"Um yes sir," I acknowledged reluctantly. I hate it when this happens, because all I can do is apologize and hope they'll understand because of the mix-up. I was clearly hoping for this when I said, "The wine you ordered didn't come in today. You understand, considering the mix-up"
"No," he said, "What mix-up?"
Now at this point I realized that no one had told him about the fact that they were in the restaurant on what, from our perspective was the wrong day. And, why should he be bothered? It was in fact a tribute to the way we were pulling it off that he didn't realize that it was the wrong day. It was, of course, the right day for him, and there was no way I could explain this in the few seconds I was being alloted.
"Oh," I said, "There was a delay in getting the wines out of Houston. This is a very good wine, however," I said, hoping to divert his attention to the wine itself. "I think it's even better than the wine we had hoped to serve."
"So it's what we were drinking outside?"
"Yes" I lied.
"Then it's great!" he said, and turned away.
Whew. Boy was I lucky. Brenda's ass was covered at my expense.
The rest of the party went off without a problem. The waiters all had to take extra tables, and even I had to wait on two tables in addition to the wine dinner. Some of the busboys, who have never seem me with an apron on, didn't know that I knew how, or that I was as good as I am, so it was fun to see their faces as I moved in and around my tables, serving and clearing as if it were second nature to me. Oh wait, it is.
Now, the punchline to this story comes the next day. Brenda sent our catering coordinator an apology email...of sorts. "I guess I screwed up," were her exact words, but nowhere in the subsequent text did the words "I'm sorry" appear. While she did give us credit for pulling it off, this woman had--still has--absolutely no appreciation for what a disruption her lack of planning had put upon us that evening.
Ok, Brenda did in fact send Sara a bouquet of flowers, but this is simply another gross misinterpretation of how the restaurant actually works. Sara did a great job, no doubt. But in fact, it was the kitchen that pulled off the miracle that Brenda could not even begin to comprehend.
This is not unexpected, really. After all, she has no way to compare it with her own working life. I doubt seriously if she could manage to accommodate such a serious disruption in her daily work flow, but that isn't even the point. It's about taking responsibility for one's actions. Oh and by the way, the 'string of emails' to which she referred as proof of her innocence did actually exist, but in fact, they proved her guilt. In one particularly detailed email sent by her just the day before, she acknowledged that we would see her "on Wednesday night".
I have promised not to whine here, and I hope this doesn't come off that way. After all, in this business, we are here to serve and work hard, so it isn't the unnecessary humility or the extra work that prompts these words. I am proud of what we were able to do. It's moments like these, honestly, that make the job more interesting. What brings me to comment, I suppose, is the complete absence of appreciation for the professional lives of others, especially, may I say carefully, in the 'healthcare' field.
I think that it doesn't take much to value adequately the work that others do for you, even it it's a simply thank you for services rendered, or an apology when it is due. The fact that Brenda probably never told her boss about her little 'screw-up' has double consequences in that he was pleased with the dinner yet he has no idea what we had to go through to make it happen. That, however, is the nature of the business, I guess.
If you do your job well, it looks effortless.
"Hi folks" said Sara, in her best and brightest hostess voice to the well dressed grey haired man who just walked in. "Have you got a reservation?"
I couldn't see his face, but I could hear his voice. "Oh yes," he said, putting away his Blackberry to talk with Sara face-to-face. "It's under Johnson" he said confidently, "Or possibly St. Ignatius Health Care". [Note, names have been changed]
I could hear Sara's silence as she searched for the name on the computer. The next question, I knew, came because in fact she had not fund either name in her book, "And how many people are in your party?"
We ask this because often people will arrive without knowing the name of their actual host. Doctors, for example, frequently attend functions held by drug companies and though they know the restaurant that they are supposed to go to, they have no idea what the name of the drug company rep--usually a twenty-something whom they've never actually met--nor the name of the 'sponsoring' doctor for the event.
"Um, well," he said slowly, as is figuring in his head, "I guess there's about fifty of us. You'll have to ask Brenda for the exact count, since she arranged all of this. In fact, she'll be here, along with the rest of them, in just a minute."
His optimism was premature. In fact, we had no idea that this group was coming. Now, to be fair, Sara cannot conceal this obvious fact from the customer, but neither can she appear rattled or unprepared to serve the horde about to descend upon us. To her credit as a tried and true professional, she did neither. She quickly discovers that this group has actually been scheduled for the next night, a Wednesday.
This had some good consequences, for it meant that we were not totally unprepared, just not ready on this night. The chef already had the food and most of it was already prepped. Considering that the menu involved passed hors d'oeurves and four courses, he had a lot to do in a very short time, but to his credit, he pulled it off beautifully.
As Robert marshaled his troops in the kitchen to prepare for the approaching wave of work, out front, we completely re-organized and re-set the entire restaurant in about ten minutes. This is a situation well know to those of us in the business, so to speak. We call it 'all hands on deck' and it means that everyone has to work on the problem at hand, now.
We had several long tables set up in the back dining rooms that would have accommodated them, but on her arrival, not only did the coordinator deny responsibility for the mix-up by claiming she had a 'string of emails' to show that this was in fact the day, but she also insisted, indignantly, that they had been promised the two front rooms.
A confrontation at this point would serve no one, so Sara judiciously said that we wouldn't worry about the 'blame game' for now, but just do what we had to do to pull it off. "Give us ten minutes" she said, and that's all we needed.
In ten minutes, like ants rebuilding their kicked over mound, we completely reset the two front rooms, moving, in the process, two couples that had already been seated in those rooms at our expense (meaning, we bought their meals). We also broke down the large tables in the back into a lot of smaller tables so we could seat the rest of the scheduled guests that evening.
Now, while Robert had all his food in house, I was actually short on the red wine. This was because the CEO had only just selected the wines the day before in a personal phone call to me, and having been ordered so late, it wasn't supposed to come in till the next day. Now, of course, I have some good wines in quantity in reserve, but it wasn't the wine he'd chosen. When he saw this after being seated, he called me over.
"I see you are not pouring the wine we agreed on," he said sternly.
"Um yes sir," I acknowledged reluctantly. I hate it when this happens, because all I can do is apologize and hope they'll understand because of the mix-up. I was clearly hoping for this when I said, "The wine you ordered didn't come in today. You understand, considering the mix-up"
"No," he said, "What mix-up?"
Now at this point I realized that no one had told him about the fact that they were in the restaurant on what, from our perspective was the wrong day. And, why should he be bothered? It was in fact a tribute to the way we were pulling it off that he didn't realize that it was the wrong day. It was, of course, the right day for him, and there was no way I could explain this in the few seconds I was being alloted.
"Oh," I said, "There was a delay in getting the wines out of Houston. This is a very good wine, however," I said, hoping to divert his attention to the wine itself. "I think it's even better than the wine we had hoped to serve."
"So it's what we were drinking outside?"
"Yes" I lied.
"Then it's great!" he said, and turned away.
Whew. Boy was I lucky. Brenda's ass was covered at my expense.
The rest of the party went off without a problem. The waiters all had to take extra tables, and even I had to wait on two tables in addition to the wine dinner. Some of the busboys, who have never seem me with an apron on, didn't know that I knew how, or that I was as good as I am, so it was fun to see their faces as I moved in and around my tables, serving and clearing as if it were second nature to me. Oh wait, it is.
Now, the punchline to this story comes the next day. Brenda sent our catering coordinator an apology email...of sorts. "I guess I screwed up," were her exact words, but nowhere in the subsequent text did the words "I'm sorry" appear. While she did give us credit for pulling it off, this woman had--still has--absolutely no appreciation for what a disruption her lack of planning had put upon us that evening.
Ok, Brenda did in fact send Sara a bouquet of flowers, but this is simply another gross misinterpretation of how the restaurant actually works. Sara did a great job, no doubt. But in fact, it was the kitchen that pulled off the miracle that Brenda could not even begin to comprehend.
This is not unexpected, really. After all, she has no way to compare it with her own working life. I doubt seriously if she could manage to accommodate such a serious disruption in her daily work flow, but that isn't even the point. It's about taking responsibility for one's actions. Oh and by the way, the 'string of emails' to which she referred as proof of her innocence did actually exist, but in fact, they proved her guilt. In one particularly detailed email sent by her just the day before, she acknowledged that we would see her "on Wednesday night".
I have promised not to whine here, and I hope this doesn't come off that way. After all, in this business, we are here to serve and work hard, so it isn't the unnecessary humility or the extra work that prompts these words. I am proud of what we were able to do. It's moments like these, honestly, that make the job more interesting. What brings me to comment, I suppose, is the complete absence of appreciation for the professional lives of others, especially, may I say carefully, in the 'healthcare' field.
I think that it doesn't take much to value adequately the work that others do for you, even it it's a simply thank you for services rendered, or an apology when it is due. The fact that Brenda probably never told her boss about her little 'screw-up' has double consequences in that he was pleased with the dinner yet he has no idea what we had to go through to make it happen. That, however, is the nature of the business, I guess.
If you do your job well, it looks effortless.
Michigan Summer 2008 - Remix
Alex pointed out that the last version of this vid, Michigan Summer 2008, needed music, and she was right. It also needed to be shorter, so I had the brilliant idea to use some music by Alexandra to pull it all together.
I think you'll like the result, especially because the tune--'Lift me Up'--is so catchy! Granted, I've listened to it a lot lately, but I just can't get that 'hook' out of my head!
Erm, Alex, I used the song without permission, but I gave you props at the end! ;-)
I think you'll like the result, especially because the tune--'Lift me Up'--is so catchy! Granted, I've listened to it a lot lately, but I just can't get that 'hook' out of my head!
Erm, Alex, I used the song without permission, but I gave you props at the end! ;-)
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Double Down
It has been my practice, until now, to avoid writing about politics because the subject is so volatile and the effect of writing about it so negligible that it made no sense to waste even a moment or a keystroke on it.
But $700 Billion dollars?
Common sense tells you that the treasury secretary's generous offer to bail out a few bloated investment firms is low, so the final total is going to be well over a trillion dollars. So, to paraphrase Sen. Dirsken's famous quote, 'we are talking about real money' and it's got me good and mad.
I am mad because I have worked two jobs for my entire working life. I've paid my bills. My mortgage isn't in jeapordy because I paid it this month. And I paid it last month. Oh, and I have enough to pay it next month, too. How, you ask? How is it even possible, in these troubled times, that I have not managed to sign a mortgage I can't pay?
It's this damn double negative, the Bush double-speak that has it all backward.
Bankruptcy is not prosperity. Five millions dollars is not middle class.
War is not peace.
Let's get it straight. The reason I am not worried about losing my house today is because I signed a mortgage that I knew I could pay. It just took a bit of planning.
Lack of planning. This is, quite simply, what has happened to all these people who are unable or simply unwilling to pay their mortgage payments today. They made no plans that included a downturn in their income or the economy at large. In their lifetimes, thanks in part to Bill Clinton, they have only known prosperity. People were being paid large sums of money for invisible, and, it turns out, untappable 'human resources'.
For example, just a couple of years ago, fresh out of an Ivy League college with a B.S. in engineering, a young graduate could expect to start as a Vice-President of an investment firm for no less than a six-figure salary. The fact that the investment firm might have overvalued their talent never occurred to them. No, it seems that the financial folly of such an arrangement was not obvious to anyone who was not already perplexed about this situation.
Why? The backwardness of the logic was only confounded by double-think. What seemed the investment bankers to be evidence of good fortune and a rising economy was in reality proof of poor judgment and a harbinger of failure based on hubris and greed
Right now, though, I have no sympathy for the many overvalued portfolio managers, investment bankers and brokers and fee-charging middlemen who took all that cheap cash and thought they could somehow launder it in the form of expensive lifestyles based on sheer consumerism. Why should I pay for their lack of common sense, for their failure to plan?
A colleague of mine once had on her desk a small sign that read: 'A failure to plan on your part does not constitute a crisis on my part.'
Even if it doesn't cost me anything directly--which I know not to be true--it is the violation of the principle of moderation that I have held as central to my character my entire adult life that makes me so angry about this today. I say: Let 'em fall, let 'em fail. I'm ready for tough times. My house is in order.
But $700 Billion dollars?
Common sense tells you that the treasury secretary's generous offer to bail out a few bloated investment firms is low, so the final total is going to be well over a trillion dollars. So, to paraphrase Sen. Dirsken's famous quote, 'we are talking about real money' and it's got me good and mad.
I am mad because I have worked two jobs for my entire working life. I've paid my bills. My mortgage isn't in jeapordy because I paid it this month. And I paid it last month. Oh, and I have enough to pay it next month, too. How, you ask? How is it even possible, in these troubled times, that I have not managed to sign a mortgage I can't pay?
It's this damn double negative, the Bush double-speak that has it all backward.
Bankruptcy is not prosperity. Five millions dollars is not middle class.
War is not peace.
Let's get it straight. The reason I am not worried about losing my house today is because I signed a mortgage that I knew I could pay. It just took a bit of planning.
Lack of planning. This is, quite simply, what has happened to all these people who are unable or simply unwilling to pay their mortgage payments today. They made no plans that included a downturn in their income or the economy at large. In their lifetimes, thanks in part to Bill Clinton, they have only known prosperity. People were being paid large sums of money for invisible, and, it turns out, untappable 'human resources'.
For example, just a couple of years ago, fresh out of an Ivy League college with a B.S. in engineering, a young graduate could expect to start as a Vice-President of an investment firm for no less than a six-figure salary. The fact that the investment firm might have overvalued their talent never occurred to them. No, it seems that the financial folly of such an arrangement was not obvious to anyone who was not already perplexed about this situation.
Why? The backwardness of the logic was only confounded by double-think. What seemed the investment bankers to be evidence of good fortune and a rising economy was in reality proof of poor judgment and a harbinger of failure based on hubris and greed
Right now, though, I have no sympathy for the many overvalued portfolio managers, investment bankers and brokers and fee-charging middlemen who took all that cheap cash and thought they could somehow launder it in the form of expensive lifestyles based on sheer consumerism. Why should I pay for their lack of common sense, for their failure to plan?
