Iced Tea...please?

Tonight, my wife and I sat down to a refreshing summer meal. Several ears of corn and breasts of chicken were cooked to near perfection on the grill. These were brought to the table, carved, and placed upon a fresh bed of lettuce along with some fresh bacon bits, cheese, and quartered roma tomatoes. It was a delightful feast and complemented the temperature outside still hovering near 100 degrees. The only item preventing us from achieving enlightenment was a tall, water-beaded glass of iced tea. This brings to mind an incident from a few weeks ago.

Sparse are the restaurants available for lunch near my office, but over the years I've developed a rotation of sorts among them. Schlotzky's is on that list, and its number came up one afternoon when temperatures were already flirting with the level of these waning spring days. As I realized where my feet were carrying me, a silent joy coursed through me as I thought about that most refreshing of beverages that Schlotzky's does so well, especially compared to those whose offerings are less than stellar. However, as I gathered my receipt, chips and cup from the cashier and turned toward the drink station, an emptiness swelled in the pit of my stomach. Where the stainless steel towers once awaited the opportunity to dispense liquid pleasure, there stood a sad, mechanical manifestation of a society gone to seed in a field of convenience. Iced tea from concentrate...four flavors! I could hardly contain my indignance, but rather than immediately voice my displeasure, I opted to sample the fluidic usurper.

I stared at the cup on the table in front of me for several minutes before I realized that my sandwich had appeared before me by the helpful hands of staff relieved of the duty to actually brew tea. My worst fears were, of course, realized. Speech escaped me; words could not adequately convey my disappointment.

For you see, the quality of iced tea in restaurants of even the finest quality has been on a march of decline for the past several years. Where one would occasionally receive a glass where the liquid contained within was barely colored, to receive now a beverage brewed with virginal leaves warrants a celebration. Indeed, the waiter is assured a happier customer willing to part with an extra percentage point or two at the meal's conclusion. Perhaps I should indulge in my impulse to include a note thanking them for their attention to detail upon our departure.

I realize that the public-facing portion of our food industry is especially sensitive to the rising cost of labor and materials and struggles to find a balance that will leave the ledger in the black and the customer satisfied that his money was well spent. However, I cannot fathom the pennies saved by running gallon after gallon of boiling water over the same tea bag results in much cost saving. The end result is that I've wasted $2.50 on a glass of off-clear liquid that is only a few molecules away from the tap water I could be drinking for free. In fact, starting last year, I determined that I would no longer suffer this injustice and insult. I will exchange for another beverage that is more resistant to the predilection to skimp, and offer a note of critique for what I'm sending back.

Unfortunately, I'm growing increasingly lonely in my obsession. The location escapes me, but while at lunch a few days ago, I overheard the conversation of two young women seated behind me. "Oh, I know, most places just make their tea too strong," one was saying to her companion. "Agreed. That's so gross," responded the companion. A few feet away, I shed a few silent, internal tears.

Yet, when it goes right, there's no substitute. After returning from a trip to celebrate our first anniversary, my wife and I visited a favorite hang-out in North Austin - Chuy's. The waitress offered the usual drink specials, then wrote down our order for iced tea. When the beverages arrived, I took a sip and was simply transported. Deeply flavorful and refreshing, this lovingly crafted tea capped the end to a wonderful weekend.

Throughout history, there have been groups tasked with a sacred responsibility to preserve knowledge. Despite our current recession of personal responsibility and spotty work ethics, there are still those toiling away, awaiting the dawn of a new Enlightenment. Previously, it was of Reason, then Industry, and hopefully appearing just over the horizon - delicious tea.

Bold Men and Women

Election Day 2008.  On this day, we stand in the footprints of fellow Americans who dreamed, sacrificed and died so that we might continually have an opportunity to choose those who represent our ideas.  When we peer out from our borders into other countries, we see the germ, in some places more nurtured than others, of what began as an experiment in the New World.  It was an experiment in Freedom, of declaring our choices sovereign.  To conceptualize the world our Forefathers saw is a difficult task on a planet now interconnected in so many ways, and a little archaic to describe the concepts immortalized in our Constitution as innovative.  What a testament to their generation that much of our world now considers the republic commonplace.  Yet, always remember that untold millions live in places where their voices are not heard, and where their choices are meaningless.  The fight continues.

