New Yorker Haiku

My mother-in-law got me a subscription to The New Yorker magazine for Christmas, and now I feel so literary... almost elitist. It's such a heady feeling, to be in the company of the intelligentia. ;)

Seriously, I do like the magazine, even if there are some issues that don't connect with me on any level. Others are terrific. And in almost every edition, something is worth reading.

This time around I saw in the poetry section something that immediately grabbed my attention: a multi-stanza haiku based on a verse from Ecclesiastes. I mean, how much more of a connection could there be? It's like, "you had me at hello.." :)

So here it is.. self-explanatory, and lovely. Nicely done, Rich, old boy.

ECCLESIASTES 11:1

We must cast our bread

Upon the waters, as the

Ancient preacher said,

Trusting that it may

Amply be restored to us

After many a day.

That old metaphor,

Drawn from rice farming on the

River’s flooded shore,

Helps us to believe

That it’s no great sin to give,

Hoping to receive.

Therefore I shall throw

Broken bread, this sullen day,

Out across the snow,

Betting crust and crumb

That birds will gather, and that

One more spring will come.

----- Richard Wilbur

buzzer

.


shot clock running out
not many interviews left
need to sink one soon


.

Schumann & Introspection

It was another truly beautiful early Spring day today, and a great day to disconnect from NCAA basketball for a few hours and readjust my sense perceptions. Benson Great Hall and the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra and the music of Robert Schumann (1810-1856) were the perfect vehicles for that perception shift.



Free tickets didn't hurt, either.

I like Schumann. I like most all the composers of the Romantic era. No surprise, yes? :) Lovely concert, and right afterwards I made a beeline for the library to see if they had anything by him. Score! A three-CD set of his symphonies and overtures. Yum.

And lest you think that indulging oneself sitting on one's butt at the symphony is little different than doing the same in front of the TV and March Madness... just try and absorb the content of a scholarly article from the Harvard Theological Review on "The Apostle Paul and the Introspective Conscience of the West" while watching Wisconsin get crushed by Cornell.

Style vs Form

I'm not much of a hip-hop fan, as some of you know, but now and then I run across an artist (like Michael Franti) or a CD (like Kanye's 808s & Heartbreak; The Beastie Boys' The Mix Up) that appeals to me at some level.

But the guy who is head and shoulders above the rest, at least for me, is a guy named k-os (pronounced chaos), a rapper from Canada. His songs are melodic, approachable, and not captive to the self-focused hedonistic blinged-up gangsta culture of popular hip-hop. I've been listening lately to three of his CDs, Joyful Rebellion, Atlantis: Hymns For Disco, and his latest, Yes!

Something in the liner notes of Joyful Rebellion caught my eye. He writes about the difference, and the interplay, between Style and Form. His comments are particular to hip-hop music, but they hearken back to concepts that philosophers from Plato to Kant have dealt with. He's given this stuff some thought, apparently, and it shows in his music (also probably why I like it!)

What he says is that there is a Form to hip-hop, and he speaks of drum patterns, vocal delivery, instrumentation, lyric content, etc. Style, on the other hand, is more about the "perpetrated lifestyles", as he calls it, the overt sexuality and flashy videos, the gimmicky effects such as auto-tune, gunshots, sirens, etc.

Form, he says, is like enjoying tea for what it is, without milk or sugar, just pure tea. Style is frothing it up into a tea fusion latte', sticking it on a poster, and running promotions for it that connect it to a certain lifestyle. (ha. That Style part I got from spending time at Caribou this week.)

Anyway, he argues that hip-hop "audiences have been over-stimulated by STYLE", and goes on to say:

STYLE is cool... it can communicate how we feel inside and be an expression of persona. However, if the STYLE of a music becomes more important than its substance, then that music becomes trendy. When the music becomes trendy its parameters then are much too narrow... too limited to express Universal Truths... and since the truth is not a trend, we lose depth of perception. In a battle between FORM and STYLE, FORM will always remain victorious in underground circles - no doubt. Unfortunately, in 'pop culture' presenting FORM without STYLE is like casting pearls before swine.

This holds true for all art forms, really, and all sub-cultures. There is a constant tension between Form and Style, with Form being pure (Style-less) in the beginning, but with Style taking over as the art form achieves wide popularity, until the point where all that remains is Style, and Form is driven underground (only to re-emerge later, with a cult following).

Hm. Universal Truths coming from a hip-hop artist. Yeah. Bring it. :)

Jesuit Madness

I love NCAA tournament time. :)

It takes me back to when I was a 10 year old, and I would make brackets for my various Hot Wheels cars and race them to see which model would come out on top. Or... to when I would play chess against myself, and keep track to see whether I won more playing Black or White. Um... somehow I skipped the question about how could I "win" at all? Hmm.

Or... back to when I would take turns as different teams (Team A & Team B) and shoot hoops in the hallway (using a superball and a paper Dixie Cup with the bottom hollowed out tacked up to the wall as the basket) outside my bedroom door and keep statistics on which team shot better from the floor... what a nerd. 1001 ways to amuse myself.

Anyway, I dig brackets, and statistics... and March Madness just, oh... it brings people together all doing brackets, you know? :) It's almost perfect.

And this year, there are four Jesuit schools in the tourney, so...



Rock on, Jesuits. And Go, Marquette!

rhinovirus

.


change of seasons cold
coughing, sneezing, blowing nose
hard to sleep at night


.



I could be a walking advertisement for Zicam, though. Just like the ads say, it seems to shorten the duration of the cold and minimize the symptoms. Think I'll become a fan on Facebook..

The perfect drug?

I have a feeling that the author of this Venn Diagram for Drugs (courtesy, Good Magazine) is personally familiar with what appears to be the ideal drug (covering all the bases of physiological and psychological effects - see center of diagram).

Personally I can't speak to that. But it's nice to know that my drugs of choice at least have offsetting effects. Something has to keep me on an even keel. ;)

Fit or Fat?

Or... something in between?

Having just returned from my semi-annual visit to my Milwaukee-based endocrine clinic, I was feeling a little sensitive about this. And not because of another brutal misguided stabbing session at the lab, either - it was about the smoothest blood draw yet. Talented woman, that phlebotomist. Scary looking, but talented.

