Independence Day After...

It’s an interesting chronological juxtaposition to watch events in Cairo unfold on Independence Day. I possess only the roughest details on issues of concern to Egyptians, and therefore cannot speak at all authoritatively on their cause of action. However, it appears to me from this great distance that a people, weary after years of government manipulation and tired refrains of “trust us, this is for your own good”, are rejecting a return to the status quo. This is what a people demanding accountability and improvement looks like. Of course, there are some horrible things going on and it is certain that in some - perhaps wide-ranging - sections of the protest, mob mentality has taken root. Modern revolution isn't pretty

Watching scenes from Tahrir Square in the news, I wonder if something similar lays in the future path of our great nation. Will it take hundreds of thousands, millions, leaving their everyday life to march through our capitals and common spaces for our government (presumably of us) to hear that what now goes on must not continue, that we must with all possible haste put this particular genie back in the bottle? Will it take revolution?

And I wonder if anyone cares. I mean, cares in the sense beyond reading of government oppression and spying in the newspaper (or its digital equivalent), shaking our head solemnly while turning the page to the sports section. Do we truly care more that an NFL player is charged with murder and his discharge from a preferred team might decrease their chances of reaching the playoffs this year? Do we care? Does a direct attack on established principles (such as the Fourth Amendment) move us at all? This is our house; we’re not just playing in it. My faith in people is diminished; is it the same for my government?

I’m having a hard time this year celebrating Independence Day. It feels emptier, less relevant to our current condition. Make no mistake, I still hold in the highest esteem those whose names adorn the founding document of our nation, those whose sacrifices in battle have preserved the freedom it claimed. This year, however, I’m wondering how recognizable this country would be to them. To be sure, without Washington’s instinct and force of will, the whole thing could have easily slipped off the rails set forth by the newly ratified Constitution in 1789. Not everything moves forward in the precise way we intend (see Kaiser Wilhelm II in 1914), but would the structure, the fundamentals, appear familiar? I fear they would not be.

Part of the problem, as I perceive it, is that we simply are not the nation that Adams, Jefferson, Washington, Hamilton, Jay and the others authored and put into practice. We haven’t been for some time. Truthfully, my read is that we are in the fourth epoch of the United States of America. The first belongs to the Founders, the second to Lincoln and the the Union, the third following FDR and culminating in the time of LBJ, and the fourth (current) following 9/11. Because of and after each, there has been a fundamental shift in how we conduct the business of American affairs and our relationship with the government. Please note that this is a rough excerpt from my analysis and more learned historians could probably run circles around these themes. Further note that only a half generation removed from 9/11, we have not reached the point where the full effect is apparent to observation.

It wasn't just the attacks on 9/11, but also our reaction to them that defines this as a break in our national ideal. Our elected (and appointed officials) address the fear and threats we perceive from possible future attacks, while indicating that we should move on with life as normal. Thus, in the forefront of our national debate come social issues and national programs that are of arguable benefit on the whole, while the machinery of security has been placed behind a veil, cordoned off from the citizens from whom the government supposedly derives its power, and nurtured into a creature that would require the collaborative efforts of Orwell and Verne to conjure. Is the security state intrinsically menacing? I would argue no at present; it is no more menacing than a gun, fully loaded and laying on a table, awaiting a hand representing justice or a hand representing darkness. In other words, I temper extreme reaction to the news of NSA domestic spying with the belief that, at present, those behind the controls wield it with the intent of preventing harm. However, given other events, the pace of technology, periodic changes in leadership (with our currently odd ideas about who fills such a role well), and the historical tendency toward things going wrong that can go wrong, I suspect that a day is coming when pervasive acquisition of personal data of individual citizens will become an oppressive force.

Amendment IV

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Why did some at the Constitutional Convention feel the need to include such language (later inserted by the first Congress)? The best answer is that they had some experience with actions this explicit restriction prevents. It is my fervent hope that we will at some point awake, and update laws to explicitly show our digital possessions (something not likely foreseen by Madison) fall under the same protection. To my mind, it is unfortunate that such a step would be necessary, that this wouldn't flow from logical application of precedent. Of course, the Bill of Rights was seen as extraneous at the time...some things don’t change.

