dun dun dun dundundun dun
dun dun dun dundundun dun
Under pressure. Great, great bass line. Great description of the life of a goaltender. NPR released a radiolab piece on goalkeeping the other day, chronically all the great figures who have played in goal, and their respective traumas and broken dreams. Albert Camus claimed it was where he learned his greatest lessons. When your sporting activity of choice leads to a philosophy focused on clinging to small joys in the midst of a life largely mired in sadness you really ought to reconsider your priorities.
Goaltending, for me, takes most of its appeal from two sources: pressure and self-reliance. The former demands an incredible level of intellectual focus. When I stand between the sticks every moment could become mine, or none, and so I crouch and stare and wait, wound like a spring. Every opposing touch on the ball is a threat, especially in the indoor game, and my current venture into futsal puts even more emphasis here. The field is small enough that a shot could come at any second from any angle. A single slip by a teammate and the ball is lost, less than a second from the back of my net. And it is my net.
Ownership comes from that sense of standing alone. The rest of the team may casually refer to the goal as “ours” but the keeper knows it belongs to him and him alone. When the ball reaches him no one else matters; he will make a play or he will not and no one will bail him out. The radiolab piece chronicled many great goaltending blunders and the keeper’s subsequent repudiation over a single mistake, magnified beyond all reason by the position of the mistake-maker. Every other player has a back-up or a partner. Even when a clear scoring chance goes awry there is hope to make it up later. Asamoah Gyan’s missed stoppage-time penalty at the last World Cup is the closest I can come to a truly irredeemable goof, and even he was able to bury another try five minutes later in the shootout. Gyan was hugged and held and praised for his bravery after the match ended his team‘s run. England keeper Robert Green? He blew one save in the first match of the tournament and yet bore the brunt of criticism for a pitiful performance by his entire team, a team made up almost exclusively of fabulously wealthy, better-known field players. The goalie’s greatest moments are forgotten, his errors immortalized, and in this regard he is alone. No one else faces such a fool’s gamble. The best the goalie can hope for is the grim satisfaction of a clean sheet, free from blemish and forgotten.
Camus was right, though, about the brilliance of little joys in a dark world. Goalies get little credit even when they are at their best, yet the bright moments they do find shine all the brighter for it. They belong solely to the man in the gloves, a tiny victory won by dint of his own ability and no one else’s. Yes, the defense helps, but when a shot comes on goal it comes because of their lapse. Each save is precisely that: a saving action on behalf of a largely impassive team. When enough of those saving actions are strung together the goalie can single-handedly preserve a game his team fully deserves to lose. If he can somehow be flawless for the full ninety minutes, if he can make the miraculous stop at the right moment, he alone can stymie ten superior opponents unaided. He can become a rock, a wall, an impervious force of nature. In that moment light breaks in and the world comes fantastically alive.
No one else needs to see that light. His teammates may see only a good game. To them a perfect day by the man in the back is merely a stroke of luck. His opponents will see only a source of frustration. To them he is an intruder, unfairly ruining an otherwise beautiful game they ought by right to win. To the spectators he is the same, either surprise bit of fortune or symbol of bad luck. None of it matters; the light is for him alone. No one but another keeper need ever know it’s there and so, ironically, it is often the opposing goalie whose praise matters most. Whether hero or goat his handshake is the one I cherish at game’s end. My teammates are great and all but he knows my world and its harshness, its wonder before the gloaming, and has stood in both the darkness and the light. All who face the same direction as me are my teammates and I appreciate them. All who stand apart, marked by a different-colored shirt, are my brothers. It is to them that my heart goes out.
Sleep tight, Robert Green, and may Camus visit you with lovely dreams of the absurd and the sublimely beautiful.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Day 30: Babysitting
I have had occasion to co-babysit a couple of times over the past two weeks and I must say I am not ready to have kids just yet. I truly do enjoy them but do they ever eat up your time and energy. Great for an evening, not something I want to build my daily life around just yet. Even so, it was a good reminder of how sad it is to go through life never interacting with anyone younger than eighteen.
It is way to easy for me to walk around Portland and only see adults. Few of my friends have kids at this point and it strikes me as a major anomaly in human society to see this kind of segmentation. Have there been other cultures where one could go this long without taking some part in raising or teaching kids?
I want to write more on this, and better, but I have to work. Sorry I have fallen off after a month of diligence here. I intend to get back to it starting now!
It is way to easy for me to walk around Portland and only see adults. Few of my friends have kids at this point and it strikes me as a major anomaly in human society to see this kind of segmentation. Have there been other cultures where one could go this long without taking some part in raising or teaching kids?
I want to write more on this, and better, but I have to work. Sorry I have fallen off after a month of diligence here. I intend to get back to it starting now!
Friday, April 8, 2011
Day 29: Death Story
Woo, unfinished story! Seriously, the endings I tried were so melodramatic they'd embarrass a ninth-grader named "Raven."
The Death of old was last seen in the lobby, looking worried. Her lack of facial features made this quite an accomplishment but when what passes for your face hides perpetually beneath a dark cloak you learn to make do with body language. When she was last spotted near the fountain at the Palms that body language consisted of pacing back and forth between the front desk and the valet, hood on a swivel, trying desperately to spot something. Or, more likely, someone.
Death could track anyone on her list to any point in existence with simple thought. No physical barricade could slow her, no religious ritual stop her, no emotional plea sway her. She was a force, elemental, and even the gods showed her respect. Her normal path followed her ever-updating list exclusively and, as such, she was at something of a loss when forced now to track someone who had no need of her kiss. So she paced the lobby and tried to ignore the stares and restless feeling welling up inside.
John’s friend Kat succumbed to a lengthy battle with a rare parasite two weeks earlier on an extended vacation in Chile. Death met her in an ICU bed in Santiago and she went quietly on to the next place. John had been visiting her when she turned for the worse and stayed over an extra couple days to be with her at the hospital. Death had met many such men and women in her travels, sitting vigil in their sterile little rooms, but John had been different. When Death took Kat he did not sob or freeze, just paused, smiled, brushed back a tear, and seemed to look right at Death as if to say go on, it’s okay. I know you’re just doing your job. Please don’t mind me. Death was touched, and she’d followed John back to Kat’s home and watched him pack up her things to send back to her parents. She loved him just then.
Over the next two weeks she’d followed John when she could, stopping in at Kat’s now empty residence and following him from there into the city. His visa had time on it and he was in no hurry to return and face his friends and their questions about Kat. Still, he was beatific, and beautiful, and Death found herself wanting to know more about him each day. John, for his part, could feel her presence but seemed not to mind. This too was unique and Death began to imagine that maybe John really was different. Different enough to reveal herself to him. Different enough to see her. To love her.
That was it. Death had witnessed a million grieving widows, ten million parents lost in a flood of sorrow over a child taken “too soon,” (though Death knew there was no such thing), and while no single instance changed her the slow accumulation was beginning to show its effects. She wanted to feel like that herself, and to find someone who might feel back. She had no delusions of romantic sentiments being exchanged but, maybe, just maybe, she could find a friend. A friend like John.
When John left for the airport on his way back to Baltimore Death followed. She had no address for him, no way to find him back again if he wasn‘t on her list, and she was terrified of losing the connection she felt. When John’s flight redirected to Charleston, and did not take off again due to a bad engine, he was forced to spend the night in a hotel and wait for the next morning’s game of stand-by. Death was ready for him, but not for his sudden decision to rent a car and drive home through the night. She was away on business when he made the decision. Now he was nowhere to be found and so she paced, back and forth across the lobby, hoping he was still about, that he had stopped off for dinner in the hotel bar first, or forgotten his phone charger, or, or, anything, just not this. Not this.
The Death of old was last seen in the lobby, looking worried. Her lack of facial features made this quite an accomplishment but when what passes for your face hides perpetually beneath a dark cloak you learn to make do with body language. When she was last spotted near the fountain at the Palms that body language consisted of pacing back and forth between the front desk and the valet, hood on a swivel, trying desperately to spot something. Or, more likely, someone.
Death could track anyone on her list to any point in existence with simple thought. No physical barricade could slow her, no religious ritual stop her, no emotional plea sway her. She was a force, elemental, and even the gods showed her respect. Her normal path followed her ever-updating list exclusively and, as such, she was at something of a loss when forced now to track someone who had no need of her kiss. So she paced the lobby and tried to ignore the stares and restless feeling welling up inside.
John’s friend Kat succumbed to a lengthy battle with a rare parasite two weeks earlier on an extended vacation in Chile. Death met her in an ICU bed in Santiago and she went quietly on to the next place. John had been visiting her when she turned for the worse and stayed over an extra couple days to be with her at the hospital. Death had met many such men and women in her travels, sitting vigil in their sterile little rooms, but John had been different. When Death took Kat he did not sob or freeze, just paused, smiled, brushed back a tear, and seemed to look right at Death as if to say go on, it’s okay. I know you’re just doing your job. Please don’t mind me. Death was touched, and she’d followed John back to Kat’s home and watched him pack up her things to send back to her parents. She loved him just then.
Over the next two weeks she’d followed John when she could, stopping in at Kat’s now empty residence and following him from there into the city. His visa had time on it and he was in no hurry to return and face his friends and their questions about Kat. Still, he was beatific, and beautiful, and Death found herself wanting to know more about him each day. John, for his part, could feel her presence but seemed not to mind. This too was unique and Death began to imagine that maybe John really was different. Different enough to reveal herself to him. Different enough to see her. To love her.
That was it. Death had witnessed a million grieving widows, ten million parents lost in a flood of sorrow over a child taken “too soon,” (though Death knew there was no such thing), and while no single instance changed her the slow accumulation was beginning to show its effects. She wanted to feel like that herself, and to find someone who might feel back. She had no delusions of romantic sentiments being exchanged but, maybe, just maybe, she could find a friend. A friend like John.
When John left for the airport on his way back to Baltimore Death followed. She had no address for him, no way to find him back again if he wasn‘t on her list, and she was terrified of losing the connection she felt. When John’s flight redirected to Charleston, and did not take off again due to a bad engine, he was forced to spend the night in a hotel and wait for the next morning’s game of stand-by. Death was ready for him, but not for his sudden decision to rent a car and drive home through the night. She was away on business when he made the decision. Now he was nowhere to be found and so she paced, back and forth across the lobby, hoping he was still about, that he had stopped off for dinner in the hotel bar first, or forgotten his phone charger, or, or, anything, just not this. Not this.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Day 28: Grammar
A confession: I proofread my text messages.
Another: I will judge yours if you don’t.
I’m pretty sure this is a character fault. Many people write well and take pride in their own clarity of communication without needing to judge a friend who has just been so kind as to “invite u out fr beers 2nite!” Yet here I sit, quietly offended that this individual, who was kind enough to invite me out for good company and might even offer to buy the first round, did not think enough of me to take the time to check her spelling. Is there a less gracious response? Well, yes, but not by much.
I am a Dutch Midwesterner. I was raised among people who do things in good order and mind their P’s and Q’s. When someone fails to live up to the expectations I set for myself I invariably take note and attribute a cause. Maybe they weren’t raised to know better. Maybe they’re lazy. Maybe the just don’t care about me. This is narcissism writ small.
I will try to show you grace, world, since you seem to be moving away from formal rules and careful prose. I will miss the old ways and attempt to keep them alive in my own work and perhaps in the ways I teach my children. I ask in return for your greater grace, that you might forgive this madness inside of me.
Another: I will judge yours if you don’t.
I’m pretty sure this is a character fault. Many people write well and take pride in their own clarity of communication without needing to judge a friend who has just been so kind as to “invite u out fr beers 2nite!” Yet here I sit, quietly offended that this individual, who was kind enough to invite me out for good company and might even offer to buy the first round, did not think enough of me to take the time to check her spelling. Is there a less gracious response? Well, yes, but not by much.
I am a Dutch Midwesterner. I was raised among people who do things in good order and mind their P’s and Q’s. When someone fails to live up to the expectations I set for myself I invariably take note and attribute a cause. Maybe they weren’t raised to know better. Maybe they’re lazy. Maybe the just don’t care about me. This is narcissism writ small.
I will try to show you grace, world, since you seem to be moving away from formal rules and careful prose. I will miss the old ways and attempt to keep them alive in my own work and perhaps in the ways I teach my children. I ask in return for your greater grace, that you might forgive this madness inside of me.
Day 27: Food
Over the years I have come to love the art of cooking. Human beings have very few true, physical needs: air, water, food and shelter come to mind. A little heat to warm the shelter, maybe, but that’s about it. There is not much room for creativity there. Air is plentiful and free and pretty close to the same everywhere. Even when we catch a new note, the cleanliness of a mountain breeze or the dampness of a Midwestern summer, we quickly become accustomed to the new wrinkle. Each breath subdues the magic a little more until it’s just one more thing to take for granted. Water is the same; we can dress it up, but as soon as it becomes more than water I start to lump it in with food. Beer straddles this line nicely.
Shelter offers a little more variety. Here we can try something different, if we have the means, dressing up our surroundings with color and shape. Each home has its own architecture, in most neighborhoods, or else an apartment complex at least has its own layout, different from that of one’s friends or families. Within each our design can really take hold. Every item placed changes the environment and art and light complete it. Even our homes, though, soon become common to their residents. Another’s home might still surprise us on each visit but our own quickly becomes taken for granted.
Food is another story. Every meal is made anew, every dish a chance to add in some wrinkle, some variation on an old theme. Food is like music that way. Some prefer to play the old standards and play them right. Others like to throw in a new note, or bend an old one, each time through. Either way every meal is an act of creation. It’s the closest most of us will come to daily art short of taking on a forty-day writing challenge.
