Author: RTNM

Bingo Belly 1 X

Perhaps I should break with my usual style and include a detailed outline in this essay. I have my reasons; they will become clear as you scroll down the page.

One. In this instance, I prefer to write out the number one. It has something to do with the essay I wrote on negative one-twelfth long ago. Sometimes one means 1, and sometimes it doesn’t. There might be some quantum processes in our brains that can explain that. Maybe not; I am unsure.

Two. I don’t write this blog for hillbillies. I find their opinions uncultured, uninteresting, and boring. Those comments tend to lack insight, even that which might be deemed negligible by other hillbillies.

Three. I remember the exact moment I decided to give up football and start running for the cross-country team instead. I don’t know the specific date or year; I think I was a freshman in high school.

Four. I recently published a post where I used the analogy of a snowstorm to put into context what I felt about the death of a man I met in kindergarten. I even explicitly stated that I was writing from an analogical perspective in the essay.

Four A. I also included a paragraph about the best years of my life and where those were spent. The fact that I wrote such a paragraph was a subtle hint about how I felt about the times Scott and I had at Plymouth Elementary. Of course, that was long before those metaphorical lake-effect snowstorms targeted us and tracked us down.

Five. A hillbilly insulted me by claiming that I trivialized the death of my old friend. Apparently, I somehow exploited the tragedy of his passing to get more views on my blog.

Five A. Most days, no one shows up here. Zero visits, zero views. My blog is not monetized in any way. It costs me hundreds of dollars and untold stress to post these collections of keystrokes I know next to no one will ever read.

Author’s Note:  I have been searching through some boxes that I have upstairs. The best I could do was find a picture of me with one of Scott’s old girlfriends. I am pretty sure a picture of Scott and me does not exist. We didn’t carry Polaroid cameras around back then; no one did. Aside from class photos, there is nothing.

Six. Hillbillies exhaust me. I have never been married and have no children because of hillbillies. That is a very long story, and I have no intention of writing it. I have long believed that the greatest truths are told through fiction. In works of fiction, snowstorms can be as indiscriminate and uncaring as any disease nature can proffer. In either case, the content of one’s character can not save any one of us from the coming storm. Those stories will not be told as a memoir.   When constructing fictional stories, writers can be subtle about the awful fate of the undeserving.

Seven. I am permanently disallowing all comments on my blog. For more information, see above.

Author’s Note:  One of the earliest memories I have includes Scott. We must have been 5 or 6 when the school got our class a new tricycle. Our teacher (I can’t remember her name) let us take one turn riding the bike down the hallway and then back to the classroom. I took my ride and then got right back in line. I remember Scott looking at me and shaking his head in approval of my gangster move. Thick as thieves were Scott and me. THICK AS THIEVES.

Eight. The days are getting shorter. They will continue to do so until the solstice in a few weeks. I learned a lot about the winter and summer solstice in the 1980s as an archaeology student. On that dig (outside of Cincinnati), I also learned to drink beer for breakfast. That is a story for another time.

Author’s Note:  One of my bucket list projects involves an analysis of the formation of an archaeological site, a solstice marker, built some time ago by people long gone. I hope I do not run out of time and have the energy to finish it. Those are not mutually exclusive concepts.

Nine. I have been doing a deep dive into the life of the great Nelson Mandela. I am on my fourth biography, saving the autobiography for last. Maybe reading about his extraordinary life has had a subtle impact on me. I could never be as measured, pragmatic, and forgiving as him. Still, I find myself reluctant to write what I think deep down about hillbillies. I am exhibiting impressive restraint.

Author’s Note:  I am reminded of an interaction I had with a Deluxe version of a Hillbilly here in Hillbilly Land some time ago. An obese, smelly (you get it) person called me a dimwit because her child was going to “kindergarden,” not “kindergarten.”  She insisted that I was spelling the word wrong and that she was right as right could be. Unfortunately, her vote for upcoming elections counts as much as mine. Also, she is a parent responsible for at least one child. Should you be impressed with such hillbillies? I am not in the business of telling people what they should think, but…

Ten. In football vernacular, the “one hole” is the gap between the center and left guard. One day we played the kids from Edgewood in what I remember to be a freshman football game. I could be wrong, but it doesn’t really matter. The point is, I was a lineman, and Scott was the running back. A kid named Dave was playing left guard, and I was the center. Our coaches hit on a magic combination early on.

*****

I looked at the spot of the ball. It was my responsibility to march back 10 yards so that we could huddle up to call the next play.

“Huddle up! Huddle up! Let’s go!”

We all turned our backs to the opposing team except for our quarterback. He faced us and called out the play.

“Bingo Belly 1 X on 1, Bingo Belly 1 x on 1. Break!”

We all clapped in unison as we jogged to the football. I snapped the ball and then engaged the player across from me. The next thing I knew, Scott ran through the hole and down the field. He scampered a good distance before he was brought down.

I eyed the ball, marched back about ten yards, and called for the players to form a huddle.

“Bingo Belly 1 X on 1, Bingo Belly 1 X on 1. Break!”

We headed to the line. After I snapped the ball, I felt Scott scoot around my left side and rush down the field. Same play, the same result.

Dave and I were opening up big holes for Scott to run through. We did our job so that he could do his. On that first drive, we marched down the field and scored.

On our next possession, we were shut down. The opposing team put a linebacker in the one hole. After we punted, I went to my line coach and told him about the problem. He told me to snap the ball, block the guy in front of me, and then take on the linebacker before Scott made it to the line of scrimmage. He also told me to shut up and “do my job.”

Mission in hand, Dave and I kept opening up holes for Scott to run through. He ran rampant that day. Nearly every play we ran was Bingo Belly 1 X.

Somehow, we lost the game. I do not remember any details, but our head coach was extremely angry. He told us we weren’t allowed to talk during the bus ride back to our school. I remember him standing in the aisle, screaming at us because we were a bunch of losers. In the middle of his tirade, he singled out our running back.