I spent some time looking this morning for my flag pin.  Since I voted a week ago, I wanted in some small way to encourage patriotism and show support for my country.  My search was in vain, and I settled on wearing blue (a choice I might have made anyway; I love blue).  In my search, I came across an essay from July 4, 2002 written by David McCullough.  "Bold Men in Ruffled Shirts" appeared in the New York Times that day and commemorated our first celebration of independence since 9/11.  I love to read this essay aloud.  McCullough, like his subjects, demands oratory.  This seemed a perfect avenue by which I could express my profound respect for our democratic system, warts and all.  I walked into the bedroom, where Alicia was still getting ready for the day and offered to read it to her.  There's a certain part I cannot get through without emotion overriding my speech a little:

"When we see them in paintings, with their ruffled shirts and powdered hair, they look a little like fops, softies. But life then, at best, was tougher than we know, and they were, too, and the women no less than the men. John Adams predicted a long, costly struggle. 'I am well aware of the toil and blood and treasure it will cost us to maintain their Declaration,' he told Abigail. 'Yet through the gloom I can see the rays of ravishing light and glory. I can see the end is more than worth all the means.'"

That end is your ability to stand in a voting booth and raise your voice, and declare that a "government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from this earth."  We take for granted many things in this society others do not enjoy.  History compels us to appreciate such an opportunity as this.

Short View

Thomas L. Friedman, of the New York Times, authored a piece for yesterday's paper entitled "Dumb as We Wanna Be". I encourage you to click and read the op-ed for yourself.

In case you are wanting for time, he deals at first with the ridiculous assertion by presidential candidates Hillary Clinton and John McCain that a tax "holiday", during which the ~$0.18 tax per gallon of gasoline is waived, would be a salve to American pocketbooks burned by high fuel prices. He exposes a snapshot of what the economic cost will be, then rolls forward to talk about the political obstacles that have been erected, intentionally or not, against moving toward green energy. He concludes with the admonition that political egos are responsible for the metaphoric decline in U.S. energy.

His article haunts me. First, know that I am no friend of policies advocating green energy for the sake of averting global warming. So much money has been made terrifying the population, that it is impossible to see carbon-offsetting and electric cars objectively. With all due respect to Ted Turner, I'm not planning to rely on homo sapiens as a food source in the near future.

Where I am swayed, however, is the significant economic impact. The short view espoused by the Clinton and McCain camps belies a pitiful comprehension of even basic economic principle. Worse, the proposal assumes a level of ignorance of the public approached only by professional marketing, which may not be coincidental. Let's break it down for a moment. In what I hope is not a conservative estimate, let's say the average price per gallon of regular unleaded gasoline on June 1, 2008 is $4. Subtract from that cost $0.18 for a total cost per gallon of $3.82. If I drive an SUV, and average 20 gallons per fill-up, then my total is $76.40. Without the tax holiday, my total would be $80, so I would save $3.60. Americans would be far better off if we made two fewer trips to McDonald's per month. This also assumes that the full $0.18 would be removed, but this is unlikely to be true. Suppliers will certainly realize a few more pennies could be added to their bill, and the effect is made even less. Yet, put all this aside, because the total cost to government will be in excess of $10 billion.

I reiterate: the United States government would miss $10 billion in revenue. Imagine an infusion of that cash into college grants, public housing assistance, food programs, AIDS medicine in Africa (all of which certainly won't happen anyway), and you start to get a sense of how vacuous this proposal is. Yet, some look upon Barack Obama's refusal to support the proposal and claim it's another symptom of elitism. He may be the only intelligent person left in the field.

Therefore, the frightening thing is not the energy crisis. This is mostly misconstrued; the problem is not an imminent exhaustion of the oil supply, but rather the bottle neck created by too little refining capacity, which is, by the way, severely restricted by "green energy" policies. We should not be driven toward green solutions out of fear that we'll wake up to CNN reporting that Earth's oil reservoirs are dry, but we should still move that direction.

