From the digital ether, I hear the cries of this blog, starved since September of meaningful entry. I am haunted at night by the dragging chains of my words here, sometimes visited by the specter of what might yet be.
Where, you may ask, is the long-awaited entry illustrating my recent vacation to Germany? What did I have to say about a week in California, where I stood on the beach with my feet awash in the cold Pacific surf and traversed the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time? What words, if such feelings could be adequately expressed in words, can I offer concerning the fate of our beloved Longhorns this fall? Other topics such as Thanksgiving, new relationships, future travels, sword fighting, discovery of an overlooked television gem, and encroaching cold weather are roaming through the backcountry of my mind, seeking a place to take root.
The last half of this year has yielded more changes in my life than I expected. Dreams long held and oft deferred have been realized. It has been a time of discovery. The opportunity to explore a portion of the Old Country as a visitor from the New World was greatly fulfilling.
I have written about these things, although not at the level I would like. I should add some polish and post it here to expand this narrative. Such a thought strikes me as odd. Like the ebb and flow of conversation, I feel that timing is important here. Pause for too long before delivering a snappy line, it will feel flat and faded, and then you are left to lament a missed opportunity. But the conversation moves on, always pursuing the horizon.
The compulsion to write here is not as frequent as it once was. There are myriad reasons for this. However, I should practice.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
catching up
Readers who check this space with reasonable frequency will note the large gap between my last post and this. It is not that I have nothing to say. There are actually two posts sitting in the editing queue waiting for me to wrap them up and publish. As time creeps along, however, they seem less relevant.
One spent time detailing the second night of swing dancing class. It talked about my surprise at improvements made and how I was still enjoying it. It probably wasn't that interesting, except as an illustration of what I've been doing with my time. The other was about the approach of fall, and cooler weather. As the words were coming together, however, our days returned to hot and our nights to humid. It was nothing more than premature hopes manifest as prosaic wishing.
My vacation abroad is coming up, and I've gone from feeling comfortable that everything is congealing to anxiously piecing together the final details. I am stunned by the things left undone and regret I now feel in a rush to complete. Really, I just cannot wait to get there. I also feel busier than I have in a long time, which is perhaps another symptom (in my mind still molded to the scholastic concept of semesters) of the lazy days of summer giving way to the productive months of fall and winter. I'm juggling things I feel like I haven't juggled in a while, and there's always the concern that one will get dropped. It's not an issue if the fallen object is a ball, but an egg falling is another issue entirely. It's thrilling, like overcoming one's acrophobia to jump off a cliff's edge.
Today is "Talk Like a Pirate Day". Well, okay. Despite my other dramatic talents, I don't excel at assuming the pirate persona. In the space between anticipated television premieres last night, my friends and I found little to fill the time. Because of this, we found ourselves 'hooked' by a show where families are temporarily rearranged. In last night's instance, one family was immured within the stereotypical pirate life. While I'll admit they appeared to be a fun-loving people, it seemed mostly an excuse to ignore reality and responsibility. I was interested in this backstage portrait of life lived in character. I've been to things like Medieval Times or Scarborough Faire, festivals celebrating [an interpretation of] courtly culture. Watching these "pirates" onscreen, I was struck by the parallels to those whose profession is the depiction of knights and nobles, or portrayals of minstrels, smiths, and peasants. The two are virtually the same, with one land-locked and the other in eye-patches. I think the thing I find most interesting is the speck of history hidden underneath the layers of caricature and make-believe. It's also sociologically fascinating. What in one's nature or upbringing causes one to shift from the enjoyment of something for a few hours to embedding it in one's character? Why do certain traits of personality dim and others scintillate? Is it something that just happens, or is there intentionality?
We may never know.
One spent time detailing the second night of swing dancing class. It talked about my surprise at improvements made and how I was still enjoying it. It probably wasn't that interesting, except as an illustration of what I've been doing with my time. The other was about the approach of fall, and cooler weather. As the words were coming together, however, our days returned to hot and our nights to humid. It was nothing more than premature hopes manifest as prosaic wishing.
My vacation abroad is coming up, and I've gone from feeling comfortable that everything is congealing to anxiously piecing together the final details. I am stunned by the things left undone and regret I now feel in a rush to complete. Really, I just cannot wait to get there. I also feel busier than I have in a long time, which is perhaps another symptom (in my mind still molded to the scholastic concept of semesters) of the lazy days of summer giving way to the productive months of fall and winter. I'm juggling things I feel like I haven't juggled in a while, and there's always the concern that one will get dropped. It's not an issue if the fallen object is a ball, but an egg falling is another issue entirely. It's thrilling, like overcoming one's acrophobia to jump off a cliff's edge.
Today is "Talk Like a Pirate Day". Well, okay. Despite my other dramatic talents, I don't excel at assuming the pirate persona. In the space between anticipated television premieres last night, my friends and I found little to fill the time. Because of this, we found ourselves 'hooked' by a show where families are temporarily rearranged. In last night's instance, one family was immured within the stereotypical pirate life. While I'll admit they appeared to be a fun-loving people, it seemed mostly an excuse to ignore reality and responsibility. I was interested in this backstage portrait of life lived in character. I've been to things like Medieval Times or Scarborough Faire, festivals celebrating [an interpretation of] courtly culture. Watching these "pirates" onscreen, I was struck by the parallels to those whose profession is the depiction of knights and nobles, or portrayals of minstrels, smiths, and peasants. The two are virtually the same, with one land-locked and the other in eye-patches. I think the thing I find most interesting is the speck of history hidden underneath the layers of caricature and make-believe. It's also sociologically fascinating. What in one's nature or upbringing causes one to shift from the enjoyment of something for a few hours to embedding it in one's character? Why do certain traits of personality dim and others scintillate? Is it something that just happens, or is there intentionality?
We may never know.
Monday, September 11, 2006
burnt orange
The Bee Gees asked, "How can you mend a broken heart?" Waking from the daze that was Saturday night's OSU vs. Texas matchup, I'm asking the same question.
The hype could not have been larger. I watched as tailgaters arrived downtown on Wednesday afternoon. I witnessed the build through Friday evening, a crescendo of excitement. We talked about Texas strengths and Ohio weaknesses, about both the teams and the states. We read team analyses, predictions, statistics, opinions of various natures with zeal, not wanting to miss a word. While many colleges leave you with only four years, being a Longhorn is a life-long vocation. Supporting the team and traditions, the wearing of orange, and the enthusiastic shouts of Texas Fight! makes one aware that winning the day is not an individual effort, but is rather a culmination of energy and enthusiasm and community. It's this last that makes it so special. It is the community of which we are a part that is the most enduring, transcendent thing.
And I suppose therein lies the answer. My grandfather was a world-class checkers player, or at least this was my impression at ten. I would approach each game confident that my abilities were up to the task at hand, always thinking that this was my moment to win the board. Each time, the game would end in his favor. I don't think I ever came close to winning. After losing several games in a row, he lifted my sullen face and told me it was no shame to lose to a better player. Those words didn't help me then, and I'm not sure they're ever a good salve. However, there is a truth to it. We lost Saturday to a better player, to a team that was dominant, to a team considered best. We didn't play our best game, but there was tenacity and spirit and...community. How can there be shame in that?
I experienced the whole thing with my best friends, people with whom I've been blessed to share previous victories and the narrative of life. Paul gives this exhortation in Romans 12:15: "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn." Each one of us watched with a passion for our team, and we each hurt when the outcome was not favorable. Yet, we will watch with equal fervor next time, expecting that improvements made and lessons learned will help us win the day.
Hook 'Em Horns!
The hype could not have been larger. I watched as tailgaters arrived downtown on Wednesday afternoon. I witnessed the build through Friday evening, a crescendo of excitement. We talked about Texas strengths and Ohio weaknesses, about both the teams and the states. We read team analyses, predictions, statistics, opinions of various natures with zeal, not wanting to miss a word. While many colleges leave you with only four years, being a Longhorn is a life-long vocation. Supporting the team and traditions, the wearing of orange, and the enthusiastic shouts of Texas Fight! makes one aware that winning the day is not an individual effort, but is rather a culmination of energy and enthusiasm and community. It's this last that makes it so special. It is the community of which we are a part that is the most enduring, transcendent thing.
And I suppose therein lies the answer. My grandfather was a world-class checkers player, or at least this was my impression at ten. I would approach each game confident that my abilities were up to the task at hand, always thinking that this was my moment to win the board. Each time, the game would end in his favor. I don't think I ever came close to winning. After losing several games in a row, he lifted my sullen face and told me it was no shame to lose to a better player. Those words didn't help me then, and I'm not sure they're ever a good salve. However, there is a truth to it. We lost Saturday to a better player, to a team that was dominant, to a team considered best. We didn't play our best game, but there was tenacity and spirit and...community. How can there be shame in that?
I experienced the whole thing with my best friends, people with whom I've been blessed to share previous victories and the narrative of life. Paul gives this exhortation in Romans 12:15: "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn." Each one of us watched with a passion for our team, and we each hurt when the outcome was not favorable. Yet, we will watch with equal fervor next time, expecting that improvements made and lessons learned will help us win the day.
Hook 'Em Horns!
Thursday, September 07, 2006
swing
...or "how I learned to stop worrying and love the dance"
There was a shift in how I live my life Tuesday night as I began my first formal dance class. I am no stranger to dance lessons. A high school girlfriend took it upon herself to teach me the waltz and a basic two-step. I was an amenable pupil, if not necessarily enthusiastic. I have relied on that small bit of knowledge and my keen skills of observation to get to this point. It wasn't much of a leap to recognize the need for professional help.
My friend CJ (formerly referred to as A. on these pages), first proposed the idea back in July. Our group of friends has been frequenting a dance hall famous for its two-stepping tunes, and it was after one of these outings the idea of a more formal dance environment arose. I should be clear that I can take no credit for the germ of the idea. Swing seemed a fun complement and one of those things it might be cool to know. My immediate response was yes. Yes, as in it sounds like fun, and I just may go along if the idea holds for another few weeks. Yes, I'll think about it. Yes, let's see if you're serious enough to ask me again.
When I agreed, I did mean it. My only real reservation was the fact that there is a wealth of available partners far less frustrating and more fun than me. In truth, there are probably very few who are more fun than me, but sometimes it seems otherwise. We arrived at our class and found 22 others, evenly split guys and girls, who were eager to learn. A few minutes of wandering around, meeting a few new faces passed while we waited for the instructor. Once he arrived, he split us up into lines, guys on one side and girls on the other. The ubiquitous middle school dance image flashed through my mind. This is when I realized something that makes a tremendous amount of sense while thinking through the process, but at the time caused the first real instance of anxiety I had about the situation. We were not going to be dancing exclusively with our chosen partners, but rather would struggle with new steps, missteps, and incessant errors with total strangers. Something in my head exclaimed, "That's not in our comfort zone!". I ignored that something, and proceeded with the fun.
Once we'd covered the basic step, Madison was the first one with whom I tried out what we'd learned. A minute or two went by and we switched partners. Tasha was next, then Natalie, then Christine. A second or two to exchange names, then form up, then music, then dancing. In another two mintues, one was gone and another had come. In the interim was concentration, rhythm (or lack of it in my case), laughter, apology, instruction, encouragement, intensity, surprise, and movement.
In a couple weeks, we're supposed to take our new skills into the real world. I suppose, as with so many other things, this is where the real test lies. Regardless, this is out of the ordinary for me, and even though I didn't push for it, it is still a swing toward the "new" I've expressed in recent posts. I expect that there will be more of this to come, and I will try to keep you posted.
There was a shift in how I live my life Tuesday night as I began my first formal dance class. I am no stranger to dance lessons. A high school girlfriend took it upon herself to teach me the waltz and a basic two-step. I was an amenable pupil, if not necessarily enthusiastic. I have relied on that small bit of knowledge and my keen skills of observation to get to this point. It wasn't much of a leap to recognize the need for professional help.
My friend CJ (formerly referred to as A. on these pages), first proposed the idea back in July. Our group of friends has been frequenting a dance hall famous for its two-stepping tunes, and it was after one of these outings the idea of a more formal dance environment arose. I should be clear that I can take no credit for the germ of the idea. Swing seemed a fun complement and one of those things it might be cool to know. My immediate response was yes. Yes, as in it sounds like fun, and I just may go along if the idea holds for another few weeks. Yes, I'll think about it. Yes, let's see if you're serious enough to ask me again.
When I agreed, I did mean it. My only real reservation was the fact that there is a wealth of available partners far less frustrating and more fun than me. In truth, there are probably very few who are more fun than me, but sometimes it seems otherwise. We arrived at our class and found 22 others, evenly split guys and girls, who were eager to learn. A few minutes of wandering around, meeting a few new faces passed while we waited for the instructor. Once he arrived, he split us up into lines, guys on one side and girls on the other. The ubiquitous middle school dance image flashed through my mind. This is when I realized something that makes a tremendous amount of sense while thinking through the process, but at the time caused the first real instance of anxiety I had about the situation. We were not going to be dancing exclusively with our chosen partners, but rather would struggle with new steps, missteps, and incessant errors with total strangers. Something in my head exclaimed, "That's not in our comfort zone!". I ignored that something, and proceeded with the fun.
Once we'd covered the basic step, Madison was the first one with whom I tried out what we'd learned. A minute or two went by and we switched partners. Tasha was next, then Natalie, then Christine. A second or two to exchange names, then form up, then music, then dancing. In another two mintues, one was gone and another had come. In the interim was concentration, rhythm (or lack of it in my case), laughter, apology, instruction, encouragement, intensity, surprise, and movement.
In a couple weeks, we're supposed to take our new skills into the real world. I suppose, as with so many other things, this is where the real test lies. Regardless, this is out of the ordinary for me, and even though I didn't push for it, it is still a swing toward the "new" I've expressed in recent posts. I expect that there will be more of this to come, and I will try to keep you posted.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
seventh month
If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day. -E.B. White, writer (1899-1985)
I'm always a little reluctant when it comes time for the first post of the new month. We are several days now into September. Does it feel like September to you? I was thinking about a funny encounter between friends earlier today, and realized that it had taken place in March. Of 2005. Approximately 540 days have elapsed since that moment, and yet it doesn't seem that distant.
Time passes so quickly. It will get done tomorrow, I say. If I wait a day or two more before taking that risk or undertaking that project or making that decision, what will it matter? I will be that much more informed, and more ready. After all this time, one would think that I have learned that being ready for something isn't the most important thing, and often isn't even possible. Old habits are hard to kill, and I still don't like getting hurt. To delay the inevitable is a constant temptation. Some are at war with time from the moment of the first mature thought. So many battles lost, too few won.