No, I'm feeling sensitive because the doctor gave me a scolding about the extra 9 pounds I came with on this trip to see her. I pleaded my case of plantar fasciitis that sidelined me from running for 5 months. Being a runner herself, she cut me some slack, but was pretty serious about my dropping weight by the next time I see her (late October of this year). Yeah, yeah, I hear you, doc. I'll get back on the running track soon enough. At least all the blood readings were okay. A little high on the LDL, but.. manageable. Blood sugar, triglycerides, PSA, TSH, testosterone levels.. all good. :)

Still, every morning's look into the mirror has got me thinking... sure I know the Body Mass Index is just so much hot air, since it pays no attention to lean body mass, but I can't really scoff at it in my particular case unless I know what my muscle/fat balance actually is, right? I have never wanted to find that out, though, because you have to go underwater to do it accurately. Ick.

But just recently I became aware of a breakthrough in this area. A variety of fitness assessments are offered in the Laboratory of Physiological Hygiene and Exercise Science at U of M. The one I liked the looks of a lot is the BodPod, which gives you a body fat percent without having to be submerged in water (which, for a non-swimmer who lost consciousness in his college swim class final, is a pretty big deal!) It uses air displacement instead of water displacement.

I quote from the manufacturer's website: "The BOD POD Gold Standard Body Composition Tracking System is an Air Displacement Plethysmograph which uses whole-body densitometry to determine body composition (fat and fat-free mass) [...] based on the same gold standard operating principle as hydrostatic (or "underwater") weighing." Thank the Lord for improvements in technology.

So on a beautiful Spring-like afternoon today I head down to the U (and in the process get a sideways peek at the new ball field, TCF Bank Stadium. Nice looking, and easy to get to.



I checked in with the front desk, paid my $40 for the test, and headed down to the lab to see Sarah, the technician. She's a junior in a rec major, and has worked in the lab for quite some time, so was really knowledgable, and walked me through the drill. The machine itself looks kind of like a big egg with a door, and a seat inside.



I first heard about this from a news clip where a local reporter demonstrated its use. It seemed easy enough, so I made an appointment and then read the literature they emailed me. All looked fine until I read the requirement about having to wear "only" Speedos or skin-tight lycra shorts. Um.. wait. Only wear WHAT?

Well, I'll spare you the details on that part. Let's just say I improvised, with Sarah's kind permission. ;)

She takes height and weight and a few other measurements, sits me down in the egg, and shuts the door. Glad there was a window! Much whirring and popping ensues, and...the result? I'll get back to you momentarily on that...

My current BMI says I am "morbidly obese". Bah. Overweight, I'll grant you. But "Morbidly Obese"? Nuts to that! I mean, my endocrine specialist has given me a target weight which would produce a BMI of 30.4, or Obese. What self-respecting physician would do that?
Um.. one who sees me naked twice a year, that's who. She knows.

The charts say that obesity for men my age starts at 27% body fat. Overweight starts at 22%. Sarah said that the "risky" category begins at 30% body fat for men.

Women are fortunate when it comes to these measurements. Their corresponding percentages for obesity and overweight are 40 and 35, so they can carry much more fat than men, and be just fine. But then again.. they have better places to put it. mmhmm. :)

So, the result. Drum roll, please...

I was 4 pounds into the risky range. I'd have to lose 40 pounds of fat (basically where I was a year ago..) to reach my personal goal weight (which I picked as the high edge of the healthy weight range), and lose 20 pounds of fat to stay out of the obese range. Strength training will help keep the lean mass as is.

Both weight goals are within reach in about 6 months, especially if I am in temporary living quarters in some new city working some new job. Nutri-System and a gym membership should do it. Late October and target weight, here we come! :)

needles

.


young phlebotomist
patting, swabbing, puncturing
knowledge without care


.

Crisis Cycles

Facebook. Love it or hate it, it IS a way to stay connected and keep up with people. This week J1 posted this article on her wall, not because she's having an existential crisis herself (she's had hers already!), but because she's a culture-watcher, like her old man.

For those of you who hate to click through... (even though you should, at least for the lead cartoon), here's how it opens:

Welcome to Your Quarterlife Crisis

You can't make any decisions because you don't know what you want. And you don't know what you want because you don't know who you are. And you don't know who you are because you're allowed to be anyone you want. How messed up is that?


Imagine a day in the life of a couple you probably know. He’s 27 years old, and she’s 26. They wake up beside each other in his downtown bachelor apartment and have sex that neither of them particularly enjoys. They’ve been sort-of dating for a while now, but they’re not willing to commit to each other: he likes her, but doesn’t know if he always will. She can’t decide if she likes him more or less than the other two guys she’s sleeping with.

He bikes to work at an advertising agency, where he uses his master’s in English to proofread ad copy, and spends several hours reading music blogs and watching movie trailers, periodically Twittering updates about his workday to his 74 followers. He doesn’t really hate his job, but feels as if his skin is crawling with vermin most of the time that he’s there, so he has a plan to move to Thailand, or to maybe write a book. Or go to law school.

At her government job, she instant messages her friends and mostly ignores the report she’s drafting because she’s planning on quitting anyway — and has been planning to quit for about a year now. She spends her lunch hour buying boots that cost slightly more than her rent, then immediately regrets it.

He listlessly works through lunch, then goes to the bar after work to meet up with some university friends, where they talk about their jobs and make ironic jokes about other people. Back at home, he wonders why he feels so gross and empty after spending time with them, but it’s mostly better than being alone.

She walks to the house that she shares with three friends and spends a few more hours on celebrity gossip websites, then clicking through the Facebook photos of girls she knew in high school posing with their husbands and babies, simultaneously judging them and feeling a deep pit of jealousy, and a strange kind of loss. “When did this happen for them?” she wonders.

They both eventually fall asleep, late and alone, each of them wondering what it is that’s wrong with them that they can’t quite seem to understand.

*****

Um, yeah.

The article goes on to plumb the depths of the issue, with lots of real-life testimonies to twenty-something angst, and includes various coping resources in web links at the bottom. Oy.

While the formal study of the "Quarterlife Crisis" is new, I do remember having one of those, at about... oh, 27. :) As I recall it was something about leaving a dead-end job & going completely broke, in order to simultaneously go back to school for a career change AND adopt a kid - a new daughter (the aforementioned J1). Now that was a crisis, a real beauty.