My cooking tends towards new challenges. I don’t have a ready audience most nights so when I do I try to make the meal something special. Somehow “special” has morphed in my brain to mean “brand new” and the challenge is on. This is great. Each new dish is a battle to try and achieve a vision of what the meal should be. I am a rampant perfectionist in this area, but it’s not out of a need to be right. Rather, I simply want to get better, to learn the art at a deeper level, and to do my guests the honor of something wondrous. And it is wondrous, this act of giving another person energy and life. It’s stunning that we so casually pass off this duty to the drive-through workers of our land. There are times when such quick and convenient fare is fine but there is still something about making that contract, an agreement to let someone else’s cheap calories enter your own body, and that sits ill with me.
Maybe that’s just the Taco Bell.
Shelter offers a little more variety. Here we can try something different, if we have the means, dressing up our surroundings with color and shape. Each home has its own architecture, in most neighborhoods, or else an apartment complex at least has its own layout, different from that of one’s friends or families. Within each our design can really take hold. Every item placed changes the environment and art and light complete it. Even our homes, though, soon become common to their residents. Another’s home might still surprise us on each visit but our own quickly becomes taken for granted.
Food is another story. Every meal is made anew, every dish a chance to add in some wrinkle, some variation on an old theme. Food is like music that way. Some prefer to play the old standards and play them right. Others like to throw in a new note, or bend an old one, each time through. Either way every meal is an act of creation. It’s the closest most of us will come to daily art short of taking on a forty-day writing challenge.
My cooking tends towards new challenges. I don’t have a ready audience most nights so when I do I try to make the meal something special. Somehow “special” has morphed in my brain to mean “brand new” and the challenge is on. This is great. Each new dish is a battle to try and achieve a vision of what the meal should be. I am a rampant perfectionist in this area, but it’s not out of a need to be right. Rather, I simply want to get better, to learn the art at a deeper level, and to do my guests the honor of something wondrous. And it is wondrous, this act of giving another person energy and life. It’s stunning that we so casually pass off this duty to the drive-through workers of our land. There are times when such quick and convenient fare is fine but there is still something about making that contract, an agreement to let someone else’s cheap calories enter your own body, and that sits ill with me.
Maybe that’s just the Taco Bell.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Day 26: Somebody Ate a Bug
I watched a teenager for whom I was responsible eat an ant today. The situation was simple. Ants were on the counter. Someone found one in his soup. I joked that they were a great source of protein and that I’d heard they tasted like nuts. So another young man looked at me, at the ants, back at me, then promptly grabbed/smeared a couple of them on his finger and ate them. He confusedly said, in a low voice, that they just tasted salty. Then he returned to his own soup.
For the record, I am not in any way grossed out by the concept of eating insects (the practice may be another matter) because many, many human cultures do it. I’m not worried about this young man’s health as a result of eating a couple smushed ants. I am, however, worried about my own judgment in suggesting it. I should not turn thirty any time soon and you should definitely not entrust your children to my care.
Unless, of course, you come from an insectivore community. Just pack your own lunch- the ants here are way too salty.
For the record, I am not in any way grossed out by the concept of eating insects (the practice may be another matter) because many, many human cultures do it. I’m not worried about this young man’s health as a result of eating a couple smushed ants. I am, however, worried about my own judgment in suggesting it. I should not turn thirty any time soon and you should definitely not entrust your children to my care.
Unless, of course, you come from an insectivore community. Just pack your own lunch- the ants here are way too salty.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Day 25: Thirty
Today is my college roommate’s thirtieth birthday. How did this happen? Nothing feels different yet I keep hearing that it is.
I’m not really sure how much aging actually happens after twenty-three. Up until that point I was highly developmental, a beta-testing adult with too little common sense. I might still lack common sense at times but I no longer feel like I’m changing much, at least not on the inside. Most of my friends seemed to plateau around the same point a few years back. Thirty is supposed to be a big deal but I’m not altogether sure why, other than it makes one consider how quickly the remaining years might fly by. True, responsibilities pile up over the years, and people get entrenched in careers and patterns and parenting, but I no longer see much shift in my friends’ personalities. I am not sure how to feel about this.
Are we boring?
I’m not really sure how much aging actually happens after twenty-three. Up until that point I was highly developmental, a beta-testing adult with too little common sense. I might still lack common sense at times but I no longer feel like I’m changing much, at least not on the inside. Most of my friends seemed to plateau around the same point a few years back. Thirty is supposed to be a big deal but I’m not altogether sure why, other than it makes one consider how quickly the remaining years might fly by. True, responsibilities pile up over the years, and people get entrenched in careers and patterns and parenting, but I no longer see much shift in my friends’ personalities. I am not sure how to feel about this.
Are we boring?
Friday, April 1, 2011
Day 24: April First Shopping List
Once upon a time a humble man set out to shed light on all the beautiful merchandise creative Christian artisans offer to the holy: Saint Sebastian pincushion? Stick away, he just gets holier! A bachelor’s degree in submissive homemaking? Get my future daughter on that waiting list today! Bible verse poker chips? Conversion is a sure bet! It’s been a few years and a flood of new wonders are available to the earnest, pious person. Let’s take a look.
In Soviet Russia, Jesus Monopolizes YOU!
Tired of splitting time between teaching your little one the twin virtues of Christianity and an unfettered free market? Lament no more, Russian Jesus Monopoly is here! Any good conservative could have seen this coming. Once the commies bowed out and sacred capitalism stepped in religious freedom was sure to follow. Buy, sell or steal all ten commandments (especially number eight) and you win! Just avoid getting mired on one of the seven deadly sin spaces; you might be able to seduce your opponent into trading that seventh commandment but it’ll be all for naught if you lose your next three turns while trapped in lust! Jesus Monopoly: the most coveted game in all Novgorod!
Chocolate-Flavored Tulip, Anyone?
I’m a little late to this party but could not help but point out these glorious John Calvin chocolates in the hope that they might bless us all with a second coming. Who among us hasn’t lamented the lack of high-class sweets made according to theological principles? Chocolatier Blaise Poyet, for one! Snickers might satisfy hunger but it will never inspire proper meditation on the character of divine transcendence. Per Poyet, the first layer is a classic, smooth and runny praline mix…
"…but we have 'reformed' it, by using crunchy caramelised hazelnuts, and using salt from the Swiss Alps to make the praline slightly savoury. The second layer uses a ‘chocolate Grand Cru from Bolivia’, made from 68 percent cocoa paste, to represent Calvin's theology of the glory and perfection of God.
"…it is undeniable that in (Calvin’s) actions, he demonstrated exceptional tenderness, So we have used a caramel made from Swiss cream that that slightly softens the chocolate to represent in a discreet way this love for one's neighbour."
Calvin’s 500th anniversary may be long past but it’s nice to know his sweet, sweet doctrine of limited atonement lives on. Calvin chocolates: they’re totally depraved!
Love Hurts
Finally, this lovely tool takes the sacred doctrine of “spare the rod, spoil the child” to heart. (It’s in the Bible somewhere, I swear! In…Hezekiah, or something) Anyway, the Proverbs Paddle is the perfect tool to help your little one on the path to salvation, much as a cattle prod keeps a wandering bovine running down the chute towards Javier Bardem’s special little tool. Spanking is always painful (that’s the point!) but one glance over her shaking shoulder will surely show sassy little Susie that you swat out of the love of Jesus. The little fish says this punishment is holy! Order your Proverbs Paddle today and be ready next time your beloved covenant child cheats at Jesus Monopoly or sneaks a reformed chocolate before dinner. The Proverbs Paddle: it can’t be beat!
Tired of splitting time between teaching your little one the twin virtues of Christianity and an unfettered free market? Lament no more, Russian Jesus Monopoly is here! Any good conservative could have seen this coming. Once the commies bowed out and sacred capitalism stepped in religious freedom was sure to follow. Buy, sell or steal all ten commandments (especially number eight) and you win! Just avoid getting mired on one of the seven deadly sin spaces; you might be able to seduce your opponent into trading that seventh commandment but it’ll be all for naught if you lose your next three turns while trapped in lust! Jesus Monopoly: the most coveted game in all Novgorod!
I’m a little late to this party but could not help but point out these glorious John Calvin chocolates in the hope that they might bless us all with a second coming. Who among us hasn’t lamented the lack of high-class sweets made according to theological principles? Chocolatier Blaise Poyet, for one! Snickers might satisfy hunger but it will never inspire proper meditation on the character of divine transcendence. Per Poyet, the first layer is a classic, smooth and runny praline mix…
"…but we have 'reformed' it, by using crunchy caramelised hazelnuts, and using salt from the Swiss Alps to make the praline slightly savoury. The second layer uses a ‘chocolate Grand Cru from Bolivia’, made from 68 percent cocoa paste, to represent Calvin's theology of the glory and perfection of God.
"…it is undeniable that in (Calvin’s) actions, he demonstrated exceptional tenderness, So we have used a caramel made from Swiss cream that that slightly softens the chocolate to represent in a discreet way this love for one's neighbour."
Calvin’s 500th anniversary may be long past but it’s nice to know his sweet, sweet doctrine of limited atonement lives on. Calvin chocolates: they’re totally depraved!
Love Hurts
Finally, this lovely tool takes the sacred doctrine of “spare the rod, spoil the child” to heart. (It’s in the Bible somewhere, I swear! In…Hezekiah, or something) Anyway, the Proverbs Paddle is the perfect tool to help your little one on the path to salvation, much as a cattle prod keeps a wandering bovine running down the chute towards Javier Bardem’s special little tool. Spanking is always painful (that’s the point!) but one glance over her shaking shoulder will surely show sassy little Susie that you swat out of the love of Jesus. The little fish says this punishment is holy! Order your Proverbs Paddle today and be ready next time your beloved covenant child cheats at Jesus Monopoly or sneaks a reformed chocolate before dinner. The Proverbs Paddle: it can’t be beat!
Day 22: Time Skip
Whoops, forgot to post this on Wednesday!
Day 22: Time Skip
…tick tock tick tock tick tick…
Dear reader, I come to you with a final record of my most strange life, to what end I know not, but take it for the warning and the testament it is.
I’m not sure how I became trapped in this cycle. Time has warped and I am caught up in a skipping record reality where the seconds no longer proceed in orderly fashion. Each moment follows the next in a jerky, two-steps-forward-one-step-back dance of madness. Moment. Following moment. Repeat second moment. It’s disorienting to say the least. New moment. Double moment. I think they’ll lock me up sooner than later.
…tick tock tick tock tick tick…
When the loop first started I assumed I was nuts, or dreaming. I waited it out, assumed eventually things would, I don’t know, reset. There’s no reason for anything like this to ever happen so surely it could not last. If only.
I got used to the rhythm. I adapted. Learned to speak (to speak) in time with (with) my madness (-ness). I stopped using long words because they carried across the skip and were too difficult to enunciate across in the gaps. I followed the careful meter of the time skip and tried my best to blend my words seamlessly through the breaks. I grew a little quieter each day and my friends argued whenever I left the room about whether I’d had a stroke.
…tick tock tick tock tick tick…
Once I accepted the permanence of my situation I became hopeful. I could do this! I simply needed to follow the pattern and smooth out my interactions. I grew steadily worse instead. I lost track of the cycle and repeated words, dropped words, lost interest and just started ignoring people. The more I accepted the herky-jerky dance of the seconds the further away the temporal-normative world became.
I stopped caring and started playing with my extra seconds, screaming obscenity only to gloss over it a moment later. You look LIKESHIT (very nice) today, PRICK! (Justin). They only heard the echoes covering my secret game. Fools. I would listen ahead and jinx people on their phones at the grocery store over and over again. So I’ll be (-ll be) there at eight (EIGHT!) and bring (bring) the pasta (PASTA!) They thought I was a street performer, or nuts, but mostly just annoying on a previously unimagined level.
…tick tock tick tock tick tick…
At some point life with others no longer mattered to me. The skips were far less noticeable sitting alone in a quiet room reading a book or meditating. Running was okay, very rhythmic, as was dancing if I could find a song with the perfect meter. Beyond that I could not be bothered. My family worried, but what I care? They no longer existed in the same universe. Now I’m signinging off. I’m done. Going away to own happy place. You can still find me at home but don’t expect thing. I’ve been given this gift for a reason and I intend to find out what it is is. Enjoy yourstatic world, your nice flow of momentmoment greeting moment. Stay sane. Maybe we’ll meet again another time…
Day 22: Time Skip
…tick tock tick tock tick tick…
Dear reader, I come to you with a final record of my most strange life, to what end I know not, but take it for the warning and the testament it is.
I’m not sure how I became trapped in this cycle. Time has warped and I am caught up in a skipping record reality where the seconds no longer proceed in orderly fashion. Each moment follows the next in a jerky, two-steps-forward-one-step-back dance of madness. Moment. Following moment. Repeat second moment. It’s disorienting to say the least. New moment. Double moment. I think they’ll lock me up sooner than later.
…tick tock tick tock tick tick…
When the loop first started I assumed I was nuts, or dreaming. I waited it out, assumed eventually things would, I don’t know, reset. There’s no reason for anything like this to ever happen so surely it could not last. If only.
I got used to the rhythm. I adapted. Learned to speak (to speak) in time with (with) my madness (-ness). I stopped using long words because they carried across the skip and were too difficult to enunciate across in the gaps. I followed the careful meter of the time skip and tried my best to blend my words seamlessly through the breaks. I grew a little quieter each day and my friends argued whenever I left the room about whether I’d had a stroke.
…tick tock tick tock tick tick…
Once I accepted the permanence of my situation I became hopeful. I could do this! I simply needed to follow the pattern and smooth out my interactions. I grew steadily worse instead. I lost track of the cycle and repeated words, dropped words, lost interest and just started ignoring people. The more I accepted the herky-jerky dance of the seconds the further away the temporal-normative world became.