The oft-cited need to break U.S. dependence on foreign oil springs more from a need to contain an economic tailspin than a need to cut carbon emissions (terrorism aside). This is why I am incensed to learn from this article that there remain oil and gas tax credits. Similar credits for solar and wind energy will expire this December, thanks to "squabbling over pennies" in the Congress. Our representatives in Washington bicker over whether a windfall profits tax should be assessed of companies like Exxon-Mobil, when they cannot help but authorize the institutionalized refusal to collect taxes already owed.

The intricacies of global energy economics is daunting, and I do have sympathy for our elected officials as they struggle to comprehend what action should be taken. Yet, I am intolerant of inaction, as this is not considered a virtue in the great American myth. We need intelligence and strategy that is independent of corporate policy. Continual threats by our President to veto any legislation that even hints to be critical of the oil and gas industry do not help.

Ode to a Season's Passing

Cold and dark nights knew not we
Nor an evening's warm fire light
Only a little snow did we see
A Winter's tale on one icy night

Fair Winter into the past receding
Onward Texas, this wondrous land
Relentless sun and respite needing
Behold, Spring once more at hand!

Underneath the yearling green
Hopes held dormant hibernate
Seeking, longing for things unseen
Another Winter's day to liberate

Ye weary days of Winter, rest!
Slumber and renew your energy.
In molten months, we'll roam distressed
Until again met with a mighty season's apogee.

Many love the season of spring, myself included.  Yet, I enter it with trepidation, my gaze cast over my shoulder to the fading promise of a favorite season.  Arctic blasts heralding the portent of snow, but usually leaving only ice, or more often nothing at all.  Still I mourn its passing, and look forward to its return year after year.

There seems to be some controversy regarding the date of this year's vernal equinox; it arrives at 12:07 AM UTC (3/21), or 7:07 PM CDT (3/20).  So, it occurs either today or tomorrow, depending on where you are.  Take the time to read Natalie Angier's article in today's New York Times, "The Tilted Earth at It's 'Equal Night of Spring'" .  In it she writes, "Whatever the date, go on and celebrate, for the vernal equinox is a momentous poem among moments, overspilling its borders like the swelling of sunlight it heralds."  Delightful writing, and a fulfilling conclusion.

Although I write here of a passing season, I should highlight one fact.  The greatest snowfall I've ever seen occurred April 19th, 1996, while I was camping.  April, as you know, is the heart of spring here.

Hope remains.

Ides of March

Cæsar:  What sayst thou to me now? Speak once again.
Soothsayer:  Beware the ides of March.
Cæsar:  He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass.
(Julius Caesar I.ii.28-30)

Caesar cast off the warning, but we know his fate.  Behold, the Ides of March has come.  Take heed this day.

While we have a (to put it mildly) disinclination toward Friday 13th, I'm fascinated by the knowledge that for the Spanish Tuesday 13th is considered unlucky.  I initially learned this on the television program "Hey, Dude!".

For Caesar, it was the fifteenth.  As the soothsayer foretold, the ides did not treat him well at all.  Such benevolence and such tragedy.  Perhaps he should not have thrice refused the thrice offered crown, but then it would have seemed ambitious.  Brutus was right on that point.

It's such a nice day outside.

Saturday

I was witness Saturday to the wedding of a cherished friend, and it was a privilege to be able to celebrate with her on that day. It afforded the too rare opportunity to connect with absent friends and to lay the foundation with those who might be friends in the future. One instantly acquires an enriched knowledge of a person by moving into their relational sphere. The keen observer knows where to look for clues about a person by looking in a few places. Two of my favorites are what books they have on their shelves and what company they keep. Saturday was a day of celebration, but also of love shared, joy expressed, even spiritual renewal.

But this entry isn't about that. While I enjoyed it and took much from it, Saturday wasn't my day. I mention it only to pay homage to the two around whom it was centered and to preface what was on my mind that night.