Another holiday has faded to black, and a weekend that looked imposing or challenging from the front view appears delightful as I watch it recede. I am glad of the experience, nostalgic for the moments I would like to have held for just a little while longer. I should write more about this.
These words of E.B. White touch something in me, which is what compels me to share this quote. There is a struggle, especially in me, to discover whether it is best to take action or to allow the flow of the river to determine my course. The right answer is often in a grey zone, blurred by historical context and analytic reasoning. It can also be a chicken/egg thing. Which comes first, the improvement of the world or the enjoyment thereof?
Until recently, I was still working from a five-year plan (loosely defined) conceived during my final years of college. I had arranged some items as successors to one particular dependency, unattained to date. I'm thinking that what comes after will be arranged with a little more wisdom.
And I've set aside the last few months of this year for that purpose. Seeking, questioning, expressing doubts and fears; these have been life-long talents. Like a director calling to his actors, I seem to be saying, "I want it bigger, more pronounced. There should be more, more, more!" It's an exploration, perhaps even an adventure.
I'm always a little reluctant when it comes time for the first post of the new month. We are several days now into September. Does it feel like September to you? I was thinking about a funny encounter between friends earlier today, and realized that it had taken place in March. Of 2005. Approximately 540 days have elapsed since that moment, and yet it doesn't seem that distant.
Time passes so quickly. It will get done tomorrow, I say. If I wait a day or two more before taking that risk or undertaking that project or making that decision, what will it matter? I will be that much more informed, and more ready. After all this time, one would think that I have learned that being ready for something isn't the most important thing, and often isn't even possible. Old habits are hard to kill, and I still don't like getting hurt. To delay the inevitable is a constant temptation. Some are at war with time from the moment of the first mature thought. So many battles lost, too few won.
Another holiday has faded to black, and a weekend that looked imposing or challenging from the front view appears delightful as I watch it recede. I am glad of the experience, nostalgic for the moments I would like to have held for just a little while longer. I should write more about this.
These words of E.B. White touch something in me, which is what compels me to share this quote. There is a struggle, especially in me, to discover whether it is best to take action or to allow the flow of the river to determine my course. The right answer is often in a grey zone, blurred by historical context and analytic reasoning. It can also be a chicken/egg thing. Which comes first, the improvement of the world or the enjoyment thereof?
Until recently, I was still working from a five-year plan (loosely defined) conceived during my final years of college. I had arranged some items as successors to one particular dependency, unattained to date. I'm thinking that what comes after will be arranged with a little more wisdom.
And I've set aside the last few months of this year for that purpose. Seeking, questioning, expressing doubts and fears; these have been life-long talents. Like a director calling to his actors, I seem to be saying, "I want it bigger, more pronounced. There should be more, more, more!" It's an exploration, perhaps even an adventure.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
il pleut
Thunder roars overhead at the time of this writing. Peering out my window at the storm clouds this morning, I was struck by how unfamiliar they seemed. We have passed through many weeks of extreme heat, skies swept perpetually clear of obtrusive clouds. This morning brings change, a reprieve. I am thankful.
Students are returning to classes, and August is about to pass away. This has caused many to lament the passing of summer. Summer will remain a little while yet, but its days are numbered. I will wait patiently, and bid it adieu at the proper time.
And, when finally released from summer's grip, which held us like a prison inside our homes and offices allowing only for sweet moments by the pool, I will beckon to all to witness fall's entrance. We will camp and hike, stand out in the rain and let the cool drops kiss our foreheads.
It is a wonderful thought. I wonder if I'm alone in this feeling. The shift of seasons holds the portent of deeper change. It is a feeling surrounded by celebration and ritual preceding recorded human history. Yet, in this modern world, is this something that still touches the conscious mind? It touches mine. Perhaps it is the bequest of a thousand years of ancestral expectation, but I await change.
Students are returning to classes, and August is about to pass away. This has caused many to lament the passing of summer. Summer will remain a little while yet, but its days are numbered. I will wait patiently, and bid it adieu at the proper time.
And, when finally released from summer's grip, which held us like a prison inside our homes and offices allowing only for sweet moments by the pool, I will beckon to all to witness fall's entrance. We will camp and hike, stand out in the rain and let the cool drops kiss our foreheads.
It is a wonderful thought. I wonder if I'm alone in this feeling. The shift of seasons holds the portent of deeper change. It is a feeling surrounded by celebration and ritual preceding recorded human history. Yet, in this modern world, is this something that still touches the conscious mind? It touches mine. Perhaps it is the bequest of a thousand years of ancestral expectation, but I await change.
Monday, August 28, 2006
deferred
So many interesting things going on. I wish I was writing more about them. Time slips so easily away from me. A moment comes, is used, then wanders quietly away.
This will be a busy week. September is coming, and I hope with it cooler days.
This will be a busy week. September is coming, and I hope with it cooler days.
Monday, August 21, 2006
tumult
My mind is split into seventeen hundred pieces right now. I want to change an aspect of my life, but really have no sense about how to execute that change. My mind is spinning off questions at an accelerated rate, and many of them cannot be satisfactorily answered by my limited experience, especially in areas in which I am not confident in my intuition. This necessitates a third party, which is always a good idea when concepts are too personal to be considered objectively. But to whom should these questions be posed? With whom have I established trust that might also have authority, wisdom, and discernment?
I am weary of attempting discussion through the vagaries of abstract thought. The freedom of expression through concrete details and clear concept is something I greatly desire. Over the course of my life, I've attributed value to expressing personal information through a series of logical gates. A thought transferred through this process arrives stripped of personally identifiable information. My hope is that it retains sufficient information to be of analytical value in the outside world. It is not only that I don't want to expend effort in this instance, but much more so that it would destroy even the purpose for expression.
It is not lost on me that most would read this and say, "Out with it, man! Life is too short for such silliness." It is a stance against which I have increasingly little defense. Regardless, I seek a clear mind. Before my arrival in the harbor of restive thought, however, I must devise a course across an unknown sea. It is my hope that I will soon receive guidance not in the creation of this course, but for the method by which such can be developed.
I am weary of attempting discussion through the vagaries of abstract thought. The freedom of expression through concrete details and clear concept is something I greatly desire. Over the course of my life, I've attributed value to expressing personal information through a series of logical gates. A thought transferred through this process arrives stripped of personally identifiable information. My hope is that it retains sufficient information to be of analytical value in the outside world. It is not only that I don't want to expend effort in this instance, but much more so that it would destroy even the purpose for expression.
It is not lost on me that most would read this and say, "Out with it, man! Life is too short for such silliness." It is a stance against which I have increasingly little defense. Regardless, I seek a clear mind. Before my arrival in the harbor of restive thought, however, I must devise a course across an unknown sea. It is my hope that I will soon receive guidance not in the creation of this course, but for the method by which such can be developed.
hot water after all
I got in the shower Thursday morning, but the water never warmed up. It was refreshing, but slightly uncomfortable at the beginning. It has been oppressively hot of late, and I enjoy anything that is the opposite of that. Rather than thinking there was something wrong with the water heater, I simply assumed it was an inability on my part to correctly set the temperature at the faucet. I think the hot/cold indicator is inverted or is simply counter-intuitive. Either way, it is difficult (especially in the morning) to remember which way it should be set.
I switched to my other shower Friday morning, and was treated to a similar scenario. Warm water never flowed from the faucet. The valve was cranked all the way to the left, and turning it right only released colder water. Chilled, I continued and became resigned to the fact maintenance was required.
I was going to call this morning, and hope that the situation would be resolved before hot water was needed again. Before showering this morning, I turned on the sink faucet, almost on a whim as I didn't really expect the situation could correct itself. However, I was nearly scalded (as if by molten water) when I tested with my fingers.
It would seem I took cold showers over four days for no good reason, but I am thankful that I did not immediately make a maintenance request, as I would have appeared somewhat foolish. Another tick for the procrastination column.
I switched to my other shower Friday morning, and was treated to a similar scenario. Warm water never flowed from the faucet. The valve was cranked all the way to the left, and turning it right only released colder water. Chilled, I continued and became resigned to the fact maintenance was required.
I was going to call this morning, and hope that the situation would be resolved before hot water was needed again. Before showering this morning, I turned on the sink faucet, almost on a whim as I didn't really expect the situation could correct itself. However, I was nearly scalded (as if by molten water) when I tested with my fingers.
It would seem I took cold showers over four days for no good reason, but I am thankful that I did not immediately make a maintenance request, as I would have appeared somewhat foolish. Another tick for the procrastination column.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
trust me
When relaxing in Luckenbach with good friends, it's understandable that one's brain might misfire during intellectual recall. In Luckenbach, anything referred to as intellectual is generally met with a blank stare and a head quickly turned back to the guitar pickers.
Between duels of the melodion and washtub bass players, what can only be described as a cowboy poet took the floor. He entertained the crowd with stories of the West, work, and life experience set to verse. I quipped to a nearby friend that since the crowd so adored his poetic stylings, I should take the stage and recite a few lines of Donne. It was a fateful note of sarcasm. My friend did not know the name. I assured her she did and threw out a familiar line: "Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." The shadows of confusion were washed from her face by the sweeping light of understanding, and she confirmed recognition. In that instant, recognition burned in my mind like a thousand suns and I cringed before its brilliance. My dear reader will feel a measure of this humiliation, for you surely understand my error. John Donne never wrote that line.
In fact, the line is "And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee." It's a beautiful poem discussing the interconnectedness of life, how one man's actions can affect another man. This verse opens and serves as inspiration for Hemingway's classic For Whom the Bell Tolls, an amazing work with the Spanish Civil War as a backdrop.
I immediately attempted a correction, but believe it fell on deaf ears. It sounds similar anyway, right? Except it's not right, and I'm troubled by it. Admittedly, I am troubled less by perpetuating the corruption of Donne's line than I am about how the error reflects on others' perception of my intelligence. What if my friend, or another within earshot, has opportunity someday to recite this line to another? If this future audience recognizes the error and scoffs or in turn recites it again, I am responsible. I am reminded of a Biblical exhortation: "Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly." James 3:1
This reminds me of another incident, similar in nature. While dining with a group of friends, someone was describing a situation from high school and looking for a particular word to portray an individual's vituperative nature. I offered 'mollify', which was in a race to the vocal chords with 'vilify', the more appropriate term. I knew I was wrong then, but not quite so immediately as with this more recent incident, and I never made a correction. The great fear that at times awakens me in the middle of the night is that this individual continues to use the term 'mollify' in a completely inappropriate manner.
*sigh*
Between duels of the melodion and washtub bass players, what can only be described as a cowboy poet took the floor. He entertained the crowd with stories of the West, work, and life experience set to verse. I quipped to a nearby friend that since the crowd so adored his poetic stylings, I should take the stage and recite a few lines of Donne. It was a fateful note of sarcasm. My friend did not know the name. I assured her she did and threw out a familiar line: "Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." The shadows of confusion were washed from her face by the sweeping light of understanding, and she confirmed recognition. In that instant, recognition burned in my mind like a thousand suns and I cringed before its brilliance. My dear reader will feel a measure of this humiliation, for you surely understand my error. John Donne never wrote that line.
In fact, the line is "And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee." It's a beautiful poem discussing the interconnectedness of life, how one man's actions can affect another man. This verse opens and serves as inspiration for Hemingway's classic For Whom the Bell Tolls, an amazing work with the Spanish Civil War as a backdrop.
I immediately attempted a correction, but believe it fell on deaf ears. It sounds similar anyway, right? Except it's not right, and I'm troubled by it. Admittedly, I am troubled less by perpetuating the corruption of Donne's line than I am about how the error reflects on others' perception of my intelligence. What if my friend, or another within earshot, has opportunity someday to recite this line to another? If this future audience recognizes the error and scoffs or in turn recites it again, I am responsible. I am reminded of a Biblical exhortation: "Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly." James 3:1
This reminds me of another incident, similar in nature. While dining with a group of friends, someone was describing a situation from high school and looking for a particular word to portray an individual's vituperative nature. I offered 'mollify', which was in a race to the vocal chords with 'vilify', the more appropriate term. I knew I was wrong then, but not quite so immediately as with this more recent incident, and I never made a correction. The great fear that at times awakens me in the middle of the night is that this individual continues to use the term 'mollify' in a completely inappropriate manner.
*sigh*
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
tea epiphany
I just made a pot of hot water for tea. What an excellent idea! I probably won't have one this good for a few days.
Water by itself is not enough to calm a scratchy throat; once the sip is gone, any relief subsides. Hot tea does wonders. It soothes not only physical woes but also calms your mind. I feel much better.
Here's a volleyball email I sent in April 2004 that talks about tea:
Water by itself is not enough to calm a scratchy throat; once the sip is gone, any relief subsides. Hot tea does wonders. It soothes not only physical woes but also calms your mind. I feel much better.
Here's a volleyball email I sent in April 2004 that talks about tea:
Friends:
Most of you know that, ordinarily, I am a coffee-drinker; some might even say connoisseur. I expend much effort in preparing coffee when its purpose is more than to warm and invigorate: fresh and darkly roasted beans home ground to just the right grain and carefully measured; pure water; a dash of love. Yet, when I'm feeling ill or the day is dreary and cold, it is to a steaming cup of tea I turn. Specifically, the most soothing to me is Earl Grey with a little honey. Tea drinkers are special, you see, for they possess millennia old wisdom, and are aware that tea is more than a simple beverage. Many teas are imbued with properties, some esoteric and others known, that smooth the crashing waters of a stressed mind into a still clear pool of deep and productive thought and restore to the body its sense of purpose.
I'm sure most of you are thinking how like Volleyball tea is. It was my thought as well. At 7 tonight, we will drink deeply of this powerful elixir called Volleyball. Join us at Greystone, won't you? Bring a friend! Directions follow.
Most of you know that, ordinarily, I am a coffee-drinker; some might even say connoisseur. I expend much effort in preparing coffee when its purpose is more than to warm and invigorate: fresh and darkly roasted beans home ground to just the right grain and carefully measured; pure water; a dash of love. Yet, when I'm feeling ill or the day is dreary and cold, it is to a steaming cup of tea I turn. Specifically, the most soothing to me is Earl Grey with a little honey. Tea drinkers are special, you see, for they possess millennia old wisdom, and are aware that tea is more than a simple beverage. Many teas are imbued with properties, some esoteric and others known, that smooth the crashing waters of a stressed mind into a still clear pool of deep and productive thought and restore to the body its sense of purpose.