Honestly, I think human beings tend to go through cycles of crisis, averaging about 13 years apart. Maybe if we took the Biblical concept of sabbaticals (a one-year break after every six) more seriously, we could avoid these. But I think that we push through the sabbatical, and then we sort of.. crash, then take a "forced" sabbatical, in terms of a life crisis and then some change. So, plus or minus a few years, here's how it goes through life:

Age 0 - Beginning Of Life crisis.
Age 13 - ok, who doesn't have a crisis in Middle school?
Age 26 - college/committment/direction crisis (see above)
Age 39 - 'Yikes! Almost 40?!? Where did my youth go?' crisis.
Age 52 - Let's not discuss this one, okay? It's still painful. :(
Age 65 - Retirement Crisis. Yes/No? When? Where? How?
Age 78 - Rocking Chair Crisis. How to stay vital?
Age 91 - End Of Life Crisis. Get your house in order, bud.
Age 104 - 'Woah. I'm still here?' crisis.


See what I mean?

Skip the angst and the self-help links. Take a year off, clear your head. Move somewhere exotic. Or at least different. Like Toronto! Or in a pinch... Des Moines.

They don't write liner notes like this anymore

Just picked up from the library a CD reissue of Sinatra's 1967 collaboration with Jobim, the great Brazilian singer/songwriter and guitarist of Ipanema fame. I wondered... how the heck can this work? Very interesting to hear The Boss's phrasing on bossa nova tunes. Different; for him .. and for the tunes.

But the best part of the album was in print. The liner notes are vintage 1967 coolness. :)

****

It had begun like the World Soft Championships. The songs, mostly by Antonio Carlos Jobim. Tender melodies. Tender like a two-day, lobster-red Rio sunburn, so tender they’d scream agony if handled rough. Slap one of his fragile songs on the back with a couple of trumpets? Like washing crystal in a cement mixer.

Seemed like the whole idea was to out-hush each other. Decibels treated like daggers. The arranger tiptoeing about, eliminating some percussion here, ticks there, ridding every song of clicks, bings, bips, all things sharp. Doing it with fervor matched only by Her Majesty’s Silkworms.

And Sinatra makes a joke about all this. “I haven’t sung so soft since I had the laryngitis.” Singing so soft, if he sang any softer he’d have to be lying on his back.

Hours earlier, Sinatra & Co. moved into Studio One. Nobody much around except a couple of Rent-a-Cops. Sinatra there half an hour early, as never before. He begins running down the melody of the new songs. Softly whistling, smoothing away wrinkles.

The booth begins to fill up with gold cuff-links, Revlon red fake nails, Countess Mara ties.

Outside, through double-glass windows, musicians with black fiddle cases wander warily in, chatting about the weather in Boston, the governor in Berkeley, anything but pizzicato. Along the studio walls, the wanderings of miscellaneous Brazilians in yachting caps and silver mustaches.

And then, casually, at eight, exactly eight, Sinatra looks over at the conductor and “Well let’s try one, huh?”

At first, it does not groove right. This is not ring-a-ding-ding. Sinatra mother-hens the session closely: “Let’s have an ‘A,’ huh?” as he snaps the orchestra. The “A” passes quickly around the infield: piano to strings to reeds.

They run through the song once. Then . . . pause. Long. Long. Like standing there while the Judge opens up the verdict envelope. The arranger-conductor, not made of asbestos, sensitive in his position, there between Jobim and Sinatra, looking over at Sinatra, worrying “Tempo?”

“No, it’s a good tempo. It’s the only way you can do it. You have to hang with it.” Sinatra’s assurance: there is only one tempo for this song; any other tempo would be wrong. Have been, are, and forever shall be wrong.

One more exploration of the song, to catch more wrinkles. Sinatra himself, at a rough spot in the bridge, stops cold. Long. Long. He points to himself as the culprit. “That was an old Chesterfield that just came up on me. Around 1947, it felt like.”

You feel for anybody who will blow it on the next take. It begins. The long, long. About a minute and a half in, then the trombonist braaacks a note. Braaack. That obvious. He can’t look over at some other trombonist; he’s the only trombonist. So he sits there, a blutch-colored felt hat sagged across the bell of his horn, hung there to keep it Soft. Poor Trombone Player knows: his music said B and it came out F and Jesus was it wrong.

Sinatra looks over. “Don’t sweat it,” he says. The trombonist tries a joke back: “If I blow any softer, it’ll hafta come out the back of my neck.” Next to Jobim perches Jobim’s personal drummer, a Brazilian who can look simultaneously alert and stoned. Flew in to Hollywood specially for this, but not from Rio. From Chicago, figure that out. “Soft, son, hold it down.” A bronze- colored sofa pillow slumps back against his bass drum.

This drummer, named Dom-Um Romao, looking like he should be selling weird rugs and Arab doorways. Looking like a tricky one, Martha. Between takes, the way he keeps the tips of his fingers warm under his armpits. His arms crossed that way, the fuzzy goatee, looking like a road company Buddhist.

In contrast, the Conductor, a German. Claus Ogerman, speaking always Germanic phrasing. “Yes the introduction, I will slow down each time the fourth beat.” There in his blue cardigan sweater, fully buttoned. So starched even his sweaters have creases.

The buzzing continues, with grey-templed producer Sonny Burke conferring on last-minute scoring changes, standing by with vats of oil lest troubled waters rise. To the side, Jobim’s goateed producer, Ray Gilbert, soothing softly in Portuguese. On the next number, Jobim will sing duet with Sinatra. “Tone,” as Sinatra calls him, bends in close to his microphone. His hair undressed, finger combed. His jaw moving with precision, moving to each new vowel, his lips moving like yours do when you write a check for over $1000.

The slight and tousled boy-man, speaking softly while about him rushes a world too fast. Antonio, troubled not by the clamour in the world. Troubled more by the whisperings from his heart. The song’s last note. Keep quiet until the cymbal stops ringing. Dead quiet. Only Sinatra, a born peeker, can’t wait. He liked that take. He bends over, peeking into the control booth, unwilling to wait for the endless cymbal overhang to end. Peeking in at the engineers, as if daring them to reveal any Electronic Irreverances. They reveal none.

“That,” says Sinatra, “should be the record.”

During playback, Sinatra leans on the conductor’s vacant podium. The only parts of him you see just popped white cuffs and worry lines in his brow. He’s Worry personified, like he’s in the last reel of “The Greatest Birth Ever Given.” Around him circle the rest. The circle, too, listens to the playback.

Grown men do not cry. They instead put on faces gauged to be intent. They too listen hard, as if half way through someone whispers buried treasure clues. It’s over. Sinatra walks away. “Next tune,” he says.

Around him, the circle. Half-stammering, half-silent, because they can’t think up a phrase of praise that’s truly the topper.

