922 to 23

Current tally? 922 to 23. 

Though there's no chance my new grandson will ever catch up, I recently decided that for as long his time is being tallied in months, that's reason enough for me to do the same. Besides, doesn't saying I'm 922 months sound dignified? I'll let you do the math. 

Given what the little man is already up to at 23 months, I'm guessing he'll finish undergraduate school in under 240 months and have at least one master's degree by month 252, vs. when I got mine at the 576-month mark. Other milestones? If he follows in his mother's footsteps, he'll be walking down the aisle at somewhere around 414 months. His first child? If he follows his grandfather, he'll be about 470 months; his grandmother = approximately 416. Owning his first home? His Dad was about 476 months when he reached that milestone. My guess? He'll beat both his own Dad and your favorite 922-month-old blogger who was 403 - or thereabouts - before he was able to cobble together a down payment.

Now for the fun part with no parallels comparing my favorite 23-month-old with his mom or his dad, or his grandmother and Mr. 922:

* His first hit recording, using no AI or sampling, highly influenced by the playlist his grandfather began curating for him at birth: 216 months

* His first book published; a collection of essays featuring his inspirational family, especially his grandfather: 276 months. First novel: 12 months later. Main character modeled after: Care to guess? 

* His first Oscar, for supporting actor: 336 months. The role: A musician, bookworm, writer (mostly blogs), film devotee, social justice advocate, environmentalist, dashingly handsome, unnecessarily modest, devoted to his family.

With some luck, I've still got another 120 months to be by the side of my beloved 23-month-old as he begins what is sure to be a fulfilling life. 

The Death of Sweet Mister

After struggling to find a way in, I decided on bullet points as an effective method to capture the impact that The Death of Sweet Mister (2001) has had on me. If one or more of these don't persuade you to give Daniel Woodrell's disturbing modern-day masterpiece a try, I've missed my mark today.  

* I'm sure I'll never again read a coming-of-age novel as searingly rendered as this.

* I will not suggest this novel to any book club I belong to nor use it as a selection for my own club because hiding my disappointment over anyone's lukewarm response would be difficult. My partner of forty-eight + years - one of the most discerning readers I know - will be reading it soon to ensure the two of us can discuss its undeniable brilliance. I know she'll get it. 

* I'm literally dumbfounded this novel escaped my radar for twenty-five years. How has it not been included on any of the numerous "Best of the 21st Century " etc. lists I routinely run across? How is it that no fellow bookworm ever recommended it? How did it escape getting at least one major literary award?

* One hundred years from now, Daniel Woodrell's work - arguably anchored by this jewel - will be the way smart readers understand the Ozarks. As surely as Anne Tyler owns the suburbs of Baltimore, Dennis Lehane owns the streets of Boston, and William Faulkner is Mississippi, readers in 2126 will turn to Daniel Woddrell in order to live and breathe rural Missouri.         

I want to continue, badly. But to keep this post to my normal length and to avoid alienating any reader with hyperbole overload, I'll stop now, almost. In the thirteen years I've been using Goodreads, this is the first novel to which I've given five stars within minutes of finishing. And Daniel Woodrell - on the strength of The Maid's Version, Winter Bone, and now The Death of Sweet Mister - has taken slot #37 on my destined-to-never-be-completed list of 100 most cherished authors, i.e., writers who have hit it out of the park three times in a row. That list - along with the remaining bullet points left out of this post - is available on request.

p.s. Thanks to the owner of Farley's Book Store in New Hope, Pennsylvania for recommending The Death of Sweet Mister to me. Readers - Isn't it hard to imagine life without small independent bookstores?     

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., 58,400. 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 58,400:

* 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