A colleague of mine once had on her desk a small sign that read: 'A failure to plan on your part does not constitute a crisis on my part.'
Even if it doesn't cost me anything directly--which I know not to be true--it is the violation of the principle of moderation that I have held as central to my character my entire adult life that makes me so angry about this today. I say: Let 'em fall, let 'em fail. I'm ready for tough times. My house is in order.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Austin Farmer's Market
Valery and I went to the Farmer's Market this morning. It's like the one in Holland, only hotter. Not so many flowers and not so much produce, but there are lots of booths with fresh made baked goods, teas, sauces and even pizzas.
Being in Austin, there is, of course, live music, and lots of dogs! Valery goes every week, but this was my first trip. I took my camera and made a little slideshow video out of a few of them. This is also a test of an embedded video from my Picassa Web Albums, so there is no option to play it in the blog. Clicking takes you to my web albums, and the playback is less than optimal. O well. More testing.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Cojones
Well, I guess there was some doubt as to the, shall we say 'manliness' of the UT Tower, so the powers that be (and that may include the actual Powers, as in Bill) have decided to adorn it with an proportionally sized set of, well, balls.This is actually a sculpture, on loan to UT from the Metropolitan Museum in New York, as part of a campus-wide public art project. The thought is, apparently, that the Met has so much stuff that they cannot display, they've turned to partnerships with public universities like UT to provide a venue for it.
On paper, this sounds like a good idea, but in practice, I have to ask, "What were you thinking?" Perhaps, in this era of post-modern deconstructionism, the panel choosing the sculptures and their locations have overlooked some basic observational tools like iconographic interpretation.
Of course, it's a joke. It's not an expression of ignorance, but a deliberate statement about the role of art--specifically sculpture--on our campus. While it certainly is a funny visual gag, and while the sculpture in this context has some amusing subtexts (like the pennies glued to the balls), it is also an overwhelmingly obvious symbol of the elitist 'old southern' mentality that the University has become infamous for.
Seriously, in an era when it takes ten years to erect a statue of a national hero like Martin Luther King or Cesar Chavez, and the statues of great Civil War heroes cannot seem to be moved to less prominent places on campus, it seems fittingly ironic to place a sculpture like this in such an appropriate position.
But then, after all, "We're Texas"!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Self Indulgence
One of the things I struggle most with in my life is my tendency to self indulgence. Especially as I get older, the issue seems to have more impact on my day-to-day life than ever before.
Interestingly, one of the things I found most difficult to accept about my father was my perception of his excessive self-indulgence. As I grew up, especially under the parsimonious influence of Lynda, whose depression experiences shaped every purchase decision she ever made, I felt that Bill was not only not pulling his weight by supporting the family (ie, me), but that he was actively diminishing our resources by failing to restrict his spending. He was always buying something. Over the years, he bought cars, clothes, jewelery, cameras, film, photographic equipment and supplies. He loved new shoes and had more than a dozen pairs. Pens, too, he collected, and watches, clocks and little boxes. I take after him in this way, of course, with my own little collections of useless but pretty things.
I also take after him, it seems, in my inability to limit my acquisitive desires, and this at a time when I really seriously ought to be worried about my finances. However, now that I am older and have had a taste of the intemperance of of life itself, I am less inclined to be judgmental about Bill's spending habits and more inclined to be self-indulgent of the same. As with all thought re-alignments, I am tempted to think that this is the natural course of things, but another part of me wonders if this is, in itself another form of self-indulgence?
I do in fact realize that at this point in life, money is not the object but the means. There is much I want to do, and time will not replenish itself, so it's to be spent as wisely as possible, while money can be replaced, and no amount of self-denial will trade one for the other.
Interestingly, one of the things I found most difficult to accept about my father was my perception of his excessive self-indulgence. As I grew up, especially under the parsimonious influence of Lynda, whose depression experiences shaped every purchase decision she ever made, I felt that Bill was not only not pulling his weight by supporting the family (ie, me), but that he was actively diminishing our resources by failing to restrict his spending. He was always buying something. Over the years, he bought cars, clothes, jewelery, cameras, film, photographic equipment and supplies. He loved new shoes and had more than a dozen pairs. Pens, too, he collected, and watches, clocks and little boxes. I take after him in this way, of course, with my own little collections of useless but pretty things.
I also take after him, it seems, in my inability to limit my acquisitive desires, and this at a time when I really seriously ought to be worried about my finances. However, now that I am older and have had a taste of the intemperance of of life itself, I am less inclined to be judgmental about Bill's spending habits and more inclined to be self-indulgent of the same. As with all thought re-alignments, I am tempted to think that this is the natural course of things, but another part of me wonders if this is, in itself another form of self-indulgence?
I do in fact realize that at this point in life, money is not the object but the means. There is much I want to do, and time will not replenish itself, so it's to be spent as wisely as possible, while money can be replaced, and no amount of self-denial will trade one for the other.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Cancer College
Although I have been back in College now for more than two years, it was not until my cousin Diane gave to this experience the power of metaphor than I am even able to write about it.
But Diane is a cancer survivor, and has taken the much more advanced classes, so to speak. Her wisdom does not come from here but rather, is brought to it. As a mere witness, I have been struggling with myself to even admit that the disease is here and now and a part of my life and far too many of those I love.
But it is, most certainly. Besides Diane, my Mother-in-law, Billie is afflicted with cancer, as is my long-time friend and mentor, Francesca. Of course, Lynda died of the same, so you'd think I'd be past the denial stage by now, wouldn't you? You think that Lynda, with her legendary strength of will and determination to live life gracefully, would have made peace with it in her many advanced seminars prior to her death. It's what I used to think.
Now, what I do know is that these strong and beautiful women--who are not in denial because the have no such luxury--are showing me the way to deal with cancer with grace and dignity. They do not hesitate to talk about it, though I know that they are weary to do so. These wonderful individuals have the ability to uplift those of us who would selfishly decide to be depressed because we are unable to act. In other words, me.
Or so I thought. While I struggle with what to say to them, they have no trouble telling me what I must hear. It is not death, they say, nor even a death sentence, any more than any of us have. All life is a journey, and the length of the journey is not entirely in our hands.
So, Billie tells me that her treatments are going well, even if they make her nauseous and weak at first. Rebounding from the poison has got to feel good, and there is reason to believe that it will arrest the development of the cancer and allow her to continue to travel and create for the foreseeable future. For my part, knowing that she is being active in her self-defense yet reasonable in her expectations is evidence of her profound wisdom and spiritual strength.
Francesca has now survived an operation and a series of chemo/radiation treatments and has similarly showed how a diligent treatment plan coupled with a positive attitude can increase the odds of survival. From her I have learned how much depends on finding the calm at the center of the cyclone, remaining there till the rage and pain have passed.
Diane, too, has written with the news that her surgery was successful and that further treatments will not be required. Though I knew only the outlines of her struggle till I read her most recent note to the family, it is to her spirit, strength and recovery that I credit my release from denial and my ability to write about this at last.
Would that this realization, in addition to the love and respect I have for these women be enough to change their conditions, but that would be hubris. It is enough to know that still here and now.
But Diane is a cancer survivor, and has taken the much more advanced classes, so to speak. Her wisdom does not come from here but rather, is brought to it. As a mere witness, I have been struggling with myself to even admit that the disease is here and now and a part of my life and far too many of those I love.
But it is, most certainly. Besides Diane, my Mother-in-law, Billie is afflicted with cancer, as is my long-time friend and mentor, Francesca. Of course, Lynda died of the same, so you'd think I'd be past the denial stage by now, wouldn't you? You think that Lynda, with her legendary strength of will and determination to live life gracefully, would have made peace with it in her many advanced seminars prior to her death. It's what I used to think.
Now, what I do know is that these strong and beautiful women--who are not in denial because the have no such luxury--are showing me the way to deal with cancer with grace and dignity. They do not hesitate to talk about it, though I know that they are weary to do so. These wonderful individuals have the ability to uplift those of us who would selfishly decide to be depressed because we are unable to act. In other words, me.
Or so I thought. While I struggle with what to say to them, they have no trouble telling me what I must hear. It is not death, they say, nor even a death sentence, any more than any of us have. All life is a journey, and the length of the journey is not entirely in our hands.
So, Billie tells me that her treatments are going well, even if they make her nauseous and weak at first. Rebounding from the poison has got to feel good, and there is reason to believe that it will arrest the development of the cancer and allow her to continue to travel and create for the foreseeable future. For my part, knowing that she is being active in her self-defense yet reasonable in her expectations is evidence of her profound wisdom and spiritual strength.
Francesca has now survived an operation and a series of chemo/radiation treatments and has similarly showed how a diligent treatment plan coupled with a positive attitude can increase the odds of survival. From her I have learned how much depends on finding the calm at the center of the cyclone, remaining there till the rage and pain have passed.
Diane, too, has written with the news that her surgery was successful and that further treatments will not be required. Though I knew only the outlines of her struggle till I read her most recent note to the family, it is to her spirit, strength and recovery that I credit my release from denial and my ability to write about this at last.
Would that this realization, in addition to the love and respect I have for these women be enough to change their conditions, but that would be hubris. It is enough to know that still here and now.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
A Thankless Job
Well, just when I was beginning to think that poetry was my calling, this comes in:
Poet Laureate bemoans "Thankless job"
Now seriously, is it possible that ego can get in the way of creativity? In all honestly I would rather toil in anonymity and have the freedom to write whatever I choose than to achieve the title and be forced to write on commission. I certainly hope that I though I will be able to remain unfettered by accolades, my work will be of some interest because it is as yet undiscovered.
EDIT: Well, I guess I just wasn't patient enough, because the very next day, along comes the opportunity of a lifetime! Can you say 'Pork Barrel' baby?
Poet Laureate bemoans "Thankless job"
Now seriously, is it possible that ego can get in the way of creativity? In all honestly I would rather toil in anonymity and have the freedom to write whatever I choose than to achieve the title and be forced to write on commission. I certainly hope that I though I will be able to remain unfettered by accolades, my work will be of some interest because it is as yet undiscovered.
EDIT: Well, I guess I just wasn't patient enough, because the very next day, along comes the opportunity of a lifetime! Can you say 'Pork Barrel' baby?
Monday, September 8, 2008
Seeker
Current research in cosmology centers on resolving these questions:
What is the nature of dark matter?
How much dark matter actually exists?
What is the exact distribution of dark matter in the universe?
What is dark energy?
Answers to these questions will improve our understanding of the origins, structure and fate of the universe.
Craig C. Freudenrich, Ph.D.
Contributing Writer to howstuffworks.com
The day is coming. This could be one of the most important dates in human history. When the CERN supercollider goes online day after tomorrow, scientists will begin to develop the the empirical evidence to prove my great and grand theories about dark matter and energy.
Of course, I'm not the only one thinking about these things, but I do feel that I have the capability of uncovering the relationship between these forces without the underlying evidence to prove I'm right.
Now, I have the arrogance to assume I can think and even from that, know about these things. Yet thinking about them too much brings me to tears because I still cannot make the leap across the dark chasm of new thought to knowledge. It lurks there, in the shadows, teasing and tormenting me in the most delicious way.
What is the nature of dark matter?
How much dark matter actually exists?
What is the exact distribution of dark matter in the universe?
What is dark energy?
Answers to these questions will improve our understanding of the origins, structure and fate of the universe.
Craig C. Freudenrich, Ph.D.
Contributing Writer to howstuffworks.com
The day is coming. This could be one of the most important dates in human history. When the CERN supercollider goes online day after tomorrow, scientists will begin to develop the the empirical evidence to prove my great and grand theories about dark matter and energy.
Of course, I'm not the only one thinking about these things, but I do feel that I have the capability of uncovering the relationship between these forces without the underlying evidence to prove I'm right.
Now, I have the arrogance to assume I can think and even from that, know about these things. Yet thinking about them too much brings me to tears because I still cannot make the leap across the dark chasm of new thought to knowledge. It lurks there, in the shadows, teasing and tormenting me in the most delicious way.
Optimism and Fatalistic Paralysis
One of the things I recall most clearly about my father Bill was his optimism. This is ironic, really, since one of the other things I recall most clearly about his was his fatalistic paralysis. Both of these statements will require some clarification, and two distinct memories will serve to illustrate the seemingly disjunctive connection that relates them in my mind.
First, the optimism. One of the very first conversations--if not the first--that I recall having with my father took place in the foyer of our house at 304 Grape Street in Abilene, Texas and the subject was impossibility.
I could not have been more than five years old then, since I'd have been at school at the time of day I recall the conversation otherwise. The heavy yellow-orange morning light was flooding the small square foyer in our two-story house.
The main door opened directly into it, and though it was closed to hold back the heat, on either side of the door were two tall windows that let in enough light to scald the eye if not buffered by a gauzy white curtain stretched floor to ceiling.
In this bright spot was kept one of our family's great treasures, the grandfather clock. This fabulously ornate timepiece stands nearly eleven feet tall with it's feet and finial both. Currently it sits without feet in my home, though this is hardly the place for it because it belongs to Stephen (Bill gave it to him before he died) and it hardly has the venue it did back in the house on Grape St.
This was an old house, built as a sort of colonial homestead. It had two stories, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, den, living and dining rooms, kitchen and big back yard complete with an old well. The place had the high ceilings needed to showcase the clock and we did. The clock was standing guard right there, the first thing you saw when you came in, all knurled brass and dark carved wood with a big brass pendulum and a rotating picture above the face that showed the phases of the moon.
The clock had to be wound, once a week. Watching Bill with his clock winding ritual was not unlike many other rituals of his (shaving, counting money) ie, mesmerizing. But the clock-winding held a particular fascination for me. Thus I was always in attendance on the morning of clock-winding day, and as usual, full of questions to ask and certainties to share that I'd come with on my own.