“You all wasted a great effort by Scott Miggo. He gave all he had today, and you all wasted it. I better not hear any talking on the ride back.”

That is not an exact quote, but you get the drift. I doubt there is a stat sheet anywhere detailing how many yards Scott rushed for that day. I bet it might have been an Ashtabula High School freshman football record. We will never know.

The schools that Scott and I attended together are now all gone. Flat patches of grass are all that are left. No one new to Ashtabula would ever know that schools once existed there.

I have always believed that as we grow older, the more we need people who knew us when we were young. I knew Scott when he was young; it is unfortunate that he is not here to read what I wrote about that game. Would his recollection match mine? Would he remember the game at all?

Hillbilly nonsense aside, I am surprised by how sad I am about Scott’s passing. It doesn’t seem possible that so much time has gone by. I am off-kilter simply because I know he is gone.  It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen or spoken to him in 40 years; all my old memories are taking up space long unoccupied.

Yesterday, I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I drove by the house he grew up in, the house that I got sick in sometime in the early 1970s. It looked just how I remembered it.

250,000

In 1999 I bought a Chevy S-10 pickup.  When I drove it off the showroom floor, I announced to anyone who cared to listen that I would drive that truck until the doors rusted off the frame.  We are nearly there.  I had my mechanic look at the driver’s side door last week.  The hinges are rusting off.  Steve told me I had to treat the door very gently, or it would fall off.  Hooray, right?

It is a bit of an odd coincidence that my truck mileage and my word count on this blog are both nearing 250,000.  That is a big number.  Is one more impressive than the other?  Should I be more impressed with the mileage or the keystrokes?  I imagine the word count is probably more substantial when compared to how many sets of tires I have had to buy.

My truck is still running well.  I drive it nearly every day.  I hope it will be the last vehicle I will need to buy.

I look forward to a future where I will not need a truck.  I would be happy to jump on a train when I need to go somewhere.  Public transportation might not be readily available here in Hillbilly Land, but it is ubiquitous in other non-hillbilly areas.

My truck is not in the best shape.  It still runs great, but the snow belt winters have taken their toll on the body.  It, like me, has seen better days.  But it, like me, is still chugging along.  It has been a great truck.

The numbers will diverge; I will write more words than driving miles.  I can type thousands a day and don’t travel great distances anymore.  So, it is purely a historical accident that those numbers are about the same now.  Also, I do not include the millions of words I have written that are queued up to be posted.

Well, here it is in all its glory.  We can all take this picture as proof that entropy is alive and taking names in Hillbilly Land.

 

The  Anonymous Hillbilly

I recently came across an interview on the internet.  It was from the late 1980s.  An old professor of mine was talking about the anti-intellectual nature of The United States.  Even then, he described the suspicion with which the American people held various experts in fields like biology and anthropology.  If you have been paying attention, you know this is as true today as it was back then.  We have sports stars as our heroes, not Nobel Prize winners.

Many countries in Europe have what are called public intellectuals.  They are respected and revered by the population.  France has always held such people in high esteem.  The Europeans generally respect education and those who spend the time and energy to avail themselves of all the educational opportunities the world offers.

In my experience, the people here in Hillbilly Land view universities as job training centers.  A person should not attend unless they are going to learn a profession.  Why else would anyone go?  Why get a degree in anything other than accounting or engineering?  Of course, the big problem (in their limited minds) is that a university education is equivalent to socialist indoctrination.  Either that or the universities drive people away from God and toward untold philosophies that lead people straight to hell.  Sigh, and sigh again.

Some people might be surprised by what I just wrote.  To this day, university graduates are still viewed with suspicion by the deluxe version of the hillbillies here in Hillbilly Land.  They bask in their ignorance.

I came across such a person the other day.  He was proud of the fact that he didn’t understand how decimal portions of a foot related to fractions.  He was also quick to brag about his total ignorance of computers.  I didn’t have time to ask him about Trump, Sasquatch, or The Flat Earth Hypothesis.  It doesn’t matter; I know where he stands.

Socrates once said that the unexamined life is not worth living.  Deluxe Hillbillies think the opposite.  The devil is found in all those nonsensical university lectures about Darwin and mathematics.  Don’t forget the humanities.  Unless found in The Bible, literature is unnecessary at best and harmful at worst.  This is the world I live in every day.  It is exhausting.  I suppose that living in exile isn’t meant to be easy.

I have written a lot about my time at Harvard University.  Those years were the best of my life, no contest.  Do you know what they call it when you are thrown out of there?  When you are finally done, graduate with whatever degree (or degrees) you came to get; you are asked to leave.  All graduates are given a specific quest.  They are tasked with making the world a better place.  I understood then, like I do now, why it is called Exile From Eden.

On that campus, you never have to worry about being too bright, clever, or subtle.  Nuance and insight are expected, especially in the written word.  If you don’t deliver, everyone is disappointed.  Expectations are very high; you wouldn’t believe how high unless you have been there.  In Hillybilly Land, the only expectation is that you should…well, there are no expectations.  None that I can see, nothing at all.  I guess staying out of jail is appreciated by those responsible for bailing you out.  I think that is about it.

Hillbillies, by definition, are ignorant.  Many remain that way by choice, while others are victims of circumstance.  It is tough to break free from that cycle of “hillbillyness.” Even if you escape to a place like Harvard, the tug remains strong.  That is why I admire Tara Westover of Educated fame so much.  What she did is remarkable.

Now that the lede has been sufficiently buried, I can discuss something important.  I believe I am generally an excellent example of what a human being should be.  I think if everyone were like me, the world would be a much better place.  That is a thoughtful comment; I do not make it lightly.  There is, though, one small problem.