I stopped caring and started playing with my extra seconds, screaming obscenity only to gloss over it a moment later. You look LIKESHIT (very nice) today, PRICK! (Justin). They only heard the echoes covering my secret game. Fools. I would listen ahead and jinx people on their phones at the grocery store over and over again. So I’ll be (-ll be) there at eight (EIGHT!) and bring (bring) the pasta (PASTA!) They thought I was a street performer, or nuts, but mostly just annoying on a previously unimagined level.
…tick tock tick tock tick tick…
At some point life with others no longer mattered to me. The skips were far less noticeable sitting alone in a quiet room reading a book or meditating. Running was okay, very rhythmic, as was dancing if I could find a song with the perfect meter. Beyond that I could not be bothered. My family worried, but what I care? They no longer existed in the same universe. Now I’m signinging off. I’m done. Going away to own happy place. You can still find me at home but don’t expect thing. I’ve been given this gift for a reason and I intend to find out what it is is. Enjoy your
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Day 23: Opening Day
Baseball’s back! A new season dawns and every team and every fan brims with hope. I miss this game on lazy days. Baseball is not something I generally seek out outside of opening day and the playoffs but I will never turn away from it either. Few games are as pleasant, as good of background material, as baseball. That’s not why I love the game, though. I love the game because of Ernie Harwell and a little radio I received when I was about seven years old. That’s a guess. I can’t remember the year, or the occasion, but I remember that radio like it was yesterday. It was a something-something-something SUPERRADIO, a little box with a long antenna and one big speaker, with a one-inch tweeter nestled next to it. It found its home alongside my pillow and remained there for years, playing softly as I drifted off to sleep every night.
Is it odd for a elementary school kid to fall in love with talk radio? Probably. I was hooked into a call-in psychology program from the beginning. I don’t remember the name of the first host I began following but I do remember his voice and my outrage when he was phased out and Laura Schleschinger took his place. Perhaps this was the start of my own desire to pursue counseling, a drive that has followed me throughout the years since. Maybe it was a way to try to understand my dad’s profession. Most likely it was just something that appealed to my sensitive, intellectual little brain. I never would have found those programs, though, without baseball. The Tigers played on the same station all summer long and I tuned in every night they played. I followed the games as long as I could before sleep took over. I learned every player’s name and so much more besides. Baseball announcers have the time to share stories and insights other commentators don’t and Ernie Harwell’s narratives painted the sport for me in quiet, subtle hues. He never relied on bombast, or a catch phrase, or any gimmick to enliven his broadcasts. He just told the story of the game, both the game of the night and the game as he knew it across the years. Trips to Tigers’ Stadium (at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull!) may have been rare for our family but I was with the team every night regardless.
Today I’m catching a little of opening day between the Tigers and the always-formidable New York Yankees. The game is on a high definition television with a generic ESPN coverage team. They are excellent at their jobs but have no connection to me, nor to either team. They are professionals and will call any game they encounter. They can’t hold a candle to the local guys who follow one team and one team only, who get to know the players and the fans and tell their story every night. Three hours per game, 162 games a year- that’s time to tell a story. That’s what baseball is to me as much as anything. Not a sport. Not a pastime. A story, told slowly over time, and one that I could join each evening. Every night I could hear something new but I could also always drift off to sleep, knowing that tomorrow would bring another game and a new chapter.
Is it odd for a elementary school kid to fall in love with talk radio? Probably. I was hooked into a call-in psychology program from the beginning. I don’t remember the name of the first host I began following but I do remember his voice and my outrage when he was phased out and Laura Schleschinger took his place. Perhaps this was the start of my own desire to pursue counseling, a drive that has followed me throughout the years since. Maybe it was a way to try to understand my dad’s profession. Most likely it was just something that appealed to my sensitive, intellectual little brain. I never would have found those programs, though, without baseball. The Tigers played on the same station all summer long and I tuned in every night they played. I followed the games as long as I could before sleep took over. I learned every player’s name and so much more besides. Baseball announcers have the time to share stories and insights other commentators don’t and Ernie Harwell’s narratives painted the sport for me in quiet, subtle hues. He never relied on bombast, or a catch phrase, or any gimmick to enliven his broadcasts. He just told the story of the game, both the game of the night and the game as he knew it across the years. Trips to Tigers’ Stadium (at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull!) may have been rare for our family but I was with the team every night regardless.
Today I’m catching a little of opening day between the Tigers and the always-formidable New York Yankees. The game is on a high definition television with a generic ESPN coverage team. They are excellent at their jobs but have no connection to me, nor to either team. They are professionals and will call any game they encounter. They can’t hold a candle to the local guys who follow one team and one team only, who get to know the players and the fans and tell their story every night. Three hours per game, 162 games a year- that’s time to tell a story. That’s what baseball is to me as much as anything. Not a sport. Not a pastime. A story, told slowly over time, and one that I could join each evening. Every night I could hear something new but I could also always drift off to sleep, knowing that tomorrow would bring another game and a new chapter.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Day 21: Michael Jordan Is Dead!
Sorry for the absence, folks. I ran away to Washington for the weekend for a wedding and everyone knows that the Lent Ghost cannot follow you across state lines. It’s like vampires or Nazgul with running water in that way. I have been writing during the absence but it took the form of fifty different one-to-two-hundred word responses to paper proposals from my students. Blegh. Now I’m back and ready to resume writing for myself!
For today I simply have a quick public service announcement. On the radio this afternoon I heard a local broadcaster discussing the Portland Trailblazers. He was describing a particularly good game by new forward Gerald Wallace and made the emphatic point that Wallace was literally the reincarnation of Michael Jordan. He was very firm on the “literally” part, a not uncommon misuse of the word, but when combined with his application of reincarnation I simply must take a moment to bitch.
First off, reincarnation has many forms depending on your religious background. I’m assuming we’re talking primarily about the most commonly used Hindu concept. Regardless of what tradition your follow, all reincarnations require deincarnation first. Before a soul can enter a new body it must leave the old one behind. A quick check of wikipedia tells me that Michael Jordan is still very much alive, so dead as his eyes may look in all those Hanes commercials I think we can assume his soul still resides somewhere behind them. Furthermore, Wallace was born in 1982, when Jordan was only nineteen and still playing college ball at North Carolina. Thus his soul would have needed to leap to Wallace before it ever attained basketball superstardom.
Second, reincarnation typically involves some progression or regression. Some religions state that it is exceedingly rare for a human to be reborn a human immediately upon death. Those that allow for human-human transfers typically make clear some change in caste or situation. To suggest that Gerald Wallace secretly used to be another American-born NBA small forward also known for great athleticism and excellent defense alongside his offensive gifts, as in this case, is exceedingly unlikely. Wallace is even on pace to make about the same career earnings as Jordan, placing them in as near to identical socioeconomic circumstances as is possible in this country.
Finally, reincarnation involves a complete forgetting of the previous life. Loss of knowledge plus an entirely new body makes the odds of a soul happening to wind up in the top .0001% of athleticism twice in a row quite unlikely. Seriously, do the math- it’s not difficult. Reincarnation does not happen because a great athlete ought to get another go-around; reincarnation happens because he’s still full of desire for the things of this world and has not yet been able to break the cycle of death and rebirth that blinds him to the true nature of his eternal souls. It’s a clean slate to try once again for moksha and the last thing Jordan would need to get over his hypercompetitive desires.
I could go on but I think the dead horse is sufficiently beaten. Please, put religions you don’t understand away. Karma does not mean that if you are nice to a homeless woman a wealthy one will give you a car. The Koran is not just a Bible for Muslims. Christianity is not just Pat Robertson. Failure to recognize these things should earn you a (non-literal) foot in the butt.
For today I simply have a quick public service announcement. On the radio this afternoon I heard a local broadcaster discussing the Portland Trailblazers. He was describing a particularly good game by new forward Gerald Wallace and made the emphatic point that Wallace was literally the reincarnation of Michael Jordan. He was very firm on the “literally” part, a not uncommon misuse of the word, but when combined with his application of reincarnation I simply must take a moment to bitch.
First off, reincarnation has many forms depending on your religious background. I’m assuming we’re talking primarily about the most commonly used Hindu concept. Regardless of what tradition your follow, all reincarnations require deincarnation first. Before a soul can enter a new body it must leave the old one behind. A quick check of wikipedia tells me that Michael Jordan is still very much alive, so dead as his eyes may look in all those Hanes commercials I think we can assume his soul still resides somewhere behind them. Furthermore, Wallace was born in 1982, when Jordan was only nineteen and still playing college ball at North Carolina. Thus his soul would have needed to leap to Wallace before it ever attained basketball superstardom.
Second, reincarnation typically involves some progression or regression. Some religions state that it is exceedingly rare for a human to be reborn a human immediately upon death. Those that allow for human-human transfers typically make clear some change in caste or situation. To suggest that Gerald Wallace secretly used to be another American-born NBA small forward also known for great athleticism and excellent defense alongside his offensive gifts, as in this case, is exceedingly unlikely. Wallace is even on pace to make about the same career earnings as Jordan, placing them in as near to identical socioeconomic circumstances as is possible in this country.
Finally, reincarnation involves a complete forgetting of the previous life. Loss of knowledge plus an entirely new body makes the odds of a soul happening to wind up in the top .0001% of athleticism twice in a row quite unlikely. Seriously, do the math- it’s not difficult. Reincarnation does not happen because a great athlete ought to get another go-around; reincarnation happens because he’s still full of desire for the things of this world and has not yet been able to break the cycle of death and rebirth that blinds him to the true nature of his eternal souls. It’s a clean slate to try once again for moksha and the last thing Jordan would need to get over his hypercompetitive desires.
I could go on but I think the dead horse is sufficiently beaten. Please, put religions you don’t understand away. Karma does not mean that if you are nice to a homeless woman a wealthy one will give you a car. The Koran is not just a Bible for Muslims. Christianity is not just Pat Robertson. Failure to recognize these things should earn you a (non-literal) foot in the butt.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Day 16: Underdogs
What is it about the underdog that brings out such emotion in a sporting audience? I know it creates great drama when the archetypal David topples Goliath and surprises everyone but sheer unpredictability can’t be the whole story. The unexpected occurs all the time, and while it may capture our attention, it doesn’t inspire anyone to leap from the couch shrieking in delight over the actions of some complete stranger.
I assume a part of the underdog’s appeal is the desire to see something historic. When greatness reaches a certain level it becomes unprecedented and people wish to what‘s never been seen. Before his fall from grace Tiger Woods enjoyed this kind of support. We like to see firsts, and when that is joined with the feeling of backing and being linked to a winner it’s no surprise people get excited. Seeing an historic upset certainly might prey on those same emotions. Yet a 12-seed in the NCAA tournament beats a 5-seed every year, and even lower seeds pull of the big win with decent regularity. Why then is Morehead State winning a game this year, or VCU pulling off three straight small upsets, enough to delight us so?
I believe there must be something within all of us that worries there will always be someone better than us at whatever we do. We need to know that the unexpected can happen. That luck and pluck can combine to overcome innate gifts. That we might just come out on top after all. We want to believe that our fate is never sealed.
Watching Butler try to reprise last year’s magical run to the championship game (and it did feel, for lack of any other explanation, magical) I’m struck again by the hope that the little guy will pull off just one more big win. I cannot say why I feel this way, but somewhere deep down inside of me I do, and I know I am not the only one.
I assume a part of the underdog’s appeal is the desire to see something historic. When greatness reaches a certain level it becomes unprecedented and people wish to what‘s never been seen. Before his fall from grace Tiger Woods enjoyed this kind of support. We like to see firsts, and when that is joined with the feeling of backing and being linked to a winner it’s no surprise people get excited. Seeing an historic upset certainly might prey on those same emotions. Yet a 12-seed in the NCAA tournament beats a 5-seed every year, and even lower seeds pull of the big win with decent regularity. Why then is Morehead State winning a game this year, or VCU pulling off three straight small upsets, enough to delight us so?
I believe there must be something within all of us that worries there will always be someone better than us at whatever we do. We need to know that the unexpected can happen. That luck and pluck can combine to overcome innate gifts. That we might just come out on top after all. We want to believe that our fate is never sealed.
Watching Butler try to reprise last year’s magical run to the championship game (and it did feel, for lack of any other explanation, magical) I’m struck again by the hope that the little guy will pull off just one more big win. I cannot say why I feel this way, but somewhere deep down inside of me I do, and I know I am not the only one.
Day 15: The Gate
The gate stood open. He straightened and stared down the road beyond. Dust blew up and he squinted through it at the house beyond. Each step was one he’d taken a thousand times before but had avoided for sixteen years. His steps were heavier now.
The air tasted of rust. It always tasted of rust on the dusty road. His sister’s letters traveled down this road and brought him word of the family. He read them and put off writing back until he grew ashamed. Now he was back and she waited somewhere behind the door of the house in the distance.
The man carried a small bag. He could not stay long. He would say pay his respects and then the change in seasons would call him back to the mountains again. Each year took a little more effort to convince the tourists to part with their vacation dollars and he did not trust the shop to run without him. He was a man of some weight there and must return.
He stood at the door now. The sun was hot on his neck and his face cooled in the shade. He breathed the rust-air and prepared his words.
Not much to say here, just a stab at writing basic declarative sentences. I really need to start knowing where a story is going before I begin writing once in a while.
The air tasted of rust. It always tasted of rust on the dusty road. His sister’s letters traveled down this road and brought him word of the family. He read them and put off writing back until he grew ashamed. Now he was back and she waited somewhere behind the door of the house in the distance.
The man carried a small bag. He could not stay long. He would say pay his respects and then the change in seasons would call him back to the mountains again. Each year took a little more effort to convince the tourists to part with their vacation dollars and he did not trust the shop to run without him. He was a man of some weight there and must return.