I'm sure most of you are thinking how like Volleyball tea is. It was my thought as well. At 7 tonight, we will drink deeply of this powerful elixir called Volleyball. Join us at Greystone, won't you? Bring a friend! Directions follow.
under the weather
Interesting phrase, isn't it? It can describe so many things; sickness, depression, injuries, on up to finding oneself under an actual cloud. What I especially love about phrases like this is that it inherently indicates that there are times when one isn't under the weather. When clouds crowd the sky and rain is pouring down (even metaphorically), we consider this 'weather'. Skies absent clouds filled with halcyon brilliance is not weather. It's a fallacy not necessarily of logic, but certainly of our collective idiom.
Regardless, I am sick. I'm not bedridden or in severe discomfort. It is really just mild discomfort manifested as a scratchy throat and the impending threat of sinus congestion. I haven't been ill in a while, but this round reminds me of how annoying it is. I can still go through my day and take care of standard activities, but there's a constant reminder that something isn't quite right. Fatigue settles in a little too easily and my patience erodes more quickly.
It's also hot; a phenomenon unusually common throughout the country this season. I don't like heat. I like to be cool, dry and comfortable. Cool, wet and comfortable are also okay, if you're in a pool or something. Heat tends to aggravate me, and exacerbates not feeling well.
That's enough complaining for now, I guess. I hope everyone is having a great day.
Regardless, I am sick. I'm not bedridden or in severe discomfort. It is really just mild discomfort manifested as a scratchy throat and the impending threat of sinus congestion. I haven't been ill in a while, but this round reminds me of how annoying it is. I can still go through my day and take care of standard activities, but there's a constant reminder that something isn't quite right. Fatigue settles in a little too easily and my patience erodes more quickly.
It's also hot; a phenomenon unusually common throughout the country this season. I don't like heat. I like to be cool, dry and comfortable. Cool, wet and comfortable are also okay, if you're in a pool or something. Heat tends to aggravate me, and exacerbates not feeling well.
That's enough complaining for now, I guess. I hope everyone is having a great day.
Friday, August 04, 2006
the entertainer
I've noticed a trend here. Granted the representative sample is relatively small, but I think it presents an interesting story.
It seems there is a inverse relationship with the length of an individual post to the number of comments made concerning it. This is neither a request for additional input nor an indication that I write expecting feedback. It is mostly an observation.
My ability at oratorical storytelling is not what I would like. At times I entertain myself with the fantasy that I'm one of those people around whom others gather with intense interest, expecting to be enthralled by tales of piquant humor and endure moments of deadly suspense. Sadly, in real life, I offer at best only a pale shade of those things. I leave out important detail, meander back and forth through chronological sequence, and draw from a somewhat shallow well of experience.
Yet, once upon a time, I was paid for my services as a storyteller. Ghost stories. For a Halloween party. Entertaining a group of ten-year-olds for two hours is a feather in my narrative cap I wear quite proudly. It should make no difference that I manufactured not one story, and merely studied a few ghost story books I found in the library.
You should never give up on your fantasies, as it might in an unexpected way enter reality, if only briefly.
It seems there is a inverse relationship with the length of an individual post to the number of comments made concerning it. This is neither a request for additional input nor an indication that I write expecting feedback. It is mostly an observation.
My ability at oratorical storytelling is not what I would like. At times I entertain myself with the fantasy that I'm one of those people around whom others gather with intense interest, expecting to be enthralled by tales of piquant humor and endure moments of deadly suspense. Sadly, in real life, I offer at best only a pale shade of those things. I leave out important detail, meander back and forth through chronological sequence, and draw from a somewhat shallow well of experience.
Yet, once upon a time, I was paid for my services as a storyteller. Ghost stories. For a Halloween party. Entertaining a group of ten-year-olds for two hours is a feather in my narrative cap I wear quite proudly. It should make no difference that I manufactured not one story, and merely studied a few ghost story books I found in the library.
You should never give up on your fantasies, as it might in an unexpected way enter reality, if only briefly.
Friday, July 28, 2006
one post begets another
I awoke in the pre-dawn hours uncomfortable. My neck was wet with perspiration against my pillow. The air was hot and stuffy, even though I could hear the air conditioner running. However, my ears noted a difference. A check of the thermostat confirmed my suspicions; the temperature was four degrees above normal. The air blowing out of the vent was warm, lacking the satisfying chill of a functioning A/C. The thought of going through the weekend in a hot apartment did not appeal to me, and I spent the remaining hours before departing for work doing various chores and contemplating where I might spend time should a lengthy repair be necessary.
How weak am I in this modern age that the thought of spending a day or two without comfortable climate control causes me to shudder?
I spent Tuesday night at the oldest continuously operating dance hall in Texas. Gruene Hall, located forty-five minutes south of Austin along the Guadalupe River, is a truly unique place. Rather than letting time pass it by, Gruene ignores that the passing of time exists at all. The dance hall has been there 130 years, and little has changed. The patrons are the same, though their clothes have changed. The music has changed, but not as much as we might think. Air conditioning hasn't been invented yet; only fans and a breeze crossing through the open windows offer relief from the heat, which is only noticeable once one leaves the dance floor. One is left to deal with it in the same way Texans have dealt with it all along: grab a cold beer and walk outside to pitch a horseshoe or two.
The great lesson is that it takes very little to fully enjoy life. Friends, good music, a spin around the dance floor...a beer. Such things have always been and will continue.
How weak am I in this modern age that the thought of spending a day or two without comfortable climate control causes me to shudder?
I spent Tuesday night at the oldest continuously operating dance hall in Texas. Gruene Hall, located forty-five minutes south of Austin along the Guadalupe River, is a truly unique place. Rather than letting time pass it by, Gruene ignores that the passing of time exists at all. The dance hall has been there 130 years, and little has changed. The patrons are the same, though their clothes have changed. The music has changed, but not as much as we might think. Air conditioning hasn't been invented yet; only fans and a breeze crossing through the open windows offer relief from the heat, which is only noticeable once one leaves the dance floor. One is left to deal with it in the same way Texans have dealt with it all along: grab a cold beer and walk outside to pitch a horseshoe or two.
The great lesson is that it takes very little to fully enjoy life. Friends, good music, a spin around the dance floor...a beer. Such things have always been and will continue.
Monday, July 24, 2006
good times
To a Texan, which is the bigger problem: more chips than queso OR more queso than chips? I'll admit this question is a bit tricky. Think about it; I'll reveal my response at the bottom of the post.
I write this following one of the best weekends ever. We got to celebrate S.'s birthday on Friday, spend some quality time at the lake on Saturday, spend some quality time at the pool, and spend some quality time with BBQ. And, I only had to put in eight hours at the office. I woke up yesterday morning, almost unable to move, such was the intensity of Saturday's swimming and volleyball playing.
I am blessed with incredible friends, who for reasons passing understanding choose to allow me in their presence. My friend A. made for me perhaps the best coffee of my life yesterday evening. Sure, it followed a satisfying meal of brisket and an afternoon of watersport, so there is an intrinsic psychological factor. However, this should not detract from the quality of the beverage itself, which had a rich, dark and deep flavor absent any trace of bitterness, infused with properties to soothe both body and soul. It was A.'s best effort to date, and a memory that is a bright star against a backdrop of faded constellations.
As a bonus, the work week began well. A co-worker, famous for her queso, brought in a batch to share. Nothing like starting off your Monday with some chips and queso. Which brings us back to the original question.
Neither is a problem. If you run out of queso, you go back to the salsa. If you run out of chips, it's time to break out the spoon.
I write this following one of the best weekends ever. We got to celebrate S.'s birthday on Friday, spend some quality time at the lake on Saturday, spend some quality time at the pool, and spend some quality time with BBQ. And, I only had to put in eight hours at the office. I woke up yesterday morning, almost unable to move, such was the intensity of Saturday's swimming and volleyball playing.
I am blessed with incredible friends, who for reasons passing understanding choose to allow me in their presence. My friend A. made for me perhaps the best coffee of my life yesterday evening. Sure, it followed a satisfying meal of brisket and an afternoon of watersport, so there is an intrinsic psychological factor. However, this should not detract from the quality of the beverage itself, which had a rich, dark and deep flavor absent any trace of bitterness, infused with properties to soothe both body and soul. It was A.'s best effort to date, and a memory that is a bright star against a backdrop of faded constellations.
As a bonus, the work week began well. A co-worker, famous for her queso, brought in a batch to share. Nothing like starting off your Monday with some chips and queso. Which brings us back to the original question.
Neither is a problem. If you run out of queso, you go back to the salsa. If you run out of chips, it's time to break out the spoon.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
a voice in the night
It's the middle of the night, I'm awake and alone. This is not an unprecedented event, for I've experienced this particular circumstance many times. This is the fifth draft of the first two sentences, rewritten to their present form to eliminate the potential misconception I write in metaphor.
The cause for my current nocturnal consciousness is a work project, requiring me to burn some "midnight oil" in the interest of our business. The precise reasons why this is necessary are buried in the particular politics of my office and a definite commitment to our customers. This is not readily understood by others in my field, nor often by me. I don't really mind it and at certain times (even this one), it caters to my primal nature. Still, it can be a pain.
There are certain drawbacks, and the one on which my mind now centers is the isolation I feel at this hour. This is not a despairing isolation, but it is admittedly lonely. I have to be up and alert so that I do not meet the challenges of my tasks with a dull mind, but there are long periods of down time to get through. In order to get through those and return to a task ready and able, I must find some way of occupying my mind. For example, I'm writing this entry. However, I'd rather be talking to someone, kept in company, and have a source of good cheer. It's quiet, for the world (that in immediate vicinity and only mostly) sleeps.
How interesting it would be to have a good friend in Asia, whom I could call and chat with when the hours become small.
There are times when one purposefully seeks isolation; times of meditation. Camping on a hilltop, early morning car trip departures, a midnight hike through a well-known wood. There is something especially oppressive, however, about recognizing isolation in an urban area. I live in an apartment; there are people above and below me, perhaps feet away through my wall. Yet, I know them no more than by their passing glance as we leave for work in the morning or are out of doors for some other reason. All these souls, with independent thoughts and desires, experiences, talents and skills, and unique personalities living in such close proximity without knowledge of one another. It is thus an extraordinarily poignant thing to be alone in the midst of so much life.
What is it about the day that deafens my desire to reach out, and about night that this desire is amplified? Would it be different were I not single? Perhaps. Regardless, such occasions as these will arise.
Fortunately, my night ends earlier than I anticipated. I am about ninety minutes ahead of schedule, and could have added about sixty to that had I been more attentive in a few areas. I hope this will be a great Saturday for you. As for me, there stand only a few hours sleep between now and the lake.
The cause for my current nocturnal consciousness is a work project, requiring me to burn some "midnight oil" in the interest of our business. The precise reasons why this is necessary are buried in the particular politics of my office and a definite commitment to our customers. This is not readily understood by others in my field, nor often by me. I don't really mind it and at certain times (even this one), it caters to my primal nature. Still, it can be a pain.
There are certain drawbacks, and the one on which my mind now centers is the isolation I feel at this hour. This is not a despairing isolation, but it is admittedly lonely. I have to be up and alert so that I do not meet the challenges of my tasks with a dull mind, but there are long periods of down time to get through. In order to get through those and return to a task ready and able, I must find some way of occupying my mind. For example, I'm writing this entry. However, I'd rather be talking to someone, kept in company, and have a source of good cheer. It's quiet, for the world (that in immediate vicinity and only mostly) sleeps.
How interesting it would be to have a good friend in Asia, whom I could call and chat with when the hours become small.
There are times when one purposefully seeks isolation; times of meditation. Camping on a hilltop, early morning car trip departures, a midnight hike through a well-known wood. There is something especially oppressive, however, about recognizing isolation in an urban area. I live in an apartment; there are people above and below me, perhaps feet away through my wall. Yet, I know them no more than by their passing glance as we leave for work in the morning or are out of doors for some other reason. All these souls, with independent thoughts and desires, experiences, talents and skills, and unique personalities living in such close proximity without knowledge of one another. It is thus an extraordinarily poignant thing to be alone in the midst of so much life.
What is it about the day that deafens my desire to reach out, and about night that this desire is amplified? Would it be different were I not single? Perhaps. Regardless, such occasions as these will arise.
Fortunately, my night ends earlier than I anticipated. I am about ninety minutes ahead of schedule, and could have added about sixty to that had I been more attentive in a few areas. I hope this will be a great Saturday for you. As for me, there stand only a few hours sleep between now and the lake.
Monday, July 17, 2006
linguistic hunger
Some people awake on Monday with a craving for coffee, an apple fritter, or perhaps a run through the park. More often this craving may be experienced as an intense desire to return to one's pillow, and on many occasions I have satisfied such a desire.
This morning, I awoke with a different craving: the German language. I realize this is not an oft expressed desire, and perhaps it occurs only rarely in the wild. German is on my mind a lot lately. Some time the previous weekend was spent in an impromptu German conversation with a friend as we prepared to dine at a German restaurant. I liberally use the word conversation, as I employed more listening than speaking skills. I studied German in high school under a wonderful and colorful instructor for whom I have great respect. In college, my official minor was German. Indeed, one of my college instructors attempted to persuade me to enroll in the German graduate program. It is therefore shameful that my facility with the language has atrophied.
Of course, the primary reason for my renewed fascination with the language is an upcoming fall trip to Germany. I suppose one would define the trip as a vacation, but I've been thinking of it more as a research expedition. This should not, however, obscure the enjoyment of it. I spent a good deal of time this weekend planning this trip and finalizing some details. There is still quite a bit to do, but I'm on the downhill slide. I've been reading guidebooks, searching internet sites, refreshing my history, and seeking out others with association to Germany.
An unfortunate casualty has been my knowledge of French, acquired from three semesters of college electives. Friday was Bastille Day, and I had been looking forward to the now annual French email exchange with my friend S. Both of us had busy schedules, so it was a short exchange. Because of that, it carried over to the next day and intensified when S. discovered an old French phrase book. I struggled to make a response, but could do little to communicate. My knowledge of French is shuttered away behind the Deutsch mode of my brain.
From what source could I begin to sate this Monday morning hunger for die große Sprache? I started out with news broadcasts, but then inspiration struck. Podcasts. There surely must be German podcasts. Indeed there are; it is an incredibly popular medium in Germany. I've found two very interesting series. Conversational, friendly German. I think this will do nicely.
Tchüß!