At the first celebration of Independence following 9/11 in 2002, David McCullough penned a piece that appeared in the New York Times. In it, he lays out in prose only he can muster what was truly at stake for those “Argonauts” of 1776. We, in 2013, are at such distance from the tyranny of George III and we hear of things often that seem so much more egregious than what occurred in that era, and I wonder if we don’t take it for granted. Our Founders put forth the “noble ideals” that bound us together as a nation, but do not think they cannot be subverted. While they left a precious legacy, we are the stewards of it.

A point that seems to sum up my reservations and lack of enthusiasm this Independence Day are these words from Peggy Noonan from her 6/13/2013 column in the Wall Street Journal entitled “Privacy Isn't All We're Losing”:

I feel that almost everyone who talks about America for a living—politicians and journalists and even historians—is missing a huge and essential story: that too many things are happening that are making a lot of Americans feel a new distance from, a frayed affiliation with, the country they have loved for half a century and more, the country they loved without every having to think about it, so natural was it.

Another way to make the point is a satirical-tour-de-force from earlier this week in The Onion: “Last Time I Checked This Was Still America, But If I’m Being Honest, That Was A While Ago”.

I’m coming to the end of this post more optimistically than when I started, which is surprising to me. I think I feel better just having put in some form (poor though it may be) my awareness. Throughout history, exceptional times have created exceptional people, ready to rise to and resolve the challenges they face. Should such people be needed, I know they will come. All the world groans to be free from the yoke of oppression, and so long as this world belongs to itself, true freedom will prove elusive.

Let us therefore go out this day to commemorate this “Day of Deliverance” and remind ourselves once more why we are bound up, despite our differences, together in this great experiment of self-governance. We owe it to our ourselves, to one another, and to posterity to remember and act in accordance with why we, this nation, exists. We need to make better choices.

DST

Here we go again...

When DST ended last fall, I refrained from setting the time back on one of my watches. Today, other than my cell phones, it was the only accurate timepiece when I awoke this morning. For other watches, and several other clocks in the house and the truck, so begins another round of resetting the time.

True, technology exists to largely solve this manual work, if one is willing to accept the expense. Computers, including cell phones, reference a time service and therefore are updated to the current time, whatever that happens to be (if all works according to plan, that is; Apple's iPhone may finally have caught up this year). Even wrist-watches are available that reference an atomic time source and adjust as necessary. My TV even synchs with an internet time source and keeps up with the time, but switching to/from DST is a manual process. So, technology can solve the issue to some degree; at least, until the government decides to mess with the dates again. But, does it have to be this way?

It is 2012. Sure, according to the Mayans, great ancient time-keepers that they were, the world may not see 2013. Yet, while we continue in our daily labors, we still must pause twice a year to adjust in full unit increments our perception of time. Suddenly, through the magic of a lost hour of sleep, the sun appears to set an hour later than it did yesterday. Later on, for reasons lost to modern rational thought, we will dissolve this advance and "fall back", magically gaining a lost hour.

What insanity?! In 2012, we continue to delude ourselves in the federal message that our time adjustment efforts are somehow saving money, providing something to the wheels of industry. Evidence supporting such claims is suspect, at best. Blessed be Indiana and Arizona, states that have rejected this inane and archaic aberration.

We will, once again, awake tomorrow morning an hour earlier than our bodies inform us is normal, groggily make it to work, and there down coffee, tea, energy drinks, etc. in an effort to find "normal" levels of productivity. Unfortunately, since this happens corporately, several days will pass before productivity levels return to normal. Modern computing hardware and operating systems should make the adjustment without issue, but there is always one or two applications that stop short when faced with an hour that disappeared, or was manifest from thin air.

How much time and effort, then is spent, to prepare for the time change? Memos produced as reminders to reset clocks, labor engaged to execute that reset in offices throughout the world, development and testing hours expended to ensure code handles the switch with grace, employees missing critical 9a meetings because they are unaccustomed to an 8a office call, drowsy employees operating delicate machinery but off their game due to the time change. All this labor and effort and loss of productivity flows into the support of a system that is wholly unnecessary, a mandated waste of resources all to prop up a belief that man can somehow control time.

Perhaps, once upon a time, there was some benefit derived from "more daylight". Yet, I think it probably less than what we remember. Farmers still have the same number of hours in a day to reap and sow.

Of course, as is often the case, the worst consequences of this decision is visited upon our children. As shown in recent studies, we already deprive our children of sleep and expect them to learn too early in the day. Then, annually, we require them to begin even earlier; perhaps frustrating some to the point that the spark of curiosity goes out forever.