Except for Jobim. He walks up to Sinatra. A peculiar walk, like he’s got gum on one sole. He puts his arm around Sinatra. He hugs Sinatra. Both men smile. Jobim turns out to look at the circle around them. His face alight, proud of his singer. His face triumphant. As if to say "And all along, you thought he was Italian."

--STAN CORNYN

What's a few weeks, anyway?

Back in the early 70's, the CCM artist Andre' Crouch had a song the lyrics to which I memorized. It was about waiting patiently for the return of Christ to "take us home" (based loosely on John 14:1-3). The thrust of it was this: when life gets hard and you long for Paradise, adjust your perspective on time. The lyric went

count the years as months
count the months as weeks
count the weeks as days...
any day now, we'll be going home!

So this morning when I saw this headline on the NPR website, that lyric came flying back:

Unemployed Keep Busy As Weeks Become Months

As of today, the four weeks of February have turned into one month of unemployment for me. One. Feels so much longer than that (and it may well yet be). So, time to adopt the flexible time scale again... and sure enough...

any day now, I'll be back to work.

Buono Fortuna

Yesterday, sitting in the sunny Bethel dining hall on a spring-y afternoon, swilling soda/pop (goes by either name around here) and doing a little recreational reading ("Coop" by Michael Perry), suddenly I got the munchies.

There was a bowl of fortune cookies at the end of the chow line, so I scooped a few, refilled my glass with Diet Dew, and went back to my book. But before I dove back into another story about growing up on a dairy farm and watching the artificial inseminator guy from American Breeders Society perform his craft like a "combination science exhibit and freak show on wheels", I thought I'd pop open my fortunes.

Because, see, if I were to start eating cookies and then read another line about how the cows looked as they're being inseminated (apparently they would pause in their cud-chewing, "kinda freezing in a 'hunh?' sorta pose, their eyes would bulge a tad, about like yours would at the point of realizing your taxes were due yesterday...") undoubtedly I'd laugh so hard cookie bits would come out my nose. Unpleasant thought, that.

So.. cookie number one, let's have it. Give it up.

Your nature is intense, magnetic and passionate.

Woah. Myers-Briggs, look out. Cookie here is pretty good!

Number two, step up. What you got?

You tend to be contemplative and analytical by nature.

Yo! What up, cookies? How you be findin' me like this, bro?

(Honorable Cookie-San is now 5 for 5 on personality trait discovery. Gettin' creepy, here.)

Dare I ask you now, cookie three? What? What?

It's okay to slow down and smell the roses.

Aww... now that's timely. Especially since pretty much all I'm doing these days is slowing... and smelling...

John Mayer

"When you get to the top, you have to renegotiate with your dreams."

----- John Mayer

Well, he's made it to the top, he should know. And I do, too, in my own way. He talked last night at the end of the concert about getting to the point where he exceeded his own expectations, accomplished more than he set out to do, and then... didn't know what to do next.

I get that, John. For me that happened in 1999-2000, and for the last 10 years I've been negotiating with my dreams (and with everyone else in my life). I think I've reached an uneasy agreement with them now, and am working toward laying hands on the next set of dreams, but.. how can you really know until you get there? As he said last night, to move ahead from being on top... and to feel the wind in your face again... you have to go down for a while before you turn it back upwards again. Just... stop that downward run in time. :)

So last night... we went down to go up! In the parking ramp, I mean.



And up was... way up. Nosebleed section, rail seats. Yikes!



This time of year the Xcel Center is a hockey stadium. How you can see the puck from up here, I can't imagine.



Eventually the place filled up.



But I was surprised how sparse it still was for the opening act, Michael Franti and Spearhead. He's a talented guy, with a diverse style ranging from hip-hop to reggae to retro soul - and the tunes are pretty melodic throughout.



Regardless, they sure went nuts for Mayer. Groupies galore, and the whole place seemed to know the lyrics. (yeah, me, too..) You know they're fans when a song's first three chords make them erupt. :)



And while it was not exactly the U2 show in Chicago, it was still pretty fun. The guy is a remarkable guitarist as well. He could play blues alongside B.B.King and not be embarrassed. On the acoustic ballads he could share the stage with James Taylor and hold his own.



So, John.. thanks for the show.. and for the philosophy lesson.
I'm with ya, bud.

lamb

.


pale morning sunshine
grows to warm the frozen earth
slowly melting snow


.


what a string of beautiful days. sunny, mid-thirties...

a lion at the end of the month, you say?... naaah.

Coffee or Tea?

An otherwise difficult weekend got a lot more interesting and hopeful this afternoon. I went to an organizing meeting for the local chapter of The Coffee Party. In case you haven't heard of it, I have a feeling you will. I saw an article Saturday in the local paper that wire services had picked up from Thursday's Washington Post.

From there I found their Facebook page, and then that of the local chapter, which was just getting started today, and so... I went! Nothing like being in on the ground floor of a movement.

To give you a feel of what it's about, this is the little description on the local chapter's Facebook page :

The Coffee Party Movement gives voice to Americans who want to see cooperation in government. We recognize that the federal government is not the enemy of the people, but the expression of our collective will. Truly an American blend, the Coffee Party Movement is not a new political party - it's a new way to engage with one another. We are commited to democracy, cooperation, and civility.

And today, I found that to be very true. There was no attempt to adopt particular positions on issues, no desire to support particular candidates. There WAS an attempt at dialogue. There were progressives and populists, conservatives and liberals, politicians and non-voters, twenty-somethings and sixty-somethings around the table, sharing stories and ideas.... all with civility and respect. I've been feeling for quite some time that our civil discourse in this country is far from civil anymore; it has devolved into shouting and name-calling and labeling, with no attempt to understand another view than your own. And sad to say, people of faith are often the worst offenders.

Maybe today that starts to change. I, for one, plan to help.

Me and Stephen Bishop

While reading H. Boer's Pentecost and Mission in the coffee shop the other day, I heard an oldie wafting in from speakers in the ceiling somewhere, interrupting my critical investigation of the so-called Great Commission and its effect on Missiology in Bible times vs today. So maybe I needed a mental break! :)

The singer and song seemed like they came from a time and place long ago and far away (the 70's, to be precise), but it was also a snippet of present reality for me.

A piece of his lyric caught me when I had first heard it, back in the day, and it still catches in my throat if I ever try to sing along:

So he takes a ladder

Steals the stars from the sky

Puts on Sinatra and starts to cry

On and on he just keeps on trying

And he smiles when he feels like crying

On and on, on and on, on and on...

Yeah. Me, too.

Poetry on the hoof

The City of St. Paul has several "public art" projects. One of them involves stamping short poems into fresh concrete as sidewalks are replaced. They've done over a hundred of these around town, according to the website.