This morning, I awoke with a different craving: the German language. I realize this is not an oft expressed desire, and perhaps it occurs only rarely in the wild. German is on my mind a lot lately. Some time the previous weekend was spent in an impromptu German conversation with a friend as we prepared to dine at a German restaurant. I liberally use the word conversation, as I employed more listening than speaking skills. I studied German in high school under a wonderful and colorful instructor for whom I have great respect. In college, my official minor was German. Indeed, one of my college instructors attempted to persuade me to enroll in the German graduate program. It is therefore shameful that my facility with the language has atrophied.
Of course, the primary reason for my renewed fascination with the language is an upcoming fall trip to Germany. I suppose one would define the trip as a vacation, but I've been thinking of it more as a research expedition. This should not, however, obscure the enjoyment of it. I spent a good deal of time this weekend planning this trip and finalizing some details. There is still quite a bit to do, but I'm on the downhill slide. I've been reading guidebooks, searching internet sites, refreshing my history, and seeking out others with association to Germany.
An unfortunate casualty has been my knowledge of French, acquired from three semesters of college electives. Friday was Bastille Day, and I had been looking forward to the now annual French email exchange with my friend S. Both of us had busy schedules, so it was a short exchange. Because of that, it carried over to the next day and intensified when S. discovered an old French phrase book. I struggled to make a response, but could do little to communicate. My knowledge of French is shuttered away behind the Deutsch mode of my brain.
From what source could I begin to sate this Monday morning hunger for die große Sprache? I started out with news broadcasts, but then inspiration struck. Podcasts. There surely must be German podcasts. Indeed there are; it is an incredibly popular medium in Germany. I've found two very interesting series. Conversational, friendly German. I think this will do nicely.
Tchüß!
Friday, July 14, 2006
vendredi
Friday, and all the world has slowed to a crawl. I know not whether I am ready for the week to end or for the weekend to get underway. Regardless, the end of my workday approaches, and my smile broadens.
Although, according to a co-worker, if you get lost in the woods, all you have to do is go back to where you knew where you were. This is sage advice.
More of my day than I had planned has been spent talking to the above co-worker about her upcoming wedding. The wedding date was influenced by my trip to Germany, so I've already had significant input.
I just got an email letting me know that my place of employment is granting all staff a free pedometer. That's exciting!
Although, according to a co-worker, if you get lost in the woods, all you have to do is go back to where you knew where you were. This is sage advice.
More of my day than I had planned has been spent talking to the above co-worker about her upcoming wedding. The wedding date was influenced by my trip to Germany, so I've already had significant input.
I just got an email letting me know that my place of employment is granting all staff a free pedometer. That's exciting!
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
progress
I recently purchased a new bottle of chocolate syrup. As I took it out of the bag upon arriving home, I noticed the old nozzle had been replaced by a flip top lid. Initial testing reveals this is a marked improvement over the long standard pop-up spout with the separate lid, which would inevitably become lost or be layered with chocolate residue. While somewhat nostalgic over the "old way", I am eager to embrace progress here. Way to go, chocolate syrup bottle manufacturer!
Thursday, June 29, 2006
changes
I have enabled comments for the world at large. No longer are you required to blog to comment on this blog. I hope all five of my readers consider this good news.
insight
Good communication is as stimulating as black coffee, and just as hard to sleep after. -Anne Morrow Lindbergh
We live in a world of constant communication. Cell phones, blackberries, text messaging, pages, quick snatches of gossip at the office. It is ever-present, active, sometimes engaging, and draining. There are times when dealing with the trivial minutiae of life is easiest or best, but it also remains superficial.
And then there are times when we can really engage one another. I read an article recently discussing the Founding Fathers and lamenting the lack of this type of leadership and character in our present society. Where are the Washingtons, Franklins and Adams of our day? They occupied an unprecedented time, assuming the true inheritance of the Enlightenment. With voices sharpened by friction against the ideas of their peers, they proclaimed a new world from the hilltop of freedom. I know of a law professor who hosts gatherings at his home at which his students share wine and readings of the Federalist Papers. Seriously, doesn’t that sound like a good time?
I wonder if sometimes I live in a world where the two are confused, trivial conversation and interpersonal depth. To me, an engaging conversation is one in which personal passions are aroused. I defend my point and you defend yours, and we'll see whose argument carries the day. An outside observer might label this debate, and consider it impersonal. Our human mentality more often than not leaves us put off by those who differ with us, to a degree proportional to the extremity of argument. The employ of passion must be tempered by the calculations of a rational mind. This presents a slippery slope as one can err too far to either side; heated hostility against cold logic. Neither extreme allows one to derive joy from friendship.
As it turns out, I write about two types of “stimulating” conversation. Were we to only seek depth of argument, we would be deluded that any real friendship develops. Relationship is not built upon ideas, but rather on shared human experience. I do not wish to detract from the benefits of debate within a relationship; rather, I intend that there must first be a foundation of mutual understanding, compassion, and acceptance.
While my thoughts were largely spurred by the Lindbergh quote, I also subtly reference a conversation from Tuesday night in which I found depth of insight, disclosure, and greater understanding of the person across form whom I sat.
I simply do not have enough of that in my life. Removed from the academic setting, there are few opportunities for leisurely discussions concerning the philosophy of life, love, and the human condition. More than anything else, I long for deep discussion. And yet, this is only a sign of something more profound: the human need to know and be known.
Coffee and good friends both serve to abbreviate sleep. Although, only one can serve this function at the arrival of morning.
We live in a world of constant communication. Cell phones, blackberries, text messaging, pages, quick snatches of gossip at the office. It is ever-present, active, sometimes engaging, and draining. There are times when dealing with the trivial minutiae of life is easiest or best, but it also remains superficial.
And then there are times when we can really engage one another. I read an article recently discussing the Founding Fathers and lamenting the lack of this type of leadership and character in our present society. Where are the Washingtons, Franklins and Adams of our day? They occupied an unprecedented time, assuming the true inheritance of the Enlightenment. With voices sharpened by friction against the ideas of their peers, they proclaimed a new world from the hilltop of freedom. I know of a law professor who hosts gatherings at his home at which his students share wine and readings of the Federalist Papers. Seriously, doesn’t that sound like a good time?
I wonder if sometimes I live in a world where the two are confused, trivial conversation and interpersonal depth. To me, an engaging conversation is one in which personal passions are aroused. I defend my point and you defend yours, and we'll see whose argument carries the day. An outside observer might label this debate, and consider it impersonal. Our human mentality more often than not leaves us put off by those who differ with us, to a degree proportional to the extremity of argument. The employ of passion must be tempered by the calculations of a rational mind. This presents a slippery slope as one can err too far to either side; heated hostility against cold logic. Neither extreme allows one to derive joy from friendship.
As it turns out, I write about two types of “stimulating” conversation. Were we to only seek depth of argument, we would be deluded that any real friendship develops. Relationship is not built upon ideas, but rather on shared human experience. I do not wish to detract from the benefits of debate within a relationship; rather, I intend that there must first be a foundation of mutual understanding, compassion, and acceptance.
While my thoughts were largely spurred by the Lindbergh quote, I also subtly reference a conversation from Tuesday night in which I found depth of insight, disclosure, and greater understanding of the person across form whom I sat.
I simply do not have enough of that in my life. Removed from the academic setting, there are few opportunities for leisurely discussions concerning the philosophy of life, love, and the human condition. More than anything else, I long for deep discussion. And yet, this is only a sign of something more profound: the human need to know and be known.
Coffee and good friends both serve to abbreviate sleep. Although, only one can serve this function at the arrival of morning.
Monday, June 12, 2006
two miles from the car
This story begins with the purchase of a camera. No, check that. This story begins with planning a trip to Germany. Or does it begin with taking German in high school? Let's start with Germany.
I'm planning a trip to Germany for the fall. I'm excited about it, and reticent, because I've never been to Europe. In order to capture everything, I knew I needed a new camera. I wanted to buy it well in advance of my trip so that I wasn't frustrated with learning to operate it once there. I see an incredible example of fourteenth century architecture, then later try to recreate the image in my mind because what I see coming out of my camera is only a blurred underexposed mess.
Even the appellation of 'amateur' does not apply to my photographic skills. I am at most a photophile. I cannot just sit back and allow some programmer or engineer choose the best aperture, shutter, and exposure settings for my expeditions from some office in the northeast. No, I want control of those things myself. That's where the creativity comes in. A tweak to the light there, an intentional blur to the edges with center in sharp focus, purposefully underexposing to trick the eye into studying shadows. There is technical detail, familiarity, and a "sense" that are required to create a photograph. There is a difference between making and creating.
I set out with my friend H., who has been known to take a decent photo or two, and we trekked into the wilderness for some camera fun. It's really a city park with a comfortable isolation from the urban area surrounding it. After snapping pictures for about forty-five minutes, we found ourselves at the end to the trail and standing by a highway. Twilight was coming up, but there was still some good light for a few patches of wildflowers. Another fifty yards away were train tracks, which was an opportunity I couldn't miss. A few captures later, I was set to head back and see what else we might have missed along the creek. H. proceeded along the tracks, with an intention of taking the long way around. I wondered at the wisdom, but had nowhere else to be. Also, I had never walked along tracks like this before. As we walked along commenting on the railroad ties, I had the feeling we were in our own version of "Stand By Me."
Eventually, we came to a road...and the need for a decision. Which way to the car? Light was rapidly fading, and the appeal of retracing our steps back along the tracks and through the darkened park was fading with it. We opted to press forward through the neighborhood. Fifteen minutes later, we began to express to one another our concerns that the difficulty of finding the car in an unfamiliar neighborhood with no real idea of where we were in relation to it might be daunting. We pressed on.
Eventually, we discovered a familiar detail, a street sign with a name that we had seen before. Then another and another after. Confidence building, our anxiety about wondering the streets of north Austin throughout the night waned. We began to see the humor of two guys out for an evening stroll with three cameras, at least two of which appeared professional. A few turns later, we arrived back at the car. Was it only two hours since we'd last seen it and struck out across the open field?
A later examination within Google Earth revealed we were less than a quarter mile from the car (though probably not an accessible line) when we struck out along the tracks. In total, it was a two and a half mile hike back around.
Once back home, I downloaded everything I had taken to my computer for closer inspection. The real lesson is that I have much to learn. Of course, with adventures like this, there should be plenty of opportunity.
I'm planning a trip to Germany for the fall. I'm excited about it, and reticent, because I've never been to Europe. In order to capture everything, I knew I needed a new camera. I wanted to buy it well in advance of my trip so that I wasn't frustrated with learning to operate it once there. I see an incredible example of fourteenth century architecture, then later try to recreate the image in my mind because what I see coming out of my camera is only a blurred underexposed mess.
Even the appellation of 'amateur' does not apply to my photographic skills. I am at most a photophile. I cannot just sit back and allow some programmer or engineer choose the best aperture, shutter, and exposure settings for my expeditions from some office in the northeast. No, I want control of those things myself. That's where the creativity comes in. A tweak to the light there, an intentional blur to the edges with center in sharp focus, purposefully underexposing to trick the eye into studying shadows. There is technical detail, familiarity, and a "sense" that are required to create a photograph. There is a difference between making and creating.
I set out with my friend H., who has been known to take a decent photo or two, and we trekked into the wilderness for some camera fun. It's really a city park with a comfortable isolation from the urban area surrounding it. After snapping pictures for about forty-five minutes, we found ourselves at the end to the trail and standing by a highway. Twilight was coming up, but there was still some good light for a few patches of wildflowers. Another fifty yards away were train tracks, which was an opportunity I couldn't miss. A few captures later, I was set to head back and see what else we might have missed along the creek. H. proceeded along the tracks, with an intention of taking the long way around. I wondered at the wisdom, but had nowhere else to be. Also, I had never walked along tracks like this before. As we walked along commenting on the railroad ties, I had the feeling we were in our own version of "Stand By Me."
Eventually, we came to a road...and the need for a decision. Which way to the car? Light was rapidly fading, and the appeal of retracing our steps back along the tracks and through the darkened park was fading with it. We opted to press forward through the neighborhood. Fifteen minutes later, we began to express to one another our concerns that the difficulty of finding the car in an unfamiliar neighborhood with no real idea of where we were in relation to it might be daunting. We pressed on.
Eventually, we discovered a familiar detail, a street sign with a name that we had seen before. Then another and another after. Confidence building, our anxiety about wondering the streets of north Austin throughout the night waned. We began to see the humor of two guys out for an evening stroll with three cameras, at least two of which appeared professional. A few turns later, we arrived back at the car. Was it only two hours since we'd last seen it and struck out across the open field?
A later examination within Google Earth revealed we were less than a quarter mile from the car (though probably not an accessible line) when we struck out along the tracks. In total, it was a two and a half mile hike back around.
Once back home, I downloaded everything I had taken to my computer for closer inspection. The real lesson is that I have much to learn. Of course, with adventures like this, there should be plenty of opportunity.
input
It's likely most things I say here aren't true of everyone, and this is probably one. That's the joy of being unique.
I love to type. This has nothing to do with writing or putting thoughts in any form on paper. Whenever my fingertips come to rest on the keyboard, it's like a homecoming. This is where they live, and where they feel most comfortable. It is a sense of peace for me. I think there might be something about the opportunity to be creative or productive, but there is a more primal nuance than that. It is tactile. It requires coordination and benefits from practice.
On occasion, I will set aside a few minutes to copy a page of text. There are several chapters of books saved to my hard drive for no other reason than the joy of typing one by one the letters of which they are comprised. I find it hard to pass keyboards on display in the store without typing something on them. It doesn't matter that they're not plugged into anything.
Typing is fun. Period.
I love to type. This has nothing to do with writing or putting thoughts in any form on paper. Whenever my fingertips come to rest on the keyboard, it's like a homecoming. This is where they live, and where they feel most comfortable. It is a sense of peace for me. I think there might be something about the opportunity to be creative or productive, but there is a more primal nuance than that. It is tactile. It requires coordination and benefits from practice.
On occasion, I will set aside a few minutes to copy a page of text. There are several chapters of books saved to my hard drive for no other reason than the joy of typing one by one the letters of which they are comprised. I find it hard to pass keyboards on display in the store without typing something on them. It doesn't matter that they're not plugged into anything.
Typing is fun. Period.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
questions coalesce
I ran into an old friend and mentor a couple weeks ago. He has knowledge of me of which I am wary. Most of it is from a third party and colored with plenty of perceptual errors, but it is knowledge nonetheless. I wonder if that makes sense to you. While I understand that inequity in relationships is more often the rule than the exception, I still see the growth of relationship in the economics of give and take. I know a little about you, and then you get to know a little about me. This cycle continues until one becomes comfortable with the understanding of another person. Some navigate with great speed, others favor a reduced pace. In this situation, the scales list in his favor.