Like many people as educated as I am, I do not suffer fools with dignity and grace.  I don’t have any problem ignoring them if they stay in their particular lane.  As you know, they tend not to do that.  The people who got a B in high school shop math and think they are geniuses can be bothersome.  They create lots more problems than they are capable of solving.  While an old ignoramus might be a little wiser than a young one, they pale compared to the educated who took Socrates’ sage advice.  Of course, they will never understand that.

Why?  Why this topic?  What has made me stay up way past my old guy’s bedtime to smash keys on my laptop?  I recently had a short but disturbing interaction with an anonymous hillbilly.  It was, like all those interactions, exhausting.  I shouldn’t be disappointed anymore, but I am.  Certain hillbillies have electricity and have learned how to use computers.  I know; I am as shocked as you are.  In fact, I am more disturbed than you.  I spent years in Eden, so the astonishment of my exile resonates more deeply than it does in others who have never been there.

Clearly, I do not write with hillbillies in mind.  This is not a blog for them.  I recently wrote a short story about the passing of an old friend.  Somehow, an anonymous hillbilly found it and posted a bizarre comment.  It was clear to me what I meant when I wrote it.  My only worry was that my post wasn’t subtle enough and that my analogy was too on point.  For my kind of reader, it wasn’t a challenging post.  They wouldn’t have had any trouble getting the message.  For a deluxe hillbilly, it was apparently confusing.  Once again, such is life here in Hillbilly Land.

My goals since leaving Cambridge have remained mainly unrealized.  I wanted a life devoid of hillbillies and all that goes with it.  Hillbillies are not especially welcome in my world, even though I am, to this day, a recovering Hillbilly.  No matter what I do or think, my mom was still a coal miner’s daughter, and my dad (who is alive and doing well) was still the first person on either side of my family to attend high school.  My hillbilly bona fides are above reproach.  And somehow, I have a basket full of degrees that would fill a wall if I ever bothered to hang them up.  That means I do not have to tolerate mindless ignoramuses who interject and criticize without knowing what they are talking about.  I believe Socrates would agree, and that is good enough for me.

Are you OK (with deference to Gertrude Stein, no question mark is necessary)

I am back at the library.  I’ll probably end up with a series of short “library posts” I can bundle up in their own volume.  Wouldn’t that be exciting and interesting?  I can feel the publishers getting ready to pounce.

It didn’t take long today.  The Yelping Man (now in caps) is having a bad episode.  He is yelling in rhythm at a rapid and loud cadence.  Obviously, intervention on behalf of the staff was called for.  One of the O.G. librarians walked up to him to quiet him down.  I am sure that is all she attempted; she certainly wasn’t offering substantive help.

I see many things from my table at the library.  There is a notary who provides her services free of charge and a young man who helps older folks navigate their smartphones.  Perhaps most important, I often see social workers interacting with the many homeless people who populate the library during the day.  I have overheard many of the conversations.  These social workers are concerned with the people they are interviewing, which is easy to see.  I wonder if they can offer any of them any real help.  I doubt it; they are most likely limited to asking that one penetrating question.

I have been trying to figure out precisely what the problem is.  Are we, as a society, unable to fix the issue of the homeless and those mentally unwell?  Is it just a matter of money?  Is it simply systemic, meaning there is nothing to be done?  Maybe it just goes along with skyscrapers, taxes, and insurance?  Perhaps that is it.  Caveman brains trying to adjust to the modern world.  Our brains were not made with this contemporary world in mind (literally).

As usual, my concentration has been broken.  If you are getting older, you know exactly what I mean.  I was trying to watch a mathematics lecture yesterday.  I bailed after about 5 minutes because I couldn’t ride along on the “deep think” the instructor had planned for the audience.  That is not the first time that has happened.

Today, the problem (though not a problem) is the group of kids trying to sit still while a librarian reads them a story.  Every few minutes, one of them escapes, heading for parts unknown.  Yes, I root for them even though I know they aren’t going to make it.  An adult always scoops them up before they can create any real mischief.

The women of classical music are playing through my headphones today.  I still am not subtle enough to figure out if the music is any different because of the gender of the performer.  I will just keep listening, hoping for that spark of elusive inspiration.

To my left, I am overhearing a story about a happy cow who is up to some kind of shenanigans.  Straight ahead, near the front doors, The Yelping Man is having another very loud fit.  Once again, the library staff intervened.  They are asking him the same stupid question they asked him earlier.  I must admit, it is hard to watch a man who lives through Groundhog Day every day.  It would be different if I felt there was any hope in sight for him.

Two more staff members have just approached a man sleeping in one of the soft chairs.  Apparently, he is exhibiting bad form.  You can’t sleep in the library for reasons unknown to me.  This is all very confusing.  And here I was, sitting in my chair, minding my own business as I experienced another day in paradise.

I came up here today because I needed a little break.  I have to buy some concrete nails (don’t ask), and I want to wait until it warms up a little.  There is a big difference between 34 and 50 degrees, especially for an old guy standing outside.

More intrigue is in the offing.  A social worker just approached the sleeping man.  He is not impressed with her or her with him.  The interaction was short.  Once again, no sleeping in the library.

I can’t stay here much longer.  The temperature is rising, and I have lots to get done today.  Living the dream here in Hillbilly Land.

I was about to put my computer away when I noticed something.  A support column usually blocks my view of a large computer screen that cycles through upcoming events.  Today, I sat at a different table near where I typically sit.  I was trying to avoid the group having a homeless conference near the back.  I looked up and noticed that the Hillbilly Land Writers’ Group is having its monthly meeting soon.  All I have to do is send in some of my stuff, and the other members will workshop it for me.  As part of the deal, I get to criticize the work of others.  I don’t think I will be participating.  I have a few reasons.