And now they've issued a call for local poets to submit more for the upcoming construction season. Hmm... awfully hard to resist. :)

You're limited to 10 lines, 40 characters each, 250 characters total, and.. family-friendly content.

Winners will be announced on May Day. We'll see, I guess, if I get immortalized in cement, my words happily trodden underfoot.

My submission? A haiku, of course. :)

ambulating verse

strolling through the neighborhood

haiku underfoot

Fish Fry Police

Dey used to have 'em in M'waukee, dere, don't ya know?

You really had to be elusive to avoid being caught eating something "normal" on a Friday night. There was such a fetish about it, too - trying to find the ideal fish fry experience. You'd critique the batter, the selection, the portion size, the availability of seconds, the side items, the beverage, the wait times, and of course the price. Atmosphere was definitely secondary. I mean, what can you expect at a KC Hall or VFW post, anyway?

Where they really need fish fry police is in California. J1 sent me this pic on her cell the other day. You must be kidding!




A Filet-O-Fish at McDonalds may qualify for fish fry in California, but.. ha. Here, we catch our own sitting out on the frozen lakes.



So last Friday, we went to St. Odelia's parish for fish. It was the first of the season, and much like when Julie Mancuso is first down the hill in the Super-G with a decent time, the first clean fish fry run becomes the standard to beat for all the other parishes.

Baked and battered were both available, and each were nicely done, with minimal line length, and pretty prompt refills when the chafing dishes went empty. Side items were steamed green beans devoid of all seasoning, cole slaw that was a tad sweet, and au gratin potatoes (a highlight). Water and coffee at the tables in the school cafeteria, and grade school students serving cookies and clearing plates. A very nice atmosphere, and only $8/person, including seconds on fish and dessert! Wow. Heck of a deal.

The other parishes will need a clean run and a fast time to catch St. Odelia's for a place on the medal platform at the Fish Fry Games.

Just burn it.

Spent part of the day yesterday at Lakewood Memorial Park, metaphorically checking out places to bury this half-dead career of mine. I mean, it's on life-support as it is. On days like this I feel like just putting it out of its misery.

Well, actually, I ostensibly went there for the artwork in the chapel. It was something I never had time to do when I was working, as it was only open during the workday. So... why not, right? Might as well take advantage of my forced idleness.



I'd read about it in the local paper as being a beautiful restoration of Charles Lamb's Byzantine mosaic style designs. And beautiful it is.



There are four key figures in each corner of the chapel. This one is Memory, which in the context of honoring the departed, is elevated to the status of a virtue. And a pensively beautiful one, at that.



The others, of course, are Faith, Hope and Love.






The only creepy part was that in the basement of the chapel



by the colombarium, where they have marble niches to place urns,



is the crematorium, with a pair of side-by-side ovens.



Oooh, make me extra-crispy, please. It reminded me of that radical anti-materialist slogan from the early days of the Jesus Movement that we once used to remind ourselves not to get seduced by the world's allure: "hey, you know, it's all gonna burn!"



And so with this career of mine. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The only thing that we take from this life into eternity is the impact we've made on people. No walled offices, no awards, no titles, no possessions, period.

Worldly success fading? Youthful body decaying? Just burn it, man.

Ashes, ashes... I NEED to fall down...

A beautiful sunny day, today, a bit of a February thaw; enough that the dog prefers to lie out in the sun on the driveway than huddle in his kennel in the garage. And at the Ash Wednesday Mass today, I could feel a thaw beginning in my heart, too. In the Missal, there is an introductory paragraph to the readings and responses for each week, and I thought today's was really good:

Yesterday was not Lent. Today is. Our Catholic sacramental world-view, which for two thousand years has used visible realities to remind us of invisible ones, long ago sharpened the distinction between yesterday and today by filling yesterday with such festivals as Mardi Gras. The un-sacramental culture in which we live now fails to see the logic. Yesterday the stock market closed at X, today it shall open at X, thence go up or down - one business day following another. The two days are separated by one night, nothing more. To appreciate and benefit from Ash Wednesday requires greater effort now than in a more sacramentally-minded era.

So why, when I do not feel a greater sinner today than yesterday, should I put on ashes today? Because Ash Wednesday - Lent - is meant to serve as a speed bump, forcing me to slow down, consider my spiritual state, and repent of my sins. May we embrace the opportunity this "different" day offers and take our ashes with full awareness of our need for them.

Lent: a speed bump in a drive-by culture; a "caution: slow down" sign in a fast-lived world. I need this time of considering my spiritual state. And this year, instead of giving up something for Lent.. I plan on adding something. Something positive, to enhance my communion with God.

(Side note: interesting that the post-modern generation coming up behind me is rediscovering Lent, as in this article. This is the generation that the same magazine refers to as the "irony" generation. If they're looking for real and lasting meaning outside of self.. I think they've come to the right place.)

downcast

.


dazed and confused
what didn't i understand
seemed to go so well


.



Well, it's a lesson. Don't set your heart on something that depends on somebody else's decision. :( Really, I thought that I hadn't done that, that I had been careful not to get my hopes up. But still, when the answer was "no", it was like a sucker punch right in the gut. I thought everything went great, but... the feeling wasn't reciprocated.

I had some pretty curt conversations with God this afternoon. Kind of along the lines of: "So was there a point to slapping me around like this emotionally? Are you going to need to do it some more for some reason? Why should I walk away with such a positive vibe and then have the door slammed in my face so abruptly? What point are you trying to make to me, exactly? That I'm completely out of touch, that I'm clueless and need waking up?" :( I was mad.

And the answer I heard back.. pretty clearly.. was just as curt. But perhaps with a kinder tone, as I might have expected from Him. He said (in my spirit):

Why should you be angry? Was it Me who raised your hopes inappropriately? You did that yourself, after you said that you wouldn't let it happen. You know very well that this is the process: you knock on doors, most don't answer, some might open, fewer invite you in, and normally only one asks you to stay. Haven't you been through this a dozen times or more? Why should you be angry?

Are you like Job? Do you demand from Me an explanation for what happens to you? Remember what he got from Me? He got a reminder of whose world this is... and it's not yours. You have said recently that you have a quiet trust in My providential grace. How about showing some of that trust?

Are you like Jonah? Do you quarrel with my methods, and object to the direction of My grace? Do you think you know better than Me? May I remind you to Whom you speak? I suggest you be silent.. and wait for Me. You will understand in the end what I am doing. Until then, live by faith.