This is why I refer to him as a mentor, and why I am wary. After several years in a much different vocation, he now is a professor at a good school. In our infrequent meetings over the past two years, he has spoken of how much he loves it. He always adds how much I would love it. I approached and greeted him warmly this day, excited to see him and hear about life and his family. Despite my desire to hear these things, I had someplace to be. So, I interrupted a conversation to deliver my greeting. He greeted me with joy, and immediately posed a question which disturbed me at the core.
"Have you made plans for graduate school yet?"
"Um, no."
"Are you still working at the same place?"
"Yes, I am."
"Do you enjoy it?"
Without realizing what I'm going to say, I reply "no."
"It was good to see you"
"Good to see you, too" I manage to say. I imagine the shock I felt was visible.
Such a short exchange. He turned back to his conversation and I left to go to lunch. His question sits in my mind like a large, inconveniently placed rock. If necessary, I can go around it, but it takes effort. I know it’s there. Especially telling is my negative response when asked about my job. The past year (or more) has been a series of stressful events and unexpected changes. Work has induced headaches, doubt, depression, frustration, and indifference. It has also again and again tested my capabilities. Each time I’ve been able to stare an issue down and declare that I am capable. There is fun in my work in that it affords opportunities to learn and expand my skills. Yet, I am sometimes reminded I was never supposed to go into technology. I studied history, and I sense a calling to share that with others.
Why have I not returned to school? I have many reasons. I make more money now than I would as a grad student. While I was originally convinced that I should teach and write history, I wonder now if that is the best discipline for my talent. I don’t know that my parents are supportive. I think my mother is more interested that I find a wife than another degree for the wall. I am single. I don’t know whether this is a silly reason. Most people in the scope of my experience have pursued the upper echelons of education without the burden of social unknowns. I don’t want to leave Austin, which would be a likely consequence. On one level some of these compel consideration; on another level, they represent empty excuses.
I described to a friend several nights ago my sense that I had somehow betrayed the cause. Since halting my progression in academia, I have in some way sold out. She was dubious. There are many things to ponder, and I acknowledge concerns in this world that far outweigh whether I will in the future teach. There are several things in the shorter term that may factor into any decision. It is still awesome that someone has the ability to be so incisive with so few words.
This is why I refer to him as a mentor, and why I am wary. After several years in a much different vocation, he now is a professor at a good school. In our infrequent meetings over the past two years, he has spoken of how much he loves it. He always adds how much I would love it. I approached and greeted him warmly this day, excited to see him and hear about life and his family. Despite my desire to hear these things, I had someplace to be. So, I interrupted a conversation to deliver my greeting. He greeted me with joy, and immediately posed a question which disturbed me at the core.
"Have you made plans for graduate school yet?"
"Um, no."
"Are you still working at the same place?"
"Yes, I am."
"Do you enjoy it?"
Without realizing what I'm going to say, I reply "no."
"It was good to see you"
"Good to see you, too" I manage to say. I imagine the shock I felt was visible.
Such a short exchange. He turned back to his conversation and I left to go to lunch. His question sits in my mind like a large, inconveniently placed rock. If necessary, I can go around it, but it takes effort. I know it’s there. Especially telling is my negative response when asked about my job. The past year (or more) has been a series of stressful events and unexpected changes. Work has induced headaches, doubt, depression, frustration, and indifference. It has also again and again tested my capabilities. Each time I’ve been able to stare an issue down and declare that I am capable. There is fun in my work in that it affords opportunities to learn and expand my skills. Yet, I am sometimes reminded I was never supposed to go into technology. I studied history, and I sense a calling to share that with others.
Why have I not returned to school? I have many reasons. I make more money now than I would as a grad student. While I was originally convinced that I should teach and write history, I wonder now if that is the best discipline for my talent. I don’t know that my parents are supportive. I think my mother is more interested that I find a wife than another degree for the wall. I am single. I don’t know whether this is a silly reason. Most people in the scope of my experience have pursued the upper echelons of education without the burden of social unknowns. I don’t want to leave Austin, which would be a likely consequence. On one level some of these compel consideration; on another level, they represent empty excuses.
I described to a friend several nights ago my sense that I had somehow betrayed the cause. Since halting my progression in academia, I have in some way sold out. She was dubious. There are many things to ponder, and I acknowledge concerns in this world that far outweigh whether I will in the future teach. There are several things in the shorter term that may factor into any decision. It is still awesome that someone has the ability to be so incisive with so few words.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
lessons learned
An unprotected egg (or more) dropped from a height exceeding four feet will not balance. It will break. I did once drop an egg out of a helicopter from a distance greater than fifty feet and it did not break. However, there were several layers of insulation and materials designed to absorb impact. Taken fresh from the refrigerator, it stands little chance. Listen to me; I learned this the hard way.
Despite what your mother might have told you, it is fun to play in the pool. Cool water, a hot grill, good friends and brilliant sunlight can comprise the pinnacle of good times. It is my belief that life is expanded by such activities. Pool days not only enrich life, but also append time. Perception may be altered by the fact that most pool days occur during the summer.
Misplace control. Hide it underneath a sofa cushion, bury it in a sock drawer, place it on that shelf in the kitchen only your tallest friends can reach, or nestle it between the peaches and the vegetable medley in the back of your freezer. Put it away from your person. Studies indicate again and again that attempting to control a situation over which you have little to no influence (traffic, gas prices, politics, etc) will decrease the pleasure available in life. Are you agitated by tardiness, your own or someone else's? Ride whenever possible with someone for whom punctuality is an archaic concept, utilize public transportation, or both.
You are a unique person. You are the product of two other unique people. They are the product...point made. What gain is there in comparing yourself or your situation to others? This is also about misplacing control. Celebrate your differences, assume they will be appreciated. Joy cannot flow through a dam constructed of envy. This is not something I've learned so much as it is an acknowledged truth I'm trying to learn.
Despite what your mother might have told you, it is fun to play in the pool. Cool water, a hot grill, good friends and brilliant sunlight can comprise the pinnacle of good times. It is my belief that life is expanded by such activities. Pool days not only enrich life, but also append time. Perception may be altered by the fact that most pool days occur during the summer.
Misplace control. Hide it underneath a sofa cushion, bury it in a sock drawer, place it on that shelf in the kitchen only your tallest friends can reach, or nestle it between the peaches and the vegetable medley in the back of your freezer. Put it away from your person. Studies indicate again and again that attempting to control a situation over which you have little to no influence (traffic, gas prices, politics, etc) will decrease the pleasure available in life. Are you agitated by tardiness, your own or someone else's? Ride whenever possible with someone for whom punctuality is an archaic concept, utilize public transportation, or both.
You are a unique person. You are the product of two other unique people. They are the product...point made. What gain is there in comparing yourself or your situation to others? This is also about misplacing control. Celebrate your differences, assume they will be appreciated. Joy cannot flow through a dam constructed of envy. This is not something I've learned so much as it is an acknowledged truth I'm trying to learn.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
a grinding halt
It happened this morning. The radio was blaring that agonizing morning show with the people I hate, and I began the recovery from a restless night of sleep. I stumbled into the kitchen and began to prepare some coffee. I felt lousy, but I hoped that putting something strong, black, hot and wet into a cup would help wake me up. The beans were already out, sumatra this round, so I picked up the grinder and it sprang to life. You gave this to me how long ago now? I think it was Christmas of 1996. Yes, that's right. It was after the summer of frozen cappuccinos. I gave you that amethyst ring, and you gave me a shiny black coffee grinder. It surprises me that it has been that long.
The grinding done, I flipped the machine to prepare the contents for dumping into the basket. There was a fresh aroma hanging all around me, and my senses rejoiced. Then, something slipped and tragedy was at hand. Tumbling through my groping fingers, letting gravity take hold, and then the blurring of time and space. Do you remember when I told you about watching that plane crash? The slow stop-motion, the expectation that any moment fate might look the other way, a scene seared into memory. One moment of hoping you'll catch hold, another moment of recognizing a lost cause, and then it's over. The grinder hit the floor, the lid sprang off, and freshly ground coffee sprayed across the kitchen floor, even onto the carpet. It was so frustrating, but I didn't realize the scope of the incident. I picked up the machine and lid, and noticed the huge chunk missing from the top. The machine still works, but not if you want to keep its contents contained.
I swept, vacuumed, put all back in its place. I miss it already. I never used it as much as I should, leaving it for long stretches of time in the cabinet or a packing box after a move. Yet, it was always there. Such a small thing, I suppose, but the effect of it rippled through my day. Thank you again for giving it to me. I have replaced it now, but I will always remember my first coffee grinder.
The grinding done, I flipped the machine to prepare the contents for dumping into the basket. There was a fresh aroma hanging all around me, and my senses rejoiced. Then, something slipped and tragedy was at hand. Tumbling through my groping fingers, letting gravity take hold, and then the blurring of time and space. Do you remember when I told you about watching that plane crash? The slow stop-motion, the expectation that any moment fate might look the other way, a scene seared into memory. One moment of hoping you'll catch hold, another moment of recognizing a lost cause, and then it's over. The grinder hit the floor, the lid sprang off, and freshly ground coffee sprayed across the kitchen floor, even onto the carpet. It was so frustrating, but I didn't realize the scope of the incident. I picked up the machine and lid, and noticed the huge chunk missing from the top. The machine still works, but not if you want to keep its contents contained.
I swept, vacuumed, put all back in its place. I miss it already. I never used it as much as I should, leaving it for long stretches of time in the cabinet or a packing box after a move. Yet, it was always there. Such a small thing, I suppose, but the effect of it rippled through my day. Thank you again for giving it to me. I have replaced it now, but I will always remember my first coffee grinder.
Friday, May 05, 2006
cinco de mayo
If I have one weakness... Hmmm, scratch that. I have several weaknesses; among them, well-designed cars, a pretty smile, bbq, days at the lake, eloquent prose, plus others. In some of these I am weaker than others.
Omitted from the list above is chocolate. Chocolate and I have a special relationship, but I am limited in my love for this treat. You may take your milk chocolates and dispose of them at will; they have little appeal to me. They are scarcely more than some cocoa mixed in with a lot of sugar, the diet-Sprite of the chocolate world. The ancient peoples of central America discovered chocolate, and consumed it usually in the form of a spicy beverage. However, this unusual treat was limited to the royal house; it was not something for the common people. It was dark, rich, and mysterious. During the explorations of the sixteenth century, Europeans discovered chocolate and began the long evolution to create the refined product we find today.
Why this historical discussion of chocolate? I opened the drawer to my desk this morning to withdraw a pen, and made a tantalizing discovery. The drawer was overflowing with dark chocolate, a co-worker's gift. A blessed and happy Friday.
Omitted from the list above is chocolate. Chocolate and I have a special relationship, but I am limited in my love for this treat. You may take your milk chocolates and dispose of them at will; they have little appeal to me. They are scarcely more than some cocoa mixed in with a lot of sugar, the diet-Sprite of the chocolate world. The ancient peoples of central America discovered chocolate, and consumed it usually in the form of a spicy beverage. However, this unusual treat was limited to the royal house; it was not something for the common people. It was dark, rich, and mysterious. During the explorations of the sixteenth century, Europeans discovered chocolate and began the long evolution to create the refined product we find today.
Why this historical discussion of chocolate? I opened the drawer to my desk this morning to withdraw a pen, and made a tantalizing discovery. The drawer was overflowing with dark chocolate, a co-worker's gift. A blessed and happy Friday.
Monday, May 01, 2006
composure
Last summer, I was aware of blogs. I had an intellectual marker defining the scope of blogging, its purpose, and the type of people who pursue the activity. I took a snapshot of the situation, made a few judgments, and rolled that into my personal database under the heading of what it must mean to blog. Then, last fall, I began to read two blogs seriously. I'm tempted to link you to them; one taught me a lot about what can be done with a blog, the other a lot about what shouldn't be done (by example). Yet, I am reticent to reveal because it could provide too much a glimpse into my interests. It would allow you information to interpret I don’t want you to have. Besides, blogging is about controlling the flow of information.
That last sentence is wrong, but since I’ve slipped into blogiography (blogging about blogging), I’ll move on. Ultimately, I’d read enough of others’ creations, I knew I had to try my hand, and here I am. I’ve been humbled by the experience.
When you’re writing for an audience (even just two or three people), you become conscious of what you’re saying. For those who pour out unfiltered access to their actions and thoughts to the world, I ask you to stop. It will come back to you; a quick read through the daily news reveals the internet isn’t as anonymous as it used to be. The temptation to use it as a mask is very real, and it is a temptation that has found a home in various media for a long time.
The art of rhetoric, so woefully maligned these days, allows one to tailor a message so that it fits the precise impression intended. In life, I do this all the time and it precipitates episodes like that seen in my last post. The bottom line is that I want to provide enough of myself here to be real (acknowledging that I know many who will read), and yet not cross over into excessive disclosure. Some of you will read that and laugh. I guess the question I’m asking is what if I don’t fall between those boundaries all the time.
What if? This is too dangerous a question, and it comes up in my mind again and again. Too much of my life is driven by fear. Fear that I’ll fail to meet expectations, fear that I’ll never achieve goals, fear that certain desires will never be satisfied, etc.
There are good people in my life, even if they don’t know me. I am touched almost daily by these people. I wish I was better at taking note of that.
That last sentence is wrong, but since I’ve slipped into blogiography (blogging about blogging), I’ll move on. Ultimately, I’d read enough of others’ creations, I knew I had to try my hand, and here I am. I’ve been humbled by the experience.
When you’re writing for an audience (even just two or three people), you become conscious of what you’re saying. For those who pour out unfiltered access to their actions and thoughts to the world, I ask you to stop. It will come back to you; a quick read through the daily news reveals the internet isn’t as anonymous as it used to be. The temptation to use it as a mask is very real, and it is a temptation that has found a home in various media for a long time.
The art of rhetoric, so woefully maligned these days, allows one to tailor a message so that it fits the precise impression intended. In life, I do this all the time and it precipitates episodes like that seen in my last post. The bottom line is that I want to provide enough of myself here to be real (acknowledging that I know many who will read), and yet not cross over into excessive disclosure. Some of you will read that and laugh. I guess the question I’m asking is what if I don’t fall between those boundaries all the time.
What if? This is too dangerous a question, and it comes up in my mind again and again. Too much of my life is driven by fear. Fear that I’ll fail to meet expectations, fear that I’ll never achieve goals, fear that certain desires will never be satisfied, etc.
