Take Two, With Joy

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 116,799 To Go

In one of those weird mysteries that routinely occur in the blogosphere, several weeks back an anonymous reader stumbled across the relic above, published a little over ten years ago. I didn't give the mystery much further thought until a few days back when a significant event in my personal life prompted me to reflect on the precious commodity of time.

Using the same set of assumptions I developed back in 2016, the number of waking hours left to me are now approximately half of what they were ten years ago, i.e., 59,400. In addition, unless I exceed the optimistic number of years I gave myself back in 2016, there will be no third iteration in this particular blog series. Apologies for the morbid exposition.

Here are a few things at the top of the agenda for my 59,400:

* Lots more of the big three. Specifically, more public jamming with other musicians who enjoy playing jazz, continuing to expand my repertoire, creating and teaching music classes until I run out of ideas, i.e., hopefully, never. With literature: Seeking out more fellow bookworms and new authors, continuing with the canon, exploring the back catalog of my ever-growing-but-never-to-be-reached list of 100 most cherished authors. Movies? More documentaries and foreign films. With all the others - continue paying attention to the art of screenwriting to help me improve as a writer. 

* As much travel as my body and budget will permit. Highest priority: The remaining U.S. National Parks. 

* Family - especially that little man who currently lives in L.A. - and friends. 

Leftover hours after the above? Lots of writing and reflecting from the bell curve. Which reminds me: What will bring you joy in your remaining hours, number aside? 

 

Now

Grief defies easy explanation.

Tears switch to laughter, sadness is soothed by memories, pain is eased by hugs. Life feels irrevocably altered; life continues.   

"How are you doing?", well-meaning people ask.

"As well as can be expected", is the best I can offer now. Tomorrow? Grief defies easy explanation. 

Reflections from the Bell Curve: Not Today

Spreading the Word

If I can motivate just a few people to track down the July 8 issue of The Atlantic and read The End of Reading Is Here, I'll consider today a success. 

On my re-read of this astonishing feat of long form journalism, I was so overcome emotionally I knew what the subject of my next reflection would be. What essay - no matter its length - has ever had a similar effect on you, i.e., you felt a duty to spread the word, using whatever means was available to you?  

My initial attempt spreading the word came about a week ago, not long after first reading the piece. I scoured my e-mail contact list, looking for anyone with whom I'd ever discussed a book - any book, anytime. I don't recall the last time I sent an e-mail to more than a few people at once, let alone one with a lengthy attachment. The responses I've received to that e-mail have been uniformly affirming. However, numerous attempts to attach this remarkable essay here have been a bust; such is my technological ineptitude. Consequently, you're on your own. I sincerely hope my entreaty works. Disturbing as it can sometimes be, I'm sure you'll find tracking down this extraordinary article worth the effort. 

And Rose Horowitch is a name I've committed to memory. According to her essay she "...was born shortly after the dot-com bubble burst and entered first grade around the time the iPhone was released." I plan to read anything I can find written by this young woman almost half a century younger than me. Though it's improbable our paths will ever cross other than via the cherished written word, she is a soulmate. Kudos, Rose.             

American Rust

"I don't know what I think about something until I write about it."  - Joan Didion 

Although I knew Philipp Meyer's American Rust (2009) was a winner from its first page, it wasn't until I began writing my book journal entry that I was struck anew by Joan Didion's wisdom. The more I wrote, the deeper my admiration for this elegiac novel grew. Has this happened to you, i.e., you realized your thinking was getting clearer as you wrote about an experience?

I cannot readily recall the last debut novel I read that knocked me out as much as American Rust. The plot is straightforward; Meyer's approach is innovative and thrilling. His chapters effortlessly toggle between the point of view of six fully realized key characters. For me, the chapters featuring the precocious chatter inside the head of twenty-year-old Isaac English - on a quest to escape the dying steel town in Pennsylvania where he grew up - were among the strongest in the book.

"You borrowed from the planet, which borrowed from the universe. A short-term loan at best. In the eyeblink of a planet, you were born, died, and your bones disintegrated."

"It's just what we do. What has it gotten us, our difference from animals? Better rifles and antibiotics - they come together. Smart bombs and cancer surgery. Don't get one without the other; even our own nature keeps us in balance. Colonize Mars, it won't matter - babies and cheatin' hearts. Democracy and hemorrhoids. Preachers with syphilis."

I realize both those passages have a bleak edge. Avoid letting that put you off. This is literature of the highest order, well worth your time. American Rust will remain with you, long after most feel-good, happily-ever-after, every-bow-gets-tied-by-the-last-page book you've read has faded from memory.  

 

Today's Sweepstakes Winner

How routinely do you pay close attention to the amount of airtime you use when conversing with others? 

Having an honest and caring partner gives me a clear advantage in the conversational sweepstakes. When I've taken up more than my share of airtime, I can rely on her to subtly redirect a conversation, sometimes by asking a question of the glass-eyed person who's been listening to me ramble, other times via some unmistakable signal she makes to indicate I've gone on way too long.

OK, so maybe her re-directing is not always all that subtle. No matter; the end result is the same, i.e., I stop talking as much and begin listening better. And even if I'm defensive in the moment I'm being conversationally tuned up, I'm usually grateful later when re-playing my jabbering in my head. When I'm listening to someone who appears clueless about the amount of airtime they're using? Glad you asked. 

It was difficult to tune out a distinctly one-sided conversation going on directly behind me on a hike earlier today. After almost thirty minutes listening to what was essentially a monologue, a judgy, ungracious blog post began taking shape in the mind of judgy, ungracious Pat. Then, to my surprise, as the rest of my day unfolded, my clear advantage in the conversational sweepstakes kept returning to me.  Some twelve hours later, a less judgy and marginally more gracious post formed as I reflected on a few things. 