He stood at the door now. The sun was hot on his neck and his face cooled in the shade. He breathed the rust-air and prepared his words.
Not much to say here, just a stab at writing basic declarative sentences. I really need to start knowing where a story is going before I begin writing once in a while.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Day 14: Grading Blues
Day 14: Grading
A note to all students, former students and potential future students: your professor is a biased, exhausted individual. He will do his best to give your work the time and care it deserves but the idea that all academic work is judged in the light of a perfect meritocratic system is an illusion. He is sorry. He wishes it were otherwise. Nothing happens in a vacuum, though, and he hopes you will accept his best effort.
Grading objective tests is easy. Check the “true” that ought to “false,” mark every “c” that should have been an “a” and you’re done! No questions, plenty of sleep. The world of essays and short answers is not so neat. I try to keep myself accountable by making up a list of what is necessary for different grades on a given question and how significant a given omission might be. Even that only takes me so far. The same essay read first or twenty-first may very well get a slightly different score. Is there a huge difference between 18/20 and 19/20? Perhaps not, but it bothers me to no end.
The author can be an even worse problem. There are some students I just want to give the benefit of the doubt. “Oh, she seems like she’s trying really, really hard. I think this is really good for her.” So patronizing. It’s far less common to react negatively to an individual and want to ding them unnecessarily but it doesn’t matter. Upping one student’s score unfairly makes the other’s look worse by comparison. In the end I have to flip over the corners and grade without even looking at names.
This is a terrible entry but it’s very late and my eyes are very tired. Good night to you all.
A note to all students, former students and potential future students: your professor is a biased, exhausted individual. He will do his best to give your work the time and care it deserves but the idea that all academic work is judged in the light of a perfect meritocratic system is an illusion. He is sorry. He wishes it were otherwise. Nothing happens in a vacuum, though, and he hopes you will accept his best effort.
Grading objective tests is easy. Check the “true” that ought to “false,” mark every “c” that should have been an “a” and you’re done! No questions, plenty of sleep. The world of essays and short answers is not so neat. I try to keep myself accountable by making up a list of what is necessary for different grades on a given question and how significant a given omission might be. Even that only takes me so far. The same essay read first or twenty-first may very well get a slightly different score. Is there a huge difference between 18/20 and 19/20? Perhaps not, but it bothers me to no end.
The author can be an even worse problem. There are some students I just want to give the benefit of the doubt. “Oh, she seems like she’s trying really, really hard. I think this is really good for her.” So patronizing. It’s far less common to react negatively to an individual and want to ding them unnecessarily but it doesn’t matter. Upping one student’s score unfairly makes the other’s look worse by comparison. In the end I have to flip over the corners and grade without even looking at names.
This is a terrible entry but it’s very late and my eyes are very tired. Good night to you all.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Day 13: Higgs Singlet
News broke from the Large Hadron Collider the other day that, theoretically, time travel can work. Not on any large scale, of course, because my dream of one day capturing and training an ankylosaurus, then riding it into battle at the head of a column of tanks to defeat Genghis Khan is simply too much to realize without tearing reality’s very fabric by its sheer awesomeness. Rather, the theory revolves around the (probably existent) Higgs singlet, a tiny particle that can jump through time in ways denied anything else we’ve yet encountered. If one could control this jumping (or not jumping) to a given place in the space-time continuum he or she could send messages back to anyone with the ability to monitor the singlets. Which the LHC can maybe do. Meaning we could, at any given moment, find a message from the future waiting for us, warning that aluminum actually causes more cancer than asbestos or that the Prius winds up wiping out humpback whales. It is highly, highly unlikely that this process could ever be mastered but nevertheless it’s pretty heady stuff.
I got to thinking about the possibilities. What would we want to warn people about in the past? Tragedies like the holocaust would certainly be high on anyone’s list of “things that need warnings,” as well any number of natural disasters, terrorist attacks, preventable diseases and the like. How many lives would have been saved if penicillin was discovered a thousand years earlier?
Two obvious issues then crop up. First, would anyone listen? This would seem easy enough to test. If those sending the messages still occupied a world where no one stopped Mussolini they might start adding in messages like “oh, by the way, the Yankees beat the Giants in the next two world series.” Instant credibility, though once the news is public does it ruin the result?
The other question is whether the hypothetical folk of the future ought to warn us of such things. There is the idea that, if God is all-powerful and supremely good, we must be living in the best of all possible worlds. Any less evil would violate humanity’s free will and lessen the wonder of, or potential for real good in, this existence. This is a tremendously unsatisfying position. Saving one more life from a deadly disease would negate even more good in the world? Please. One of my patients last fall came in to the hospital expecting to deliver a baby and left planning a funeral for a child she never met. All she wanted to know was why God, if he never intended her boy to live, couldn’t have just given her a miscarriage three months earlier. Would that not have been a sufficiently painful lesson? Why now, at the last possible moment? Some questions have no answers.
At what point would communication with the past begin to destroy life as we experience it? What becomes worthy of changing? Ignoring quandaries about changing the timeline, how would we decide where to draw the line? You start off trying to halt World War III, then decide to add in a little lesson about the environmental causes of autism. Then you warn about a hurricane. Then a tornado. Then the thunderstorm that just knocks out the power in a couple of counties in Illinois one night because, really, why not? That blackout was really inconvenient, so why not prevent it?
Regardless of what the Higgs singlet does or does not open up in the future I wonder about responsibilities that go beyond the “natural” capacities of human beings. I suppose each new technological leap occasions such wonderings but this one seems to go beyond any previous examples I can think of. If such a power were at our disposal could we ethically not use it? It’s a strange and new and frightening and wonderful world we are discovering. Let’s hope we’re worthy of it.
I got to thinking about the possibilities. What would we want to warn people about in the past? Tragedies like the holocaust would certainly be high on anyone’s list of “things that need warnings,” as well any number of natural disasters, terrorist attacks, preventable diseases and the like. How many lives would have been saved if penicillin was discovered a thousand years earlier?
Two obvious issues then crop up. First, would anyone listen? This would seem easy enough to test. If those sending the messages still occupied a world where no one stopped Mussolini they might start adding in messages like “oh, by the way, the Yankees beat the Giants in the next two world series.” Instant credibility, though once the news is public does it ruin the result?
The other question is whether the hypothetical folk of the future ought to warn us of such things. There is the idea that, if God is all-powerful and supremely good, we must be living in the best of all possible worlds. Any less evil would violate humanity’s free will and lessen the wonder of, or potential for real good in, this existence. This is a tremendously unsatisfying position. Saving one more life from a deadly disease would negate even more good in the world? Please. One of my patients last fall came in to the hospital expecting to deliver a baby and left planning a funeral for a child she never met. All she wanted to know was why God, if he never intended her boy to live, couldn’t have just given her a miscarriage three months earlier. Would that not have been a sufficiently painful lesson? Why now, at the last possible moment? Some questions have no answers.
At what point would communication with the past begin to destroy life as we experience it? What becomes worthy of changing? Ignoring quandaries about changing the timeline, how would we decide where to draw the line? You start off trying to halt World War III, then decide to add in a little lesson about the environmental causes of autism. Then you warn about a hurricane. Then a tornado. Then the thunderstorm that just knocks out the power in a couple of counties in Illinois one night because, really, why not? That blackout was really inconvenient, so why not prevent it?
Regardless of what the Higgs singlet does or does not open up in the future I wonder about responsibilities that go beyond the “natural” capacities of human beings. I suppose each new technological leap occasions such wonderings but this one seems to go beyond any previous examples I can think of. If such a power were at our disposal could we ethically not use it? It’s a strange and new and frightening and wonderful world we are discovering. Let’s hope we’re worthy of it.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Day 12: Angry Birds
I have never played the “Angry Birds” video game but I am assaulted almost daily by news tidbits concerning its record-breaking sales and cultural ubiquity. My entire exposure to the game itself was when Conan O’Brien constructed a live action version and shot giant balls painted like birds out of a eight-foot tall slingshot at Ikea furniture. Stuffed pigs were hiding in the furniture. Rather than continue to be on the outside of this apparently wonderful pop culture phenomenon I have decided to do a little research and solve the mystery behind the game and its origin once and for all.
In 1309 BCE Horgoth the Ample-Bottomed, overlord of the Terwastian swine hordes, ruled over all of what would become Livonia. Terwastia was a cold, dark place for much of the year yet produced perhaps the world’s most bountiful harvest in the space of its three-week summer. As a result the populace was in possession of far too much free time. Only so much of that time could be spent eating (“ample-bottomed” was a title that could really have been applied to even the meanest swine horde pauper) and so the razor-toothed hogs became known also for their cruel pastimes. Most modern practical joke archetypes actually evolved from these ancient pigs’ pranks. Where today’s college student might carefully balance a bucket of water atop a door to soak his unsuspecting roommate, Horgoth’s clan might booby-trap a sty door with marinade, then laugh as their victim was dragged off and eaten by golden eagles. Equally grim was the tradition of tying a sleeping hog’s tail to a post while he slept. A friend would then rouse him of a sudden, crying that he was late for class, and watch as the victim sprinted in a panic for the door only to tear the entire lower half of his body off at the waist (for everyone knows that a pig’s tail is wired directly to his lower vertebrae). His blood would form the mud bricks from which his burial monument would be constructed, as the hogs of Terwastia were never lacking in their misapprehension of irony.
Horgoth begat three sons, each fouler in stench and ampler in posterior mass than the last. Their formal names are long forgotten as none, not even their father, ever called them by any name suitable for recording in a proper history. Thus they have come to be known by modern scholars simply as !, *, and ~. !, the eldest son, was expected to carry himself always with the dignity of a lord and the grace of a dancer. Being Terwastian, most simply hoped that he would abstain from befouling his seat in the course of any given dinner party. These hopes were rarely realized. *, the middle son, was formally expected to learn the fine arts of diplomacy, management and subtle manipulation, the better to serve as his brother’s right hand. Again, most in Terwastia would have been delighted had he simply abstained from befouling their chair when they took their leave to visit the powder room during dinner and, again, few were ever so fortunate.
The youngest, ~, had only one expectation laid across his sweaty, filth-smeared shoulders. He was to carry on the royal family’s tradition as tetherball champions, a simple enough task given the clear implication that any who beat him faced swift death by marinade-and-eagle. Time and again, though, ~ failed to so much as show for his annual title-holder match against the best player in the land. After a few years it became increasingly difficult to invent loopholes to excuse his absence, so one day an enterprising tournament official had the idea to bring the tetherball poll to ~, bump the ball once off his expansive sleeping behind, and immediately declare the match over. ~ did the official one better by wheeling with surprising speed at the tetherball’s touch (though any speed at all would have been surprising in ~’s case) and promptly eating the ball itself. At this point it was decided that until ~ relinquished possession of the ball, in some manner or other, he would remain title-holder and the tetherball farce could be laid to rest.
As years drifted by !, * and ~ became restless. They slept twenty-three hours a day, ate dinner for forty-five minutes, but then fell to intolerable boredom for the remaining quarter-hour. They sought solace in many ways: ! tried his hand at lawn bowling. * once read a book. ~, however, opted for that most Terwastian hobby of practical humor. Even here he was not satisfied, though, as none responded to his barbs with anything beyond a grimace and “thank you, sir, may I have another?” The one target who could satisfy his lust for reaction was Horgoth. Thus it was that ~ began devoting each day’s quarter-hour of wakefulness to devising increasingly ludicrous means of torturing and humiliating his father. Only Horgoth’s incredible strength and stamina allowed him to survive the repeated assaults on his health, dignity and genitalia, and only ~’s incredible stable of whipping boys enabled him to avoid a swift beheading. This went on for many years.
Finally the day came when ~ had lost his final whipping boy to Horgoth’s guillotine. On this day ~ had a plan of which he was particularly proud. Hunting swine had been dispatched to capture live birds from every corner of the realm. These had been gathered atop a large hill overlooking the site of that day’s feast, a birthday party for some noblewoman, which Horgoth was obligated to attend. As he left the palace that morning Horgoth was startled, but not surprised, to receive a bucket to the head. Horgoth was grateful, however, that this bucket did not contain marinade, nor gravy, nor even melted butter, but tar. The sticky blackish goo did little to affect the generally slovenly appearance of a Terwastian overlord so he set off to the party in good spirits (though he did spare a few glances for the sky, lest tar be some heretofore unknown eagle delicacy).
When he arrived at the feast all rose to greet their monarch. It was at precisely this moment that ~ initiated phase two of his plan. By use of an unusually long and wide straw he began to blast birds in rapid succession towards the tar-spattered lord of the swine. With each impact a pointy beak pierced Horgoth’s thick hide and an explosion of feathers adhered to his enormous, now writhing buttocks. He was soon reduced to a howling, multi-colored spectacle, screaming and shaking his polychromatic posterior in a manner most unbecoming a dread lord of the hogs. All in attendance shook with the intense effort of holding back decades of laughter at ~’s antics, lest a slow and painful death be deemed to good for them, but it was of no use. Once the first titter escaped trembling lips the game was up and the whole Terwastia’s nobility roared as one at the plight of their fearsome head. ~ simply took his bow from atop the hill and slipped away to a well-deserved twenty-three hour nap.
What ~ did not realize at the time was that one of his birds, a particularly nasty grosbeak, had been sighted so squarely at the center of his father’s rear end that it actually came to rest neck-deep in a most undignified location, necessitating three days of delicate surgery to remove this most indelicate avian intruder. Horgoth was furious and demanded not one but three of ~’s whipping boys be summoned. Here he faced an unexpected dilemma. No suitable stand-in for his son’s misdeeds could be found, yet Horgoth could in no way do damage to his malevolent offspring himself. The court lawyer was summoned. After convincing him that the overlord was not, in fact, simply waiting for him to let his guard down before disemboweling him for his laughter at the feast he set to work looking for some means of sating Horgoth’s need for judgment that would avoid harm to ~. Three days later he returned to Horgoth with his verdict: the birds did it. The birds, he argued, were obviously intended to be shot skyward in a brilliant display of multihued fireworks to celebrate the noblewoman’s birthday. Only their perfidious avian nature prevented ~’s lovely gesture from going off without a hitch. Clearly the birds had turned on Horgoth as an act of war and they, the true culprits, must thus be brought to justice.