This should come to an end. If you don't support doing it for yourself and your business, then at least think of the children.

Stop DST!

Iced Tea Redux

In my last post before this year's sudden revival, I excoriated Schlotzky's for their failure to maintain the art of iced tea. My disappointment and frustration with that situation created a deep chasm I dared not cross, and I did not visit the restaurant for close to a year. I did not care how delicious were their sandwiches or their crispy potato slices covered in cracked black pepper, I was heartbroken and betrayed.

After a period of time, my wife coaxed me back through the doors one Sunday afternoon. I was not looking forward to it, but resolved that I would find something suitable to drink. Imagine my surprise when I turned to discover the absence of the mechanical monstrosity. In place of the pretender, the genuine article presented itself. As I opened the spout above my waiting cup, I watched with intense pleasure as the richly hued, vibrant elixir fill my cup. The exile was over, chasm bridged; it was like going home again.

After returning to this space earlier in the year, I have been pricked by the thought of amending my previous stance. I owed it to my dear friend, Schlotzky's, to retract my previous statements in light of their recommitment to quality. How to do it, though? Could I simply write a one-line "all's well" and be done with it. That didn't seem proper. Yet, the words for a more involved exposition never arrived. Procrastination and neglect were unfair; I needed to say something even if the sentiment was not perfectly executed.

Unfortunately, to do so now feels a bit awkward. For, you see, I had a visit with Schlotzky's today that didn't go so well. No, there wasn't a reappearance of the science-experiment-gone-wrong. Indeed, things appeared much as they have for the past several months. The drink station itself is a bit of an ergonomic disaster (the only way to get ice is to queue up behind everyone deciding which of 106 drink combinations feel right that day), but workable. Ice acquired, I filled my cup from the tea spigot as usual. My disappointment began when I took a sip, and then another to confirm. It was weak and flavorless; not the worst I've experienced at all, but not the usual standard. I would like to know how such things come to pass. Was it an error of a new employee, unaccustomed to standards? Is there a new sense of economy in the kitchen that has created the delusion that tea bags can be used more than once? What series of mistakes led to this lowly state?

Despite my disappointment today, I believe there is allowance to be made. The sin today is not so egregious as to drive me away. My mind filled with questions such as those posed above, I cannot view it as a trend. I will be back in the near future, and I hope to see improvement. For now, however, I must hold back on making any final peace reconciling previous statements to more recent experience. Should that much hoped for improvement be seen, I will make amends as are appropriate.

Phones - A Love Affair

Katana and 8200 - Side by side

Our story began in November of 2006. Two weeks prior, I had been in Germany for the first time. It was wonderful to experience that place in a culture and language I love so much. Upon my return to the states, I was refreshed and eager for other new experiences. How convenient then, to know that in another week, work would send me to San Jose, California.

But this is a story about phones, and it’s a romance. In the words to follow, I invite you to share in my exhilaration, frustration, restoration, and eventual loss.

I began to dream of new phones that week prior to California. In my pocket was the wonderful Sanyo 8200 clamshell. Our time together had just exceeded the two-year mark, and, although there were no true issues beyond the minor cosmetic scuffs intrinsic to any relationship, I had grown weary of its inadequacies. The 8200 had replaced a Samsung A400, itself nothing special and made worse after its acquisition by the introduction of the Samsung A460, which was among the first group to have an external display. I was happy to jettison the reliable, but inferior, A400 as soon as I could. The Sanyo was markedly different from the Samsung. It felt sturdy, more robust. There was an audible and tangible click when it opened, and I felt a twinge of joy every time. The external display doubled as a viewfinder for the camera and there was a secret flashlight mode for the flash. Call voice quality was clear and loud. I strained to hear a caller even in a quiet room on the Samsung, but the Sanyo excelled in noisy environments. The 8200 had everything I could possibly want, and I could think of no reason to part with it.

And so it was that one night I went to dinner with a friend. Arriving ahead of him, I witnessed his approach through the parking lot. As he approached, I discerned that he was talking, engaged in a phone conversation and using a headset. As he closed the distance between us, he wrapped up his conversation and took out his phone to end the call. That is the moment my world turned upside down, for I discovered there was no wire. Although I was slightly late to this technological party, I’m no idiot. I had heard of and knew the capabilities of Bluetooth, but this was the first time I saw it in action. Somehow, the realization that my friend was wearing a headset and his phone (without attached wires!!) rested securely in his pocket crystallized this ability. At that moment, I had to have Bluetooth capability.