One of those certainties espoused, though I remember not the subject, had to do with something being 'impossible' and it was his reply that I recall so clearly.
"Nothing is impossible" he said.
Now, at this point in my life I do not suffer cliches lightly, though I do acknowledge the truth that they invariably contain. Hearing that statement now simply brings up the ever-present wry smile on my face up a notch, but then, back in 1961 or whatever year it was, to me, this was an incredible concept.
Incredible is the right word, too. I simply didn't believe him. I was thinking, naturally, about physics. Like rocks floating and water flowing up hill. But he was dead serious and kept his to his position. I don't recall the details of the conversation; it is the astonishment that I recall feeling;. I was overwhelmed with the idea that somehow, thought--my thought--itself was capable of transcending impossibility. For the first time, I had the realization that maybe, just maybe, nothing was impossible.
I was skeptical, as I am today, but I also remember thinking, 'What if he is right?'
That very thought cut my mind free from it's moorings, so to speak, and ever since I have pondered some very interesting and well-nigh 'impossible' thoughts without any credentials other than the carte blanche Bill gave me that bright clock-winding morning.
Was this optimism? I don't know. I certainly read it as such, for many years now. I stored away the memory, but honestly this had more to do with me than him. After all, how well did this notion match up with the real Bill?
The real Bill was an intelligent man, possessed of a catalog-type mind that collected trivia and jokes. He also displayed a wonderful loving spirit and had a warm heart. He loved cats. I remember him smiling more often than not. But I also recall the fatalistic paralysis that overtook him in the second half of his short life.
One day when I was a senior in high school, after he'd been ill with heart disease for at least four or five years, he called me into his bedroom when he was in bed and asked me to sit and talk with him.
I can't recall another time when he did this, even as he grew close to death. He was not one to initiate an intimate conversation. We never discussed his death but this once. He told me that he didn't expect to live long, but he also had no intention of dying soon. At this point Lynda was getting geared up to move to Europe and the choice Bill faced was not easy. If his health failed, he wouldn't be able to go with Lynda, and he speculated that she would leave him. He was candid about it, but not rancorous. He knew he was on thin ice with Lynda, and his health was only part of the problem.
But, he said, "I have no way out."
Holding his hand, looking at him in bed that day I realized, for the first time, despite having seen him near death in an hospital bead after his heart attack, that he was actually getting old. He was right, he wasn't going to live long. But his conviction to remain with Lynda was such that he resolved to go and indeed rallied to find the strength to accompany her on her upcoming dervish drive though Europe.
I thought about this conversation a lot as I got older; obviously I still do. I could see in his eyes that resignation earned of so many failed efforts that came before, like his careers in photography and 'healing'. Lynda openly referred to him as a 'failure'.
Although I felt differently at the time we talked, now I don't think he was a failure because I realize and felt so strongly his love for me. I think that he failed to have a successful career because, in a cruel twist of fate, he could always see the failure that his inaction would inevitably lead to. He thus became paralyzed into the inaction that would cause the failure. It was the perfect little recipe for failure; self-rising, to twist the metaphor.
So he did indeed remain with Lynda, and she with him, despite long odds. The fact that she didn't leave him or that he didn't die right away is remarkable, but those are other stories.
First, the optimism. One of the very first conversations--if not the first--that I recall having with my father took place in the foyer of our house at 304 Grape Street in Abilene, Texas and the subject was impossibility.
I could not have been more than five years old then, since I'd have been at school at the time of day I recall the conversation otherwise. The heavy yellow-orange morning light was flooding the small square foyer in our two-story house.
The main door opened directly into it, and though it was closed to hold back the heat, on either side of the door were two tall windows that let in enough light to scald the eye if not buffered by a gauzy white curtain stretched floor to ceiling.
In this bright spot was kept one of our family's great treasures, the grandfather clock. This fabulously ornate timepiece stands nearly eleven feet tall with it's feet and finial both. Currently it sits without feet in my home, though this is hardly the place for it because it belongs to Stephen (Bill gave it to him before he died) and it hardly has the venue it did back in the house on Grape St.
This was an old house, built as a sort of colonial homestead. It had two stories, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, den, living and dining rooms, kitchen and big back yard complete with an old well. The place had the high ceilings needed to showcase the clock and we did. The clock was standing guard right there, the first thing you saw when you came in, all knurled brass and dark carved wood with a big brass pendulum and a rotating picture above the face that showed the phases of the moon.
The clock had to be wound, once a week. Watching Bill with his clock winding ritual was not unlike many other rituals of his (shaving, counting money) ie, mesmerizing. But the clock-winding held a particular fascination for me. Thus I was always in attendance on the morning of clock-winding day, and as usual, full of questions to ask and certainties to share that I'd come with on my own.
One of those certainties espoused, though I remember not the subject, had to do with something being 'impossible' and it was his reply that I recall so clearly.
"Nothing is impossible" he said.
Now, at this point in my life I do not suffer cliches lightly, though I do acknowledge the truth that they invariably contain. Hearing that statement now simply brings up the ever-present wry smile on my face up a notch, but then, back in 1961 or whatever year it was, to me, this was an incredible concept.
Incredible is the right word, too. I simply didn't believe him. I was thinking, naturally, about physics. Like rocks floating and water flowing up hill. But he was dead serious and kept his to his position. I don't recall the details of the conversation; it is the astonishment that I recall feeling;. I was overwhelmed with the idea that somehow, thought--my thought--itself was capable of transcending impossibility. For the first time, I had the realization that maybe, just maybe, nothing was impossible.
I was skeptical, as I am today, but I also remember thinking, 'What if he is right?'
That very thought cut my mind free from it's moorings, so to speak, and ever since I have pondered some very interesting and well-nigh 'impossible' thoughts without any credentials other than the carte blanche Bill gave me that bright clock-winding morning.
Was this optimism? I don't know. I certainly read it as such, for many years now. I stored away the memory, but honestly this had more to do with me than him. After all, how well did this notion match up with the real Bill?
The real Bill was an intelligent man, possessed of a catalog-type mind that collected trivia and jokes. He also displayed a wonderful loving spirit and had a warm heart. He loved cats. I remember him smiling more often than not. But I also recall the fatalistic paralysis that overtook him in the second half of his short life.
One day when I was a senior in high school, after he'd been ill with heart disease for at least four or five years, he called me into his bedroom when he was in bed and asked me to sit and talk with him.
I can't recall another time when he did this, even as he grew close to death. He was not one to initiate an intimate conversation. We never discussed his death but this once. He told me that he didn't expect to live long, but he also had no intention of dying soon. At this point Lynda was getting geared up to move to Europe and the choice Bill faced was not easy. If his health failed, he wouldn't be able to go with Lynda, and he speculated that she would leave him. He was candid about it, but not rancorous. He knew he was on thin ice with Lynda, and his health was only part of the problem.
But, he said, "I have no way out."
Holding his hand, looking at him in bed that day I realized, for the first time, despite having seen him near death in an hospital bead after his heart attack, that he was actually getting old. He was right, he wasn't going to live long. But his conviction to remain with Lynda was such that he resolved to go and indeed rallied to find the strength to accompany her on her upcoming dervish drive though Europe.
I thought about this conversation a lot as I got older; obviously I still do. I could see in his eyes that resignation earned of so many failed efforts that came before, like his careers in photography and 'healing'. Lynda openly referred to him as a 'failure'.
Although I felt differently at the time we talked, now I don't think he was a failure because I realize and felt so strongly his love for me. I think that he failed to have a successful career because, in a cruel twist of fate, he could always see the failure that his inaction would inevitably lead to. He thus became paralyzed into the inaction that would cause the failure. It was the perfect little recipe for failure; self-rising, to twist the metaphor.
So he did indeed remain with Lynda, and she with him, despite long odds. The fact that she didn't leave him or that he didn't die right away is remarkable, but those are other stories.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Returning to Bill
Of late I have been thinking a lot about my father, Bill. Of course, it has a lot to do with the new camera, but it also has something to do with Lynda's passing.
As long as she was alive, we didn't often speak of Bill. Mostly, I think this was because it opened up a cache of often-bitter memories for her and I was none too eager to delve into them. Though she came to terms with him late in his life, after his death, she vowed to 'remember and speak only of the good things.' Then she never spoke of him again.
Well, that's not really true, but she certainly didn't speak of him often, nor in particularly reverential terms. I sometimes would ask about him, but her recollections were deliberately vague and I didn't press.
Since Lynda essentially lived with us, it became my concern to deal with the living. I discarded, or at least set aside, my feelings and thoughts about Bill. Save his sister Rae, I think it's safe to say that no one other than my siblings are particularly interested in him. And even with that said, in all honesty, it's fair to say that only David and I share the love that we as sons had--still have--for our Dad.
This is not to disregard the feelings that Stephen and Anne might have had for him, but he arrived late enough in their lives that the love they had for him found its origins in the love and respect they already had for Lynda. As her choice, they accepted him. They were soon gone, however. In Stephen's case it came a mere five years after Bill married Lynda, and Anne was gone three years after that.
Even David and I have different recollections because he lived with Bill for a lot longer than did I. From early childhood, David was closer to Bill and I was closer to Lynda, so we have naturally different perspectives. I know we agree that he was a most loving individual, with a ready smile and, for the most part, a positive attitude. There is an irony there, since he didn't live long enough to prove the benefits of such an attitude, but of the many things I recall about his illness and painfully slow demise, one thing that stands out was his lack of complaint.
In fact, I really do not recall a single incident when Bill lamented in the way that Lynda did, or, for that matter, I still so often do. I cannot say what demons he had inside or faced or did not face in the years and months and hours before his death, for it seems I was with him less often than not, and I was not there when he died, alas.
But I do know this. Whenever I saw him, whenever he held my hand or held me in his arms, I felt the intense love that Bill had for me. As my life regains some balance now and he re-emerges as a force in my life, I see that I carry a bit of Bill's spirit still with me today.
As long as she was alive, we didn't often speak of Bill. Mostly, I think this was because it opened up a cache of often-bitter memories for her and I was none too eager to delve into them. Though she came to terms with him late in his life, after his death, she vowed to 'remember and speak only of the good things.' Then she never spoke of him again.
Well, that's not really true, but she certainly didn't speak of him often, nor in particularly reverential terms. I sometimes would ask about him, but her recollections were deliberately vague and I didn't press.
Since Lynda essentially lived with us, it became my concern to deal with the living. I discarded, or at least set aside, my feelings and thoughts about Bill. Save his sister Rae, I think it's safe to say that no one other than my siblings are particularly interested in him. And even with that said, in all honesty, it's fair to say that only David and I share the love that we as sons had--still have--for our Dad.
This is not to disregard the feelings that Stephen and Anne might have had for him, but he arrived late enough in their lives that the love they had for him found its origins in the love and respect they already had for Lynda. As her choice, they accepted him. They were soon gone, however. In Stephen's case it came a mere five years after Bill married Lynda, and Anne was gone three years after that.
Even David and I have different recollections because he lived with Bill for a lot longer than did I. From early childhood, David was closer to Bill and I was closer to Lynda, so we have naturally different perspectives. I know we agree that he was a most loving individual, with a ready smile and, for the most part, a positive attitude. There is an irony there, since he didn't live long enough to prove the benefits of such an attitude, but of the many things I recall about his illness and painfully slow demise, one thing that stands out was his lack of complaint.
In fact, I really do not recall a single incident when Bill lamented in the way that Lynda did, or, for that matter, I still so often do. I cannot say what demons he had inside or faced or did not face in the years and months and hours before his death, for it seems I was with him less often than not, and I was not there when he died, alas.
But I do know this. Whenever I saw him, whenever he held my hand or held me in his arms, I felt the intense love that Bill had for me. As my life regains some balance now and he re-emerges as a force in my life, I see that I carry a bit of Bill's spirit still with me today.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Camera
So, I 'bought' a new camera, and I just can't decide if I want to keep it.
The item in question is a Sony Digital Single Lens Reflex (or DSLR), model number A300, with a 10.2 megapixel sensor, an 18 to 70 mm zoom lens and a 'live view' lcd image viewer that also tilts up and down for low and high shooting angles. There's a whole slew of specs that I won't list, but it does have the same kind of manual control and superior optics that first led me to enjoy photography now many years ago.
My first real camera--after the Brownie Box and an ancient Kodak Retina--was an Argus SLR with a 50mm lens, and it had no light meter, so I had to carry one separately. With this tool, I learned from my father Bill the art and skill of taking photographs. I learned, first of all, how to judge the light and decide what shutter speed/ aperture combination would be best for the film in the camera. Although he relied on a light meter, Bill taught me how to use my eye and experience to make the correct decision.
In the days of film, it was important to minimize the number of wasted frames, since each frame cost money, and even today, when the digital age has freed me from that constraint, the discipline instilled in those early days helps me understand light and shadow and how they must interrelate in a good photograph. In the days of film, black and white was not only cheaper than color and therefore less 'risky' it was also more artistic in a way, relying on the contrast between lights and darks to form the composition.
Composing the photograph in the frame is another skill that Bill taught me, again as a way to minimize the difficulty and expense of taking good photographs. A well composed photograph does not need to be cropped. These days, cropping is almost too easy, but the discipline of looking carefully at the arrangement of the items in the viewfinder makes the chore of manipulating the image digitally even easier in the end.
All this is to say that when I took this camera out of the box and hung it around my neck for the first time, it brought back this whole flood of images and memories of my father. These were good memories, too, for I always considered Bill to be a good photographer and an even better teacher of the craft. He could be very disapproving of waste and angry with the way I mistreated my equipment, but he taught me how to use the camera and lens to express myself. I lost this ability when I broke the Leica.
While living in Paris in 1976, I begged Bill to allow me to borrow his most precious state-of-the-art 35mm Leica M5, and to my surprise, he relented and let me take it with me. Of course, I was inspired by the street life and people and couldn't wait to use it. I carried it with me everywhere, to my ultimate detriment.