Who is your favorite writer in the Scripture? Isn't it Solomon the wise? Recall what he said in Eccl 11:

"Give portions to seven, and also to eight,
For you do not know what evil will be on the earth.
[...]
As you do not know what is the way of the wind,
Or how the bones grow in the womb of her who is with child,
So you do not know the works of God who makes everything.
In the morning sow your seed,
And in the evening do not withhold your hand;
For you do not know which will prosper,
Either this or that,
Or whether both alike will be good."

Take a lesson from your grapevines. When some were eaten by animals and others were not, were you angry at Me? Especially when you took preventive measures only too late? Or were you grateful that some were spared? Then when one of those vines that was spared unexpectedly grew a few grapes a full year "too soon", which ripened well so that you could actually taste the fruit of your vines, were you angry with Me for being "off" on My timing, or did you rejoice in the little blessing I gave you?

Be still. Wait. I will rescue you. I will be kind to you.



Okay, okay... I spoke rashly, of things I do not understand. I'll give portions to seven, to eight... sow the seed, and wait for Your harvest. I'll remember the words of King David, my patron saint:

Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.

Stimulus Package? (updated 2/16)

mmm, this weekend, I hope! (in the form of a favorite activity in a favorite venue that I too seldom get to experience, as well as in exploring a potential solution to my present unemployment problem.)

Exciting times ahead in both college basketball, and my personal life! :)

Although, perhaps I should temper my expectations...

***************

I guess tempered expectations were in order after all. So much for mixing business and pleasure: none of the business part came to fruition. (sigh) Where's that first unemployment check? :(

Rome vs self vs Caesar

"A true self is a self under command. Thus I suggest that attention to the biblical processes of the self is crucial if we are to find [an] alternative to the increasingly dysfunctional and destructive modes of autonomy (without self-abandonment) and conformity (without self-assertion) that are so powerful all around us."

----- Walter Brueggeman, The Covenanted Self

The associate pastor on Sunday discussed the idea of a distinctive lifestyle that we as Christians are called to live out and demonstrate in our culture. The above quote which he referenced made me think of the discussions on self-differentiation that I had in SP501 last fall.

The pastor referred back to the nation of Israel, which was "authorized" by the Torah (the law of Moses) to live a life wholly distinct from the world around it, but at the same time without being detached from the world around it. Israel, he said, through the Torah, was summoned away from both the coerciveness of Pharaoh and the self-indulgence of Canaan.

In much the same way, the early church was authorized by Jesus (and Paul) to live a life free from the coerciveness of Caesar and the self-indulgence of Rome. It was supposed to resist bowing the knee to Caesar in matters of moral authority and faith, but at the same time not use that religious freedom as a license for obstruction in civil matters or laxity in moral matters.

I think we have the same challenge today. We have pressure to conform to the expectations of the society around us, whether it's complying with the current version of political correctness, or supporting through our taxes programs that we find morally repugnant, in order to preserve societal harmony.

At the same time we are encouraged to "do our own thing", "find our own truth", and "be all we want to be", as if the people around us don't matter, and we can somehow be free from moral responsibility toward our neighbor.

Self-differentiation, in the church or as an individual, means that you hold the principles of autonomy and conformity in tension. You balance them. You consider yourself as free from coercion, while being careful to not needlessly give offense. You hold your ground when need be, and you also yield when need be.

Balance: it's hard to come by. Self-differentiation, as a person or as a community, is hard work. But it's also what God calls us to. We (I!) shouldn't avoid the effort it takes to live it out.

Keeping busy

is not so simple when you don't have to be at work. I've gotten so used to a certain routine, I feel sort of adrift. It's not like "vacation", either, because it isn't time off that I've chosen. I don't want vacation. I want to do something productive, something that someone values enough to pay me well for doing.

But at least I can use the time to do some things that need doing regardless, like prepping for my first exam in NT501, and then writing my first paper there as well. Later this week I'll do something that will feel appropriately like vacation, when I head SE to see a college BB game, per prior plans. But before then, and after, I need to do something useful.

And it might as well be for school, right? Eventually that Masters degree will produce something useful. Like a new career. One that has less frustration (and gaps) in it than this one seems to.

sinusoidal

.


mood oscillation
excited then discouraged
flatten out the wave


.

They're Dropping Like Flies

The job opportunities, that is.

And that's what they do. That is the process. You cast your net wide, but not too wide. You see what's out there that makes good and logical sense, what's in the realm of probability. You interact, you test, you assess, you filter. Both you... and the companies.

It's a bit like free agency in sports, I think. When you first become a free agent, there are lots of possibilities. Over time, the possibilities get narrowed down to the teams that are truly interested in you. You may or may not be interested in them. But your preferred teams (or cities) may not have a spot for you. So, because you want to keep playing, you talk seriously with those who are serious about you, desirable situations or not. Maybe late in the process some new team you like will enter the picture and make an offer at the last minute. But you deal with the ones who are currently talking to you.

The "weeding out" process is natural. And this week, it seemed like a lot of that happened. The number of active job opportunities dropped sharply. So, I continue to talk to those who are expressing some interest. Any kind of interest.

Later in the process, if nothing "reasonable" comes to fruition, and nothing new surfaces, you'll start to think: "gee, maybe I need to go down to the minors (baseball), or the Canadian league (football), or the European league (basketball), or to semipro (hockey), just to keep playing. I need a paycheck!"

And for me, that might mean considering the East Coast or West Coast, regions I've told my agent (er, excuse me, recruiter) not to explore. Yet.

'cause, hey, even though it's only for one more day, I'm still under contract in the majors. It's not yet time to consider playing in Japan. Toronto.. maybe. :)

Farrar/Gibbard & The Music of Kerouac's Big Sur

This show didn't get postponed or cancelled, at least. And good thing, because it was great! You might wonder, like I did, how well two "front men" (Farrar with Son Volt, and Gibbard with Death Cab for Cutie) would do together. Would they compete for attention? Would their voices clash? Would their styles be in opposition?



No, no, and no. :) They were great together, complementing one another. And they sort of met in the middle stylistically.

Good music, well-performed, and a seamless show. (including the opener, Sera Cahoone, a Seattle singer-songwriter with an "understated Neko Case" style that fed easily into the main act. Picked up her CD at the merch table for 10 bucks. Very nice.)






Farrar and Gibbard's music was from their recent CD "One Fast Move or I'm Gone", which is sort of a soundtrack album to a book (or at least a movie adaptation that hasn't been made yet): "Big Sur", by Jack Kerouac.