Six months of birdocide followed. Even innocent winged species of non-bird persuasions, bats and butterflies and flying fish, were not spared. All came to a head when a young member of Horgoth’s personal guard turned his ballista on a uniquely lovely swan and brought her, broken, to earth at the monarch’s feet. She was Faelywen, high priestess of the birds, come to parlay with Horgoth and determine the cause of this unprecedented violence. Her death became a rallying point for birds across Terwastia. From hummingbirds to condors, all took up the cry, and the birds, lacking weapons of their own, began assaulting the hogs the only way they knew how: with their bodies.
Thus did ~’s prank find its dark reflection in the near-constant menace of the skies. Suicide bird-bombers rained feathery destruction on any pig foolish enough to show his snout beneath the open expanse. Horgoth’s once-robust realm shriveled to a few caves beneath the earth and his people starved or capitulated to domestication, in the hopes that the watchfulness of human farmers might keep them safe from black eyes and sharpened beaks. Yet to this day no bird will pass up the chance to hurl her body from the heavens at the sight of an untended hog and no hog dares walk alone beneath those cruel skies.
Day 11: Coming Soon!
Yesterday's writing was done by hand after a puppet show and a couple cocktails. The result was a couple of the worst comics you are ever likely to encounter and will be posted when I have access to a scanner. You are NOT looking forward to these!
That is all.
That is all.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Day 10: Egypt and Joel
One of my students emailed me the other day with a couple links and a lot of concern over the recent conflict in Egypt. She was trying to put together a conversation about the goings-on there and found herself flummoxed by much of what she encountered on the internet. While the national news may have moved on to Libya Egypt remains in a state of turmoil and has become a target for Biblicists out to show connections between modern events and Old Testament prophecy. My student was concerned that much of what she read didn’t seem to jive with our in-class discussions of prophetic literature. Unfortunately, she did not know how to go about evaluating the often forceful arguments of these older scholars backed by big degrees and even bigger churches. So, though this may be a week late, please allow me a rejoinder. Someone needs to do it.
The conversation has largely focused on Joel 3:19, where the prophet speaks “Egypt shall become a desolation and Edom a desolate wilderness, because of the violence done to the people of Judah.” Many have pointed to this text as proof that Egypt’s current political unrest is in fact the wrath of God finally coming down on a nation of Israel-haters. Let’s look at that claim a little more closely.
Joel, like nearly all of the prophetic books, consists of a collection of speeches recorded from throughout the life of the prophet. These speeches were given at different times and in different places to different audiences. Rarely are we told the when, where, and why, so we must make our inferences from the text itself. The first part of Joel consists of a lengthy lament and call for deliverance from famine. Judah has lost her bounty and has become a laughingstock among the nations. Chapter three consists of four oracles spoken later about God’s response to his people’s suffering. These four speeches are directed against Judah’s enemies and pronounce judgment against them. But why?
Prophets in the Old Testament were not, as many suspect, primarily interested in predicting the distant future. Their audience was not concerned about events a thousand years from now nearly so much as they were about the events of their own lifetimes. They wanted to know that their children would be protected, not their twelve-times-great grandchildren. Given that, it’s strange to see so much prophecy devoted to other nations. Joel wasn’t speaking to Egyptians but Israelites. Why devote so much time to other nations when it’s folks in Jerusalem that need the word?
The first of oracle in chapter three is general. Joel is speaking to people just returned from exile to find Jerusalem, the holy dwelling of God with his people, in ruin. He proclaims punishment against all the unnamed enemies of Israel in general, in the metaphorical valley of Jehoshaphat (“God’s judgment”). The second oracle speaks specifically against the Philistines and the people of Tyre and Sidon, traditional enemies of Israel, and says that they tried to “pay back” Israel’s God but will instead be paid back themselves. The focus is on YHWH, the Lord, and his sovereignty. He alone judges, he alone pays back, and all nations must respect his law alone.
The third oracle returns to judgment against Israel’s enemies in general. Here again the oracle speaks about the nations but the message is for the grief-stricken people of Israel. YHWH promises to be their refuge, to dwell with and love them, and to supply for all their needs. The present may be bleak but the future is bright!
Finally we come to the last oracle and the threat to Egypt and Edom. Egypt had been Israel’s enemy for generations. The Egyptians shed innocent blood when they killed Josiah, Israel’s greatest king since David, and went to war against Israel countless other times. Edom is the new enemy, the current bane of the people, having joined in with Babylon in the destruction of Judah and Jerusalem. It’s worth noting that Judah was not innocent when attacked and exiled. They brought judgment upon themselves and Edom and Babylon were tools doing YHWH’s work. Still, Joel says, they will be punished nonetheless.
The crux of the judgment question comes down to the jurisdiction of God’s law. It is not limited to his people. Whether bound by the rule of the covenant or by the creator-creature relationship all people must answer to the Lord. Egypt, Edom, Philistia, Tyre and Sidon and countless unnamed others, God rules them all. He is sovereign. All the earth is his. It is on this basis that God’s people can rejoice in the positive message at the heart of these oracles: salvation.
The hallmark of a salvation oracle is dramatic reversals. Mountains are laid low while valleys are raised up. All that is fundamentally broken in the earth is fixed and shalom, YHWH’s lasting peace, can finally come. Those who once oppressed Israel and laughed at her suffering will face the same plague and desolation they mocked and God’s people will enjoy plenty. Israel is secure and her sorrow turned to dancing.
So how does this line up with events in the modern nation-state of Egypt? Joel sees famine and drought in her future; has the Nile dried up? Joel’s concern is Israel’s security. Is Egypt, of all the nations in the Middle East, the one most scary to a modern Jerusalem? Or God’s people in general? Is democratization punishment at all?
Trick questions. The point of Joel’s oracles isn’t any of this! His speech culminates not in verse 19 and its condemnation of Egypt and Edom but in verse 20 and its promise of security for God’s people. YHWH is not, first and foremost, in the revenge business. “The Lord dwells in Zion,” his home among his people, and that presence is the lasting message of Joel. The promise of a restored temple meant the restoration of that presence. That promise, that hope, was fulfilled permanently when, as John writes, the Word tabernacled among us in the incarnation. The temple is moot; God dwells wherever his people are, whether in Jerusalem, Cairo or Portland. Joel’s prophecy of renewed security came to Israel in the second temple era just as it came permanently to all people with the coming of his Son. Glory be to God!
The conversation has largely focused on Joel 3:19, where the prophet speaks “Egypt shall become a desolation and Edom a desolate wilderness, because of the violence done to the people of Judah.” Many have pointed to this text as proof that Egypt’s current political unrest is in fact the wrath of God finally coming down on a nation of Israel-haters. Let’s look at that claim a little more closely.
Joel, like nearly all of the prophetic books, consists of a collection of speeches recorded from throughout the life of the prophet. These speeches were given at different times and in different places to different audiences. Rarely are we told the when, where, and why, so we must make our inferences from the text itself. The first part of Joel consists of a lengthy lament and call for deliverance from famine. Judah has lost her bounty and has become a laughingstock among the nations. Chapter three consists of four oracles spoken later about God’s response to his people’s suffering. These four speeches are directed against Judah’s enemies and pronounce judgment against them. But why?
Prophets in the Old Testament were not, as many suspect, primarily interested in predicting the distant future. Their audience was not concerned about events a thousand years from now nearly so much as they were about the events of their own lifetimes. They wanted to know that their children would be protected, not their twelve-times-great grandchildren. Given that, it’s strange to see so much prophecy devoted to other nations. Joel wasn’t speaking to Egyptians but Israelites. Why devote so much time to other nations when it’s folks in Jerusalem that need the word?
The first of oracle in chapter three is general. Joel is speaking to people just returned from exile to find Jerusalem, the holy dwelling of God with his people, in ruin. He proclaims punishment against all the unnamed enemies of Israel in general, in the metaphorical valley of Jehoshaphat (“God’s judgment”). The second oracle speaks specifically against the Philistines and the people of Tyre and Sidon, traditional enemies of Israel, and says that they tried to “pay back” Israel’s God but will instead be paid back themselves. The focus is on YHWH, the Lord, and his sovereignty. He alone judges, he alone pays back, and all nations must respect his law alone.
The third oracle returns to judgment against Israel’s enemies in general. Here again the oracle speaks about the nations but the message is for the grief-stricken people of Israel. YHWH promises to be their refuge, to dwell with and love them, and to supply for all their needs. The present may be bleak but the future is bright!
Finally we come to the last oracle and the threat to Egypt and Edom. Egypt had been Israel’s enemy for generations. The Egyptians shed innocent blood when they killed Josiah, Israel’s greatest king since David, and went to war against Israel countless other times. Edom is the new enemy, the current bane of the people, having joined in with Babylon in the destruction of Judah and Jerusalem. It’s worth noting that Judah was not innocent when attacked and exiled. They brought judgment upon themselves and Edom and Babylon were tools doing YHWH’s work. Still, Joel says, they will be punished nonetheless.
The crux of the judgment question comes down to the jurisdiction of God’s law. It is not limited to his people. Whether bound by the rule of the covenant or by the creator-creature relationship all people must answer to the Lord. Egypt, Edom, Philistia, Tyre and Sidon and countless unnamed others, God rules them all. He is sovereign. All the earth is his. It is on this basis that God’s people can rejoice in the positive message at the heart of these oracles: salvation.
The hallmark of a salvation oracle is dramatic reversals. Mountains are laid low while valleys are raised up. All that is fundamentally broken in the earth is fixed and shalom, YHWH’s lasting peace, can finally come. Those who once oppressed Israel and laughed at her suffering will face the same plague and desolation they mocked and God’s people will enjoy plenty. Israel is secure and her sorrow turned to dancing.
So how does this line up with events in the modern nation-state of Egypt? Joel sees famine and drought in her future; has the Nile dried up? Joel’s concern is Israel’s security. Is Egypt, of all the nations in the Middle East, the one most scary to a modern Jerusalem? Or God’s people in general? Is democratization punishment at all?
Trick questions. The point of Joel’s oracles isn’t any of this! His speech culminates not in verse 19 and its condemnation of Egypt and Edom but in verse 20 and its promise of security for God’s people. YHWH is not, first and foremost, in the revenge business. “The Lord dwells in Zion,” his home among his people, and that presence is the lasting message of Joel. The promise of a restored temple meant the restoration of that presence. That promise, that hope, was fulfilled permanently when, as John writes, the Word tabernacled among us in the incarnation. The temple is moot; God dwells wherever his people are, whether in Jerusalem, Cairo or Portland. Joel’s prophecy of renewed security came to Israel in the second temple era just as it came permanently to all people with the coming of his Son. Glory be to God!
Day 9: The Feast of St. Patrick
Traditionally Lenten restrictions on eating and drinking alcohol are lifted on St. Patrick’s Day, which is most certainly part of its appeal as a worldwide holiday. My Lent carries no such restrictions but I did decide to pass on writing after I came home last night. I will, however, share a brief thought on the day. Last Sunday Missi and I participated in the Shamrock Run instead of attending worship in the morning and decided to make it up by attending evensong at an Episcopal church. They were celebrating the mass of St. Patrick and we had heard through the facebook grapevine that a trip to the Horse Brass Pub would follow. Who were we to resist such sanctification?
During the mass I heard, for the first time, the story of Patrick and the Paschal fire. One of Patrick’s hagiographies tells the tale of a night of some import among the Celts. I do not recall the reason but on this night no fires were to be lit before the king lit his. The whole country sat in darkness and waited on the king. Patrick, there as a missionary, defied the ban. It was the night of the Paschal moon (marking the Passover and thus Easter week) and his lone light shone out across the entire valley as a beacon of defiance.
The legend goes on to tell that no one could extinguish the fire but Patrick himself and that it was on that night, when the people gathered at his fire, that Patrick explained the holy trinity to them with a shamrock. It wasn’t those stories, however, that grabbed my imagination as I left the bar last night. As I walked through the frigid, rainy St. John’s night I pondered that single fire, a statement of defiance turned invitation. There was no drunken rabble around, no green beer or fake Irish accents or Flogging Molly tribute bands, just a quiet, wet night and me with my thoughts on the fire and the trinity and the Paschal lamb. That is a feast worthy of celebration.
During the mass I heard, for the first time, the story of Patrick and the Paschal fire. One of Patrick’s hagiographies tells the tale of a night of some import among the Celts. I do not recall the reason but on this night no fires were to be lit before the king lit his. The whole country sat in darkness and waited on the king. Patrick, there as a missionary, defied the ban. It was the night of the Paschal moon (marking the Passover and thus Easter week) and his lone light shone out across the entire valley as a beacon of defiance.
The legend goes on to tell that no one could extinguish the fire but Patrick himself and that it was on that night, when the people gathered at his fire, that Patrick explained the holy trinity to them with a shamrock. It wasn’t those stories, however, that grabbed my imagination as I left the bar last night. As I walked through the frigid, rainy St. John’s night I pondered that single fire, a statement of defiance turned invitation. There was no drunken rabble around, no green beer or fake Irish accents or Flogging Molly tribute bands, just a quiet, wet night and me with my thoughts on the fire and the trinity and the Paschal lamb. That is a feast worthy of celebration.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Day 8: A Lemming's Tale
Have you ever thought about what it would be like to watch lemmings in real life? Just take a moment and really visualize what that would feel like. The mass of bodies, surging, striving, one after another in a wave of flesh. Pushing. Driving. They crash towards oblivion, certain as a tide, but never understand what lies ahead. Or do they? Which is the greater horror: running towards the cliff blindly, trusting the one ahead of you, or doing with full knowledge but unable to deviate from the path laid out before you?