Sadly, my beloved and capable 8200 with its myriad features lacked this new bauble. I engaged my rational mind to quiesce the torrential desire for a new phone with a blue hue, and was somewhat successful. I would occasionally peruse the available handsets and determine that none could overcome the 8200 in feel or function even if it had a Bluetooth radio. This is around the time that Motorola introduced the RAZR, which seemed to be the iPhone of its day. In a world where some sacrifices had been made for the convenience and practicality (and, in my opinion, the enduring perfection) of the clamshell design, Motorola introduced to the market a mobile device that was, surprisingly, sexy. The RAZR was not available to Sprint customers, but it laid the groundwork and other companies soon put forth their take on this popular design.

In the Sprint camp, at least, none were perhaps more successful than Sanyo with their Katana line. Commercials for the device highlighted its thin form factor by morphing its namesake into the phone itself slicing through paper. This was successful marketing in 2006. My rational mind was still at work providing argument against additional expenditure and “change for the sake of change”, but its power had dimmed against the onslaught of desire. Bluetooth was a constant mantra. The Katana seemed to have beaten Motorola’s RAZR; it was cool, sleek, metallic. And it had Bluetooth.

Thus, on Thursday, November 9, 2006, I strolled into a Sprint store during my lunch break. I knew what I wanted when I walked in the door, but I placated the salesman with some initial questions; forty-five minutes later, I was back at work with my shiny black Katana. Certainly, there were some pangs of guilt that night as I powered down my 8200, closed the clamshell (*click*), and put it away in a drawer. Such sentimentality had mostly faded by the time I boarded a plane the following Sunday and flew off to San Jose. In the evenings, I explored a little; the thinness of the Katana was an afterthought in my pocket. One evening, I stood on the beach between Monterey and Santa Cruz, and watch the sun slip behind the waves of the Pacific. I used the Katana’s camera to capture a photo of that view, which replaced the background on the phone. Every time I flipped open the Katana, I saw that evening on the Pacific coast.

Times were good. Bluetooth technology was in hand allowing me to realize that long-held dream of pairing headset to device and talking on my mobile sans wires as nature intended. The Katana was a robust device, but the passage of time revealed areas of sacrifice needed to present such a slender package. Perhaps my most intense gripe was voice quality. Pangs of regret and longing for the abilities of my 8200 were felt each time I asked a caller to repeat something or excused myself to stand outside a modestly noisy room. Most everything else was to my satisfaction, especially the deep warmth experienced whenever I slipped my Bluetooth headset over my ear.

Six months passed without incident. Winter came and gave way to spring. Spring was ready to clear the way for summer when one evening I found myself at the home of a friend to celebrate his birthday. I know that it happened when I sat down on the deck out back to continue in conversation with friends, but I did not become aware of it until I settled into my vehicle for the drive home a little while later. When I extracted the phone from my pocket, there was obviously something wrong. The external display was cracked, and this damage caused the entire display to be illegible. Internal and external displays shared the same LCD screen. As I said, I knew when it happened because I immediately recalled that the phone had bound on the keys in my pocket as I sat down. Downtrodden and not knowing what else to do, I resolved to visit my neighborhood Sprint store first thing.

My intent was to have the Katana repaired, but I prepared for the worst. In my pocket as I entered the Sprint store to discuss my options was my trusty 8200. Dreading the worst as I presented my issue to the kindly Sprint representative, I was mildly surprised to learn that repair was possible and relatively cheap. I also learned that this was not an uncommon issue. The Sprint guy explained that for the same fee, they would either replace the broken portion of the phone from spare parts or, failing repair, replace the entire device. After deploying the 8200 back into service (an issue with which the representative struggled somewhat, as he could not read the necessary information from the Katana), I departed the store eagerly awaiting the end of this ordeal and the restoration to me of a fully whole Katana.

I wish I could report to you at this point that the phone was returned to me in short order and that our heretofore blissful life had resumed. I would like to tell you such a story, but it was not to be. Sadly, this begins a dark tale of irascible and incompetent customer service, outright lies, and personal woe.