I arrived home after a full day aware that I had an early morning and an hour was already lost (with thanks to the Energy Policy of 2005). I should have crawled immediately in to bed, but I instead settled into the chair in my office. Lacking any real goal, I fired up Google Earth (an application that should prove beyond a shadow of doubt there is indeed a higher power). I had recently read a news article reporting that someone believes to have discovered a massive impact crater in Nevada, and I had spent some time discussing with co-workers on Friday the glass-floored skybridge extending beyond the sheer walls of the Grand Canyon (where fear-induced cardiac arrest is yours for the low price of $25). These were in my head as I took in an overview of the United States. However, I didn't zero in on either of these, as I first suspected I would. Instead, my attention wandered from my home base to the area surrounding our nation's capital. Inspiration struck when I discovered full-screen mode, and I zoomed across the Atlantic to Münich.

One of the first things I did upon my return from Germany in October was to look down upon this city and make note of any interesting thing I might have missed during my time there. As I looked upon it again Saturday, I retraced my footsteps from the door of my hotel to some of the more interesting sites, investigating undiscovered side streets as I went along. Fatigue eventually reminded me of where I should be, so I retired after only a few minutes.

With my head settling into my pillow and my eyes adjusting to the dark, my mind was filled with memories from that vacation. The endless beauty of the Bavarian capital, the streets of Rothenburg redolent of a past age, the crush of Saturday afternoon shoppers in Cologne. Me, wandering wide-eyed, listening the constant voice in my mind reassuring me, "You are really here."

It is difficult to find sleep with such images rolling by invoking thoughts of what the future might hold. Then dreams; then the morning.

I'm not cold, thanks for asking

The reports are mixed, but on average the current temperature is 36°F. I am dressed as I am most of the year: business casual. A little more casual than many as my shirt sports short sleeves, but this is often a necessity. I am wearing one of my favorite shirts today, purchased this past August. It is blue, and has a silky texture, despite being cotton. I am not, by principle and habit, brand-loyal. However, I love Nautica. Not only am I beholden to their name and its invocation of sailing and watercraft, but I also find their use of color, fabric, and design meld well into my aesthetic preferences.

Friends and other readers (who may be surprised that there is now a new post here) will know that I write this from Austin, Tx. Friends will know that I am hot-natured. Until the thermometer drops into the sub-freezing range, I enjoy the change of pace and will gladly venture outside without a coat. While I own two very nice coats, there is hardly occasion to wear them. I've been this way my whole life, causing those close to me (mom, for instance) to constantly fret over my health. To date, I have no adverse effect to report.

I've much enjoyed the past few weeks of winter weather in Austin, and I will soon lament its passing. I had an encounter this morning precipitating this post. I walked into our breakroom/supply closet looking for a pen (another long story), and greeted a relatively new employee grabbing some coffee. I said good morning, to which she had an odd response. Her mouth agape and brow raised, she expressed incredulity that I sported short sleeves and asked whether I was aware it was cold outside. My first thought was to say, "leave me alone, crazy person!" Instead, I testified to the temperate climate and made a hasty getaway. I don't know how to avoid these inquiries and they seem to come from every direction. People seem brought to their mental knees by my absence of need for heavy outer garments. It seems strange this concern should take precedence over the observation that I'm of an age and level of intelligence sufficient to care for myself.

My head spinning from this latest in a string of encounters, I posed a question to a co-worker. Is there a sociological explanation for this behavior? After a little back-and-forth, we settled on the theory of conformity. An innate, subconscious desire requires that everyone adhere to a certain norm, which in this case looks something like "if it is cold, then wear warm clothing." It's another version of the principle that punished us in high school. I'm not comfortable with that, but it's the best idea so far.

Turns out, I don't disagree. When I am cold, I will put on a jacket or a warmer shirt. If I find myself in a position to be out of doors for a long period of time at low levels of activity given current conditions, I will probably do so. The duration of my time outside, however, is generally not much. The walk from my front door to the car, from the car to the office, and back again. There is a certain ratio of comfort to inconvenience. Until it is uncomfortably cold, I will not suffer the inconvenience of keeping track of a jacket or the possibility of suffocating in an office with an overzealous thermostat setting.

In the end, I appreciate your expressions of concern for my well-being. However, please understand that 'cold' is a subjective term. Thanks for listening, and it's great to live in Texas.

sticky wicket

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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*

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:

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.

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.

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.