Humans are unique among all the creation in our ability to consciously plan and predict. Other species may act with foresight at times, perhaps from sheer instinct, perhaps not, but they primarily react. We are proactive. So what happens when a person walks knowingly into disaster? I had two students who were not going to pass one of my classes last semester. Both knew it was too late to do anything about their grade; they’d made their respective beds and ignored multiple attempts at intervention. Yet one showed up for her final anyway, while the other just walked away, never looking back. The latter saved himself a morning of grief. The former did not. It’s not as though she studied hard to try to at least nail the final and preserve her pride. She admitted she was poorly prepared and bombed the final nearly as badly as most of the rest of the course. Why?
There are those who face their death willingly because they do so for a purpose. In 1943 the four multifaith chaplains aboard the torpedoed Dorchester troop transport ship, priest, reverend, pastor and rabbi, gave up their places in the lifeboats so that others might live. They joined hands and sang as they sank. They faced their fate with conviction. What about those whose deaths serve no such clear purpose? What about the lemmings? The countless troops who mounted pointless charges into a hail of musket balls in wars that would never have the slightest bearing on either their lives or the lives of their children? The guilty man walking under his own power down death row? The two-years-clean addict who knows she has one more binge in her but not one more recovery but pulls the tourniquet tight anyway?
When I think of lemmings I hear Damien Rice’s song “Cold Water” and place myself among them, drowning in the cold Atlantic and wondering if the hand I imagine clutching mine is real or a figment of my imagination, a symptom of the rapidly closing hypothermia, and if I am lost. I drift away and go cold, o lost and by the wind grieved ghost, come back again…
The song fades and is replaced with another, Mumford and Sons’ “After the Storm.” I imagine the lemming moments before that leap, finally seeing his future, the cliff ahead, and moving from the dream of a beautiful hill covered in flowers and grace to a realization of the hugeness of death and the smallness of his own world. I hear the words, “scared of what’s behind and before“, and see the drive to the edge in all its multifaceted wonder and horror. Then, and only then, does the dream return. The lemming embraces the dream, the hope in a time when there are no more tears and love drives out fear and grace and flowers bloom once more. I hope the grace of that vision comes to all those who face impossible situations and pray that might find the hand to hold in the darkness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtgQ2AjBbGI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZMUgZRew3w
Humans are unique among all the creation in our ability to consciously plan and predict. Other species may act with foresight at times, perhaps from sheer instinct, perhaps not, but they primarily react. We are proactive. So what happens when a person walks knowingly into disaster? I had two students who were not going to pass one of my classes last semester. Both knew it was too late to do anything about their grade; they’d made their respective beds and ignored multiple attempts at intervention. Yet one showed up for her final anyway, while the other just walked away, never looking back. The latter saved himself a morning of grief. The former did not. It’s not as though she studied hard to try to at least nail the final and preserve her pride. She admitted she was poorly prepared and bombed the final nearly as badly as most of the rest of the course. Why?
There are those who face their death willingly because they do so for a purpose. In 1943 the four multifaith chaplains aboard the torpedoed Dorchester troop transport ship, priest, reverend, pastor and rabbi, gave up their places in the lifeboats so that others might live. They joined hands and sang as they sank. They faced their fate with conviction. What about those whose deaths serve no such clear purpose? What about the lemmings? The countless troops who mounted pointless charges into a hail of musket balls in wars that would never have the slightest bearing on either their lives or the lives of their children? The guilty man walking under his own power down death row? The two-years-clean addict who knows she has one more binge in her but not one more recovery but pulls the tourniquet tight anyway?
When I think of lemmings I hear Damien Rice’s song “Cold Water” and place myself among them, drowning in the cold Atlantic and wondering if the hand I imagine clutching mine is real or a figment of my imagination, a symptom of the rapidly closing hypothermia, and if I am lost. I drift away and go cold, o lost and by the wind grieved ghost, come back again…
The song fades and is replaced with another, Mumford and Sons’ “After the Storm.” I imagine the lemming moments before that leap, finally seeing his future, the cliff ahead, and moving from the dream of a beautiful hill covered in flowers and grace to a realization of the hugeness of death and the smallness of his own world. I hear the words, “scared of what’s behind and before“, and see the drive to the edge in all its multifaceted wonder and horror. Then, and only then, does the dream return. The lemming embraces the dream, the hope in a time when there are no more tears and love drives out fear and grace and flowers bloom once more. I hope the grace of that vision comes to all those who face impossible situations and pray that might find the hand to hold in the darkness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtgQ2AjBbGI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZMUgZRew3w
Day 7: Fantasy Sports and Nerds
Researching for my upcoming fantasy baseball draft I was struck once again by the way fantasy leagues have turned that most hot-blooded, jocktacular of traditions, SPORT, into one of the dorkiest. The moneyball and sabermetrics movements in baseball are well documented but at least have a real world sports function. Any tool that lets general managers get the most out of their team is fair game and at the end of the day it still comes down to assembling the best team on an actual field of play. Fantasy sports nerds are a different breed, and here’s why…
The Dream of Intellectual Conquest
Geeks of all strains have long consoled themselves with the assertion that, one day, the muscle-bound man-mountain that just shoved them into the girl’s locker room will find himself in the employ, and therefore at the mercy, of that same geek. Fantasy sports play on the same daydream. The general manager of a major sports franchise is the ultimate way to simultaneously fulfill that boss fantasy while redeeming oneself in the realm of athletics. With enough intelligence and preparation the square kid with the bad haircut and thick glasses can play puppeteer with all those who once occupied high school’s upper echelon. Getting to this point, though, requires…
Time and Pressure
Fantasy sports can quickly overwhelm one’s schedule. The research that goes into draft day can quickly pile up into a thirty-plus hour project, spread over weeks and months at the expense of little things like relationships, paying bills and meeting deadlines at work. Add to that the time spent reviewing each player’s performance on a weekly basis, checking out opponent’s teams, analyzing upcoming matchups, reading expert opinions, tedious trade negotiations and, if there’s a smidgen of time left over, maybe even watching a game or two and the entire affair can quickly become a reasonably demanding part-time job. Really, what’s nerdier than that kind of devotion to a fictitious venture? There’s little to no difference between cultivating a fantasy championship and trying to collect every single star in the latest Mario game or level up a World of Warcraft character to 80. Boredom can become a real obstacle over so long a process, though, so the task must be occasionally livened up by…
The Beauty of Complexity
My own fantasy football experience has been a brilliant example of the glorification of complexity over ease of use. We’ve developed the single longest rule book I’ve ever heard of in an effort to approximate the vagaries of the NFL restricted free agent tender system in a fantasy-friendly manner. We have our own blog devoted to debating rule changes. Arguments come in thousand-word posts accompanied by spreadsheets, algebraic analysis, and occasionally real emotional investment. We love our rules. It marks our league as a “serious” one, and we laugh and denigrate simpletons toiling through their snake drafts as they fill out rosters according to the default Yahoo! rankings. In fact, it seems that the more difficult we make our system to explain the more deeply we fall in love with it. It’s ours. Our own. Our…precious. We’ll defend it to the death because we’ve invested years of ourselves in its creation.
It’s no different for nerds and their favorite fantasy worlds. The fantasy football aficionado could not care less if you want to talk about the benefit of going running back-running back in rounds one and two in the new, more pass-happy NFL because they’ve either answered that debate long ago or, more likely, rendered it obsolete by turning to an auction draft. In the same way your average Lord of the Rings fan doesn’t want to hear your thoughts on the Legolas vs. Gimli debate. If you want to engage her you’d better come ready with a take on whether Feanor, son of Finwe, was a greater elf lord than Elwe. That’s a debate that shows proper respect for and attention to the source material, the same way having an opinion on Keiland Williams versus James Davis as the better backup running back in Washington does. I think it’s also the entire appeal of Robert Jordan’s books. These little details may seem insignificant, but they can add up in the long run, because…
Love Is All About Commitment
Slowly building a championship contender is a labor of love. The committed fantasy GM nurtures her team, week in and week out, for months. The exposure effect is the idea that simple familiarity with another leads to attraction. We like people more the more we encounter them, even if it’s just bumping into them in stairwell. Similarly, the more time spent with a group of fantasy players the more we come to love them. I’ve been won over by countless members of past teams and still find myself rooting for them years after they’ve passed on to other owners. They are still “my” guys. I followed them from the NFL draft to my league’s draft to the playoffs and they feel like (distant) family.
This became even more pronounced recently when I discovered manager mode in FIFA 10, a soccer video game. In manager mode one does not even play the games. You just research (fictitious digital) players, train them, analyze their game ratings and slowly build your team into a powerhouse. It’s fantasy sports without a real sport at its root. It’s also utterly addictive. If you’ve ever gotten involved in the managerial side of a Madden game take a long hard pause before judging someone else for investing months developing a truly imposing Dungeons and Dragons character. His obsession and yours both involve a lot of love and can climax in either immense excitement or true heartbreak. When it does you’ll both find yourselves wanting desperately to share the joy or pain, leading us to…
The Socially Tonedeaf
This is it, the ultimate hallmark of the “nerd,” wandering about oblivious to what others do or do not find fascinating. This is the guy you just can’t shake at the party because he hasn’t yet finished explaining to you the full extent of the awesomeness that is his latest captured pokemon. The apotheosis of the subject in his own life has left him completely blind to the opaque qualities noted above and render him, more than anyone else in the room, an absolute bore. It’s painful to watch. If you’ve ever listened to a four-year-old try to explain a video game you know exactly what I’m talking about. Once the faucet is opened there’s absolutely no stopping it until every last drop of knowledge has come out. It’s horrible and every kid does it…before they learn better.
Listening in on a conversation about fantasy sports is no different. The only people who care about your OPS dominance are others in your own league; even other fantasy geeks don’t care except that your commentary on your own team gives them license to talk about theirs. The resulting conversation is one of the least personal, least social, least worthwhile I can conceive. When hobby becomes obsession and begins to take precedence over real, human interaction nerdiness has reached its apogee. Fantasy sports, despite their increasing societal acceptance, can take us there more quickly than perhaps any other nerdy pursuit. Draft carefully, my friends.
The Dream of Intellectual Conquest
Geeks of all strains have long consoled themselves with the assertion that, one day, the muscle-bound man-mountain that just shoved them into the girl’s locker room will find himself in the employ, and therefore at the mercy, of that same geek. Fantasy sports play on the same daydream. The general manager of a major sports franchise is the ultimate way to simultaneously fulfill that boss fantasy while redeeming oneself in the realm of athletics. With enough intelligence and preparation the square kid with the bad haircut and thick glasses can play puppeteer with all those who once occupied high school’s upper echelon. Getting to this point, though, requires…
Time and Pressure
Fantasy sports can quickly overwhelm one’s schedule. The research that goes into draft day can quickly pile up into a thirty-plus hour project, spread over weeks and months at the expense of little things like relationships, paying bills and meeting deadlines at work. Add to that the time spent reviewing each player’s performance on a weekly basis, checking out opponent’s teams, analyzing upcoming matchups, reading expert opinions, tedious trade negotiations and, if there’s a smidgen of time left over, maybe even watching a game or two and the entire affair can quickly become a reasonably demanding part-time job. Really, what’s nerdier than that kind of devotion to a fictitious venture? There’s little to no difference between cultivating a fantasy championship and trying to collect every single star in the latest Mario game or level up a World of Warcraft character to 80. Boredom can become a real obstacle over so long a process, though, so the task must be occasionally livened up by…
The Beauty of Complexity
My own fantasy football experience has been a brilliant example of the glorification of complexity over ease of use. We’ve developed the single longest rule book I’ve ever heard of in an effort to approximate the vagaries of the NFL restricted free agent tender system in a fantasy-friendly manner. We have our own blog devoted to debating rule changes. Arguments come in thousand-word posts accompanied by spreadsheets, algebraic analysis, and occasionally real emotional investment. We love our rules. It marks our league as a “serious” one, and we laugh and denigrate simpletons toiling through their snake drafts as they fill out rosters according to the default Yahoo! rankings. In fact, it seems that the more difficult we make our system to explain the more deeply we fall in love with it. It’s ours. Our own. Our…precious. We’ll defend it to the death because we’ve invested years of ourselves in its creation.
It’s no different for nerds and their favorite fantasy worlds. The fantasy football aficionado could not care less if you want to talk about the benefit of going running back-running back in rounds one and two in the new, more pass-happy NFL because they’ve either answered that debate long ago or, more likely, rendered it obsolete by turning to an auction draft. In the same way your average Lord of the Rings fan doesn’t want to hear your thoughts on the Legolas vs. Gimli debate. If you want to engage her you’d better come ready with a take on whether Feanor, son of Finwe, was a greater elf lord than Elwe. That’s a debate that shows proper respect for and attention to the source material, the same way having an opinion on Keiland Williams versus James Davis as the better backup running back in Washington does. I think it’s also the entire appeal of Robert Jordan’s books. These little details may seem insignificant, but they can add up in the long run, because…
Love Is All About Commitment
Slowly building a championship contender is a labor of love. The committed fantasy GM nurtures her team, week in and week out, for months. The exposure effect is the idea that simple familiarity with another leads to attraction. We like people more the more we encounter them, even if it’s just bumping into them in stairwell. Similarly, the more time spent with a group of fantasy players the more we come to love them. I’ve been won over by countless members of past teams and still find myself rooting for them years after they’ve passed on to other owners. They are still “my” guys. I followed them from the NFL draft to my league’s draft to the playoffs and they feel like (distant) family.