Ten days passed, and no word had come. I called to determine status and learned that replacement was favored over repair. They were waiting on stock and would be back in touch when I could come and retrieve my new phone. As I hung up, I silently rejoiced. No concern would I have over whether the repair would hold; I simply would have a new handset and could continue on as if nothing had ever been amiss. Life seemed good in that moment. But, there was a storm brewing.

I cannot from this distance recall the time period in which this replacement was to be accomplished. I do know, however, that it was exceeded. In mid-July and roughly three weeks after hearing that the handset would be replaced, the last shreds of my patience were gone and I once again called the store. Another would have more sensibly called much sooner. I had a simple question (“where is the replacement handset?”), but the answer and ensuing conversation were not simple. It is, in fact, the second worst customer service experience of my life. On the call, the representative with knowledge of the matter checked a few records and reported back that the earlier order for a replacement device had been blocked and only a repair was authorized. Further, while this denial of replacement had occurred soon after the order had been placed (three weeks ago!), it was news to the associate, which also meant that no other action had been taken. Five weeks after taking in the handset for repair (which, by the way, could have been accomplished by the on-site technicians), absolutely no progress had been made. As my memory has been spared the intricate detail of this conversation, I will spare you. It was a drawn out conversation and consisted of mostly my ire toward inept handling of the situation and insinuations of incompetence. From the other end, it was only an endless iteration of nothing more could be done. At its conclusion, the poor, broken Katana was placed into queue for repair, which would take another ten days. There would be no advancement in the queue for any reason, apparently.

And so it was that I entered the store again within that last time window to retrieve my resurrected Katana. Out of my pocket went $80 and into my pocket slipped the Katana. Frustrated as I was by the prolonged hassle, I was happy to have back my phone. After words of appreciation for its service, I placed the faithful 8200 back in the drawer from whence it came. Normal life resumed and I was content. A matter of days later, I was scheduled to spend a week in Boston on business. The Boston trip came about with little notice and it preceded an already planned vacation to Connecticut and New York City with my girlfriend-now-wife. Instead of flying out together, I would spend my time in Boston, then meet her and friends in Hartford, CT. I was looking forward to seeing New England in early summer and having a portion of the trip financed by my employer was a definite bonus. Life was fresh and full of purpose; yet, on the horizon were those pesky clouds of woe.

I meandered through airport security on the day of my departure, and sat down at the gate to await boarding. While there, I pulled the Katana out of my pocket and discovered the unthinkable when flipping it open. The screen was a miasma of broken lines and static; something had gone horribly wrong. I could just make out the signal bars, but nothing else was decipherable. I was simultaneously anxious and furious. I now had a phone that was in questionable working order and two weeks away from home lay before me. Was this phone cursed? I quickly went through my steps to determine if there was a moment where it may have come into hard contact with a surface. There was a small fumbling of items at the scanner, when it had tumbled 5 inches from my hand to the conveyor; perhaps this was the cause. I was incensed at such shoddy repair work. I spent my time on the flight thinking about workarounds. I had few options as I would not be in one place long enough (10 days!) to have it repaired. Also, it was my only method of communication (which prompts a realization on how dependent on communication our society has become. Try weeks, months or years without word from loved ones as our ancestors did. Ha!!). I had two options. I could live with it or replace it. Only a used/refurbished replacement would be possible as I would have to pay full price. Another discovery was soon made, however, when I was settled in my hotel room in Boston (after a harrowing drive through deserted Boston streets in the rain which is another topic entirely; beautiful city but I will never drive there again). While vibrate mode worked on the phone, it would not produce sound. Now, not only was I reliant on my memory of phone numbers stored on the phone itself (fortunately, my memory of such things is pretty good), but I would not know of an incoming call until a message was left that prompted the external red LED to blink. The comedy of this situation is almost Shakespearean.

I did settle on a solution the next day, but it is not immediate. It is time to call the 8200 back into service once more. While that device is 2000 miles away, so is my girlfriend-now-wife. She will be charged with the task of retrieving the 8200 from my apartment and transporting it from Texas to Connecticut. I just need to survive the week. Despite a few minor obstacles, I am able to do just that. Once my girlfriend-now-wife arrives in Hartford, things are all right again. We spend a few days with dear friends, see some great New England sites (including a wonderful day at Mark Twain’s house), and I forget about my phone drama. It is not until several days later when we are settled into our Manhattan hotel room that I make the call to Sprint to reactivate the trusty, and increasingly appreciated, 8200. The rest of that trip went smoothly.