One day, while walking along the street with my bike in one hand and my girlfriend's hand in the other, the camera slipped off my shoulder and crashed to the ground. It was not destroyed, but severely damaged, and when I took it to a camera store to be repaired, discovered that it would cost me every penny of the next three months allowance. It had to be done, so for the three months, I lived on potatoes and bread.
I returned the camera on my next visit home and did not tell him about it. I explained my loss of income by fabricating a story about having my wallet stolen in the Metro, and resolved never to tell him, or my mother the truth. In fact, neither one ever learned what happened to the Leica.
So, as I held a camera again for the first time in thirty years, I realized what I had lost. Since that day till the day I bought my first little digital camera (ironically for a return trip to Paris) I had never considered photography as a creative outlet.
Even these little digital cameras had begun to lose their appeal, because they never took sharp pictures, and never quickly. There is always a shutter lag with the digital camera and the optics just aren't there. The lens was so small, it just never took a sharp image. It makes sense, of course, that good optics are required for good sharp pictures, but it wasn't till I looked at the results from this new camera that it finally hit me.
So, as I try to decide whether or not to keep the Sony A300, here the pros and cons.
Pros:
It is a real camera, with full exposure controls.
It has real lenses that are interchangeable.
It reminds me of Bill and encourages my creativity.
I love it.
Cons:
It is expensive ($600).
It is heavy (1.1 lbs).
I already have a digital camera.
I don't need it.
The item in question is a Sony Digital Single Lens Reflex (or DSLR), model number A300, with a 10.2 megapixel sensor, an 18 to 70 mm zoom lens and a 'live view' lcd image viewer that also tilts up and down for low and high shooting angles. There's a whole slew of specs that I won't list, but it does have the same kind of manual control and superior optics that first led me to enjoy photography now many years ago.
My first real camera--after the Brownie Box and an ancient Kodak Retina--was an Argus SLR with a 50mm lens, and it had no light meter, so I had to carry one separately. With this tool, I learned from my father Bill the art and skill of taking photographs. I learned, first of all, how to judge the light and decide what shutter speed/ aperture combination would be best for the film in the camera. Although he relied on a light meter, Bill taught me how to use my eye and experience to make the correct decision.
In the days of film, it was important to minimize the number of wasted frames, since each frame cost money, and even today, when the digital age has freed me from that constraint, the discipline instilled in those early days helps me understand light and shadow and how they must interrelate in a good photograph. In the days of film, black and white was not only cheaper than color and therefore less 'risky' it was also more artistic in a way, relying on the contrast between lights and darks to form the composition.
Composing the photograph in the frame is another skill that Bill taught me, again as a way to minimize the difficulty and expense of taking good photographs. A well composed photograph does not need to be cropped. These days, cropping is almost too easy, but the discipline of looking carefully at the arrangement of the items in the viewfinder makes the chore of manipulating the image digitally even easier in the end.
All this is to say that when I took this camera out of the box and hung it around my neck for the first time, it brought back this whole flood of images and memories of my father. These were good memories, too, for I always considered Bill to be a good photographer and an even better teacher of the craft. He could be very disapproving of waste and angry with the way I mistreated my equipment, but he taught me how to use the camera and lens to express myself. I lost this ability when I broke the Leica.
While living in Paris in 1976, I begged Bill to allow me to borrow his most precious state-of-the-art 35mm Leica M5, and to my surprise, he relented and let me take it with me. Of course, I was inspired by the street life and people and couldn't wait to use it. I carried it with me everywhere, to my ultimate detriment.
One day, while walking along the street with my bike in one hand and my girlfriend's hand in the other, the camera slipped off my shoulder and crashed to the ground. It was not destroyed, but severely damaged, and when I took it to a camera store to be repaired, discovered that it would cost me every penny of the next three months allowance. It had to be done, so for the three months, I lived on potatoes and bread.
I returned the camera on my next visit home and did not tell him about it. I explained my loss of income by fabricating a story about having my wallet stolen in the Metro, and resolved never to tell him, or my mother the truth. In fact, neither one ever learned what happened to the Leica.
So, as I held a camera again for the first time in thirty years, I realized what I had lost. Since that day till the day I bought my first little digital camera (ironically for a return trip to Paris) I had never considered photography as a creative outlet.
Even these little digital cameras had begun to lose their appeal, because they never took sharp pictures, and never quickly. There is always a shutter lag with the digital camera and the optics just aren't there. The lens was so small, it just never took a sharp image. It makes sense, of course, that good optics are required for good sharp pictures, but it wasn't till I looked at the results from this new camera that it finally hit me.
So, as I try to decide whether or not to keep the Sony A300, here the pros and cons.
Pros:
It is a real camera, with full exposure controls.
It has real lenses that are interchangeable.
It reminds me of Bill and encourages my creativity.
I love it.
Cons:
It is expensive ($600).
It is heavy (1.1 lbs).
I already have a digital camera.
I don't need it.
The Good Waitress
Author's Note: On the advice of my erm, editors, I have trimmed a few words from this essay, and corrected the egregious error of misattribution of the lead quote. Thanks David and Henry. Sorry Warren.
I went home with a waitress, like I always do.
How was I to know, she was with the Russians, too?
Warren Zevon
Have you ever had a good waitress? I know, I know, they don't call them 'waitresses' anymore, but if you've ever had the privilege of being served by one, you know what I mean.
For one thing, a good waitress is more likely to call herself just that, instead of the oppressively neutral 'server'. Of course, these days, the young ones always introduce themselves as 'your server today' but take my word for it, that is a clear sign of bad service 'comin right at ya'.
Indeed. The good waitress doesn't tell you her name. Not because she doesn't want you to know. If you want to know, you'll ask. That my-name-is-Steffi-and-I'll-be-taking-care-of-you stuff just gets in the way of good service. It is obvious that she's there to take care of you. She might ask how you are doing, but what she really wants to know is what kind of a mood you are in.
If you are in a bad mood, she'll leave you alone. If you want to talk, she'll make sure to get your order first, and then listen, but she's always serving. Not just you, of course, but usually a whole section full of yous. And, even though they are usually not as good person (and tipper, natch) as you are, she's taking care of them and you all at the same time.
So, first of all, a good waitress is efficient. She is efficient with her time, of course, but she is also efficient with your time as well. The management of the the meal relies on the appropriate timing of the arrival of food and the departure of finished plates, glasses and silverware. Much of this you, the patron, never see. Unless, that is, something goes wrong.
But, for the good waitress, things do not often go wrong. They get the order right every time, deliver it in a timely manner and make sure it is what you ordered. Surely this can't be that difficult.
You won't have to think hard, I am sure, to recall the last time you had bad or even simply mediocre service. At the time, you must have wondered, 'What could be so hard about this?' yet there, before you, was the living proof that some people can take a simple thing and make it difficult by not caring. The good waitress is there because she wants to be. The cynic will say that she is there to make money, of course, but the realist knows that the good waitress is there for the power.
Where many people would find service degrading, and therefore would find themselves stripped of dignity and drained of energy if they were required to wait tables, the good waitress takes control of her tables and the people who sit at them. You might be the CEO of your company, but when you are at her table, she is the one who is in charge. Of course, if you were the CEO of your company, you'd likely already know about this power structure and be perfectly happy with it. In fact, if you are as good a CEO as she is a waitress, you know that you need her more than she needs you (or your tip. remember, you are not her only customer that shift). I call this the inverse power squared rule.
Simply put, the amount you, as client, need good service (ie the good waitress)is the amount of power you possess outside the restaurant inversely squared. Inverse because the more powerful you are, the more you need good service and good servants to remain powerful; squared because the amount of good service you'll actually receive while in power is very small when compared with the total amount you'll actually require to remain there.
The significance of this rule is not to be underestimated.
The good waitress knows when you are ready to go, often even when you don't. If no one at your table has the good sense or courage to tell you that it is time to go, she will. She'll bring the check when it's time for you to leave. This might be later if you are enjoying yourself and are polite about it; it will definitely be sooner if you are acting the fool. The good waitress, like a good friend, will tell you, 'you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.'
I went home with a waitress, like I always do.
How was I to know, she was with the Russians, too?
Warren Zevon
Have you ever had a good waitress? I know, I know, they don't call them 'waitresses' anymore, but if you've ever had the privilege of being served by one, you know what I mean.
For one thing, a good waitress is more likely to call herself just that, instead of the oppressively neutral 'server'. Of course, these days, the young ones always introduce themselves as 'your server today' but take my word for it, that is a clear sign of bad service 'comin right at ya'.
Indeed. The good waitress doesn't tell you her name. Not because she doesn't want you to know. If you want to know, you'll ask. That my-name-is-Steffi-and-I'll-be-taking-care-of-you stuff just gets in the way of good service. It is obvious that she's there to take care of you. She might ask how you are doing, but what she really wants to know is what kind of a mood you are in.
If you are in a bad mood, she'll leave you alone. If you want to talk, she'll make sure to get your order first, and then listen, but she's always serving. Not just you, of course, but usually a whole section full of yous. And, even though they are usually not as good person (and tipper, natch) as you are, she's taking care of them and you all at the same time.
So, first of all, a good waitress is efficient. She is efficient with her time, of course, but she is also efficient with your time as well. The management of the the meal relies on the appropriate timing of the arrival of food and the departure of finished plates, glasses and silverware. Much of this you, the patron, never see. Unless, that is, something goes wrong.
But, for the good waitress, things do not often go wrong. They get the order right every time, deliver it in a timely manner and make sure it is what you ordered. Surely this can't be that difficult.
You won't have to think hard, I am sure, to recall the last time you had bad or even simply mediocre service. At the time, you must have wondered, 'What could be so hard about this?' yet there, before you, was the living proof that some people can take a simple thing and make it difficult by not caring. The good waitress is there because she wants to be. The cynic will say that she is there to make money, of course, but the realist knows that the good waitress is there for the power.
Where many people would find service degrading, and therefore would find themselves stripped of dignity and drained of energy if they were required to wait tables, the good waitress takes control of her tables and the people who sit at them. You might be the CEO of your company, but when you are at her table, she is the one who is in charge. Of course, if you were the CEO of your company, you'd likely already know about this power structure and be perfectly happy with it. In fact, if you are as good a CEO as she is a waitress, you know that you need her more than she needs you (or your tip. remember, you are not her only customer that shift). I call this the inverse power squared rule.
Simply put, the amount you, as client, need good service (ie the good waitress)is the amount of power you possess outside the restaurant inversely squared. Inverse because the more powerful you are, the more you need good service and good servants to remain powerful; squared because the amount of good service you'll actually receive while in power is very small when compared with the total amount you'll actually require to remain there.
The significance of this rule is not to be underestimated.
The good waitress knows when you are ready to go, often even when you don't. If no one at your table has the good sense or courage to tell you that it is time to go, she will. She'll bring the check when it's time for you to leave. This might be later if you are enjoying yourself and are polite about it; it will definitely be sooner if you are acting the fool. The good waitress, like a good friend, will tell you, 'you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.'
Monday, August 25, 2008
Microbe Power
Although this comes off as an "I told you so!", because it is just that, I'll make not claims to the contrary and say, simply, that if you've been reading this journal, you read it here first...sort of.
My idea for harnessing microbes for power is, in fact, being researched.
My point here is really not to claim that I thought of this first (obviously, I didn't), or even that they are one and the same idea (they are not) but it does reinforce my hypothesis that big ideas are within reach of clear thinking, no matter who does it.
In this case, it is at least rewarding for me to think that I have the ability to come up with some interesting and potentially useful ideas on my own. Most interestingly, these ideas come to me without benefit of the data required by a scientist; supported only by paucity of information required by a dilettante such as I am but serving adequately as proof that even an underachieving intellectual can occasionally have a decent thought.
My idea for harnessing microbes for power is, in fact, being researched.
My point here is really not to claim that I thought of this first (obviously, I didn't), or even that they are one and the same idea (they are not) but it does reinforce my hypothesis that big ideas are within reach of clear thinking, no matter who does it.
In this case, it is at least rewarding for me to think that I have the ability to come up with some interesting and potentially useful ideas on my own. Most interestingly, these ideas come to me without benefit of the data required by a scientist; supported only by paucity of information required by a dilettante such as I am but serving adequately as proof that even an underachieving intellectual can occasionally have a decent thought.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Michigan Summer
Well, though I am back from Michigan already, as always, my heart is still there, resting in the cool instead of steaming in the heat.
This trip was particularly enjoyable, I suppose because the family was limited to just a few. Of course, one of the things that so satisfied me when I first became a part of this family was the size, but this time I found it enjoyable to be in a relatively small group. We are lucky to have such close bonds with our extended family, but at the end of the day, it really is only the members of the immediate family that are really close, and that is as it should be.
We gathered for John's 75th birthday, and his family--Katherine, Chris and his wife Caroline--were in attendance for the first time, so we had the pleasure of introducing them to and watching them indulge in many of the simple joys that summer in Holland has to offer.
From Farmer's Market (where I could not resist taking pictures of the colorful produce and flowers), to the cool granite beach sand (that squeaks when you walk on it), and the tangy taste of blueberries (right off the bush), there are some things I have discovered in Holland that I've had nowhere else.
For example, unlike on even the best golf course Austin (where I've played but once), in Holland, I enjoyed the intense pleasure of hitting a golf ball off a lush green fairway, and then, the concomittent semi-pleasure of hitting a golf ball out of the first cut of rough along the same fairway--and then, of course, hitting out of the deep rough off the same damn fairway...but no more about that here! I got play with my favorite playing partner, Chris, and the best part was that there was no wait and no one playing in behind us. Steve joined us one day and was a delightful addition to our routine. He is a good player but also relaxed and always funny! A leisure sport, the way it was supposed to be.