There are good people in my life, even if they don’t know me. I am touched almost daily by these people. I wish I was better at taking note of that.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
burdens
I’ve been trying to figure out life. I know it’s a subject not often studied, or perhaps when studied, easily dismissed. I’ve failed to make much progress in recent weeks. I keep running into ways I don’t measure up against the standards of others. It’s one thing to disappoint oneself. We tend to forgive ourselves more easily than others for mistakes made. So, when we’ve failed to live up to a standard that has been set, either personally or by an outside entity, we engage our wills to transcend the error, learn from it if possible, and continue.
Relationships are enigmatic things. I’m not talking simply about birds and bees stuff here, but about acquaintances and friends, about associates and the people we like to hang with on the weekend. Navigating the murky waters of romantic involvement could be described as an advanced course. I’ve long been troubled by how easily such charts are read by others. Most people I know feel natural at the helm and plot courses with ease relative to my abilities. Yet, I maintain that I’m a good read of people. Analysis and observation are not the same as application, I guess.
I’ve been transcending personal error and moving on from disappointments for as long as I can remember. This I know to be life. Death comes in small pieces whenever I sense others’ disappointment in me. This has either been more frequent or more apparent to me lately.
When people first meet me, there are a few possible impressions. I study history, politics, literature, language, and technology. I have strong opinions. There is a wide range of topics in which I am knowledgeable. All of this together may make me seem interesting. All of this together may give you the impression that I would be a good conversationalist. I do what I can when I see need (and it doesn’t cause me to sacrifice too much and I consider the subject to whom help is offered to be worthy enough). I take on projects others might overlook or think themselves incapable of fulfilling. I will serve in any way I can. All of that might give the impression that I am selfless. All of that might give the impression that I’m dependable.
Unfortunately, enough experience with me reveals that I am boring, awkward in conversation, withdrawn, and selfish. Someday, it will even become obvious that I am terribly cold at times.
It seems that my more recent friends are entering this stage of discovery. This morning, I noted that while commenting on something, no one was listening. Of course, the words flowing from my mouth were hardly worth hearing. And I wonder if that’s not an issue. Are my words empty air, a burden to others who wish I would just be quiet? Have I placed upon them the burden of languishing under one boring commentary only to follow it up with extravagant nonsense? I hope not, with all my heart. What happened to that spark in your eye? Did it fall away when you realized I was an imposter in that area, too?
There are a number of relationships in my life right now in which I experience immense reward. There is joy and laughter and a serious talk or two, and such things come with random frequency. However, I long for the sustained nourishment of deep friendship, where there are no masks and stifling restrictions disappear. I had hoped I was on my way to that, but lost the path some miles back. It’s been a long time.
Relationships are enigmatic things. I’m not talking simply about birds and bees stuff here, but about acquaintances and friends, about associates and the people we like to hang with on the weekend. Navigating the murky waters of romantic involvement could be described as an advanced course. I’ve long been troubled by how easily such charts are read by others. Most people I know feel natural at the helm and plot courses with ease relative to my abilities. Yet, I maintain that I’m a good read of people. Analysis and observation are not the same as application, I guess.
I’ve been transcending personal error and moving on from disappointments for as long as I can remember. This I know to be life. Death comes in small pieces whenever I sense others’ disappointment in me. This has either been more frequent or more apparent to me lately.
When people first meet me, there are a few possible impressions. I study history, politics, literature, language, and technology. I have strong opinions. There is a wide range of topics in which I am knowledgeable. All of this together may make me seem interesting. All of this together may give you the impression that I would be a good conversationalist. I do what I can when I see need (and it doesn’t cause me to sacrifice too much and I consider the subject to whom help is offered to be worthy enough). I take on projects others might overlook or think themselves incapable of fulfilling. I will serve in any way I can. All of that might give the impression that I am selfless. All of that might give the impression that I’m dependable.
Unfortunately, enough experience with me reveals that I am boring, awkward in conversation, withdrawn, and selfish. Someday, it will even become obvious that I am terribly cold at times.
It seems that my more recent friends are entering this stage of discovery. This morning, I noted that while commenting on something, no one was listening. Of course, the words flowing from my mouth were hardly worth hearing. And I wonder if that’s not an issue. Are my words empty air, a burden to others who wish I would just be quiet? Have I placed upon them the burden of languishing under one boring commentary only to follow it up with extravagant nonsense? I hope not, with all my heart. What happened to that spark in your eye? Did it fall away when you realized I was an imposter in that area, too?
There are a number of relationships in my life right now in which I experience immense reward. There is joy and laughter and a serious talk or two, and such things come with random frequency. However, I long for the sustained nourishment of deep friendship, where there are no masks and stifling restrictions disappear. I had hoped I was on my way to that, but lost the path some miles back. It’s been a long time.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
memory
There is almost nothing so mysterious as the connections made in the human brain. A smell, or the way a shadow drapes across a certain landmark, a particular note in someone's voice.
There is one memory trigger that is a constant for me. Within the first few notes of George Strait's song "Easy Come, Easy Go", I am immediately sitting in my high school cafeteria in 1993. I don't mean that there's a recollection of being there. I mean there is a sharp disconnect from the present, and full immersion in that experience. It is September or early October of my freshman year. I know this because of the way the light falls outside the windows and the way that I don't yet have many friends. I know it because I still have that lost feeling inside, a cautious search to discover all the new challenges, experiences, and fears that await.
I also associate the song with a girl I barely knew. She was pretty, but I didn't particularly notice her. I don't know that we talked more than a few times; we just knew who the other was. Also, my best friend at the time was terribly infatuated with her. Otherwise, I don't really know the reason she comes up in my memory.
Isn't that strange?
There is one memory trigger that is a constant for me. Within the first few notes of George Strait's song "Easy Come, Easy Go", I am immediately sitting in my high school cafeteria in 1993. I don't mean that there's a recollection of being there. I mean there is a sharp disconnect from the present, and full immersion in that experience. It is September or early October of my freshman year. I know this because of the way the light falls outside the windows and the way that I don't yet have many friends. I know it because I still have that lost feeling inside, a cautious search to discover all the new challenges, experiences, and fears that await.
I also associate the song with a girl I barely knew. She was pretty, but I didn't particularly notice her. I don't know that we talked more than a few times; we just knew who the other was. Also, my best friend at the time was terribly infatuated with her. Otherwise, I don't really know the reason she comes up in my memory.
Isn't that strange?
Friday, April 14, 2006
what's that in the rearview mirror?
It's Austin, my friends.
I am officially on vacation, albeit a short one, and I feel great. My first stop is to spend Easter with my parents in Abilene. I spoke to a friend earlier this week who recently visited Abilene for the first time. What kept him away I wonder? He said that he expected to be able to kill time by wandering into a Barnes & Noble or something similar. Ah, the naiveté. Otherwise, it has been a quiet day. It is definitely good to see my parents again.
I haven't posted here in several days. I've had both too many topics and too few to write about (sorry if that doesn't make sense), so I've committed to none of them. I've also been really busy at work. It's becoming good again; for so long I've felt it grew stale and immobile. Now, assuming that things continue to turn favorably, I sense a period of productivity and new implementations that should once again provide an edge of excitement. This break should afford me the time to clear my thoughts.
I hope everyone is having a wonderful weekend!
I am officially on vacation, albeit a short one, and I feel great. My first stop is to spend Easter with my parents in Abilene. I spoke to a friend earlier this week who recently visited Abilene for the first time. What kept him away I wonder? He said that he expected to be able to kill time by wandering into a Barnes & Noble or something similar. Ah, the naiveté. Otherwise, it has been a quiet day. It is definitely good to see my parents again.
I haven't posted here in several days. I've had both too many topics and too few to write about (sorry if that doesn't make sense), so I've committed to none of them. I've also been really busy at work. It's becoming good again; for so long I've felt it grew stale and immobile. Now, assuming that things continue to turn favorably, I sense a period of productivity and new implementations that should once again provide an edge of excitement. This break should afford me the time to clear my thoughts.
I hope everyone is having a wonderful weekend!
Friday, March 31, 2006
a cow in my fridge
This evening I depart for the hills. My destination: a lakeside camp nestled in the oak forests of the hill country. I will be on retreat with my church family, and I am looking forward to it for many reasons. I need to get out of Austin; I need to be away from my office and work. I need to be away from the internet; to staunch my addiction to current events. I need to spend time in nature and hear around me only wind in the trees, songs of birds, laughter of friends. And, should He choose, the gentle whisper of God.
Of course, there’s another reason my excitement grows. Other than renewal of spirit and mind, retreats are good for meals. I have much to say on the subject of meals, and should devote time in another post to that. For now, just let me say that we are too quick and exceedingly solitary with what sustains us. Our destination this weekend requires that we prepare our own food, which I find superior to having the food prepared by an unknown staff, which has been the case for the latter portion of retreats I’ve attended. I understand the convenience of it; to relieve retreat-goers of the burden in the kitchen allows them to focus on “more important” things. But in my mind, this misses the point. The discipline of preparation and cleanup in regard to meals allows myriad opportunities for service to others in addition to the personal rewards.
There is a cow in my fridge. Okay, I admit it’s a bit of an exaggeration. Yet, there is enough meat to feed a significant number of people. The main course of our meal Saturday night will be brisket, made in true Texas fashion. I was thinking last night that many people are a little afraid of brisket. It’s been my experience that if you prove capable of cooking one well, there’s a little bit of fame coming your way. People will whisper to one another, gawk, smile sheepishly in your presence. Sometimes people will ask for your autograph and girls will swoon. Again, I’ve dipped a little bit into the well of hyperbole, but the impression should be clear.
When asked about my favorite holiday, I usually respond with the Fourth of July. The appeal of rockets exploding into bright colors against a darkened sky is hard to deny. There is the great movement of history and the destiny of brilliant men preserved in the prevailing document of freedom we celebrate on this day. All of those things come to mind, of course. A more primal reason, however, is our family backyard barbeques. Early in the morning, my father would light the fire. I would be apprenticed to him throughout the day while checking the meat, the temperature, the initial tasting, and the final carving. It was about recognition, appreciation, and good things done well, which even now seems a good analogy for the holiday. I learned from the master.
On a retreat in 1998, our campus minister committed a grievous error. I have a deep admiration and love for this man, and he is a person of extensive ability. Even at the grill, he wields a certain skill (shark steaks come to mind). Despite prowess in other areas, the ability to cook a brisket eluded him, and by a wide margin. The fall of 1998 found him manning the grill, which was piled with chicken and brisket. Apparently, he was under the impression both these items would cook in the same amount of time. The end result was good chicken and a brisket that was still bleeding. Some were polite and nibbled around the cooked edges. It was too much for me; and somewhere inside, I wept. On that day while staring into red tragedy, I determined that no longer would I suffer ill-prepared brisket. I would bring to bear whatever training and knowledge I had, and I staked a claim to the barbeque pit. Looking back, this was a bold step for a nineteen year old, although necessary.
I am eager to get started. Tonight, the ritual is renewed. Tomorrow evening, I will have the opportunity to serve my friends, a deeply humbling experience. I will treasure the reward, surely. I am only a dot in time, a representation of all that has come before and all that will flow after. I admit a certain anxiety that things won’t turn out perfectly. Do they ever? But I have faith…
Already the goodness of the coming days is within me.
Of course, there’s another reason my excitement grows. Other than renewal of spirit and mind, retreats are good for meals. I have much to say on the subject of meals, and should devote time in another post to that. For now, just let me say that we are too quick and exceedingly solitary with what sustains us. Our destination this weekend requires that we prepare our own food, which I find superior to having the food prepared by an unknown staff, which has been the case for the latter portion of retreats I’ve attended. I understand the convenience of it; to relieve retreat-goers of the burden in the kitchen allows them to focus on “more important” things. But in my mind, this misses the point. The discipline of preparation and cleanup in regard to meals allows myriad opportunities for service to others in addition to the personal rewards.
There is a cow in my fridge. Okay, I admit it’s a bit of an exaggeration. Yet, there is enough meat to feed a significant number of people. The main course of our meal Saturday night will be brisket, made in true Texas fashion. I was thinking last night that many people are a little afraid of brisket. It’s been my experience that if you prove capable of cooking one well, there’s a little bit of fame coming your way. People will whisper to one another, gawk, smile sheepishly in your presence. Sometimes people will ask for your autograph and girls will swoon. Again, I’ve dipped a little bit into the well of hyperbole, but the impression should be clear.
When asked about my favorite holiday, I usually respond with the Fourth of July. The appeal of rockets exploding into bright colors against a darkened sky is hard to deny. There is the great movement of history and the destiny of brilliant men preserved in the prevailing document of freedom we celebrate on this day. All of those things come to mind, of course. A more primal reason, however, is our family backyard barbeques. Early in the morning, my father would light the fire. I would be apprenticed to him throughout the day while checking the meat, the temperature, the initial tasting, and the final carving. It was about recognition, appreciation, and good things done well, which even now seems a good analogy for the holiday. I learned from the master.
On a retreat in 1998, our campus minister committed a grievous error. I have a deep admiration and love for this man, and he is a person of extensive ability. Even at the grill, he wields a certain skill (shark steaks come to mind). Despite prowess in other areas, the ability to cook a brisket eluded him, and by a wide margin. The fall of 1998 found him manning the grill, which was piled with chicken and brisket. Apparently, he was under the impression both these items would cook in the same amount of time. The end result was good chicken and a brisket that was still bleeding. Some were polite and nibbled around the cooked edges. It was too much for me; and somewhere inside, I wept. On that day while staring into red tragedy, I determined that no longer would I suffer ill-prepared brisket. I would bring to bear whatever training and knowledge I had, and I staked a claim to the barbeque pit. Looking back, this was a bold step for a nineteen year old, although necessary.
I am eager to get started. Tonight, the ritual is renewed. Tomorrow evening, I will have the opportunity to serve my friends, a deeply humbling experience. I will treasure the reward, surely. I am only a dot in time, a representation of all that has come before and all that will flow after. I admit a certain anxiety that things won’t turn out perfectly. Do they ever? But I have faith…
Already the goodness of the coming days is within me.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
lists and reservations
There are many things in my life that I haven't done, which were long ago accomplished by my peers. One of those things on the old "to do" list was supposed to be crossed off last night. I was signed up to attend a free screening of a movie. Obviously, this is nothing on the scale of a ride on the space shuttle or helping out on a cattle drive. It doesn't have the nobility and self-sacrifice of spending a year in the Peace Corps or committing to helping the homeless. That I have deigned place it within the same paragraph as these things is perhaps a wrong.