One of my first tasks when back home was to correct the problems with my phone. I know that the Katana has not suffered any severe damage and am confident that my good friends at Sprint will work to correct the mistakes they made. Thus begins the worst customer service experience of my life. This honor is bestowed mainly because almost no corrective action was taken aside from reconnecting the phone’s display to the main board. The only upside is that the repair was performed while I waited. Upon receipt of the phone from the technician, I checked that all was in working order. Yes, the display was now as it was, clearly announcing incoming calls and allowing access to stored content. Unfortunately, no sound emanated from the device. In addition, the repair was incomplete. On one side of the phone, the back cover bowed out where a screw was not secured. I pointed these problems out to the technician, and kindly expected them to be corrected. Instead, I received from her a verbal assault against my poor stewardship of the phone. She let me know of her conviction that I had dropped the phone from considerable height, that I was the recipient of considerable favor to have the display repaired, and that nothing more would be done. To my protests, I received only caustic encouragement to be grateful and depart. Apparently, I encountered this woman on a particularly bad day. Taken aback at such treatment, I approached the store’s manager to seek redress. He informed me that he was sorry, but that he was not empowered to override the decision of the technician. Lacking any pathway to improve the situation, I went home and waited for the fuming to subside. My initial thoughts were to work my way up the corporate ladder until I found someone who could correct this injustice. My next thoughts were about how much time and energy this would take. The ones after that were of how weary and defeated I felt. This was a grieving process, no doubt.

Not too long after, I discovered that by pressing on the loose screw on the device’s back plate, sound was restored. This implied that all one need to do to improve appearance and function was to secure this tiny screw. I had a screwdriver small enough for the task, but this led to another discovery; one which I believe explained the refusal of the Sprint technician to make further repairs. The threads for the screw were stripped, so securing the back plate was impossible. To repair it correctly would have meant replacing the device (which was still under a warranty period from the first repair of the screen). We were visiting my parents soon after, and I presented the issue to my father. I accepted that a repair attempt could lead to an early termination of this phone’s life, but as I didn’t care anymore, there was not much risk. He took the phone into his workshop, and brought it back a little later with the back plate and screw secure fastened. Know-how and super glue had worked their magic. The phone felt stable and produced sound. I had my phone back with complete function and only minor (relative) blemishes to its appearance. Yet, there was no love; my heart had grown cold against it.

Time rolled forward from that date. I got engaged, married, got a dog, and the Katana remained. Then, on the evening of May 26, 2011, as I leashed our dog for a walk, it happened. I picked up the Katana from the table with the intention of putting into my pocket; it never made it. Somehow, it slipped my grasp and tumbled to the tile below. It had taken a blow or two in the intervening years, but somehow I sensed this was the last one. I was not surprised to flip open the display and find that it was again illegible. By the time night came in earnest, nothing appeared on the display at all. As luck would have it, I had scheduled a trip to visit my parents in Abilene over the weekend for Memorial Day. Its death would, of course, come in an hour of need and when least expected.

After considering many options and much research, I left Sprint and replaced the Katana with a sleek and very poweful Android device of which I am quite fond. It is worth noting that the picture accompanying this post was taken with the Android. I am happy to have moved on.

It should be noted that my experience with Sprint as presented in this narrative was before the days of Dan Hesse, who I believe managed a Herculean task of righting the foundering vessel. While I am no longer a Sprint customer, my dealings with them while a gold-level Sprint Premiere customer in the last two years has were always the most professional. Of course, none of those involve visiting a retail store. I claim no authority either way.

Renewal

Never a frequent contributor to this space, I am further guilty of negligence in its upkeep. To amend in some ways my transgressions, I have engaged in a refresh. As you may note, this space has now been updated with a fresh look made possible by Google's enhancements from 2-3 years ago. Perhaps you are nostalgic for what was, as I am; we are slaves to progress. Further, there will shortly be new content here. Any reader of this space should not worry that I've discovered brevity or economy of language since my last post. No, my writing will be thorough with no intentional sacrifice of sacred cows. If you find it boring, you may not be the intended audience. Indeed, I generally write for an audience of one, and hope that within you might find something of interest.

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.