I am not going to criticize the work of anyone else.  If someone takes the time and energy to write, I will not say anything negative about it.  I leave that to others who fancy themselves teachers of writing.  I am no such thing.  I wouldn’t even know where to begin.  Perhaps I could recommend Grammarly and a few books.  Other than that, I am out.

The other reason I will not be joining the workshop is subtle.  It is not that I don’t doubt that some of the members would have helpful comments; I just don’t care what they think.  Before you skewer me, know that I felt the same about the Harvard professors I had.  I always took their comments under advisement, but I went ahead and did what I thought was best.  Is that just a personality quirk?  I don’t know, but I have never seriously considered the opinions of others trying to test or grade me.  I have never felt it was that important.  I was always much more concerned with my learning, insights, and any epiphanies that might crop up.

Author’s Note:  I know a mechanic that has a shop a few blocks from the library.  Today he told me someone had broken into one of the cars in his lot.  He caught the man sleeping in the back seat when he arrived to work.  I asked him to describe the man and, as you might have guessed, it was The Yelping Man.  Now I know where he goes after the library closes.  At least, that is where he used to go.  I am sure he will find an abandoned car, building, or a hole in the ground somewhere near the library.  No worries, the library staff, social workers, and I can all sleep with a clear conscious.  No need for concern, The Yelping Man is doing all right.

 

 

 

The Women of Classical Music

Amazon Music recently started showing me a new category featured on their music app.  I am unsure if it is new to the app or just new to me.  Either way, I find it curious.

The category is, you guessed it, Women of Classical Music.  It never occurred to me that a musician’s gender should be considered when listening to music.  I still am confused by this category.  Sure, I am all for women performing classical music; I just never thought about listening to women for the sake of listening to women.  Know what I mean?

Why is there such a category?  Do women play differently?  Can the trained ear determine if a male or female is playing?  How would that work?  Remember, we are not talking about composers, only performers.

Do the selections playing through my earphones right now have a different quality because of the women playing?  I have to admit that I can’t imagine that would be so.  Is it the case that a woman violinist would interpret Mozart differently than a man?  I can imagine that, but how would it manifest?  I don’t have any answers, only more questions.

I find this topic fascinating.  Many years ago, I was presented with a similar issue.  I was asked if any cultural factors could influence mathematics.  I don’t see how a specific cultural perspective could change the Pythagorean Theorem, but I do see how cultural practices could influence the teaching of mathematics.  Even then, I am not so sure anything interesting is going on.  I hope I am wrong.  That topic is on my list of things to dive into.  I think someone wrote a book about it, and I will be sure to read it.

Author’s Note:  A young woman, as if on cue, has approached the CD kiosk at the library.  She is rummaging through the classical section.  I am not kidding; this is something I have never seen before.  You will not believe this, but Warren Andrew Slay has just walked in.  He is heading straight to the classical music section.  They are ignoring each other as they leaf through the alphabetized selections.  I am adding this to the list of unexplainable, inexplicable coincidences that have come to plague me.

The music is still streaming, and the women are playing beautifully.  I am still not sure why this category exists.  Well, I understand why it exists, but I don’t know what is special about it.  Is it there simply because women should have their own category, or is something else, something much more interesting, afoot?

Author’s Note:  The yelping man has just arrived.  He immediately approached the young woman.  He walked straight toward her, and she quickly moved away.  Warren Andrew Slay is nowhere to be found.  As is always the case with him and many men his age, he has disappeared into the bathroom.  I wish he was out here now.  The yelping man has now approached me, making me highly uncomfortable.  He is mumbling something about God and the coming war.

As I often do in my posts, I am simply raising a question.  I find the topic of women and classical music an interesting one.  Now that it has my attention, I need to do more research.  At this point, I do not know what to think.

Author’s Note:  Unbelievable.  The yelping man, a person seriously in need of professional help, is still roaming near the music section.  His yelping and mumbling are getting louder.  He is clearly in distress, but no one is going to offer any assistance.  Sure, an employee will eventually approach him and ask if he is all right.  I have no idea what they would do if he would simply say, “No, I need some help.”

The Woman of Classical Music category has been getting lots of play in this neck of Hillbilly Land.  I have finally abandoned “The Car” and its lounge act nonsense.  I am not a fan of the sound, just as with their last CD.  Is my favorite band still Arctic Monkeys?  That is another good question.

Author’s Note:  More commotion at the library.  Two men, apparently homeless and in search of shelter and power outlets, have just entered.  They made a line straight for the yelping man in the fiction section.  One of the men took his backpack and bashed the yelping man in the head with it.  The other man tackled him and took him to the ground.  The man with the backpack started kicking the yelping man in the ribs as the yelps got louder and stronger.  Clearly, I can not get in the middle of that altercation.  I will end up in the hospital with the yelping man.  Security, in the form of a petite woman, finally arrived and got the situation under control.  The attackers ran out the front door, and the yelping man stayed on the ground.  I guess he is waiting on some help.

It is time for me to go.  The distractions at this library are starting to outweigh my hope of finding inspiration.  It is time for a serious cost-benefit analysis.  Do I keep coming here, listening to women perform classical music, or should I go elsewhere?  The answer is certainly more apparent than I think it might be.  Perhaps I should just stay home.

 

 

 

 

 

An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 8

I was at the library the other day when I saw Warren sitting at a table.  I knew he might talk when he didn’t throw his bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper at me as I sat down across from him.  Our conservation wasn’t long, but he did have a few interesting things to say.

RTNM:  So, you have never been married, right?  No kids.  What’s up with that?

WAS:  Um, I forgot.

RTNM: What?

WAS: Yeah, I forgot about that stuff.  I was preoccupied with other things, and no one was around to remind me.  So, yeah, I forgot to get married and have kids.  Anything else you want to know?

RTNM:  I am a little taken aback.  What you just said is astonishing.

WAS:  To you, maybe.  There are lots of people in my situation.  They have lots of work to deal with, important things to get done, and time slips away.  It is as simple as that.