I enjoyed some wonderful early morning walks on the beach with Valery. She is the perfect person to walk with in the morning. She is energetic but quiet. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever known, and the vision I had of her in the light on the beach as the sun comes up confirms this fact.
Another wonderful aspect of this trip was that Maddie was able to join us, thanks to the generosity of her grandparents and her own ability to navigate from her apartment in Portland to the airport in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It's an understatement to say that it was a delight to see her, especially since this is the longest I've ever been away from her (or is it the other way round?) and I must say, she looked really good.
First of all, she cut her hair short again, and dyed it blue-black (sort of like Superman) so she looks very chic and, as someone said, very 'west coast'. Second, she has lost a lot of weight. And it's not like she's just dropped a few pounds overall, but she has slimmed down and her body has been re-shaped.
To be sure, she is still 'curvy' (her words) but the baby fat is gone and what's left is a beautiful young woman. She still hides the body because she has yet to have anyone appreciate it, but that will come. She's obviously in no rush to find someone, nor am I anxious to see her 'found'. I would love to see someone love her for who she is, but that's not up to me, now is it? It all goes so fast; I need only turn round and things will have changed.
Speaking of change, I can't let this entry pass without noting the profound change that took place in our family during this trip. It's like the proverbial 500-pound gorilla in the room; you can't ignore it but you don't want to let it take over, so here goes.
Billie is not well. This is my beloved mother-in-law who is more mother to me than my own; she is the woman who gave to the world and thence to me the greatest gift I have ever received: her daughter Valery. From this love has flowed everything I have known and loved for the past twenty five years. I do not know how I shall manage without it. I'll not dwell on that here, though, as there is much still to be done and much still to be said yet. Now is not the time for tears.
Change is always with us. We are change embodied, and for better or worse, we must always embrace it.
This trip was particularly enjoyable, I suppose because the family was limited to just a few. Of course, one of the things that so satisfied me when I first became a part of this family was the size, but this time I found it enjoyable to be in a relatively small group. We are lucky to have such close bonds with our extended family, but at the end of the day, it really is only the members of the immediate family that are really close, and that is as it should be.
We gathered for John's 75th birthday, and his family--Katherine, Chris and his wife Caroline--were in attendance for the first time, so we had the pleasure of introducing them to and watching them indulge in many of the simple joys that summer in Holland has to offer.
From Farmer's Market (where I could not resist taking pictures of the colorful produce and flowers), to the cool granite beach sand (that squeaks when you walk on it), and the tangy taste of blueberries (right off the bush), there are some things I have discovered in Holland that I've had nowhere else.
For example, unlike on even the best golf course Austin (where I've played but once), in Holland, I enjoyed the intense pleasure of hitting a golf ball off a lush green fairway, and then, the concomittent semi-pleasure of hitting a golf ball out of the first cut of rough along the same fairway--and then, of course, hitting out of the deep rough off the same damn fairway...but no more about that here! I got play with my favorite playing partner, Chris, and the best part was that there was no wait and no one playing in behind us. Steve joined us one day and was a delightful addition to our routine. He is a good player but also relaxed and always funny! A leisure sport, the way it was supposed to be.
I enjoyed some wonderful early morning walks on the beach with Valery. She is the perfect person to walk with in the morning. She is energetic but quiet. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever known, and the vision I had of her in the light on the beach as the sun comes up confirms this fact.
Another wonderful aspect of this trip was that Maddie was able to join us, thanks to the generosity of her grandparents and her own ability to navigate from her apartment in Portland to the airport in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It's an understatement to say that it was a delight to see her, especially since this is the longest I've ever been away from her (or is it the other way round?) and I must say, she looked really good.
First of all, she cut her hair short again, and dyed it blue-black (sort of like Superman) so she looks very chic and, as someone said, very 'west coast'. Second, she has lost a lot of weight. And it's not like she's just dropped a few pounds overall, but she has slimmed down and her body has been re-shaped.
To be sure, she is still 'curvy' (her words) but the baby fat is gone and what's left is a beautiful young woman. She still hides the body because she has yet to have anyone appreciate it, but that will come. She's obviously in no rush to find someone, nor am I anxious to see her 'found'. I would love to see someone love her for who she is, but that's not up to me, now is it? It all goes so fast; I need only turn round and things will have changed.
Speaking of change, I can't let this entry pass without noting the profound change that took place in our family during this trip. It's like the proverbial 500-pound gorilla in the room; you can't ignore it but you don't want to let it take over, so here goes.
Billie is not well. This is my beloved mother-in-law who is more mother to me than my own; she is the woman who gave to the world and thence to me the greatest gift I have ever received: her daughter Valery. From this love has flowed everything I have known and loved for the past twenty five years. I do not know how I shall manage without it. I'll not dwell on that here, though, as there is much still to be done and much still to be said yet. Now is not the time for tears.
Change is always with us. We are change embodied, and for better or worse, we must always embrace it.
Failure and Success
What is failure? What is success?
Is there any effort so useless and unprofitable as to be called an unqualified failure?
Is there any success that is not qualified in some way?
Or, in the face of overwhelming empirical evidence that tells us, time and time again, that no experience is ever--indeed can ever be--wasted, are we required to modify our definition of the terms, 'success' and 'failure'; and, more importantly, moderate our response to these two extremes of human effort?
Of course we do, but we just don't like to acknowledge it. At one end, it seems obvious. We can easily admit that there is no human effort so flawless in design and execution that we must acknowledge it as perfect and thus never again need repeat it. It makes common sense to conclude that nothing we humans have ever done--indeed, nothing that anyone has ever done (or will do!) can ever be perfect. It also makes sense that the reverse is true, but we rarely look at it that way. There really cannot be a human effort so vain and counterproductive that there is absolutely no benefit accrued from it. Even the most horrible and disastrous of events has some elements of success, even if that is but a change in direction.
Discarding the two extremes, we find ourselves in familiar territory. it is, however, but one end of the spectrum we are most familiar with. We 'try, try again' because we never, never seem to get it right. No athlete, no artist is ever satisfied with their performance. Who doesn't want to get better, doesn't.
Failure is as elusive as success. Even in our dreams we know we will wake, and even in our most miserable waking moment, we dream. Always and forever, relentlessly toward the center we fall, our best efforts to crawl up and out of the pit notwithstanding.
Is it any wonder, then, that we do not easily accept defeat nor readily rest on our achievements? Neither condition is truly acceptable for us; neither is human, yet both are only that.
Is there any effort so useless and unprofitable as to be called an unqualified failure?
Is there any success that is not qualified in some way?
Or, in the face of overwhelming empirical evidence that tells us, time and time again, that no experience is ever--indeed can ever be--wasted, are we required to modify our definition of the terms, 'success' and 'failure'; and, more importantly, moderate our response to these two extremes of human effort?
Of course we do, but we just don't like to acknowledge it. At one end, it seems obvious. We can easily admit that there is no human effort so flawless in design and execution that we must acknowledge it as perfect and thus never again need repeat it. It makes common sense to conclude that nothing we humans have ever done--indeed, nothing that anyone has ever done (or will do!) can ever be perfect. It also makes sense that the reverse is true, but we rarely look at it that way. There really cannot be a human effort so vain and counterproductive that there is absolutely no benefit accrued from it. Even the most horrible and disastrous of events has some elements of success, even if that is but a change in direction.
Discarding the two extremes, we find ourselves in familiar territory. it is, however, but one end of the spectrum we are most familiar with. We 'try, try again' because we never, never seem to get it right. No athlete, no artist is ever satisfied with their performance. Who doesn't want to get better, doesn't.
Failure is as elusive as success. Even in our dreams we know we will wake, and even in our most miserable waking moment, we dream. Always and forever, relentlessly toward the center we fall, our best efforts to crawl up and out of the pit notwithstanding.
Is it any wonder, then, that we do not easily accept defeat nor readily rest on our achievements? Neither condition is truly acceptable for us; neither is human, yet both are only that.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Fired Up!
This video is my latest attempt to document what goes on behind-the-scenes at Hudson's on the Bend Restaurant in Austin Texas. Of course, it is just a four and a half minute peek into that world, and as such it hardly constitutes a 'documentary'.
But it does consist of just about every picture I've taken at Hudson's during the four years since I purchased my first digital camera. And, as the good people of Hudson's will tell you, I've had that damn camera out in my hand just about every day I've worked in those four years.
This has had at least two effects. First, the people have gotten used to me taking pictures, and so, with notable exceptions, no longer even look at the camera much, let alone pose for it as they were inclined to do in the early days.
Second, and more important, though, has been the fact that despite the sheer number of images I've accumulated in that time with no clear idea of how I was going to use them, I actually used just about all of them while making this video!
I did use many of them in my first video, "It's Saturday Night" so I made an attempt not to duplicate them, in as much as was possible without outright abandoning my first set of images. I never did actually count them all, but suffice it to say that there are several hundred images crammed into this video at the very least, and all of them were edited pretty much by hand.
I had some serious technical difficulties while finishing this work. It seems that even though my effort was rather modest (it's not the Titantic, right?)it was more than my video program or computer (or combination of the two) could handle, so at the very end, with 99% "in the can" so to speak, I got stuck. I will not be able to burn this to a DVD for those still-not-well-understood reasons, but no matter.
The intent, originally, was to post it on YouTube so Jeff and Sara could see it while they were in China, but of course, they've been back for three weeks now and I've just posted it today!
Ok, enough complaining. I really did enjoy making this video, mostly because I enjoyed taking all the pictures and finally having something to do with them!
But it does consist of just about every picture I've taken at Hudson's during the four years since I purchased my first digital camera. And, as the good people of Hudson's will tell you, I've had that damn camera out in my hand just about every day I've worked in those four years.
This has had at least two effects. First, the people have gotten used to me taking pictures, and so, with notable exceptions, no longer even look at the camera much, let alone pose for it as they were inclined to do in the early days.
Second, and more important, though, has been the fact that despite the sheer number of images I've accumulated in that time with no clear idea of how I was going to use them, I actually used just about all of them while making this video!
I did use many of them in my first video, "It's Saturday Night" so I made an attempt not to duplicate them, in as much as was possible without outright abandoning my first set of images. I never did actually count them all, but suffice it to say that there are several hundred images crammed into this video at the very least, and all of them were edited pretty much by hand.
I had some serious technical difficulties while finishing this work. It seems that even though my effort was rather modest (it's not the Titantic, right?)it was more than my video program or computer (or combination of the two) could handle, so at the very end, with 99% "in the can" so to speak, I got stuck. I will not be able to burn this to a DVD for those still-not-well-understood reasons, but no matter.
The intent, originally, was to post it on YouTube so Jeff and Sara could see it while they were in China, but of course, they've been back for three weeks now and I've just posted it today!
Ok, enough complaining. I really did enjoy making this video, mostly because I enjoyed taking all the pictures and finally having something to do with them!
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Comments Allowed
Greetings gentle readers. I have just a brief announcement today. You can now leave comments without having to sign in. Previously, you had to have a Blogger account to comment, but no more.
Now, while I don't expect a lengthy reply from all readers, it would be nice, and encouraging for me ;-), if you'd leave me a comment from time to time. It's free, easy and o-so-fun!
While I have the chance, I want to thank all of you for reading. I do get lots of feedback through email, etc., and it is one of the main reasons I write. Thanks again!
Now, while I don't expect a lengthy reply from all readers, it would be nice, and encouraging for me ;-), if you'd leave me a comment from time to time. It's free, easy and o-so-fun!
While I have the chance, I want to thank all of you for reading. I do get lots of feedback through email, etc., and it is one of the main reasons I write. Thanks again!
Friday, August 1, 2008
Happy Birthday Mom!
I've been thinking a lot about Lynda lately, and it is no coincidence. Today would have been her 91st birthday. Birthdays being what they are, especially as one gets older, the day itself isn't so important as the accomplishment. Now with nothing to claim but her absence, I find myself in an empty place trying to fill it with words. I miss Lynda more than I can effectively relate here with these words. Because we had such a long and intimate relationship, the feeling of absence isn't a heartache, as it still is for Pierre. What I feel is a longing, a subtle tug in my heart, a desire.
It's selfish, really. I would, if I could, continue the dialog we began now fifty years ago. The fact that our conversation is ended doesn't mean that I do not continue to receive her counsel and support. I need only look in the mirror or hear myself talk to recall that she is part of me, irreducible and elemental in ways that are not always visible but which define me nonetheless.
Others have come to define themselves similarly, not from genetic markers but social and artistic ones. Many people sought her counsel, about life, love and, above all, art. She used art as the metaphor it is to serve the interests of artists. She encouraged, cajoled, teased and supported artists of every type, generation and sex. Her door was literally always open, a symbol of her open mind and willing heart. In this world of lifters and leaners, she was a lifter, and many are the souls who were uplifted by her strength of character.
Her art, no less than her personality, forced people to think. Being with her was an exercise in stamina, for she always had more places to go and people to see than there were hours in the day and days in the year. She never stopped pushing herself nor those around her.
When I was younger I understood this drive as the means by which she sustained our family, literally with food on the table. Later I came to understand that her drive was more than physical; it was intellectual and spiritual. It was the fire of creativity that burned brightly in her eyes, words and art. That flame has kindled many others and, in the process, singed more than a few unsuspecting bystanders. If you are going to stand near the flame, prepare to be burned.
My sign is the sun and fire is who and what I am. My flame burns nowhere nearly so bright as Lynda's but it is to her that I owe my spark.
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Human Beans
There are days and there are days. Today I am in a relatively good mood, yet my opinion of the human race is rather low. This is not always the case. There are days when I can look at the mass of humanity writhing around me and not wonder how they all got to be so fat, ugly, stupid and/or any combination of the above, but today is not one of those days.It's unfair, of course, but one of the frustrating things about being the crazy old man I am becoming is that, despite my youthful attempts to deny, ignore or explain this phenomenon away, my observations of humans, after nearly fifty years, reveal this salient truth: we are the problem.