We need more perspective. I was fifteen before I had ever tried a jelly doughnut. I never felt that I had a sheltered life, but certain ordinary benchmarks were bypassed in my childhood. Eating a jelly doughnut was one of those. There were several others on this scale. Getting to park in a parking garage for the first time was one of my favorites.
So, throughout college and my early adult years, never did an opportunity arise to attend a free screening of a movie until last night. Had it not been for an email sent by a friend encouraging me to do so, I wouldn't have known about it. I'm not sure how people find out about these things. I've been to the theater on more than one occasion and been witness to the long line of people outside a particular screen and noted that they somehow obtained this singular opportunity. I then went on to my show thinking only how they were lucky and then thinking about it not at all.
My opportunity last night was to watch "Thank You For Smoking", a satire depicting vice-lobbying for items like cigarettes, alcohol, and firearms. I was looking forward to it. In recent months while attending movies, I've watched the preview maybe three times. It appeared funny, upbeat, with an established presence that was self-aware. I added my name to the list via the website, and was delighted upon receipt of the email confirming my reservation.
Do you recall that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry and Elaine are standing in the line at the car rental agency? Jerry needs a rental because his is in the shop, and he has made a reservation for a mid-size. However, when he approaches the counter, the rather smarmy attendant informs him that they no longer have a mid-size, but they could provide him a compact. Jerry, confused by this turn of events, inquires further. Taken aback, the clerk defensively indicates that they do have the reservation. Jerry responds with the classic line, "Oh, sure you have the reservation. You know how to take the reservation, but you don't know how to hold the reservation. And that's the most important part; the holding."
I arrive at the movie theater at 7p for the 7:30 show, and join the already long line. Okay, I think to myself, so we won't have our choice of seats; no big deal. Soon, I realize from the doubling of the line behind me that it is unlikely all these people will get in. Around thirty people in front of me are yet to enter the theater when, with little surprise, the coordinator of the event comes out to tell us the capacity has been reached. He thanks us for coming and then says something about seeing the movie, but I don't really hear him because by this point he is no longer important to me. I know him only as the person who dashed my dream of checking one more item off my "to do" list.
Disclaimer: I'm not a marketing expert. Despite the previous disclaimer, I wonder at the wisdom of allowing what occurred. I understand that having a larger than necessary group could help drum up excitement for the movie. "Wow," Bob says to Pam as they pass the long line on their way to "Date Movie 3", "that 'Smoking' movie must be really good. Let's see that next time." This type of interest generation can only go so far, I would imagine. Now consider the one hundred fifty people who were told they had a 'reservation' but didn't get into the film. How many people will they tell about their inconvenient experience and a wasted time of waiting to see a movie? How many will be turned away because they were, in some ways, deceived? The simplicity of limiting how many could be added to the list is what bothers me. It is in fact such a simple process that it can only have been intentionally excluded. I admit this is an assumption.
Some day, perhaps in the not-so-distant future, I will be able to mark free screening of movie off my list. For now, I must turn to other items on my "to do" list. First up is hitching a ride on the space shuttle.
We need more perspective. I was fifteen before I had ever tried a jelly doughnut. I never felt that I had a sheltered life, but certain ordinary benchmarks were bypassed in my childhood. Eating a jelly doughnut was one of those. There were several others on this scale. Getting to park in a parking garage for the first time was one of my favorites.
So, throughout college and my early adult years, never did an opportunity arise to attend a free screening of a movie until last night. Had it not been for an email sent by a friend encouraging me to do so, I wouldn't have known about it. I'm not sure how people find out about these things. I've been to the theater on more than one occasion and been witness to the long line of people outside a particular screen and noted that they somehow obtained this singular opportunity. I then went on to my show thinking only how they were lucky and then thinking about it not at all.
My opportunity last night was to watch "Thank You For Smoking", a satire depicting vice-lobbying for items like cigarettes, alcohol, and firearms. I was looking forward to it. In recent months while attending movies, I've watched the preview maybe three times. It appeared funny, upbeat, with an established presence that was self-aware. I added my name to the list via the website, and was delighted upon receipt of the email confirming my reservation.
Do you recall that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry and Elaine are standing in the line at the car rental agency? Jerry needs a rental because his is in the shop, and he has made a reservation for a mid-size. However, when he approaches the counter, the rather smarmy attendant informs him that they no longer have a mid-size, but they could provide him a compact. Jerry, confused by this turn of events, inquires further. Taken aback, the clerk defensively indicates that they do have the reservation. Jerry responds with the classic line, "Oh, sure you have the reservation. You know how to take the reservation, but you don't know how to hold the reservation. And that's the most important part; the holding."
I arrive at the movie theater at 7p for the 7:30 show, and join the already long line. Okay, I think to myself, so we won't have our choice of seats; no big deal. Soon, I realize from the doubling of the line behind me that it is unlikely all these people will get in. Around thirty people in front of me are yet to enter the theater when, with little surprise, the coordinator of the event comes out to tell us the capacity has been reached. He thanks us for coming and then says something about seeing the movie, but I don't really hear him because by this point he is no longer important to me. I know him only as the person who dashed my dream of checking one more item off my "to do" list.
Disclaimer: I'm not a marketing expert. Despite the previous disclaimer, I wonder at the wisdom of allowing what occurred. I understand that having a larger than necessary group could help drum up excitement for the movie. "Wow," Bob says to Pam as they pass the long line on their way to "Date Movie 3", "that 'Smoking' movie must be really good. Let's see that next time." This type of interest generation can only go so far, I would imagine. Now consider the one hundred fifty people who were told they had a 'reservation' but didn't get into the film. How many people will they tell about their inconvenient experience and a wasted time of waiting to see a movie? How many will be turned away because they were, in some ways, deceived? The simplicity of limiting how many could be added to the list is what bothers me. It is in fact such a simple process that it can only have been intentionally excluded. I admit this is an assumption.
Some day, perhaps in the not-so-distant future, I will be able to mark free screening of movie off my list. For now, I must turn to other items on my "to do" list. First up is hitching a ride on the space shuttle.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
trailhands
Now on my “current reading” bookshelf is Larry McMurtry’s 1985 oeuvre Lonesome Dove. Even halfway through, it seems odd that I’m reading it. On the surface, it seems somewhat outside my normal scope. Yet, this is something I’ve intended to get to for some time.
A college friend expressed more than once her favorite movie was the Lonesome Dove miniseries. I have small snippets in my memory from this movie, mainly involving a tumbling ball of snakes which may or may not occur in the movie. Whenever she had occasion to say this, I looked at her quizzically not comprehending how this story fit in with the rest of her character. But according to a Wikipedia article, “The mini-series is considered by many to be one of the finest westerns ever made.”
When I hear the word ‘western’ or even the name Larry McMurtry, I am immediately reminded of my grandfather who could often be found snoozing in front of the TV while someone organized a posse or conducted a hanging or managed to get a herd of cattle across a river. Despite the requisite fascination with the movies “Shane” and “Old Yeller” in middle school, my general impression has been that westerns are a boring lot; definite snooze territory.
So, I had practically discarded the entire genre as not worth my time. When I discovered McMurtry’s novel had won the Pulitzer Prize, my elitist nature took over and it found a place on my reading list. There was some additional motivation, again a hook to my youth. My father also enjoys such things, and reading this book is in an odd way like helping him in the woodshop or under the hood of the car. Probably better for you to trust me on that than for me to botch the sentiment in awkward explanation.
One thing I want those of you who remain skeptical to know is that this book is funny. It’s neither comical which implies a certain contrived nature, nor is it designed to be joking. It is simply a compelling sketch of believable men moving through the events of the story. The humor is often subtle, and coaxes the reader into the background of the statement and taking the side of wit.
For the past few days lunch has allowed an opportunity to withdraw from a world of 21st Century technology and business infrastructure. Instead, I am immured in a land 130 years distant, which causes the sixty minutes I have to seem much longer.
A college friend expressed more than once her favorite movie was the Lonesome Dove miniseries. I have small snippets in my memory from this movie, mainly involving a tumbling ball of snakes which may or may not occur in the movie. Whenever she had occasion to say this, I looked at her quizzically not comprehending how this story fit in with the rest of her character. But according to a Wikipedia article, “The mini-series is considered by many to be one of the finest westerns ever made.”
When I hear the word ‘western’ or even the name Larry McMurtry, I am immediately reminded of my grandfather who could often be found snoozing in front of the TV while someone organized a posse or conducted a hanging or managed to get a herd of cattle across a river. Despite the requisite fascination with the movies “Shane” and “Old Yeller” in middle school, my general impression has been that westerns are a boring lot; definite snooze territory.
So, I had practically discarded the entire genre as not worth my time. When I discovered McMurtry’s novel had won the Pulitzer Prize, my elitist nature took over and it found a place on my reading list. There was some additional motivation, again a hook to my youth. My father also enjoys such things, and reading this book is in an odd way like helping him in the woodshop or under the hood of the car. Probably better for you to trust me on that than for me to botch the sentiment in awkward explanation.
One thing I want those of you who remain skeptical to know is that this book is funny. It’s neither comical which implies a certain contrived nature, nor is it designed to be joking. It is simply a compelling sketch of believable men moving through the events of the story. The humor is often subtle, and coaxes the reader into the background of the statement and taking the side of wit.
For the past few days lunch has allowed an opportunity to withdraw from a world of 21st Century technology and business infrastructure. Instead, I am immured in a land 130 years distant, which causes the sixty minutes I have to seem much longer.
Friday, March 17, 2006
an elixir called Volleyball
Sand. A ball. The net. Friends. Warm Texas evening. Once upon a time, Thursday was reserved. Work over for the day, I would wade through traffic with a smile. At home, I would change, eat a snack, fill a jug with tea or water and relax. An hour later, I was on the road to the court, anxious to be in motion. For three hours or more, I knew nothing but the camaraderie of my team, the stinging smack of fast leather against my fist, and the course grain of sand surrounding my feet and caked to my legs and clinging to every fiber of clothing. For three hours or more, there were no computers, no project planning, no phone calls; just a mind and body focused on the game.I am not an athlete (though I could easily have played one on TV), and lack the grace of movement required to be consistently good. But there was no doubt that I loved volleyball. There are other sports that have demanded my attention such as swimming or soccer or hiking, but volleyball is the pinnacle.
For a period of roughly eighteen months, I devoted time each week to the crafting of an email in the hope that careful diction, colorful metaphor, and clever phrasing would persuade the less inclined to participate. I humor myself with the thought that this affected some. Most evenings, we would be spread out over multiple courts in multiple teams; twenty-five to thirty playing at a time. Never in my life have I felt like I had more friends. Skill was never important; there was always one aspect of the game a person was better at than anyone else. I am good at serves and the surprise return, others whose spike inspires dread, still others whose efforts are concentrated on not letting the ball touch the ground (which is bad, btw).
Then came a time when our usual courts became unavailable, which did not precede by much the lack of access to our alternate court. A fervent search for a new court yielded nothing that felt convenient for the group, and playing opportunities grew sporadic. As of this writing, it’s been a year since I played consistently.
There is nothing I miss more than those Thursday nights. Sure, there are things that I desire more and have not attained, but the loss of something once familiar seems a deeper wound. I remember thinking even then how strange it was that this activity should remain popular so long to so many. I want it back, and yet it can never be what it was.
I suppose it’s not just those Thursday nights. Now I see those games as a representation of the amalgam of all the games I’ve ever played during family reunions, lazy college afternoons and retreats. They have become a conclusion to one chapter of my life, and are now indexed beneath the warm sepia tones of laughter and accomplishment and the binding threads of human experience. Play it again, Sam.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Night
"Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree."
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupery
There's something to this, isn't there? I think it is a sensory deprivation thing. While roaming around the earth in the daylight, we rely on our eyesight and do not often find reason to question its authority. In fact, should we discover reason, it is an event most disturbing.
It is a different thing altogether to be ensconced in darkness. Eyesight is no longer as important; a greater proportion of our experience is gleaned from hearing and smell and touch, and these are probably more mysterious to us. It's possible that Man is never more at peace than when confronted with the mysterious, a thing beyond comprehension. There is something settling about being unsettled. Given our lack of knowledge, this is the immutable condition. Resolving the question changes the status quo; it requires we move on to the next thing. I think this is the root of exploration, of conquering the mountain.
We are more receptive at night. We are more receptive to interaction; it is a time when being alone becomes bitterly palpable. Once the stars are out, would you rather find yourself working, or singing around a campfire? Yes, I know; it does depend on the song.
Mysterious, revealing, restorative...this is night. It's nice when the sun comes up, too.
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupery
There's something to this, isn't there? I think it is a sensory deprivation thing. While roaming around the earth in the daylight, we rely on our eyesight and do not often find reason to question its authority. In fact, should we discover reason, it is an event most disturbing.
It is a different thing altogether to be ensconced in darkness. Eyesight is no longer as important; a greater proportion of our experience is gleaned from hearing and smell and touch, and these are probably more mysterious to us. It's possible that Man is never more at peace than when confronted with the mysterious, a thing beyond comprehension. There is something settling about being unsettled. Given our lack of knowledge, this is the immutable condition. Resolving the question changes the status quo; it requires we move on to the next thing. I think this is the root of exploration, of conquering the mountain.
We are more receptive at night. We are more receptive to interaction; it is a time when being alone becomes bitterly palpable. Once the stars are out, would you rather find yourself working, or singing around a campfire? Yes, I know; it does depend on the song.
Mysterious, revealing, restorative...this is night. It's nice when the sun comes up, too.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Lunch
I just had the best lunch; like a mini-vacation. And it caused a deep yearning to go camping.
I've spent this week working hard wrapping up projects, creating documentation, and resolving some outstanding issues. I needed to get away. I also haven't had a vacation in twenty months. I needed to get away.
You should know that it is bright and sunny today, just over eighty degrees with a nice, strong breeze. I knew this was going to be a special lunch, but even as I walked toward my truck, I wasn't sure how it would play out. I decided on Wendy's and headed there to pick up a spinach chicken salad.
By the way, Wendy's, I am intensely grateful that you've put this back on the menu. It's been a long time, but it's a favorite of mine. You've made me a happy man.
After the exchange of salad and money through the tiny window, I headed back to the parking lot, which borders a creek. This particular parking lot is familiar and preferred territory for tailgaters during the Longhorn's football season, but on this March day, it was just me and the cars. There is a shady patch of grass along the creek, and this is where I set up my camp chair and got down to the salad. Sun, breeze, salad, water, trees, and the siren of a firetruck behind me. Ah, nature as it was intended. It was enough, though, for my mind to take me away to the mountain peaks of the Weminuche and the forest trails of the Hill Country.