RTNM:  I can’t believe it is as simple as that.

WAS:  Sure it is.  If no one else on earth cares if you are married, then time does its work.  I am sure time does not care about much of anything.

RTNM:  If I understand correctly, that means that you never met a woman who nudged you to get married.

WAS:  False.  You are proving to be as insightful as ever.  In other words, you still don’t have a clue.  Is there anything else you wanted to ask me because I have had enough of this topic?

RTNM:  All right.  I hear you are trying to cook up something in South Africa.  Is this correct, or am I way off base again?

WAS:  I don’t know where you heard that, but I am hoping to work on a project in The Republic of South Africa.  I was working on getting my credentials verified when you rudely interrupted me.

At this point, Warren turned his laptop toward me, and I could see the SAQA logo.  He wasn’t kidding; he was trying to get his academic credentials verified by the official South African evaluation authority, SAQA.  I immediately assumed this was an archaeological project of some sort.  I was a little apprehensive about asking him about it, but I went ahead and tried to see if he would engage further in the discussion.

RTNM:  Interesting; what do you have going on in South Africa?

WAS:  None of your business.  If I felt you needed to know, I would have informed you long ago.  Since I said nothing, you can be sure it does not concern you.  You tend to only get involved in fictional accounts of this and that, right?  An archaeological project would be ostensibly nonfiction, correct?

RTNM:  Ah, so it is an archaeological project.  That’s what I thought.  I couldn’t think of any other reason for you to be studying all that South African material.

WAS:  Sigh… Please stop.  I am tired, and I slipped up.  Forget you ever heard me say anything about South Africa.  Trust me, if I need you to know anything about it, I’ll tell you.

RTNM:  OK.  I’ll sit on the edge of my seat, waiting for that information.  If you can, why South Africa?  The kind of archaeology you are interested in can be done anywhere in the world.  Why choose a place so far away?

WAS:  Not that you need to know, but I have long been fascinated with South Africa.  Since I was a child, I have been interested in that part of the world.

RTNM:  How does a hillbilly in Ohio become interested in South Africa?

WAS:  First of all, be careful when using the term hillbilly.  I can call anyone a hillbilly because my mom was a coal miner’s daughter.  Both sides of my family come from the hills of West Virginia.  My dad was the first person on either side of the family to attend high school.  Even with my Harvard degrees, my hillbilly bona fides are beyond question.  If you are not a hillbilly, some might take offense to you using the term.  I can throw the term around; others can’t.

RTNM:  Apologies.  So, how did a Harvard-educated man like yourself become interested in South Africa?

WAS:  I am not sure where the story begins, but I remember being very confused when I heard about apartheid.  I couldn’t understand how such a system was allowed to exist.  I knew it was wrong, and I couldn’t understand how everyone else didn’t see it the way I did.  It was clearly a corrupt system that should never be allowed to be implemented.  Of course, as I grew older and more educated, I realized that systematic racism was endemic to much of the world.

RTNM:  Do you remember the first time you were made aware of apartheid?

WAS:  I remember being an undergraduate at an unnamed university.  I went to an administrative office to see a young woman I was interested in, and I ran into some other people I knew.  A black student, I can not remember her name, was having a discussion with a group of people.  She mentioned apartheid, and that was the first time I ever heard the word uttered in conversation.  I knew what it meant, and all I could say to her was, “Apartheid is wrong.”  She nodded in agreement, and that was the end of that.  As the years went by and I read thousands more books, I realized that the history of human beings is largely written from the perspective of those who have the technology to beat the crap out of others.  The people with the best ideas have not historically won; it has been those with the bigger guns.

RTNM:  Yes.  Concerning South Africa, how have you been approaching your studies?

WAS:  Currently, I am a student of Nelson Mandela.  That means that I am reading everything I can find about him.  All the biographies, his autobiography, and anything else I can find.

RTNM:  Why are you spending so much time on Mandela when you are preparing for an archaeological project?  I can’t imagine he has anything to do with that.

WAS:  I was taught at Harvard that if you are ever going to put a shovel in the ground, you must first read everything ever written about the area.  That means if things are written in other languages, you better learn them.  Of course, learning about Mandela is not required to do archaeology in South Africa; learning about Mandela is something everyone should do.

I will say I have long admired Mandela.  He held himself with grace not typically found in the human experience.  I could never forgive the people who had unfairly imprisoned me for 27 years.  I would have looked for a machine gun when I got out, but Mandela did not.  He was not Gandhi, that is for sure, but he was an unusual man.  He exhibited traits we should all strive to emulate.

With a wave of his hand, I was gone.  I didn’t look back, but I could hear him pounding on the keyboard of his laptop.  Hope springs, right?

 

 

Another Tale from the Library

Rain always means one thing, more people at the library.  I have never seen this many people here, even on election day.  The place is jumping.

My regular table is taken, my briefcase replaced by a plastic bag of cheerios, most certainly not that brand, but you get the idea.  The little girl’s pink coat almost covers the pistol the adults smuggled in.

There is a young man at the table.  As he attempts to solve the world’s problems by examining his phone, I can see what appears to be the outline of a large weapon under his coat.  Yes, as he moves, I can see the butt of what is probably a sawed-off shotgun.

In the comfortable seats behind me and to my left, I can see four people, part of the usual homeless crowd, who are here to charge their phones and get out of the rain.  They are of no concern.  If things go sideways, and my guess is they will, they will be of no consequence.

Where are the security personnel?  I do not see a police officer or any guards.  This place is running on hope and trust.  What would all the others think if they knew what I know?  I see at least two weapons.  Does the fact that they have a two-year-old girl with them calm me?  Yes.  I don’t suspect they would do something stupid with the kid here.  But the question remains.  Why would they bring a child and weapons into my library?