Yet, it is virtually all I think about. As interested as I am in science the the nature of things, it is the nature of humans that I contemplate most. Of course, the humans I think about are most often my own family and friends, but my love and affection for these people means that I separate them from the rest of the herd, choosing to focus my anger and frustrations on the unnamed mass. It makes for an easy safe target, but this is no reason for me to stand back.
In fact, I cannot stand back. I cannot simply take my place, let's say, on the bus, or in a meeting, or in a line anywhere without feeling like I am being overwhelmed by the rude, the inconsiderate, the selfish and the self-serving. Everyone takes more than they need, as much as they want with no consideration of the previous or the next. In situation after situation, people stand in my way, cut in front of me, reach for things I am looking at. I must stand aside for the morbidly obese as they waddle down the aisle and take it all, for the group of students locked arm-in-arm on the sidewalk, for the bicyclist who rides in the crosswalk, for the motorist talking on the phone who turns in front of me.
I know, I know, this is just more whining. We all feel this way at one time or another. But why not get over it? Why this screed?
Well, what I wonder is this: Since I take the time to step aside, why doesn't the fat guy on the telephone in the middle of the cereal aisle do the same? Why doesn't the cyclist recall that they too walk on the sidewalk from time to time and would appreciate not being run over? Is it too much for people, when gorging themselves on another three to five thousand calories that they most certainly do not need, to think that the consequences of becoming fat and stupid reach beyond their own bloated bodies?
Apparently not. It would seem that certain members of society (a majority, no doubt) are prepossessed with a unchecked desire to please only themselves. These people are blissfully unaware that the pride of excess that they so shamelessly display is like a large red flag waving with disdain at those of us who might take the time to consider the consequences of our actions. They addresses the world with a singularly selfish message: 'I don't care'.
If you think I am wrong about this, look at some of the messages of consumerism, excess and generally offensive language that these people wear on their clothes, if in fact, t-shirts count as such. This aggressive display is often dismissed as a mere casual lack of concern on the part of the wearer, but in fact, that is just the point. If you don't care that you are advertising for some beer at the expense of your dignity and those who are forced to look at you, then you are the problem.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Portland Homesick Blues
I wanna go home with the armadillo. Jerry Jeff Walker
London Homesick Blues
Oh yesterday was a tough day. Not for me, but for Maddie. It is safe to say that after three weeks, the excitement of living in Portland and going to school at the WCI has morphed into a mixture of boredom, trepidation and homesickness.
I tell myself that heartbreaking as it may be for Valery and me, her situation is no different than any other new freshman off to college. I tell her that too, when we talk, but boy, it sure isn't easy watching her suffer. She's had to go through so many changes all at once, it is easy to understand why she is feeling a bit overwhelmed right now. Nonetheless, this difficult experience is also something that she will just have to go through, no matter how painful it is for both of us in the near term. Paying your dues.
In the long term--which is to say long after culinary school is over--she will benefit from these tough days. Of course, knowing this doesn't make it any easier when I see her sad about being away from home and frustrated with her progress in school, but it does help me keep things in perspective. This is important when I am about one mouse-click away from booking a flight for Valery to return to Portland and watch over her. No, I promise I--we--won't do that, not only because we can't afford it right now, but because we really believe that letting her tough this out is the right thing to do for her.
Why? Well, because we've spent so many years protecting her and providing for her, it seems to make sense to protect that investment by doing more of the same. However, now that she is becoming an adult, there's no better method I can think of for teaching her the skills for coping with adversity than to let her experience some actual adversity. Because the investment seems so much more valuable now, it seems terribly risky to to let her go so far so soon, but I repeat: I can't think of another way to liberate her and give her the independence she is seeking in a way that doesn't stifle that independence with rules or set her up for failure with goals that she hasn't personally selected.
I remind myself (and her) that the goals now in place are hers; she chose this path. Allowing her to succeed means allowing her to follow the path herself. Of course, if she fails, she won't have to blame us, but it this negative reasoning doesn't adequately illustrate the point. A better way to say it is, when she succeeds, she will affirm her decision-making ability and be in a position to do it again as she chooses the starting point for her career sometime next year.
Oh I suppose, given my rather grim track record, I've lost all credibility when it comes to talking about the 'right' way to raise a child, but with usual Phillipoid (new word) delusional foolishness, I am undeterred by my failures or inadequacies. In fact, I am encouraged to learn that my inabilities are actually diminished in scope by Maddie's resilience. I am impressed with her emerging ability to cope and above all, hopeful, not just because I am her Dad, but because there is every reason in the world to be so.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
New Look
Well, just for the sake of variety, I've gone and changed the layout of this journal.
Actually, it is not just whimsy; my intent is more complicated than the desire to simply make a change. The move to pull the videos and slide shows out of the main body of the journal is designed to make them more easily viewed and to reserve the center space for words as much as possible. This new layout also 'stretches' if you decide to change the size/shape of your window.
I'm still experimenting with the form, so I may post a slide show or video in the center for a few days then move it over to the right in case anyone wants to see them again.
Actually, it is not just whimsy; my intent is more complicated than the desire to simply make a change. The move to pull the videos and slide shows out of the main body of the journal is designed to make them more easily viewed and to reserve the center space for words as much as possible. This new layout also 'stretches' if you decide to change the size/shape of your window.
I'm still experimenting with the form, so I may post a slide show or video in the center for a few days then move it over to the right in case anyone wants to see them again.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Bus Riding
One of the biggest changes I've made in my life lately has been a small one. Instead of taking my truck to work every day, I now ride the bus. It's a small change, to be sure, since I don't actually leave the truck in the driveway but take it up to the bus stop and park it across the street in a shopping center parking lot. In my defense, the bus stop is over a mile away, and to walk it first thing in the morning would just wear me out. Plus, when I get to my destination, it is actually about the same distance from the bus stop at 24th and Lamar to my desk in the heart of campus. It takes me almost as long to walk to my building as it does for the bus to get from South Austin to UT.
In spite of these compromises, it is a big change because it has much such a positive impact on my well-being. It was astonishing for me to see, once I was able to step back and look at it, just how stressful the drive to work actually has been. Now, I actually look forward to going to work because the stress of driving no longer gets in my way. It is sort of like a fog that has been lifted from my vision, allowing me to see clearly the fine details of life that used to be invisible to me.
Now, though I am often prone to daydreaming, I can feast my eyes on the world of the street that rolls past my picture window. Lamar is a busy, active street, and even though we are taking advantage of the light summer traffic to roll effortlessly down the boulevard, there is a lot going on.
The automotive shops are busy already, of course, while most of the restaurants are still dark, with overturned chairs on tables visible through the windows. The car wash is hopping and so is the bicycle shop. Sadly, there are long lines at McDonalds and Taco Cabana, but there is also a good crowd at Maria's Taco Xpress.
Construction abounds. The old Binswanger glass factory is gone, replaced by a high rise, and the last and biggest of the new condominium towers, the Spring, is going up right on the corner of Lamar and 1st Street. They've been doing groundwork there for about six months, so you know it is going to be enormous.
On the bus there is as much to look at as outside it. Once I became a 'regular' rider, I began to observe others like me, who take the same bus every day to get to work.
Others, though, are riding the bus in the morning for other reasons. Yesterday it was the father of two small children, obviously going to return them to their mother after a visitation. Today it was the three homeless guys who emerged from the park to pick up the bus to ride out to their various street corners. Folded cardboard signs tucked into soiled backpacks smelling of ripe cheese are the telling signs of their profession. They are remarkably happy for this time of day and in their state, but then, I suppose they're already a little drunk and not all that concerned with the daily concerns that occupy me.
I wonder, sometime, if anyone looks at me, and tries to figure out what my story is, but then I realize that I am just an ordinary guy who is likely invisible to anyone who isn't looking. Certainly this is the case when I am not on the bus. Why would it be any different now? The anonymity is at once both comforting and unsettling, but real and quite simply unavoidable.
In spite of these compromises, it is a big change because it has much such a positive impact on my well-being. It was astonishing for me to see, once I was able to step back and look at it, just how stressful the drive to work actually has been. Now, I actually look forward to going to work because the stress of driving no longer gets in my way. It is sort of like a fog that has been lifted from my vision, allowing me to see clearly the fine details of life that used to be invisible to me.
Now, though I am often prone to daydreaming, I can feast my eyes on the world of the street that rolls past my picture window. Lamar is a busy, active street, and even though we are taking advantage of the light summer traffic to roll effortlessly down the boulevard, there is a lot going on.
The automotive shops are busy already, of course, while most of the restaurants are still dark, with overturned chairs on tables visible through the windows. The car wash is hopping and so is the bicycle shop. Sadly, there are long lines at McDonalds and Taco Cabana, but there is also a good crowd at Maria's Taco Xpress.
Construction abounds. The old Binswanger glass factory is gone, replaced by a high rise, and the last and biggest of the new condominium towers, the Spring, is going up right on the corner of Lamar and 1st Street. They've been doing groundwork there for about six months, so you know it is going to be enormous.
On the bus there is as much to look at as outside it. Once I became a 'regular' rider, I began to observe others like me, who take the same bus every day to get to work.
Others, though, are riding the bus in the morning for other reasons. Yesterday it was the father of two small children, obviously going to return them to their mother after a visitation. Today it was the three homeless guys who emerged from the park to pick up the bus to ride out to their various street corners. Folded cardboard signs tucked into soiled backpacks smelling of ripe cheese are the telling signs of their profession. They are remarkably happy for this time of day and in their state, but then, I suppose they're already a little drunk and not all that concerned with the daily concerns that occupy me.
I wonder, sometime, if anyone looks at me, and tries to figure out what my story is, but then I realize that I am just an ordinary guy who is likely invisible to anyone who isn't looking. Certainly this is the case when I am not on the bus. Why would it be any different now? The anonymity is at once both comforting and unsettling, but real and quite simply unavoidable.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
First Day
Well, it is only a few hours away, and doubtless I have more butterflies in my stomach than does Madelaine, for today is the first day of class at culinary school. She's ready. She's got the uniforms, the shoes, the hats, the apartment, the roommate, the internet and a confident attitude. Today she gets the knives and the books and her first taste of what will hopefully be a long and rewarding path for her.
In her stage the other day, my hope was not that she learn skills, but that she would see what it is like to work in a kitchen. The die has been cast, so to speak, so I have no room at the moment for second guessing or doubts, but I do know that, to continue with the cliche, the path of life has many twists and turns. I am pleased she picked a direction that is in my territory, so to speak, but I realize that at any time in the future, near and far, she can go somewhere else.
So far, Madelaine has shown that she can seek out and step up to challenges in life. Given the choice to remain in her grade school one more year or move up to middle school, she moved up. Even though she's had some obstacles to overcome in the classroom with dislexia, socially it was a time of growth. She made several good friends while in high school, and, like so many others, escaped with a diploma. Finally in spite of the best efforts of the system to sap her strength and dampen her spirit, she emerged with energy and a plan for the future, which is more than I started with, and I think I've done ok. Just ok, but that's another matter.
The time difference has me over-anticipating the event, and it will be hours before I know how went this oh-so-important 'first day'. More later.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Snow in the City
Snow. New stuff this. Crunchy, not soft. Grey, not white. But cold. Jake stopped on the sidewalk to take it in. He bent down to scrape up some snow, this wondrous new substance for an eight-year old, but not for long. Mama's walking.
Her old habits return quickly, for the city is hardly unfamiliar to her. For a moment, she forgets about the boy. Her head is tuned to the past and not the crunching snow underfoot. The boy may not even exist. But he does, catching her held back hand, reflexively. The cold surprises her and she stops.
What's this?
Snow!
It's dirty. Don't play with it.
But it's snow!
When we get to the park. Then you can play with it.
She wipes his hand, then grasps it firmly, fairly pulling him along. The world rushes by. Crunching in the snow, everywhere there is motion. Heads down, look out. Mama's walking. The boy tucks into her coat as they reach the bus stop.
Waiting, snow begins to fall. Tugging, twisting, eager to see more, to catch a flake, he turns away and sees the dog.
For the boy, street level has real meaning. Tethered to an adult, he knows he is secure, but the world below the waist has a turmoil all it's own. Legs whipping by, umbrellas and bags to dodge, the view is chaotic. The dog is at the boy's height, in his world and in trouble.
Around the dog's neck there is a choke chain, and it is tight. The dog is small and lithe, certainly no match for the chain. Already it cinches up the fur around his neck as he is dragged along. No look from above returns the plea for release. The dog tugs and pulls, but the motion is seen as rebellious, not plaintive, and the return is tighter and tighter still.
The boy watches as they approach. The snow is falling hard now, and the bus is pulling up. He tugs at his mother's arm but the response is to pull him closer as they edge toward the curb. He fights and twists to look back.
He can see the man with the leash now, a filthy and disheveled creature with an open coat and wild hair. He is openly fighting with the dog now, wrenching it up into the air as it yelps and struggles. No one stops. No one looks. Just the boy.
The man moves toward a store now, dragging the dog behind him. People step out of the way. A woman leaves the store head down and swerves to avoid tripping on the dog, but does not stop. No one stops. The bus is coming.
The boy can see the dog's tongue now, long and red, it droops loosely from his mouth. The struggles are diminished now, reduced to quivers and involuntary spasms, but the torture is not finished. The man cannot drag the body of the dog through the closing door. The shopkeeper emerges to prevent him from entering. No sounds The wild gestures say it all.
No effort is made to to save the dog, only to remove the offender from the store. In this, the shopkeeper is successful, but by the time the man has been forced back onto the street, he is dragging a corpse. The long red tongue makes a soft wet trail in the falling snow as it disappears into the forest of motion.
The bus is here.
Her old habits return quickly, for the city is hardly unfamiliar to her. For a moment, she forgets about the boy. Her head is tuned to the past and not the crunching snow underfoot. The boy may not even exist. But he does, catching her held back hand, reflexively. The cold surprises her and she stops.
What's this?
Snow!