After having read it in December in preparation for this concert, I'd have to say that they hit the mark. The songs fit the book.


The only drawback to the show was being in line really early in the freezing cold, but not quite early enough to get a decent table with a sight line to the stage. :(

So we settled in at one right across from my favorite bartender's station. I hadn't been there at a show for several months, and he still remembered my order! :) That's the kind of guy I tip really well.



Fortunately we brought a deck of cards to pass the time, and several people walked by and asked what we were playing. One guy recognized the game as Spite & Malice, and took a picture to send to his girlfriend (they play a lot, apparently), who had to miss the show. Aww..






The Varsity had done quite a bit of remodeling since I was last there, and completely reworked the bathrooms upstairs to be sort of along the lines of their quirky business partner, the Loring Pasta Bar. The individual bathroom stalls had a fun and creepy old castle feel to them,



and the hygiene station was cool looking.

Despite the cold, a nice night out all around.

One week left

... of employment. It's an odd mixture of relief, fear, loss and calm.

Since my business unit got sold off last Fall, the fit for me in the new role has not been the best. It's felt awkward, so there's some relief there that the square peg / round hole thing is almost over.

The fear part and loss part are probably obvious, right? :(

But the calm part is different - and good. Last time, I needed intervention on several fronts to deal with the fear and loss, just to be able to hang on. Now, not so much. I have a quiet confidence in God's providential grace toward me, and am able to rest in that pretty well. :)

It helps to have been through this a few times, and to have seen God's hand at work in getting me through it and out the other side. Plus, having an end in sight to the Master's degree program helps as well. One more job, a few more years, and...

I can kiss corporate america goodbye.

Maybe I'll skip the kiss part.

Poopsicles

My aging dog has developed several disorders. Or at least I think of them that way. One of them involves flatulence, which isn't pleasant! I'm lighting matches several times a day now. Nasty. He never used to do this as a young dog. I think he's getting old and dealing with digestive problems or sphincter control or some such malady. Watch, next he'll become incontinent. Can't wait for that to start.

It is sort of funny, though. He sleeps most of the day, and sometimes during a deep sleep he'll lift his head, dazed & startled, and sure enough in about 30 seconds I can smell why. He actually farts himself awake! Naturally I sleep right through such things (apparently.) But then, I'm not as old as he is, either. He's about 80 in dog-years. This dog is getting perilously close to the doggie equivalent of hospice. (don't ask - it involves injected chemicals.)

And then to top it off, with the onset of sub-zero temperatures he has developed a seasonal habit of eating frozen poop. Big piles of it. Naturally his breath smells like... you guessed it. He has always loved to raid wastebaskets and eat snotty kleenexes, which is gross enough. But poopsicles?

AAAH.. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?

Apparently this phenomenon is not unique to Devil Dog, either. There is actually an animal behaviorist (?) who wrote an online article about it. Maybe when it's frozen, the odors are not so off-putting, and the texture is more like a biscuit. Treats! Eww.

It's just gross. Don't be trying to lick me now, mutt-face. I know where your mouth has been.

At least he's not a paranoid schizophrenic, like this dog. Apparently everyone's after his bone - even his own hind foot.

If only my dog could develop some kind of endearing talent. Like.. singing along to Gwen Stefani. Or.. just convincing me he's not stupid.

Nooooo. He has to eat poopsicles.

transition

.


current job winds down
let go without checking out
earn that last paycheck


.

Lame Duck

I sort of know how an elected official feels when they have not been re-elected, but their term hasn't quite ended, and their replacement hasn't yet been sworn in. They still have stuff they need to attend to, but nobody cares much.

Two more weeks to go here until my last day, and this particular duck feels pretty lame.

Quack. :(

Let the Word teach

Today it was my turn to be the "Proclaimer of the Word" (i.e. the lector) at St. Rose's, and I drew two really looooong passages, Nehemiah 8, and I Cor 12 (almost the whole chapter of each.)

The old worship leader mentality comes out in me, and I'm a little worried about how much time these are going to take, and how long the congregation's attention span is for lengthy readings like these.

In the sacristy, I'm warming up and getting my dynamics and pauses down, and I notice that there is a "short version" of the I Corinthians passage available to read in the lectionary. Fr. Fitz was right there, so I ask him which he would prefer, and he says: "oh, just read the whole thing! Let the Word teach."

Yeah, man. I like it. That's a priestly attitude I can admire.

And then, halfway through his homily, he comes over and grabs the book from me and rereads a line from Nehemiah about the people listening ATTENTIVELY when Ezra read to them the words of the Law. He teases the congregation about giving him the same attention, then brings the book back and gives me a wink. :)

Funny guy, Fr. Fitz. I like him. He also sings at the top of his voice. All the time. On pitch or not. ;)

After Mass, the head usher pulls me aside and says... "very well done." Aww.. :) Thanks! Every time I get to serve as Lector and proclaim the Word, I feel privileged. It's an honor to be in the procession holding the Gospel high, and I want to read the Word in such a way that the faithful in the pews are engaged in it. They seemed to be today.

Thanks be to God.

Feeling a bit stressed

Well, yeah, maybe not quite THIS stressed. But stressed nonetheless.

No matter how many times I've been through the upheaval of a job change and related relocation, and know the process intimately (including the delays, the uncertainty, the rising and falling of hopes), familiarity doesn't quite take away the stress.

I'd like to think I'm all Zen about it now, but not quite. All right, yes, I'm doing better than this guy (the mash-up artist known as Girl Talk), but... not all that much!




By the way... Girl Talk reminds me way too much of Frank Silva, the guy who played the psycho-killer Bob on the 1990 TV series and subsequent movie Twin Peaks. Creepy show and creepy character. And it's the main reason I can't listen to Girl Talk's music. Really! The guy's face just creeps me out.

Brain Development, Learning and Librarians

Last week I heard a fascinating MPR radio program on brain development, which seems pretty true to human nature, including differences in male/female brains, and young/old brains. Apparently young brains reach a point at around 12-13 (the traditional "coming of age" in the Jewish community) where they stop adding new neural pathways and begin to prune them back. From then on, the brain concentrates on fewer circuits, making them more efficient. We make life choices, build expertise.

Peak efficiency in brains occurs in mid-life (late 40s), with some decline beginning after this. (But remember, the decline is from mid-life peak, so maybe by retirement one is back down to the efficiency levels of where you were in your 20s.) And depending on the stimuli, even older brains can still improve. This is supported by another recent study showing that older adults doing heavy internet searches had significant measurable growth in the portions of the brain responsible for cognitive processing.