The little girl has just made a new friend.  A grandpa brings what appears to be his grandson to the library daily.  He might be 18 months.  He spends his mornings exploring the children’s section and other areas that interest him.  His grandfather is vigilant, always 15 or 20 feet behind him, ready to pounce if he tries to climb the shelves or rip CDs from their display.  The little boy just met the little girl.  They are rolling on the floor, trying to figure out the other’s deal.  Grandpa isn’t smiling at the interaction.  He knows the power women have to destroy a young man; he has concern written on his face.

The people at my usual table have left the partially exposed pistol well, partially exposed, as they have disappeared into the children’s section.  Lots of days, there is someone over there reading stories to the kids as they continue exploring.  I don’t think any of them sit and listen; there is too much going on here.

I just saw the owner of the pistol grab her daughter and carry her off.  She was following the boy throughout the library.  They seemed to be getting along just fine.  I’m sure that worried the mother; she knows the power a young man has to destroy the well-planned-out future of a young woman.

It is still raining hard out there.  I can see it from my seat.  Just as I was taking in the weather, getting ready for a profound proclamation of one sort or another, another usual customer walked in.  He is the guy with the walking boot.  Weathered and wet, he made a line directly to his crew in the cushy seats.  I would tell you the topic of the day, but I am still listening to The Car.  I guess I have heard the entire thing 400 times by now.  I still don’t like it.

If I weren’t a responsible reporter of life in Hillbilly Land, I would have the little boy grab the pistol from the table and run off with it.  His grandpa would trip and sustain a severe injury while in pursuit.  Unfortunately, nothing of the sort is going to happen.  I just saw grandpa walk out the front door, his charge in tow.  They have places to go and things to do.  Who can blame them?

The poor woman who keeps loudly complaining about “Arthur” has just walked in.  She is struggling extra hard today.  People riddled with “Arthur” do that in cold rainy weather.  Regardless of what you may have heard, cold, wet weather does exacerbate the symptoms of arthritis.  I have first-hand information.

Chekov said that if you write about a loaded gun, it eventually has to go off.  Fortunately, I am simply chronicling my day at the library.  I don’t anticipate that the weapon will be fired.  I am having difficulty figuring out why they bothered to bring it.  Was it a mistake?  If so, why is it out of the backpack, partially exposed on the table?  Are they trying to get caught?  A jail cell should be warm and dry, and at least they would get fed.  It is all very curious.

Two elderly women just walked in.  Are they part of the danger posed by the gun toating hillbillies?  I can’t imagine so, but then again, if we are dealing with master criminals, I will not discount their presence.

I am not concerned about the weapons parked 10 or 15 feet from me.  I am worried about the little girl.  What chance does she have if the people responsible for her upbringing are bringing weapons into a library?  That kid has very little chance of living a substantial, productive life.  Is she more likely to be a supreme court justice or a welfare recipient?  We all know the answer to that.

Is there anything I can do?  Can I intervene and somehow change the course of that little girl’s life?  Should I walk to the front desk and tell them I see a pistol and that I suspect a sawn-off shotgun?  Should I just call the police?  Would that only make matters worse?  I am not sure of anything.  I just want it to stop raining so I can get out of here.

The rain is not letting up.  I just checked the weather on my computer, and the prediction is that it will rain all day.  There are still people trickling in, and they are drenched, the water running off of them as they walk back to their comfortable seats.  I am going to be here for a bit.  It is not that I am scared of rain; I just don’t like being cold and wet.  I would rather sit here and type than walk in that mess I see outside.

The people with the pistol and apparent shotgun just returned to their table.  It looks like they are collecting their things so they can leave.  Sigh.  I can now confirm that what I thought was a pistol is nothing more than the end of a pencil box.  From my angle, it liked just like a pistol.  Also, the guy with the shotgun under his coat didn’t have any such weapon.  He is wearing one of those puffy winter coats, and the outline of a weapon seems to be an artifact of the garment’s construction.  I stand corrected and relieved.

I usually come to the library and write for a bit.  I don’t have to go here; I am just looking for a bit of inspiration.  Have you ever tried to fake inspiration?  Have you ever tried to convince yourself that you are inspired when you are not?  It doesn’t work; it can’t be faked.  It is sort of like a blood pressure reading; the output doesn’t lie and doesn’t depend even a little on how you feel.

I have written over 1,300 words this morning while watching the unfortunate and even less fortunate navigate this section of Hillbilly Land.  It is now time to start editing and polishing the best I can.  There is a significant milestone coming up concerning this blog.  I am rapidly approaching 250,000 posted words.  That is a substantial number, even though I suspect I will blow through it quickly.  Between us, I have a couple million more taking up cloud and external hard drive space.  I hope I can get to all of them.  Believe it or not, they require a bit of editing.

 

 

 

The Hardest Thing

I have mentioned a time or two that I am getting old.  I can’t figure out how it happened, but I am now 60.  People will tell you that age is just a number, but 60 is a significant number.  Sure, these same people will tell you that 60 is the new 50.  I sometimes think those pundits are in their mid-20s.

At 60, it is clear that there are lots more days behind than in front.  I don’t believe I will make it to 120 or 130, do you?  The odds of that are slim.  How about having my consciousness uploaded to a computer?  That is also doubtful.  I’ll be here for a bit longer, and then that is that.

I bought an electric head shaver.  The white hairs are gone, creating bald spots to match those already there.  I also purchased a new electric razor for my face.  Blades are not the best choice for someone with doctor-ordered thin blood.

And I have made more concessions to age.  I am at the point where my right hip needs to be replaced, and my back hurts almost all the time.  I try to limit myself to office work; anything outside has a deleterious impact.  Right now, I am suffering through the consequences of working outside last Friday.  The pain constantly reminds me that it was a dubious decision.  I knew better, but I found myself a victim of circumstance.