It's dirty. Don't play with it.
But it's snow!
When we get to the park. Then you can play with it.
She wipes his hand, then grasps it firmly, fairly pulling him along. The world rushes by. Crunching in the snow, everywhere there is motion. Heads down, look out. Mama's walking. The boy tucks into her coat as they reach the bus stop.
Waiting, snow begins to fall. Tugging, twisting, eager to see more, to catch a flake, he turns away and sees the dog.
For the boy, street level has real meaning. Tethered to an adult, he knows he is secure, but the world below the waist has a turmoil all it's own. Legs whipping by, umbrellas and bags to dodge, the view is chaotic. The dog is at the boy's height, in his world and in trouble.
Around the dog's neck there is a choke chain, and it is tight. The dog is small and lithe, certainly no match for the chain. Already it cinches up the fur around his neck as he is dragged along. No look from above returns the plea for release. The dog tugs and pulls, but the motion is seen as rebellious, not plaintive, and the return is tighter and tighter still.
The boy watches as they approach. The snow is falling hard now, and the bus is pulling up. He tugs at his mother's arm but the response is to pull him closer as they edge toward the curb. He fights and twists to look back.
He can see the man with the leash now, a filthy and disheveled creature with an open coat and wild hair. He is openly fighting with the dog now, wrenching it up into the air as it yelps and struggles. No one stops. No one looks. Just the boy.
The man moves toward a store now, dragging the dog behind him. People step out of the way. A woman leaves the store head down and swerves to avoid tripping on the dog, but does not stop. No one stops. The bus is coming.
The boy can see the dog's tongue now, long and red, it droops loosely from his mouth. The struggles are diminished now, reduced to quivers and involuntary spasms, but the torture is not finished. The man cannot drag the body of the dog through the closing door. The shopkeeper emerges to prevent him from entering. No sounds The wild gestures say it all.
No effort is made to to save the dog, only to remove the offender from the store. In this, the shopkeeper is successful, but by the time the man has been forced back onto the street, he is dragging a corpse. The long red tongue makes a soft wet trail in the falling snow as it disappears into the forest of motion.
The bus is here.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Portland Progress
Well, we have arrived at a point long coming but ever so hard to imagine, especially because I have thought about it for what seems like a lifetime.In fact, it has been a lifetime. As I held Madelaine in my arms I would of course wonder what she would sound like, how she would talk and walk. I never thought about what she would 'do', in so far as a career, mostly because it was so far away, and because I was content to wait and see what see brought me.
Consequently, I never imagined her working in a kitchen until she brought it up, but as soon as she made it her ambition, I could see why it makes sense, and now I think it is fair to say that I share that ambition with her. I will certainly do whatever I can to help her, but I can see my time for doing this is growing short.
She attended Orientation at the Culinary Institute yesterday and received her uniforms after touring the kitchens, meeting the chefs and getting a first taste of 'the rules'.
Of these, which are many, the most important is to be in class on time and in uniform. For students, the uniform, is well, the same: Black steel-toed lace-up shoes, black and white checkered chefs pants, a crispt white double-breasted chefs coat with the WCI seal embroidered over the heart and a name tag (correctly spelled!) on the opposite side. Around the neck goes a hand-tied cravat (basically a white napkin, which is what chefs actually use) and atop the head (above the beaming smile) is what is called a 'commis' hat. It looks like a white skullcap, and it covers most of the hair. Students are required to be in a clean, pressed uniform at the beginning of every class, which means that if it gets dirty they have to go get a clean one from their locker.
Fortunately for Maddie, her apartment has a washer and dryer right in the unit, so she can keep her uniforms--they gave her five sets, along with the shoes--clean and pressed without having to make a trek to the laundromat.
The apartment is quite nice. It is a two-bedroom, 1 1/3 bath (which means that Maddie has a sink in her bedroom) apartment. Maddie got the larger bedroom because she was the one to find the apartment. We met her roommate Brittany (also a student at WCI) at the apartment shortly after we arrived last week, and (luckily)the two girls hit it off right away. Actually, it isn't surprising that they would at least seem compatible, since, after all, they have a good deal in common; Brittany is also in the Patissiere and Baking program with Maddie, they will have the same school schedule: 4pm to 9pm.
The apartment is actually in Beaverton, which is across the Willamette river about twenty minutes away by MAX, which is the light rail line that runs every ten minutes or so into the Portland city center, just a block from the WCI. The train is well-lit and very safe, and it runs well after nine pm, so she'll have no trouble or danger getting home at night. The walk from the MAX station to the apartment is about two, well-lit and public blocks.
Yesterday, we went to IKEA to shop for furnishings--specifically, a bed and desk--for the new apartment, and found it to be quite interesting. I say it that way because it was actually our first trip ever to this Swedish style sensation, even though I have perused their catalog from time to time. We went there thanks to Chris and Colleen, who provided a nice gift card to get Maddie started in the world the right way. In spite of misgivings--the parking lot is full of SUVs--I found the products to have the allure of the simple and the satisfaction of being inexpensive. Not cheap, in the more conventional wallymart way, but in a way that derives from simply being simple. If that makes sense.
But for some things, IKEA is simply over the top, or at least far too out of the way, so Madelaine also received a wonderful gift card to Target from Alexandra, which will help outfit the new place with all the little details that make it a livable home. Like sheets and pillowcases and towels, and silverware and pots and pans and shower curtains. Oeuf! What fun!
I certainly never anticipated just how much pleasure I would derive from this process. Today we will soon go over to Maddie's apartment (what a delight it is to say that) and get the bed, desk and chair set up and go shopping yet again! Ok, so maybe I am not all that thrilled about all the shopping, but know this: I am again truly happy, if only for this moment, and the pride I feel, if unanticipated, is not undeserved.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Separation Anxiety
Although I've been looking forward to Maddie's transition to living away, the one part of the experience that was unanticipated was the separation anxiety.
Ironcially, I dismissed, or a least did not take as seriously as I might have, the anxiety the children felt as I left them alone in their room to sleep and now, as Maddie prepares to do the same to me, I am not ready.
Oh, yes I am, but there is a part of me, a very physical part, as the mind has come to terms with this event long ago-after all, we have been planning for this for nearly a year--but it is the body that refuses to let go without a struggle. This shouldn't surprise me, as I am quite familiar with the experience, lately, of being in physical pain when I have not a cut or bruise on my outer body to show for it.
Yet, the day approaches and I am not ready. Maddie is ready. I should be ready. I can be, but not tonite. Even though we are no longer at home, and the fact is that in less than a week I will return home without my daughter for the first time in eighteen years. Please, do not tell me that she has been away before. Of course I know that, but always to return home. It is the view from the side of the nest, as we stare unbelievingly into the distance that will bear up our offspring in the next, last moment of our lives that all mammals--and perhaps some birds--share. A part of us dies in that moment, and another part lives on, outside of us and all control we will ever have.
There is no secret to immortality. There is none. It's a cliche, of course, as are all self evident truths which we forget so frequently and with such regularity that we have to make up oft-repeated aphorisms and bits of wisdom, so often, in fact that they become cliche by virtue of their fundamental worth, and, perhaps by extension, of our ability to forget them.
So it is with immortality. Artists will tell you that it is art alone that achieves this state, but they, in their self-satisfied certainty that comes with talent, fail to recall that even art is subject to the inevitable decay that is the nature of matter itself. Even be they parents, it is easy for artists to value the art over the genetics because of their higher calling, but those of us who are merely parents can tell you that if there be anything to approach immortality, it would be procreation. It makes sense to me that the act of sex should be so supremely enjoyable to primates, since we have, I believe, in our genes the intent, if not the means, to immortality. It is our reason for being here. Being here.
So, as I watch Maddie move out into the very same world--and let no one tell you that it has changed, for the basics are unchanged since we first split into two tribes--it is her ability to cope and fare well through obstacles both merely irritating and potentially deadly to which I have entrusted my shot at immortality. All that stands in the way now is a few hours and the bittersweet separation anxiety of the last moment.
Ironcially, I dismissed, or a least did not take as seriously as I might have, the anxiety the children felt as I left them alone in their room to sleep and now, as Maddie prepares to do the same to me, I am not ready.
Oh, yes I am, but there is a part of me, a very physical part, as the mind has come to terms with this event long ago-after all, we have been planning for this for nearly a year--but it is the body that refuses to let go without a struggle. This shouldn't surprise me, as I am quite familiar with the experience, lately, of being in physical pain when I have not a cut or bruise on my outer body to show for it.
Yet, the day approaches and I am not ready. Maddie is ready. I should be ready. I can be, but not tonite. Even though we are no longer at home, and the fact is that in less than a week I will return home without my daughter for the first time in eighteen years. Please, do not tell me that she has been away before. Of course I know that, but always to return home. It is the view from the side of the nest, as we stare unbelievingly into the distance that will bear up our offspring in the next, last moment of our lives that all mammals--and perhaps some birds--share. A part of us dies in that moment, and another part lives on, outside of us and all control we will ever have.
There is no secret to immortality. There is none. It's a cliche, of course, as are all self evident truths which we forget so frequently and with such regularity that we have to make up oft-repeated aphorisms and bits of wisdom, so often, in fact that they become cliche by virtue of their fundamental worth, and, perhaps by extension, of our ability to forget them.
So it is with immortality. Artists will tell you that it is art alone that achieves this state, but they, in their self-satisfied certainty that comes with talent, fail to recall that even art is subject to the inevitable decay that is the nature of matter itself. Even be they parents, it is easy for artists to value the art over the genetics because of their higher calling, but those of us who are merely parents can tell you that if there be anything to approach immortality, it would be procreation. It makes sense to me that the act of sex should be so supremely enjoyable to primates, since we have, I believe, in our genes the intent, if not the means, to immortality. It is our reason for being here. Being here.
So, as I watch Maddie move out into the very same world--and let no one tell you that it has changed, for the basics are unchanged since we first split into two tribes--it is her ability to cope and fare well through obstacles both merely irritating and potentially deadly to which I have entrusted my shot at immortality. All that stands in the way now is a few hours and the bittersweet separation anxiety of the last moment.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Elephant Man
In my efforts to cope with Pierre's death, I have struggled with metaphors for the thoughts and emotions that I have and feel. Last night I found this analogy and have found the strength to write about it, even if this subject may make readers uncomfortable on this Father's Day. Take some comfort in the fact that I have never taken this day seriously, nor will I allow it now to become a symbol of something it never was. So, on this day, I'll manifest a bit more than the usual sanguinity, if you will. I ask your indulgence or suggest you wait for a more delicate post should this be upsetting.
I feel mutilated, as if a major part of me has suddenly been lopped off.
I have always had a secret fear of mutilation, of losing a finger or an arm, especially in the restaurant business, with so many 'built-in' dangers. I have had some serious cuts, but fortunately, all extremities are still intact. One of the manifestations of fear is to exaggerate the danger to heighten awareness so the threat is overwhelmed. Often this leads mistakes that favor the attacker.
Sometimes I cannot believe that the mutilation is not visible to others. Often I will imagine that it is, and that others are staring at it, or trying not to, looking furtively only when they think I am not looking. But the wound is so sensitive that it can feel the touch of a single eye passing across its brined and twisted surface. This disfiguration is ashamed of itself and seeks to shun the pitiful gaze of the onlooker, if only be cause it knows, as only the horribly ugly can ever know, that others are secretly delighted by the sight.
The horror they think they feel is actually a secret pleasure that begins somewhere in the deep and ancient self-consciousness as a survival mechanism but is, in today's cerebral map, now connected directly with the pleasure centers that are tickled by car wrecks, airplane crashes and other bits of modern devastation that make us say, mentally, 'Thank God that's not me!' I guess to survive we obviously need to avoid mutilation but to know what not to do, we have become fascinated with horrible, unthinkable injury.
And so it is with the death of a child. At least this is how it feels for me. I suppose, when I am able to expand my vision to include those who have suffered a similar loss, I'll begin to express these feelings as somehow universal, but for now, I feel them so intensely as personal that I shall not shrink from expressing them as if I am the first, and only person to go though this sort of unexpected change to my psychic (for want of a better word) self.
Truly, I am closer to the goal than even this suggests, but we are now only in the fourth month since Pierre died, and each time I look in the mirror (ie, these notes and comments) I see that it has indeed healed considerably and is not so horribly disfiguring as I imagined.
One of the things I have thought about for many years has been how I would deal with a disfiguring accident that resulted in the loss of an limb or worse. How would I deal with being in a wheelchair for the rest of my life?
Oh, in this easy world of imaginings, I saw myself as the gracious sort, the one about whom others would say, 'Oh he is so gracious! Even though he's in a wheelchair, he has such a positive attitude!'
Right. I have, of course, spent zero time in a wheelchair, and now feel as if I might be one of those other sorts, who is bitter and resentful of his injury, and scorns the looks and shuns the aid of others who would look or dare to try and help.
Actually I can't imagine being at that end of the spectrum either, so it is likely that I'll manifest some attributes of both these styles, if you will, creating yet another incarnation of myself. Interestingly, though the shape be different, I can't help but feel the same in more ways than I feel changed, causing me to wonder if this injury is not so great as I first thought.
And so it is. I know yet I do not. I feel yet I do not. Each day is new and each has some of the same. Knowing that I am part of the larger cycle is probably the greatest single impact that Pierre's death has had on me.
Oh, I have for many years paid lip-service to this larger whole, but now, as I grow older and with the keen introspection that has come with grief, it actually means something. No longer am I able to turn from it. I must turn toward the light, as it were, and with serious effort, discern what it is illuminating in me.
I feel mutilated, as if a major part of me has suddenly been lopped off.
I have always had a secret fear of mutilation, of losing a finger or an arm, especially in the restaurant business, with so many 'built-in' dangers. I have had some serious cuts, but fortunately, all extremities are still intact. One of the manifestations of fear is to exaggerate the danger to heighten awareness so the threat is overwhelmed. Often this leads mistakes that favor the attacker.