This became even more pronounced recently when I discovered manager mode in FIFA 10, a soccer video game. In manager mode one does not even play the games. You just research (fictitious digital) players, train them, analyze their game ratings and slowly build your team into a powerhouse. It’s fantasy sports without a real sport at its root. It’s also utterly addictive. If you’ve ever gotten involved in the managerial side of a Madden game take a long hard pause before judging someone else for investing months developing a truly imposing Dungeons and Dragons character. His obsession and yours both involve a lot of love and can climax in either immense excitement or true heartbreak. When it does you’ll both find yourselves wanting desperately to share the joy or pain, leading us to…
The Socially Tonedeaf
This is it, the ultimate hallmark of the “nerd,” wandering about oblivious to what others do or do not find fascinating. This is the guy you just can’t shake at the party because he hasn’t yet finished explaining to you the full extent of the awesomeness that is his latest captured pokemon. The apotheosis of the subject in his own life has left him completely blind to the opaque qualities noted above and render him, more than anyone else in the room, an absolute bore. It’s painful to watch. If you’ve ever listened to a four-year-old try to explain a video game you know exactly what I’m talking about. Once the faucet is opened there’s absolutely no stopping it until every last drop of knowledge has come out. It’s horrible and every kid does it…before they learn better.
Listening in on a conversation about fantasy sports is no different. The only people who care about your OPS dominance are others in your own league; even other fantasy geeks don’t care except that your commentary on your own team gives them license to talk about theirs. The resulting conversation is one of the least personal, least social, least worthwhile I can conceive. When hobby becomes obsession and begins to take precedence over real, human interaction nerdiness has reached its apogee. Fantasy sports, despite their increasing societal acceptance, can take us there more quickly than perhaps any other nerdy pursuit. Draft carefully, my friends.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Day 6: What I Thought About When I Thought About Running
Running used to come easily to me. I was never the fastest kid on the cross country team, of course. I wasn’t even in the top half. Some days training hurt brutally- I’m looking at you, speed work! Through it all, though, the actual act of finishing a run was never in question, only the tempo. My peak as a runner came when taking part in a few 25k races during college. I remember slipping out at 11 pm to tick off my twelve mile training runs in frigid late winter conditions. I usually hated it but only had my will, never my body, to overcome. Even after I stopped road running consistently I could pick it up at will. Twenty miles of almost-a-trail through the mountains of Montana? No problem! Just let me run one or twice a week, do some hiking now and then and I’ll be ready in two months.
I slacked off of the running over the years and somewhere along the line I lost “it.” I’ve gained some weight. I’ve struggled with minor aches and pains. I’ve become slower each year. Last year I came back with my longest race in a while, a 15k near Saint Patrick’s Day, and was astonished at how hard it was just working my way up to running nine miles again. Maybe I was trying to move too fast but I found it nearly impossible not to succumb to a couple brief walking breaks during my longer training runs. This year, having barely strapped on my running shoes since then, I settled for the 5k. A wonky ankle has slowed me for the past few months but the shame of stopping to walk on a three mile practice race nearly killed me.
Two species of pride live inside of me. The first said “hey, if it’s going to be hard I’m darn well going to train through it and get back to excellence!” That obstinate, angry little voice did not surprise me. The second, rejoining the first with cries of “I will not be made a fool of in an area where once I excelled!,” did. Training turned into a battle over a whole host of issues I didn’t realize I had and I was overjoyed to finally get the race itself over and done with yesterday.
A funny thing happened, though, around the first mile of the race. I had spent the morning dreading the whole affair. Cold air heavy with humidity slowly sucked the heat from my bones while each frigid little rain drop punctuated the chilling process. The wait for the starter’s gun was interminable and followed by another fifteen minute wait just to reach the starting line. My fiancée and her Marine Corps brother stood next to me and I really did not want to be embarrassed by both of them. In short, I was brewing up a pretty terrible attitude and simply wanted the whole mess finished.
Then we hit the start. 30,000 people made this year’s race far and away the biggest in the event’s history. They also made it nigh unto impossible to move along the streets of Portland with any celerity. The whole race was an obstacle course. Starting back in the nine-to-ten minutes per mile section of any race invariably places you, in practice, among the ten-to-twelve minute runners. I knew this and did it gladly. Passing soothes my soul while being passed rasps away at it like sandpaper. As the race began to unfold I realized I would spend the entire 3.1 miles as the passer. I couldn’t move fast enough through the crowd to pass everyone I wanted to so I settled into a dodging, darting, still significantly impeded game and the miles melted away. Even the final half mile push to the finish line provided no relief from the stampeding throng. Everyone sped up but I still couldn’t break through and just let my legs run wild. Once over the line I slowed and removed my chip only to discover that this run had been…easy. Relaxed. Fun, even, and I was neither miserable nor humiliated by what would turn out to be my 28:36 time. The impossibility of going any faster soothed my ego even as the reality of my all-time slowest 5k sank in and I find myself, against odds, a little enthused about continuing to train. Maybe forced slowness was the gift I needed to find my new pace, one that fits my bigger body and one that suits my move into my 30s.
I slacked off of the running over the years and somewhere along the line I lost “it.” I’ve gained some weight. I’ve struggled with minor aches and pains. I’ve become slower each year. Last year I came back with my longest race in a while, a 15k near Saint Patrick’s Day, and was astonished at how hard it was just working my way up to running nine miles again. Maybe I was trying to move too fast but I found it nearly impossible not to succumb to a couple brief walking breaks during my longer training runs. This year, having barely strapped on my running shoes since then, I settled for the 5k. A wonky ankle has slowed me for the past few months but the shame of stopping to walk on a three mile practice race nearly killed me.
Two species of pride live inside of me. The first said “hey, if it’s going to be hard I’m darn well going to train through it and get back to excellence!” That obstinate, angry little voice did not surprise me. The second, rejoining the first with cries of “I will not be made a fool of in an area where once I excelled!,” did. Training turned into a battle over a whole host of issues I didn’t realize I had and I was overjoyed to finally get the race itself over and done with yesterday.
A funny thing happened, though, around the first mile of the race. I had spent the morning dreading the whole affair. Cold air heavy with humidity slowly sucked the heat from my bones while each frigid little rain drop punctuated the chilling process. The wait for the starter’s gun was interminable and followed by another fifteen minute wait just to reach the starting line. My fiancée and her Marine Corps brother stood next to me and I really did not want to be embarrassed by both of them. In short, I was brewing up a pretty terrible attitude and simply wanted the whole mess finished.
Then we hit the start. 30,000 people made this year’s race far and away the biggest in the event’s history. They also made it nigh unto impossible to move along the streets of Portland with any celerity. The whole race was an obstacle course. Starting back in the nine-to-ten minutes per mile section of any race invariably places you, in practice, among the ten-to-twelve minute runners. I knew this and did it gladly. Passing soothes my soul while being passed rasps away at it like sandpaper. As the race began to unfold I realized I would spend the entire 3.1 miles as the passer. I couldn’t move fast enough through the crowd to pass everyone I wanted to so I settled into a dodging, darting, still significantly impeded game and the miles melted away. Even the final half mile push to the finish line provided no relief from the stampeding throng. Everyone sped up but I still couldn’t break through and just let my legs run wild. Once over the line I slowed and removed my chip only to discover that this run had been…easy. Relaxed. Fun, even, and I was neither miserable nor humiliated by what would turn out to be my 28:36 time. The impossibility of going any faster soothed my ego even as the reality of my all-time slowest 5k sank in and I find myself, against odds, a little enthused about continuing to train. Maybe forced slowness was the gift I needed to find my new pace, one that fits my bigger body and one that suits my move into my 30s.
Days 4 and 5: Sock Roses!
Sorry for the lag around here. I did write this weekend but decided it wasn't something I wanted to share. I have something else instead to cover Saturday and Sunday instead: arts and crafts! Lots of folks are posting DIY projects on the old interwebs these days and I thought, shoot, I did one of those recently. Let's share it!
This was a Valentine's Day gift for my lovely and talented fiancee. To give you an idea of how seriously she takes that most romantic of holidays I'll simply mention that she hosted a zombie movie party this past February 14. Her seventh in a row. Since she shows no inclination to stop any time soon I let last year's VD pass without any fuss. She also works in an office environment that allows no outside plants, so the classic dozen roses at work seemed to be out of the equation. Still, I knew any kind of gift for Valentine's would be a surprise, and she did need good hiking socks in a bad way. Thus was born an idea.
Socks were easy to come by, courtesy of REI's winter clearance sale. I picked up an even dozen in assorted lengths and weights to accommodate a wide variety of activities. Easy enough so far.
Next I picked up a dozen dowels and a green magic marker. I did my best to give the dowels some grain, which isn't really something you see on roses but did make more sense than any other coloring pattern for the stems.
An even dozen done and drying on a pair of their unadorned peers.
Next I colored a sheet of paper with a herring bone pattern and added some veins(?) for the leaves.
I cut out little ovals and the leaves began to take shape...
...and voilà! A rose leaf!
Next, I laid a dowel across the toe of a sock and began to roll it tightly. I found I had to fold the heel in as I followed the roll around the curve of the hosiery.
Once the roll was complete I fastened it with a straight pin.
The process worked exactly the same for shorter socks.
Now a simply matter of adding a paper clip, tightly wound about the stem, and some tape to affix the leaves...
...and they're done! I think the longer socks actually made a much nicer finished product.
A few more examples
And that's that. To disguise the paucity of my mason jar vase I added a paper lining, complete with middle school valentine "Sock It To Me, Valentine!" text. All in all it was a fun, surprisingly simple project that came out shockingly close to how I had imagined it would in my head. I managed to come out of it feeling not only like I had subverted the corporate holiday culture but also pulled off something reasonably thoughtful and romantic. Feel free to follow along and make your own cold-footed friend a little something special next time you're feeling adventurous!
This was a Valentine's Day gift for my lovely and talented fiancee. To give you an idea of how seriously she takes that most romantic of holidays I'll simply mention that she hosted a zombie movie party this past February 14. Her seventh in a row. Since she shows no inclination to stop any time soon I let last year's VD pass without any fuss. She also works in an office environment that allows no outside plants, so the classic dozen roses at work seemed to be out of the equation. Still, I knew any kind of gift for Valentine's would be a surprise, and she did need good hiking socks in a bad way. Thus was born an idea.
Socks were easy to come by, courtesy of REI's winter clearance sale. I picked up an even dozen in assorted lengths and weights to accommodate a wide variety of activities. Easy enough so far.
Next I picked up a dozen dowels and a green magic marker. I did my best to give the dowels some grain, which isn't really something you see on roses but did make more sense than any other coloring pattern for the stems.
An even dozen done and drying on a pair of their unadorned peers.
Next I colored a sheet of paper with a herring bone pattern and added some veins(?) for the leaves.
I cut out little ovals and the leaves began to take shape...
...and voilà! A rose leaf!
Next, I laid a dowel across the toe of a sock and began to roll it tightly. I found I had to fold the heel in as I followed the roll around the curve of the hosiery.
Once the roll was complete I fastened it with a straight pin.
The process worked exactly the same for shorter socks.
Now a simply matter of adding a paper clip, tightly wound about the stem, and some tape to affix the leaves...
...and they're done! I think the longer socks actually made a much nicer finished product.
A few more examples
And that's that. To disguise the paucity of my mason jar vase I added a paper lining, complete with middle school valentine "Sock It To Me, Valentine!" text. All in all it was a fun, surprisingly simple project that came out shockingly close to how I had imagined it would in my head. I managed to come out of it feeling not only like I had subverted the corporate holiday culture but also pulled off something reasonably thoughtful and romantic. Feel free to follow along and make your own cold-footed friend a little something special next time you're feeling adventurous!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Day 3
Last night’s live coverage of the tsunami in Japan was one of the most frightening things I’ve ever witnessed, especially after yesterday’s story. The wall of unrelenting, unfeeling water just kept pushing forward as an anonymous helicopter silently captured every new surge. The direction made no sense when seen from above. Each tiny, invisible dip brought the whole mass rushing in a new vector. No one on the ground had any idea where the water was, where it was going, where to run. Cars were passing each other on the roads, each fleeing to safety, neither finding it. The water wasn’t coming from the levee. It came from inland. From the east, west, south, north, from everywhere and nowhere and hell.
I can only imagine what it was like staring into its leading edge. Not water but a solid mass of wood, metal and occasional flame. What does a tsunami sound like? I think the disconnect of simultaneously having the omniscient narrator’s view above the chaos, free from the sound, seeing the water and not just the wall of debris at its front, and identifying with the real people in its path pushed me over the edge. I’ve been thinking all day about what I felt at that moment. It was helplessness. The helplessness of the individual suddenly and inescapably surrounded by the water, no exit, no do-overs, and my own helplessness watching through the safe eyes of the helicopter from the comfortable remove of ten time zones and a satellite relay.
My life is so very controlled. Even the real, physical threats can be plotted for, parried with awareness or preparation. Someone could t-bone me running a red light, sure, but I can always drive more defensively. Brake. Swerve. Whether or not I actually do the right the thing is irrelevant; I know that there IS a right thing, if only I can discern it. Seeing those cars suddenly hemmed in and watching until the last minute before the camera cuts away I was forced to empathize with those staring into the face of an unsolvable…what? Robert Fulchum writes about the difference between a problem and an inconvenience, and the necessity of discerning between the two. This didn’t feel like either. A problem is still something that can be worked through. What is the word for life’s endgame?