Back at work...three hours to go.
I've spent this week working hard wrapping up projects, creating documentation, and resolving some outstanding issues. I needed to get away. I also haven't had a vacation in twenty months. I needed to get away.
You should know that it is bright and sunny today, just over eighty degrees with a nice, strong breeze. I knew this was going to be a special lunch, but even as I walked toward my truck, I wasn't sure how it would play out. I decided on Wendy's and headed there to pick up a spinach chicken salad.
By the way, Wendy's, I am intensely grateful that you've put this back on the menu. It's been a long time, but it's a favorite of mine. You've made me a happy man.
After the exchange of salad and money through the tiny window, I headed back to the parking lot, which borders a creek. This particular parking lot is familiar and preferred territory for tailgaters during the Longhorn's football season, but on this March day, it was just me and the cars. There is a shady patch of grass along the creek, and this is where I set up my camp chair and got down to the salad. Sun, breeze, salad, water, trees, and the siren of a firetruck behind me. Ah, nature as it was intended. It was enough, though, for my mind to take me away to the mountain peaks of the Weminuche and the forest trails of the Hill Country.
Back at work...three hours to go.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Texas, Our Texas
Happy Birthday, Texas!
My father had a tendency to comment to me, at seemingly random times, on how great our state is. He was fond of mentioning that Texas had every type of geographic feature a man could want. You want desert and sand, we've got that. You want an ocean and miles of beaches, we've got that. You want mountains, here. Forests, they're here. Grassland and hills and lakes and rivers and caves and incredible sunsets are all right here in this wonderful land called Texas. Why would you need to travel anywhere else? He may still say these things, but I don't get to here them as often.
So, I grew up and maintain a great love for this state and its history, which is rich in revolution and independence. Many offered their lives to make Texas what it is today.
Today, Texas, we salute you! Raise your glass with friends and neighbors and offer a toast for our land.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
A New Drummer
Minutes away from March. I know that spring will not be officially here for several more days, but seasons are no respecters of calendars. It is here. The thermometer topped 80 degrees today, and I've noticed more than one tree budding early.
We had such a short winter, with only two recognizable cold snaps. Such a thing is always memorable in this part of Texas, but these were so far removed from one another as to make them seem a thing created in the mind rather than the environment.
March has always been my personal New Year. January and February are spent getting used to writing an incremented year on checks and documents, and it seems like only a few short days ago you celebrated Christmas with family. Once March arrives, there is no longer uncertainty. Things have moved on. In school, this was the busy time. It seemed that every project and paper and exam were pushing toward this time when the end of the year grew so close; just within reach. Busy with extracurriculars and enjoying the outdoors again, riding my mountain bike down dusty roads.
And I recognize the acceleration of life. The year is no longer divided up in neat little compartments: fall and spring semesters, Christmas and summer vacation, Spring Break, syllabi, midterms and finals. Work is in the same place with the same people, at least a lot of the time. The projects change, but the location of your desk rarely does.
I don't decry this; such is life. But this thought and March have something in common; this is a rendezvous point for such thoughts. It is a reminder to slow down, smell the proverbial roses, remember to not act as if this thought hasn't occurred to every generation since the dawn of time. Those moments where we slow down are special, and are one of the few things one can truly savor in one's soul. March is a time when a droplet of water on a leaf reminds you of the infinite, of the cycles and rhythm of change catalogued by the Teacher in Ecclesiastes 3. Did you know that March was the first month on the Roman calendar? I think there's something to that.
Jesus tells us in Matthew 6:34, "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." And so I begin my year with these words fixed firmly in mind. (Let's not take bets to see how long they remain.) Die Freude am Frühling! I welcome it with enthusiasm, despite my lament on the passage of winter.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Here at Home
It is raining and rather dreary out today. I love weather like this. I love camping in weather like this. It makes the ritual of fire so much more practical.
I'm recovering from a prolonged internet blackout at home. When I returned home last night, eager to check on a surprising news story, I found my network connection frustratingly slow and unresponsive. I spent Saturday morning troubleshooting and waiting for a tech from my ISP. Eventually he arrived and started getting to business. It took a little over an hour for him to replace some hardware and make some necessary adjustments. Despite my queries, he was less than forthright about the problem. In fact, he told me nothing about it at all. I signed for the work and he went away.
A few tweaks here and a refresh there, and things are better than ever. I can breathe again. Ah, sweet ones and zeroes.
More on that surprising news story. They discovered ricin in a dorm room at UT. In my old dorm. So, I find that interesting. Even more so, I discover that this old dorm of mine is now coed. During my years there, it was men only. Of course, it was practically coed then anyway. Still, very interesting and close to home in a way.
I'm recovering from a prolonged internet blackout at home. When I returned home last night, eager to check on a surprising news story, I found my network connection frustratingly slow and unresponsive. I spent Saturday morning troubleshooting and waiting for a tech from my ISP. Eventually he arrived and started getting to business. It took a little over an hour for him to replace some hardware and make some necessary adjustments. Despite my queries, he was less than forthright about the problem. In fact, he told me nothing about it at all. I signed for the work and he went away.
A few tweaks here and a refresh there, and things are better than ever. I can breathe again. Ah, sweet ones and zeroes.
More on that surprising news story. They discovered ricin in a dorm room at UT. In my old dorm. So, I find that interesting. Even more so, I discover that this old dorm of mine is now coed. During my years there, it was men only. Of course, it was practically coed then anyway. Still, very interesting and close to home in a way.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Paging Dr. Jung
Assuming that eyes still at times fall on this blog...
I want you to think about something. This will require a certain degree of introspection and personal candor, but I want you to deeply contemplate what I'm asking nonetheless. This is an issue that comes up again and again among certain people, and those people and their witnesses point it out and laugh. It is an anxious laugh, one that is self-conscious and eager to both get past the issue and pretend that it never really existed.
How many people are inside you? No, really, this is the question. Do you find that you and your life are dominated by a singular inner personality, and are therefore led by one voice? Or, do you find that there are competing desires, perceptions, resolutions, courses of action, and (dare I use the word) voices, all of which require you to discern the best decision possible in that moment?
I know you're thinking, "Okay, enough of the Cybil talk." But, I really am curious about the distribution of these two modes of being. I confess that I am the latter, and that, at any given time, there are several threads of thought processed through individual worldviews. As such, I appreciate, and even envy, those whose decisions are instantaneous and mark a paucity of hyperanalytical predilection.
Inside there are the historian and SysAdmin, Raskolnikov and Val Jean, Paul and Thomas, the romantic and the cynic, the extravert and the reserved, compassionate and apathetic, bold and fearful, and other voices that defy definition.
Perhaps you consider these merely facets of one whole. It helps me to personify them; to allow each an opportunity to explain their presence and declare their desires. It could be one will say something I've never heard before. It could be I should only listen to the loudest one.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Edibles
I've had a rather uninteresting weekend. I should have spent some of the downtime writing. Instead, I spent it watching cooking shows on PBS. I really love those cooking shows.
There are so many topics going through my head lately, and few of them are uplifting. I would like to get out from under this raincloud and feel the warmth of sunlight again. Perhaps soon.
It's snowing on the east coast. There will be many people who have to shovel their driveways and many of younger years engaged in the serious art of making snow forts. I don't come from a snowy climate, but always dreamed about it. I love snow; I love what snow represents. I like the cold.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Sloop John B
Near where I grew up is an old fort built upon a hill called Phantom. The only recognizable structures remaining are a munitions dump, a guardhouse, and several chimneys jutting out of crumbling foundations. Largely because of the name, this place held a fascination for me in my youth, and I would always be excited when opportunity came to visit it or even drive past it on the highway. Even today, the highway passing by winds through vast open spaces populated only by the occasional ranch house and small clumps of mesquite trees. It is lonely, windy and dry. There is today a lake, of sorts, nearby, but water was disturbingly scarce when this fort was occupied in the late 1850s. One soldier stationed at the fort wrote in a journal about the long periods of hot days and no water. Indeed, the outpost was ultimately abandoned in part because water was such an infrequent resource.
And when I arrived 130 years later, there was little different about the climate. I have an indescribable affinity for water. Perhaps I was awkwardly born away from the sea, and there is something eternal within my soul that yearns to be near it again. Perhaps absence doth make the heart grow fonder, and I owe this affection of combined hydrogen and oxygen to the human desire to define the mysterious or unknown. I like anything to do with the water: swimming, diving, boating, tubing. During college, I was introduced to another activity completely outside the scope of my experience.
On a crisp, clear and breezy spring Saturday, we went to the lake. I remember almost everything about this day, the day I was introduced to sailing. There is fun, history, survival, culture, expertise and hierarchy all wrapped up in this one thing. Three of us prepared to take out a 25 foot keelboat, a relatively simple sailing system. I am accustomed to watching the pilot of the boat seated at the helm, where in front he has ignition switches and a wheel and behind there is a powerful engine for propulsion. All the controls for the boat are concentrated in one location. The operation of a sailboat is much more complicated by several orders of magnitude, and one of sufficient size is almost impossible for one person to pilot. To see one on the open water under full sail, however, is an illustration of grace and teamwork and tranquility. It is beautiful, a fact supported by the quantity of sailboat photographs and paintings adorning walls around the world.
Under sail, you've given up control. You court the wind in order to spurn the water. There are many elements you may influence, but if the wind does not cooperate, you gain nothing toward your destination.
I barely know my port from my starboard, but I want to learn. If you've ever watched a sailboat race, you've seen crews working hard and synchronized. I've seen that and it looks like fun; it looks like something I would want to do. It's not too late to move to the coast.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Spirit and Opportunity: Part One
Where were you the last time your world stopped making sense? For me, it's been the last eight months.
I remember sitting with a friend as the day dwindled toward evening on September 11, 2001. Two weeks into my last semester of college, we were sitting and watching the known world crumble in smoke, tragedy, and hate. I remember that our discussion turned to one fact: that our world had just drastically changed and it might not be for the better. Our economy has improved and there is a sense of restored security. But always in the recesses of my conscious mind there exists a hint that tomorrow is an unknown. It is a Biblical truth.
I'm not sure where the line was between knowing I had something to give the world and thinking the world had something to give me. I don't know where that line was, but I've crossed it. It had something to do with money, and respect, and doors unexpectedly closed, or any of a thousand other reasons one could offer. When did my self stop being less and simply ish?
I'm approaching more quickly than I care to admit a decade since I left home with so many dreams to realize. In that time, I've learned so much about myself. There is less and less I like. For one, I am fallible. I can make a mistake many times over, in varying degrees of severity without learning a thing. After long experience and arduous labor, I have fashioned a meticulous cloak of apathy, which, always at the ready, I may throw about my shoulders in a moment. For some reason, I had to teach myself to not care.
I struggle with this daily question. Must I prepare myself to lose what I desire and abandon hope, or shall I cling to hope and persevere through tribulation all the while enduring the pain of watching my horizon slip ever further away?
In the world of psychology, there is the ever present debate of nature vs. nurture; studies leaning one way, research countering. Yet, there is no question in my mind that there are those born to cheerful disposition and those born to melancholy disposition. And I don't know why...
Soon, I must sift my life like wheat. Perhaps I will discover the nuance of direction. Perhaps I will discover passion again.
I remember sitting with a friend as the day dwindled toward evening on September 11, 2001. Two weeks into my last semester of college, we were sitting and watching the known world crumble in smoke, tragedy, and hate. I remember that our discussion turned to one fact: that our world had just drastically changed and it might not be for the better. Our economy has improved and there is a sense of restored security. But always in the recesses of my conscious mind there exists a hint that tomorrow is an unknown. It is a Biblical truth.
I'm not sure where the line was between knowing I had something to give the world and thinking the world had something to give me. I don't know where that line was, but I've crossed it. It had something to do with money, and respect, and doors unexpectedly closed, or any of a thousand other reasons one could offer. When did my self stop being less and simply ish?
I'm approaching more quickly than I care to admit a decade since I left home with so many dreams to realize. In that time, I've learned so much about myself. There is less and less I like. For one, I am fallible. I can make a mistake many times over, in varying degrees of severity without learning a thing. After long experience and arduous labor, I have fashioned a meticulous cloak of apathy, which, always at the ready, I may throw about my shoulders in a moment. For some reason, I had to teach myself to not care.
I struggle with this daily question. Must I prepare myself to lose what I desire and abandon hope, or shall I cling to hope and persevere through tribulation all the while enduring the pain of watching my horizon slip ever further away?
In the world of psychology, there is the ever present debate of nature vs. nurture; studies leaning one way, research countering. Yet, there is no question in my mind that there are those born to cheerful disposition and those born to melancholy disposition. And I don't know why...
Soon, I must sift my life like wheat. Perhaps I will discover the nuance of direction. Perhaps I will discover passion again.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Just Black, Please
This has been a dark week. It would be good to focus on something joyful.
Friday night I purchased a new coffee maker. This purchase did not come easily, however. I did a lot of soul-searching, intense research, and footwork before I had the treat of a superior home-brew.
Although they would deny it, my parents are responsible for my devotion to a darkly roasted bean. In my childhood years, coffee was a rote occupation. Get up, drink coffee, go to work. As many likely recollect, it was the first "adult beverage" I coveted and was denied. It was a part of our household, as much a member of the family as our dog, Jodie.
My grandmother was the first to regularly provide this banned substance. I looked forward to sitting with her Saturday mornings on the farm, and talking. She never curtailed the amount of cream or sugar that filled my cup. I would outgrow such rash methods. I am a purist, especially in barbeque and coffee. If you must mask the flavor with some sort of dressing, then your original substance must be substandard. I guess that sounds a little pretentious. Oh, well.
Halfway through my college career, I noticed something different on trips home. The quick java fix in the morning had become an exercise of reverence and ritual. It was something to be savored. It started, I suppose, when my mother subscribed to a coffee club. It was cemented when my father returned home from the store with a new machine, and, in an instant, moved the family from basket to cone filtration.
Now, here I am. There are emails extolling the virtues of coffee and tea, and comparing both to Volleyball. Even at my few years, I sometimes get the sense that certain things should be experienced with deliberate enjoyment. After reading reviews and opinions, I realized what I must buy. To my bewildered disappointment, I realized I must purchase the same model my parents owned. I would at least have the satisfaction of having a different color. I walked away from two trips in one weekend empty-handed. I finally found success on Friday, and I discovered joy.
There are several better ways to make coffee, I admit. However, I awoke Tuesday morning not to the blaring siren of my clock-radio, but to the deep aroma of java penetrating my nostrils.
Now, I await the dawn.
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