Sometimes I cannot believe that the mutilation is not visible to others. Often I will imagine that it is, and that others are staring at it, or trying not to, looking furtively only when they think I am not looking. But the wound is so sensitive that it can feel the touch of a single eye passing across its brined and twisted surface. This disfiguration is ashamed of itself and seeks to shun the pitiful gaze of the onlooker, if only be cause it knows, as only the horribly ugly can ever know, that others are secretly delighted by the sight.
The horror they think they feel is actually a secret pleasure that begins somewhere in the deep and ancient self-consciousness as a survival mechanism but is, in today's cerebral map, now connected directly with the pleasure centers that are tickled by car wrecks, airplane crashes and other bits of modern devastation that make us say, mentally, 'Thank God that's not me!' I guess to survive we obviously need to avoid mutilation but to know what not to do, we have become fascinated with horrible, unthinkable injury.
And so it is with the death of a child. At least this is how it feels for me. I suppose, when I am able to expand my vision to include those who have suffered a similar loss, I'll begin to express these feelings as somehow universal, but for now, I feel them so intensely as personal that I shall not shrink from expressing them as if I am the first, and only person to go though this sort of unexpected change to my psychic (for want of a better word) self.
Truly, I am closer to the goal than even this suggests, but we are now only in the fourth month since Pierre died, and each time I look in the mirror (ie, these notes and comments) I see that it has indeed healed considerably and is not so horribly disfiguring as I imagined.
One of the things I have thought about for many years has been how I would deal with a disfiguring accident that resulted in the loss of an limb or worse. How would I deal with being in a wheelchair for the rest of my life?
Oh, in this easy world of imaginings, I saw myself as the gracious sort, the one about whom others would say, 'Oh he is so gracious! Even though he's in a wheelchair, he has such a positive attitude!'
Right. I have, of course, spent zero time in a wheelchair, and now feel as if I might be one of those other sorts, who is bitter and resentful of his injury, and scorns the looks and shuns the aid of others who would look or dare to try and help.
Actually I can't imagine being at that end of the spectrum either, so it is likely that I'll manifest some attributes of both these styles, if you will, creating yet another incarnation of myself. Interestingly, though the shape be different, I can't help but feel the same in more ways than I feel changed, causing me to wonder if this injury is not so great as I first thought.
And so it is. I know yet I do not. I feel yet I do not. Each day is new and each has some of the same. Knowing that I am part of the larger cycle is probably the greatest single impact that Pierre's death has had on me.
Oh, I have for many years paid lip-service to this larger whole, but now, as I grow older and with the keen introspection that has come with grief, it actually means something. No longer am I able to turn from it. I must turn toward the light, as it were, and with serious effort, discern what it is illuminating in me.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Portland Bound!
Suddenly I am keenly ware that this is Madelaine's last week at home. The idea, the thought itself is nothing new. We have, after all, been planning for this for sometime. The pieces are all starting to fall into place.First of all, she graduated! We have the diploma and the final set of grades, which were remarkably good. She made all A's and B's in her last semester and passed all of her final exams! She's legit!
Next, we have gotten an apartment for her in Beaverton, which is a suburb of Portland. It is just about ten minutes from downtown via the MAX, which is their fast, clean and inexpensive light rail system. And from the MAX stop in Beaverton, her apartment is a two-minute, well-lit walk, so it should be very convenient for her.
We may have arranged for a roommate as well. Maddie's been in touch with a young woman named Brittany who will, like her, be starting the Patisserie and Baking program out of high school. I say 'may' because the school put the two girls together and I haven't been in the loop. We will meet her next week when we go to to apartment complex to sign on the dotted line.
I have a good feeling that it will all work out, but even though we haven't got it all firmed up, so to speak, we are going ahead with the plan to put her in this two-bedroom apartment. Then, if the roommate falls through and we can't find another, we can move her to a one-bedroom apartment in the same complex.
The apartment will be available to move in on the 27th, so hopefully by the time I leave on the 24th (I can only stay a week), we will have worked out all the details and it will be up to Valery to help her get settled in. Valery will stay in Portland till July 8, just to keep an eye on Miss M.
Now, I think there's a good chance that she'll just be in the way as the girls get to know one another and settle into a routine. I think she will thus have some time to explore Portland on her own. At the very least, Valery will spend a couple of days in Powell's Bookstore, I am sure.
The only other thing we have 'hanging' now is the job. Maddie will be expected to work part-time while she is in school. This is for two reasons. First, it prepares the student for life in the 'real-world' by exposing them to the work environment even as they are learning the skills to compete. It's a chicken-egg dilemma where one simply does and learns by doing so you can say you know how to do it. There is a lot of trial-and-error and a lot of hidden-mentoring that goes on at this level. She must, as we say, 'pay her dues' just to get in the club. So, the school works with local employers and pretty much guarantees that the student can get some kind of job, even if it is not directly related to their program. Thus, Maddie may not work in a bakery, though that's what we are hoping for.
The job and school will mean that she has very little free time. There is a washer/dryer in the apartment so she can keep her uniforms clean and pressed, and we're getting her a laptop with which to stay connected (email & Skype) and do her homework when needed. The school provides internet access in the library, and that may be the extent of it. I don't plan on paying for internet access at her apartment, nor, get ready for it, TV! This will be a long nine months for Miss M, but I am ever more convinced that she will do it and with flying colors!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Bus Ride
The first half hour is as frenetic as it ever was. Get up. Get dressed. Water on to boil. Grind the coffee. Prepare the snacks, get the pen, the wallet, the glasses (both pairs?). Whew. Not yet. Shave, get phone, keys, cap. Wait paperwork for today? Ok, almost out the door. Coffee? Change? Cap? keys. Oh yeah I have them already.
Then the drive. O so short, just up the hill I don't want to tackle at 8am and off to the parking lot across from the bus stop. 8:03. Bail. Cross the street. Breathe.
Taking the bus is a commitment. Since it only runs every half hour, I have to plan it carefully, but the effort is worth it. It is worth it, not just in savings on gasoline/money, which, these days, at $4+ a gallon, is a good motivation for parking the truck and riding the bus. It is worth the effort because it is something I actually enjoy and even look forward to. I am certainly not doing it to 'go green', although the happy coincidence is that is does all of the above.
The ride starts with a half-filled bus already. The riders are the same as they've ever been, on every bus I've ever ridden to work, here, in England and France. Blue collar workers and college students. These days, and in this place, this means Hispanic women and the rather dark but clean looking community college students. I suppose that even though I am technically in a white collar job, I have always considered myself to be a member of the working class, and have always taken some pride in that.
The bus winds its way down Westgate Boulevard after I get on, past the rows of duplexes and low rent apartment complexes that line the road up to the intersection with Lamar Boulevard. Today the road was also line with families waiting for a lost or very late school bus. Moms and grandmoms and uncles and aunts stood patienetly with their toddlers and grade schoolers as our bus roared by. By the time we reach Lamar, the bus is full and one person is standing.
Lamar is almost like a time warp as I watch it roll by the big windows. Some of the businesses have been here since before I got here in 1969. Like the Broken Spoke, which, with it's dirt parking lot and ramshackle assembly of weather worn buildings and, of course, the Lone Star bus, is literally an Austin icon. Then there is the Martinez brothers Taxidermist at Oltorf, right next to the XXX bookstore, and across the street from the old Phillips 66 station that has been, for the past twenty years, a State Inspection Station well know for it's rather laid-back approach to the art of car inspecting. I took my decrepit and barely-running VWs there for many years and kept them on the road thanks to the old Lebanese fellow who still runs the shop. I see him out side, puffing on a cigarette, examining the latest rust heap to roll into his bay.
Up comes the Party Pig, which is next to Lone Star Grill and Propane. Both have been there for ten, maybe twenty years. there is the discount tire place, no more than a cinderblock bunker that spills out it's tires to the street every morning. I don't but somebody must be buying tires from these guys. Someone is buy tacos at Maria's Taco Xpress, which, thanks to Walgreen's, is not set back just enough that traffic no longer spills out onto Lamar and blocks our progress. Progress is Lamar. On past the Southwood center with the Alamo Draft House and Maudie's Cafe.
Next, the Rising Sun Automotive shop and the taco stand in behind it. There is Aamco transmission, then Uchi restaurant, Doc Holliday's Pawn, Austin Reprographics and the Bicycle Sport Shop as we roll down to Barton Springs. Ah McDonald's. And across the street, Jack in the Box.
Tucked in behind the Taco Cabana and the new apartment complex that now takes up most of the stretch between here and Town Lake is the nine-hole, par three city-run golf course know as Butler Park Pitch-n-Putt, but you have to look quickly to see it any more. Across the street, the old Binswanger Glass company has been torn down and another condo complex is rising in it's place. Next door to that is the Schlotszkys, with at least has the feel of having been here a while but it too is only about ten years young.
Next up we cross Town Lake. The construction here is frenetic these days. There are at least three thirty-story condominium complexes being built along the lake today, and much more reorganization of the lake front at Lamar is under way. Today there were no fewer than six cranes gathered at that corner, preparing the ground for yet another skyscraper. It's more than symbolic, though it is that for sure.
As soon as we emerge on the other side of the lake, we see the Whole Foods Complex, with brightly colored waving flags and a cool city chicness that is the opposite of the small town flavor of South Lamar. Now we are on North Lamar, roaring past the Lone Star Saloon, then the old/newly renovated Tavern at twelfth street, then winding our way up towards the hill on which the UT Tower is perched. I can see it, of course as we pass the Texas Medical Association headquarters and the miniature Eiffel Tower that marks the Antique Store across he intersection with Martin Luther King Boulevard.
We have entered the campus area now, and my stop approaches, at 24th, just past the old Eisley School building (still pink!) and finally the Caswell Tennis courts, where I descend from the bus and begin my walk to work.
Then the drive. O so short, just up the hill I don't want to tackle at 8am and off to the parking lot across from the bus stop. 8:03. Bail. Cross the street. Breathe.
Taking the bus is a commitment. Since it only runs every half hour, I have to plan it carefully, but the effort is worth it. It is worth it, not just in savings on gasoline/money, which, these days, at $4+ a gallon, is a good motivation for parking the truck and riding the bus. It is worth the effort because it is something I actually enjoy and even look forward to. I am certainly not doing it to 'go green', although the happy coincidence is that is does all of the above.
The ride starts with a half-filled bus already. The riders are the same as they've ever been, on every bus I've ever ridden to work, here, in England and France. Blue collar workers and college students. These days, and in this place, this means Hispanic women and the rather dark but clean looking community college students. I suppose that even though I am technically in a white collar job, I have always considered myself to be a member of the working class, and have always taken some pride in that.
The bus winds its way down Westgate Boulevard after I get on, past the rows of duplexes and low rent apartment complexes that line the road up to the intersection with Lamar Boulevard. Today the road was also line with families waiting for a lost or very late school bus. Moms and grandmoms and uncles and aunts stood patienetly with their toddlers and grade schoolers as our bus roared by. By the time we reach Lamar, the bus is full and one person is standing.
Lamar is almost like a time warp as I watch it roll by the big windows. Some of the businesses have been here since before I got here in 1969. Like the Broken Spoke, which, with it's dirt parking lot and ramshackle assembly of weather worn buildings and, of course, the Lone Star bus, is literally an Austin icon. Then there is the Martinez brothers Taxidermist at Oltorf, right next to the XXX bookstore, and across the street from the old Phillips 66 station that has been, for the past twenty years, a State Inspection Station well know for it's rather laid-back approach to the art of car inspecting. I took my decrepit and barely-running VWs there for many years and kept them on the road thanks to the old Lebanese fellow who still runs the shop. I see him out side, puffing on a cigarette, examining the latest rust heap to roll into his bay.
Up comes the Party Pig, which is next to Lone Star Grill and Propane. Both have been there for ten, maybe twenty years. there is the discount tire place, no more than a cinderblock bunker that spills out it's tires to the street every morning. I don't but somebody must be buying tires from these guys. Someone is buy tacos at Maria's Taco Xpress, which, thanks to Walgreen's, is not set back just enough that traffic no longer spills out onto Lamar and blocks our progress. Progress is Lamar. On past the Southwood center with the Alamo Draft House and Maudie's Cafe.
Next, the Rising Sun Automotive shop and the taco stand in behind it. There is Aamco transmission, then Uchi restaurant, Doc Holliday's Pawn, Austin Reprographics and the Bicycle Sport Shop as we roll down to Barton Springs. Ah McDonald's. And across the street, Jack in the Box.
Tucked in behind the Taco Cabana and the new apartment complex that now takes up most of the stretch between here and Town Lake is the nine-hole, par three city-run golf course know as Butler Park Pitch-n-Putt, but you have to look quickly to see it any more. Across the street, the old Binswanger Glass company has been torn down and another condo complex is rising in it's place. Next door to that is the Schlotszkys, with at least has the feel of having been here a while but it too is only about ten years young.
Next up we cross Town Lake. The construction here is frenetic these days. There are at least three thirty-story condominium complexes being built along the lake today, and much more reorganization of the lake front at Lamar is under way. Today there were no fewer than six cranes gathered at that corner, preparing the ground for yet another skyscraper. It's more than symbolic, though it is that for sure.
As soon as we emerge on the other side of the lake, we see the Whole Foods Complex, with brightly colored waving flags and a cool city chicness that is the opposite of the small town flavor of South Lamar. Now we are on North Lamar, roaring past the Lone Star Saloon, then the old/newly renovated Tavern at twelfth street, then winding our way up towards the hill on which the UT Tower is perched. I can see it, of course as we pass the Texas Medical Association headquarters and the miniature Eiffel Tower that marks the Antique Store across he intersection with Martin Luther King Boulevard.
We have entered the campus area now, and my stop approaches, at 24th, just past the old Eisley School building (still pink!) and finally the Caswell Tennis courts, where I descend from the bus and begin my walk to work.
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