We all die. I know this. I’ve held hands and prayed and cried through a dozen deaths in the last year. None of them were easy. Each one, however, at least happened in a hospital. Something was tried to save them. They got to fight, even if the fight was rigged by genes, microscopic bugs or “just one of those things.” None of them woke up to find themselves alone and facing a noose of water. None of them had to physically run and run even though it was hopeless just…because. Because it’s what any sane person would do. Because we are human and we want to live. Because life is always precious, even if it’s just a few more seconds.
A day later I am haunted by those images.
I can only imagine what it was like staring into its leading edge. Not water but a solid mass of wood, metal and occasional flame. What does a tsunami sound like? I think the disconnect of simultaneously having the omniscient narrator’s view above the chaos, free from the sound, seeing the water and not just the wall of debris at its front, and identifying with the real people in its path pushed me over the edge. I’ve been thinking all day about what I felt at that moment. It was helplessness. The helplessness of the individual suddenly and inescapably surrounded by the water, no exit, no do-overs, and my own helplessness watching through the safe eyes of the helicopter from the comfortable remove of ten time zones and a satellite relay.
My life is so very controlled. Even the real, physical threats can be plotted for, parried with awareness or preparation. Someone could t-bone me running a red light, sure, but I can always drive more defensively. Brake. Swerve. Whether or not I actually do the right the thing is irrelevant; I know that there IS a right thing, if only I can discern it. Seeing those cars suddenly hemmed in and watching until the last minute before the camera cuts away I was forced to empathize with those staring into the face of an unsolvable…what? Robert Fulchum writes about the difference between a problem and an inconvenience, and the necessity of discerning between the two. This didn’t feel like either. A problem is still something that can be worked through. What is the word for life’s endgame?
We all die. I know this. I’ve held hands and prayed and cried through a dozen deaths in the last year. None of them were easy. Each one, however, at least happened in a hospital. Something was tried to save them. They got to fight, even if the fight was rigged by genes, microscopic bugs or “just one of those things.” None of them woke up to find themselves alone and facing a noose of water. None of them had to physically run and run even though it was hopeless just…because. Because it’s what any sane person would do. Because we are human and we want to live. Because life is always precious, even if it’s just a few more seconds.
A day later I am haunted by those images.
Day 2
*Ed. Note: This story was written on March 10, hours before the Sendai earthquake and subsequent tsunami rocked Japan.
Some time back I joined a short fiction writing group here in Portland. The group dissolved after a few months but I loved the method we used to fire our imaginations. Each week we drew a card from a hat on which was written a name, verb and adjective. From those three points of inspiration we could craft any story we liked. Today I’m going to return to that method and, in honor of group founder Rob, take a page from his book and use the first name I find in the spam folder of my email: Julia Ward. A random word generator has filled in the other two blanks with “quake” and “polar.” The story below is a draft, and not one with much direction. I think if I came back to it in a week I might just discover what I wanted it to say. Instead, I set it free into the world…
Julia Ward hated work some days. The ones when her patient load led to patient loathing before the first cup of coffee had even gone cold, untended in the nurse’s station. Ones like today. Maria, the 46-year-old in 342, was the star of today’s mess. Julia had no idea why Maria was still here. Sure, her heart was a mess, but nothing was going to change that fact. There was no procedure to fix this and Maria would just keep showing up back at Sacred Heart every few months until her heart finally simply quit. Normally cases like this just made Julia sad, pushed her to cry a little before bed (she’d never quite gotten the hang of leaving her work behind at the end of the day) and drink a slightly-fuller-than-usual glass of wine with dinner. Not today. Not Maria.
Psychologically speaking, bipolar disorder is a specific mood disorder characterized by dramatic shifts between high energy, manic phases and periods of severe depression. In the hospital it was a label slapped on any patient who met the criteria for “pain in the ass.” 342 was a textbook example of hospital bipolar. When she rejected her lunch tray Julia understood. The food at Sacred Heart was not altogether excellent. By the third time she’d refused her meds, though, Julia was ready to quit going into her room altogether. When Maria then blamed her mood on low blood sugar Julia had to restrain herself from slapping the sweaty, obstinate train wreck right in her mouth. Julia had her limits and this was pressing right up against them. Worst of all, Maria was a frequent flyer; no matter what she’d be back next month, and Julia would once more come on the floor and check the board, hoping to dodge the bipolar bullet in a game of problem patient roulette.
The hours dragged by on three south but eventually the day ended. Maria was even discharged an hour before the end of Julia’s shift, granting her a little peace and some space to begin decompressing even before the bus ride home. Tired and still a bit irritable she tromped up onto the 47 bus and took a seat for the short ride home. She did not have any particular affinity for public transportation but she did appreciate finally taking a seat among people who neither needed nor expected anything from her. A couple days off and no agenda beyond a couple of paperbacks would do her some good.
When the quake hit the entire Seattle-to-Tacoma corridor went into crisis mode. Businesses, at least the non-essential ones, closed their doors. Schools were canceled for the following day and even the latest American Idol incarnation was bumped for live coverage of what turned out to be pretty minimal damage. People hear the word “earthquake” and they immediately envision gaping holes in the earth, cars swallowed up and the entire West Coast sliding away into the cold Pacific. The reality of this earthquake, thanks to good preparation and a little bit of luck, was a bunch of downed power lines and a few roads rendered impassable. A bad rainstorm and a couple blocked sewers caused as much damage, but the label “earthquake, magnitude 6.0” made it national news, at least for a day.
One of the cracked roads, a non-descript four-lane commercial strip, fell right along Julia’s route from cold hospital coffee to chilled pinot gris, and so she sat with the rest of the still-shaking passengers in the stopped bus and pondered what to do next. The driver was on his radio getting directions from someone with a rapidly updating map and an annoyingly dull, emotionless voice. Over the crackling drone, though, she recognized another, higher voice, and was momentarily stunned to turn and see Maria from 342 three rows behind her, slumped in her seat, cell phone pressed to her ear and tears in her eyes.
Julia was confused. She had offered to arrange a ride home for Maria, at the hospital’s expense, but Maria had insisted she had someone coming to get her. Yet here she was, fresh from a hospital bed onto a public bus, tears and profanity spilling out of her at an astonishing rate. Their target, as best Julia could discern, was apparently whoever had either failed to come get her or never offered to in the first place.
The driver’s voice broke over the speaker just inches from where Julia stood in her seat, jolting her from her reverie. She sat back down, unseen, and stared out the window at dark homes in the gloaming. Maria’s voice was silent; in fact, none of the passengers spoke, just waited for their respective stops and watched the passing, largely undisturbed scenery roll by. Maria was still on board when Julia’s turn came. She looked back as she stood, intending to catch Maria’s eye, maybe say something, but the bipolar bane of her existence just a few hours before was staring at something unseen in darkness. Julia paused for the briefest of moments, swung back around and headed home to her wine, (two glasses tonight), and the increasingly pointless quake coverage on the evening news.
Some time back I joined a short fiction writing group here in Portland. The group dissolved after a few months but I loved the method we used to fire our imaginations. Each week we drew a card from a hat on which was written a name, verb and adjective. From those three points of inspiration we could craft any story we liked. Today I’m going to return to that method and, in honor of group founder Rob, take a page from his book and use the first name I find in the spam folder of my email: Julia Ward. A random word generator has filled in the other two blanks with “quake” and “polar.” The story below is a draft, and not one with much direction. I think if I came back to it in a week I might just discover what I wanted it to say. Instead, I set it free into the world…
Julia Ward hated work some days. The ones when her patient load led to patient loathing before the first cup of coffee had even gone cold, untended in the nurse’s station. Ones like today. Maria, the 46-year-old in 342, was the star of today’s mess. Julia had no idea why Maria was still here. Sure, her heart was a mess, but nothing was going to change that fact. There was no procedure to fix this and Maria would just keep showing up back at Sacred Heart every few months until her heart finally simply quit. Normally cases like this just made Julia sad, pushed her to cry a little before bed (she’d never quite gotten the hang of leaving her work behind at the end of the day) and drink a slightly-fuller-than-usual glass of wine with dinner. Not today. Not Maria.
Psychologically speaking, bipolar disorder is a specific mood disorder characterized by dramatic shifts between high energy, manic phases and periods of severe depression. In the hospital it was a label slapped on any patient who met the criteria for “pain in the ass.” 342 was a textbook example of hospital bipolar. When she rejected her lunch tray Julia understood. The food at Sacred Heart was not altogether excellent. By the third time she’d refused her meds, though, Julia was ready to quit going into her room altogether. When Maria then blamed her mood on low blood sugar Julia had to restrain herself from slapping the sweaty, obstinate train wreck right in her mouth. Julia had her limits and this was pressing right up against them. Worst of all, Maria was a frequent flyer; no matter what she’d be back next month, and Julia would once more come on the floor and check the board, hoping to dodge the bipolar bullet in a game of problem patient roulette.
The hours dragged by on three south but eventually the day ended. Maria was even discharged an hour before the end of Julia’s shift, granting her a little peace and some space to begin decompressing even before the bus ride home. Tired and still a bit irritable she tromped up onto the 47 bus and took a seat for the short ride home. She did not have any particular affinity for public transportation but she did appreciate finally taking a seat among people who neither needed nor expected anything from her. A couple days off and no agenda beyond a couple of paperbacks would do her some good.
When the quake hit the entire Seattle-to-Tacoma corridor went into crisis mode. Businesses, at least the non-essential ones, closed their doors. Schools were canceled for the following day and even the latest American Idol incarnation was bumped for live coverage of what turned out to be pretty minimal damage. People hear the word “earthquake” and they immediately envision gaping holes in the earth, cars swallowed up and the entire West Coast sliding away into the cold Pacific. The reality of this earthquake, thanks to good preparation and a little bit of luck, was a bunch of downed power lines and a few roads rendered impassable. A bad rainstorm and a couple blocked sewers caused as much damage, but the label “earthquake, magnitude 6.0” made it national news, at least for a day.
One of the cracked roads, a non-descript four-lane commercial strip, fell right along Julia’s route from cold hospital coffee to chilled pinot gris, and so she sat with the rest of the still-shaking passengers in the stopped bus and pondered what to do next. The driver was on his radio getting directions from someone with a rapidly updating map and an annoyingly dull, emotionless voice. Over the crackling drone, though, she recognized another, higher voice, and was momentarily stunned to turn and see Maria from 342 three rows behind her, slumped in her seat, cell phone pressed to her ear and tears in her eyes.
Julia was confused. She had offered to arrange a ride home for Maria, at the hospital’s expense, but Maria had insisted she had someone coming to get her. Yet here she was, fresh from a hospital bed onto a public bus, tears and profanity spilling out of her at an astonishing rate. Their target, as best Julia could discern, was apparently whoever had either failed to come get her or never offered to in the first place.
The driver’s voice broke over the speaker just inches from where Julia stood in her seat, jolting her from her reverie. She sat back down, unseen, and stared out the window at dark homes in the gloaming. Maria’s voice was silent; in fact, none of the passengers spoke, just waited for their respective stops and watched the passing, largely undisturbed scenery roll by. Maria was still on board when Julia’s turn came. She looked back as she stood, intending to catch Maria’s eye, maybe say something, but the bipolar bane of her existence just a few hours before was staring at something unseen in darkness. Julia paused for the briefest of moments, swung back around and headed home to her wine, (two glasses tonight), and the increasingly pointless quake coverage on the evening news.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Day 1
Welcome. Lent begins today and today I begin Lenten discipline. Missi and I were talking about Lent a few weeks back and the way people mark the season through various goings-without. Neither of us are big on punishing ourselves as a means of seeking religious enlightenment. Besides, I just started going back to the gym recently after a long layoff and feel I’m experiencing enough pain and frustration through that exercise to excuse myself from culling the chocolate and beer from my diet.
We got to discussing positive additions we could make to our lives instead and Missi suggested I should make writing my discipline this season. Actually, she very nearly ordered me to do it- though I doubt she’ll remember it that way- but it doesn’t matter. The suggestion was sound and I am taking her up on it. Further conversation led to the idea of posting my writing for all the world to see. I am doing this not because I have any confidence that what I write will be worthy of a wide audience but rather to give myself a little accountability. Forty deadlines to force myself to stay on track. I make no promises to do any more than try. Some deadlines might get missed. Some might be met with poor efforts. If, however, I am going to do this then those are the terms; I trust in your grace, dear reader, as I attempt to overcome my literary perfectionism.
The only question left begging, then, is what I will write. To be honest, I have no idea, or more accurately, too many ideas, none of which are quite good enough for me to be entirely comfortable with them. Some posts will be reflections, others stories, and some things yet undreamt. I can almost guarantee I will immediately hate some, love a few and at some point slip up and use a word that might make my grandmother blush. Through it all, though, I will strive to meet my deadlines. All forty of them. Anyone who wants to check in occasionally is welcome to join me for the ride!
We got to discussing positive additions we could make to our lives instead and Missi suggested I should make writing my discipline this season. Actually, she very nearly ordered me to do it- though I doubt she’ll remember it that way- but it doesn’t matter. The suggestion was sound and I am taking her up on it. Further conversation led to the idea of posting my writing for all the world to see. I am doing this not because I have any confidence that what I write will be worthy of a wide audience but rather to give myself a little accountability. Forty deadlines to force myself to stay on track. I make no promises to do any more than try. Some deadlines might get missed. Some might be met with poor efforts. If, however, I am going to do this then those are the terms; I trust in your grace, dear reader, as I attempt to overcome my literary perfectionism.
The only question left begging, then, is what I will write. To be honest, I have no idea, or more accurately, too many ideas, none of which are quite good enough for me to be entirely comfortable with them. Some posts will be reflections, others stories, and some things yet undreamt. I can almost guarantee I will immediately hate some, love a few and at some point slip up and use a word that might make my grandmother blush. Through it all, though, I will strive to meet my deadlines. All forty of them. Anyone who wants to check in occasionally is welcome to join me for the ride!
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