Then this cartoon made me think of the impact on all of us, older and younger, of the Amazon Kindle (though which device I have sold a whole 12 copies of my e-book of poetry), and the burgeoning capacity and shrinking size of electronic storage media. With more and more print media moving to digital storage, what will the librarians of the future do, exactly?

I have a feeling that they will manage electronic databases of items that were originally in printed form, for one. Last night for a paper in NT501, I searched ATLA (hosted by EBSCO), which is a database of theological literature, including articles from scholarly peer-reviewed journals. Full-text versions of the articles were often available in .pdf form right on site, and others had links to full-text versions hosted elsewhere, so one wouldn't have to borrow the actual hard copy from a library. I would imagine in years to come, the print versions of journals will become outmoded altogether, as an analog generation dies off and a digital one takes its place. I wonder.. did librarians ever really think of themselves as database managers?

Maybe so, if that's what the card catalog was - a 3x5 paper database. I suppose that's what librarians have always been; it's only in the last 20-30 years that their database has been in electronic form.

One way or another... I plan to keep pace with them. ;)

If you gotta go...

... you may as well pick where, right?

Given that my current company thinks I should relocate to KC, and I ... don't think so ... it would behoove me to see if there are alternatives, yes?

With the help of my trusty recruiter friend, one interview (phone-screen AND in-person) is under my belt. Thanks, Martin Luther King, Jr., for a very handy day off! At this point, I'll keep the precise locations visited to myself, but for now, let's just say it's a picturesque smaller city in the upper Midwest.

Using a kitchen metaphor, it's nice to have one opportunity in the oven and cooking, while I look at others. Having been through this many times before, the "cook time" varies widely, and only rarely do you have multiple dishes ready to be served simultaneously. Also, it's rare that you have more food than you need at the end. Many of the recipes don't turn out at all, or are missing ingredients, etc.

In the meantime, the paycheck is still coming, though for how much longer... who knows?

Cancelled

Just when I was in dire need of a fun night out, this was the sight that greeted us at the venue when we pulled up. :(



Apparently the cancellation was last-minute, as the music critic in Friday's paper was raving about how cool the concert would be tonight, so the media didn't know about it, either. Oh well. Maybe it will still be cool on May 6. That is, if I'm still here. :/



While I was staring dumbly at the sign, a guy came up to me, looked at the sign and shrieked "I flew in all the way from Salt Lake City for this gig!" Woh. I shouldn't feel bad, I guess. We could adjust plans mid-stride, and thanks to cell phone internet, determine on the way out of Dinkytown which movie theatre had the best showing times for "The Book of Eli". Denzel filled in admirably for Low. ;)

So, just like in all of life, you adapt to the circumstances you're handed, right? Job cancelled unexpectedly? Adapt. Change course mid-stride. Use the tools at your disposal and act decisively. You may yet find something worth doing.

And while adapting, some parts of life go on as is. Like studying at Caribou today, for NT501: Gospels. That, at least, felt normal.

At least we had a party

... before we had to move again. :(

It was great to have the entire extended family under our roof at Christmas. And living here has certianly produced a goodly number of visitors in a short time. Not to mention making progress at school, and on debt retirement, etc.

Arghh. Just when it was getting comfortable.

The only upside to a move is ... it really IS cold here.

Warning, slippery working conditions ahead!

Driving to KC today for a couple of days of meetings, and normally I'd be concerned about winter driving conditions. It actually looks like it will be pretty good out there in that respect. I'm more worried about the conditions I'll find when I get to the office. :(

Corporate America has struck again. New boss, new rules.

And the new rules this time involve no more working remotely. They are pulling the plug on the teleworking arrangement, and want me to work out of the KC office starting in early Feb. Yikes! Not much time to even think about all the issues involved in a non-funded relocation, much less show up there and be effective!

Guess I'll be checking out furnished rooms on Craigslist, and seeing if my NT501 professor will work with me on this out-of-town thing (class starts Thursday night.) It's too late to drop the class, so... I'm stuck. In more ways than one. :(

More to come on this all-too-familiar predicament. Yuk.

ultimatum

.


relocate or leave
when you're a human "resource"
no one needs to care


.



Re: last post

my fear list? - a couple of them just happened.
my truth list? - all reinforced. both bad and good.
my hopes list? - just got less likely. again.

Um, God? This was supposed to be an exercise... not a call for proof! :(

Well, then.

So a couple of posts back I talked about this 3-question approach to preparing for the future - three questions to ask yourself: what you fear, what you know to be true, what's the best you can hope for.

Sunday afternoon I gave that a whirl. Woh. Difficult stuff.



The fear list is short, but significant and persistent.

The truth list is long, but split between positive & negative.

The hope-for list is long, but mostly near-term changes (< 5 yrs).
Not much hoped-for out there on the far horizon.

Hm.

I suppose if you don't have hopes that reach out beyond 5 years, it might be that you simply don't think that far ahead. Or... that when you do look that far ahead, there's very little out there that seems hope-ful. You know, "Here Be Dragons" and all that.

Also, it was interesting to see, for an introvert who values autonomy highly, just where relationships figured in all this. The answer:
heavily. In every list.

Hm.

Tedium creeps near

... on little sock feet, thinking I won't notice its approach.

Ha. I know what's coming. I know very well.

What with the excitement of a boatload (a houseful, rather) of relatives here for the holidays, the sweetness of real vacation, the luxurious idleness of going to movies and watching football & parades on TV, finishing my recreational reading (marvelous), tedium thinks it can sneak up on me, unnoticed. Oh, no, you don't!

After the time off comes the inevitable logging on to my work PC and checking of email. Ugh. Back to work this week. Back to school next. Back to deadlines and every spare minute spoken for. Tedium will be here any minute now, I know.

It's a long time until summer.

Facing the Future

Yesterday in the local paper, the film critic had a little comment that almost slipped past me. It was about some advice he got once on how to prepare for the future. I looked at it several times, and ... it's really good. Here it is, gentle reader:

1) Ask yourself what you fear.

2) Ask yourself what you know to be true.

3) Ask yourself what is the best you can possibly hope for.



Hm. Kinda scary. Kinda real.

This is not some pat formulaic advice. Instead it opens you to consider some things, and then ... leaves you to figure out the rest.

I'm going to add this to my monthly (okay, annual) self-examination checklist. :) And today is a good day to give it a test drive.

entering

.


possibilities
opportunities abound
we can be hopeful


.