I am much more worried about what is going on above my shoulders.  I am working hard to fight off the cognitive decline that afflicts humans as we age.  Concentration is the main thing, isn’t it?  Even athletes in their late 30s fall victim to wandering thoughts that had never been an issue.  It seems that this is something fundamental to being human.  It is in our nature.

So, what might be the biggest problem I am facing?  That is an easy one.  I can deal with the pain; that is not a pressing issue.  It is something else.

I have several projects I would like to get completed in the next calendar year.  Two novels need to be finished, and I want to complete a big academic project.  I am currently struggling with an agency in The Republic of South Africa to get the necessary permissions to proceed.  I am not optimistic at the moment; a series of computer issues have disrupted contact.  I remain steadfast; I have long been fascinated by South Africa and am willing to jump through all the hoops they present.

I also have a technical book related to archaeological fieldwork I would like to finish.  I have done lots of work on it, but I need to do more.  Same old story, right?  Same with the baseball book I have in a special folder on my desktop.  There is no reason that it can’t be completed soon.

So, what’s the problem?  What is the big issue?  It does not only affect older individuals; it is an issue common at all ages.  It is one of candor.  Have you ever considered that you are not honest with the person staring back at you in the mirror?  Is that a terribly difficult thing to do, to be honest with yourself?  I think it might be essential and complicated.  It might be the hardest thing any of us attempt.

For the first time in my life, that little voice deep inside whispers that I may not get all this stuff done.  Perhaps I don’t have the energy and concentration to do it.  Maybe it is too much to ask of myself, considering my other responsibilities.  Whatever that thing is, my intuition perhaps, that is whispering, I am not listening.  I am going to plow ahead and see what happens.  I could say I refuse to cower in the face of time’s intentions.  Still, I now have intimate knowledge of its capabilities.  No fear but healthy respect.  I know what it has in its bag of tricks.

Time uncovers all, doesn’t it?  It reveals imposters and strains the credible.  It doesn’t care, even a little, what we think of it.  I am becoming curious how it affects things like intuition, that little voice constantly taking up arms against me.  Do those whispers know more than I do?  Does that curious entity have knowledge and insight that I lack?  How about wisdom?  Is it wise and faithful?  I have no idea; I’ll keep typing to see what happens.

When I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, I was confident that I could check off everything on my list.  No real doubts yet; it is that energy issue that is proving to be a stickler.  Do I have enough energy and sufficient brain power left to get it all done?  I keep telling myself yes, no problem.  I never get an answer from space-time, the universe, or whatever else might want to chime in.  Their opinions remain elusive.

Maybe the spirit of Mozart will come through and inspire me.  Then again, I didn’t buy a Powerball ticket for the two-billion-dollar drawing.  I think that probably disqualifies me from the influence of certain muses.  At least, I would think so.

How is this for some unexpected context to my problem?  I look around and wonder if we really are living in a simulation.  Lots of smart folks think that is a serious possibility.  What does it mean for me if we are?  Nothing, I would think.  What about my consciousness?  Is it an emergent quality that brains mysteriously produce, or is it fundamental to the universe?  Again, I have no idea, and I am not sure it matters for me and my dilemma.  I can continue to consider these unusual questions as I muster up as much courage as possible.  I will need it to be honest with that image I see when I brush my teeth and use those new electric shavers.

 

 

 

 

 

The Ides of November

There is a big snowstorm forecast for later today.  Lots of lake-effect snow is expected.  This section of Hillbilly Land can get blasted, not as bad as places like Buffalo, but it is bad enough.  I have plenty of food in the house, as those living in the snow belt tend to make such preparations.

Once again, I am sitting at the library.  As soon as I closed my truck door, I heard the yelping man.  He is over by the church drinking a coffee.  Next to him is a man with a bicycle weighed down by more packs and sacks than I could have imagined.  I have no idea how he manages to peddle that contraption down the road, but apparently, he does.  I can’t imagine him pushing that thing.

It is frigid outside today, so I raced to get into the warmth of the library as soon as I could.  When I heard the yelping man and looked in his direction, I saw the man with the bicycle and someone lying on the asphalt.  Against my better judgment, I paused to get a closer look.  I could tell he was attempting to steal a catalytic converter from a truck in the parking lot.  Bold move for 10:00 in the morning.

Now I have to deal with this nonsense.  Do I approach him and ask what he is doing?  That doesn’t seem to be the best idea.  Perhaps I should just go inside and let the people at the front desk know what is going on.  Since I do not see a police car in the lot, that seems to be the best choice.

The young woman at the front desk, decked out in a floral face mask, looked at me like I was from another planet.  She could not understand that I was telling her that a crime was being committed in the library’s parking lot.

“What do you mean?”

“There is a guy in the parking lot, over by the church, cutting off the catalytic converter from a parked car.”

“What is a catalytic converter?”

“That is the thing that he is stealing.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, I thought you might call the police.  Those things are expensive.”

“OK, thank you.”

“Yeah, sure.”

As I sat down, I knew she wouldn’t call the police.  I have no idea what her deal is, but I bet she would care if they were cutting apart her car.  I don’t know what else I am supposed to do.  I guess I could call the police, but it was not my car.  What incentive do I have to get involved?

As I fired up my laptop, I heard the yelping man.  He is seeking shelter from the cold.  I wonder what is going to happen to him tonight.  The storm is supposed to be bad.  I hope he and his crew find someplace warm.  If they don’t, they are in for a bitter night.

A library employee just walked by me.  She is viewing me with suspicion.  I bet she talked to the woman at the front desk.  Do they think I have lost my mind?  Will they call a social worker to seek me out and check on me?  Good luck with that.  I sincerely hope they do not get a look at the first draft of the post I am now writing; like all my first drafts, it is disjoined with three or four spelling errors in every sentence.  I am all about the scattershot method of writing.  I just try to get the ideas down; there is lots of time to edit later.  Grammarly will help me pick out all the comma splices and split infinitives.  No worries.