How fortunate am I having someone who loves me enough to assist me in improving this critically important skill? Isn't it unfortunate that some people have no such person in their life to assist them? Will I remember to ask myself these questions the next time I'm being tuned up or the next time I'm listening to someone using all the airtime?  Stay tuned. 

Words That Can Haunt Me: Opulence

opulence: wealth, riches, or affluence. 

Until looking up opulence in the dictionary, my brain had always associated the word with something far beyond what the average person - like me - might call wealth. In my head, opulence conjured mind-boggling riches, not just affluence.  

Such was my frame of mind back in March at the Royal Palace of Madrid. As our guide walked us through just a few of the 3,418 rooms, I flashed back to a tour I'd taken many years ago of the stables at Buckingham Palace. For me, these places of opulence can be awe-inspiring and distancing in nearly equal measure. On both occasions, I had to consciously remind myself that I was fortunate being able to visit and learn a little history. That conscious reminder was the counterpoint to the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach during both experiences. Where has your mind wandered when you've been exposed to this kind of unimaginable luxury?   

In the months since that tour of the Royal Palace, I've been reflecting on the discomfort in my gut and what it says about me. Is part of it perhaps connected to a wondering about how a life of staggering opulence might have shaped me? Would I have ever realized I'd been born on third base or would I have just reflexively assumed I'd hit a triple? Back to the Buckingham Palace stables for a moment. Was it churlish of me to wonder how anyone - monarch or otherwise - can think it's OK to have a stable for one horse that is both larger and more lavishly outfitted than the average home for six on London's east side? 

But wonder I did all those years ago. And so went my mind - and my stomach - back in March at the Royal Palace. I suppose that's a partial explanation why the word opulence can haunt me, despite my own relative affluence. I suspect at least a few folks reading this might be groaning at my existential angst by now. For those folks - and others inclined to be awestruck by manmade wonders (vs. this privileged blogger's overthinking) - directly below is the Wikipedia link for the Royal Palace. Enjoy.  

Royal Palace of Madrid - Wikipedia

Words for the Ages, Line Forty-One

"It's strange, what desire will make foolish people do." 

Can I hear an "Amen"?  Despite its simplicity, that terse phrase from Chris Isaak's Wicked Game (1989) captures a universal truth. And it stands on its own; no rhyming couplet is required. These are words for the ages, no matter how straightforward.

In fact, I would argue Isaak could have easily left out the word "foolish". Certainly, the things that desire drive us to do can be foolish. And the consequences of those things often make us look foolish indeed. But wouldn't you agree that even reasonable people do foolish things under desire's influence? How many people have you known who've had their life upended by desire? For just a minute, put aside the things those people did. What percentage of those people would you have described as foolish before their desire took over?

Perhaps Isaak's timeless lyric is directing us to chicken and egg land. That is, was the person who succumbed already foolish enough that desire was more easily able to do its work? Or was the desire a force so intense that even a reasonable person would succumb?

A Not-So-Simple Story of Simple Assault

Fifteen years ago today, I was arrested for the first - and I trust the last - time in my life. It was not the first time in my life I'd ever broken the law, the subject of perhaps another visit to the bell curve confessional booth in the future. But it was the first time I'd ever been caught. The charge? Simple assault. The story? Not as simple. 

My wife, our niece, and our niece's friend were sitting at the bagel shop located a block from our home, a place we'd patronized regularly since moving to our current home about eighteen months before. A man who we later learned was known to the local police approached the three of them and quietly but menacingly scolded the friend to "...get your filthy feet off the chair..." My wife was so astounded by this man's temerity and the racial animus she detected when he spoke to our niece's friend that all she could think to do was ask "What did you just say?" When he repeated himself with equal venom in his voice - but still so quietly that only the three of them could hear - my wife threw the little bit of coffee remaining in her cup at him. He said, "That's assault, I'm going to have you arrested!". She replied, "Go ahead and try!" then stormed out of the shop with our niece and her friend close behind.

Here's where hot-headed Pat takes the stage. I pull into the bagel shop parking lot and am not yet even in a space when I see my obviously frightened wife hurrying toward the sidewalk, our niece and friend on her heels, the sneaky coward right behind the three of them. My car still idling, I have barely a second to ask "What's going on?" before my wife has time through her fear and anger to say something to me like "That man just said something ugly and racial ..." I quickly reverted to a primal state. All I could think to say before shoving this bully to the ground was "How dare you!" or something equally innocuous. Would I have done the same had I known there were police officers sitting in the bagel shop witnessing my impulsive spectacle? Can't say for sure. But I do know a few things that happened next even if some details are fuzzy and it still remains unclear exactly when I realized that both my wife and I were being arrested.

Step one: Thrown to the ground and handcuffed. Read my rights? Don't recall. Step two: Taken in a squad car to the station. My wife was allowed to drive herself and be booked. Later: Fingerprinted and told the charges. Lots of unexposed film for much of the rest of this story. However, I'd been at this blogging thing for about six months when this all went down. Consequently, I do have one piece of irrefutable evidence about my state of mind the next day.  

As the first cryptic post below will show, on August 16, 2011, I was sure I was out of the blogging business. Given the disaster scenarios that had played out in my head over the previous twenty-four hours - following what I now call the $4,000 bagel fiasco - on August 16, continuing to blog seemed like a preposterously silly and frivolous pursuit. Obviously, my retirement from blogging ended up being as short-lived as the ones threatened many times by Ol' Blue Eyes, as the second post below (from September 1) will also show. Although it took me fifteen years to be ready to fully confess here that foolish act on August 15, I'm still uncertain what Pat - circa 2011 - thought he would prove pushing that cretin to the ground.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: That's All, Folks!

Reflections from the Bell Curve: He's Baaaack