I would like to get up and see if the master criminal is progressing with his bold daytime theft.  I can’t leave my stuff unattended.  It might be here when I get back, but it might not.  Why would I take such a risk?

I usually try to type at least a thousand words each morning as I sit in the library.  Some day I can get a lot more than that.  The ridiculous 10,000-word days appear to be a thing of the past.  I haven’t seen one of those for years.

Several homeless people are holding a conference behind me and to my left.  I can’t hear what is going on; I know that one man seems to be talking while the others intently listen.  I can’t take off my headphones to hear better; I am listening to The Car again.  I would guess this is the 500^th time I have heard it.  I still think it is craptacular.  The sound is not growing on me…at all.

I am approaching my 1,000 words, and it is about time to leave.  I have lots of nonsense I have to attend to today.  I would like to get most of it done before the storm hits.

This is the after-story…

When I walked outside, I saw no police.  The man that was under the vehicle was gone.  I think the owner will be shocked when they start their car and hear the result.  It will be loud and expensive to fix.

I got in my truck and took my usual turn out of the parking lot.  That is when I saw him, a guy strutting down the road with what appeared to be a catalytic converter in tow.  What did I do?  I called the police and gave them a description and location of this master criminal.  I pulled over and waited to see what would happen.  A few minutes later, a patrol car pulled beside him.  He didn’t try to run; he stood still while they cuffed him.

Many of you probably think I should have called the police after the library worker blew me off.  Letting her know that a criminal was working in the library parking lot should have been enough, but it clearly wasn’t.

What made me finally call the police?  Sitting in my warm truck with the quiet engine, I realized that he could have stolen my catalytic converter, which was enough.

Is this story true?  It is true enough.  I found out later from a blurb in the newspaper that the guy they arrested told the police a story.  He said that the owner of the damaged vehicle said he could have the catalytic converter, apparently as some sort of early Christmas present.  The policeman stated that he found that suspicious.  It is comforting to know that in this section of Hillbilly Land, a man can walk down the street with a stolen car part and be considered suspicious.

 

 

My Right Elbow

Years ago, I fell while running.  I shattered my right elbow on the asphalt and needed surgery to fix the break.  I still have a dozen pins and screws surrounding the joint and a couple of plates.  There was lots of fallout from the injury; I have written about the complication that could have killed me.  This essay is about the other thing that happened due to my fall.

I have long been a student of consciousness, meaning I know as much about it as you do, next to nothing.  I remember buying Daniel Dennett’s book Consciousness Explained.  I soon realized that no one has a clue what consciousness is, why humans have it, and where it comes from.  Is it a function of the physical brain?  Does it somehow emerge from the physical characteristics of the brain?  How does that work?  Why does a brain create consciousness while other biological systems don’t, or at least do not appear to?

Is consciousness merely fundamental to the universe?  Is it something necessary for the existence of a universe?  While unsatisfying, that may be true.  It is all very mysterious.  The nature of consciousness is unknown.  Lots of researchers disagree about how to even approach the problem.  In my view, no one knows what it is.  No one is even close to understanding its nature.  Especially the anesthesiologists.

And there you have it, those highly paid doctors, the ones you trust your life to when you need surgery, don’t know why anesthesia works.  They really don’t.  Have you ever had a chance to ask one of them?  Go ahead, corner one of them, and start a conversation.  You will be shocked at the answers.   Sure, they know how much gas to give you and are experts at monitoring you when you are under, but that is about it.  They know as much as you do about consciousness.

As you might have guessed, I was put under when I had my elbow surgery.  It was the first time I had experienced anesthesia, and I use the term “experienced” very loosely.  The first whiff of gas and I was gone, unconscious.  I was not in a dream state; it was as if I no longer existed.  Where was I?  I have no idea.  I was unconscious.

Of course, I talked with my anesthesiologist before my surgery.  He laughed when I told him that he had no idea how the cocktail of gases worked to put me under.  He laughed and readily agreed.  He was happy to admit that no one had any deep understanding of how anesthesia works; he just knew that it did work and worked remarkably well.  I quickly reminded him that to understand how anesthesia works, one must understand the nature of consciousness.  No one alive has a deep understanding of that.  He laughed again and nodded his head.  I must admit that I felt a lot better about the coming surgery after talking to him.  I would have objected if he tried to snow me into thinking he understood consciousness.  Such a person who can demonstrate the true nature of consciousness will instantly become the most famous scientist in the world.  Quite possibly the most famous scientist that has ever lived.  The topic is that big of a deal.  Brilliant people have been working on it for hundreds of years, and I do not believe any real progress has been made.  Lots of speculation but no quantifiable scientific insight.

Being under the effects of anesthesia was weird.  It was the strangest physical experience of my life.  I was simply gone.  I was not in a dream state; I certainly was not asleep.  I was simply gone.  I am happy the anesthesiologist, with his primitive caveman knowledge of the true nature of human consciousness, was able to bring me back.  Three cheers and a tiger for that guy.  You know what I mean.

I have taken a deep dive into the nature of consciousness for the last few months.  It is either emergent, rising out of the physical brain by an unknown process, or fundamental to the universe.  When I say no one can prove either position, I mean no one has a clue.  Lots of religious people will tell you… Yeah, I don’t care what they think, and I use the term “think” loosely.  The thing about science is that you can never appeal to the supernatural.  That is not what science is.  No deities allowed, never.  Spewing that “Well, God did it and…” doesn’t help.  It is tiresome and uninteresting.

How can consciousness emerge from a brain and not my right elbow?  They are both biological systems, right?  Descartes, way back when, called this the mind-body problem.  I would suggest Descartes knew as much about it as we do.  Scientists and philosophers call this the “hard problem.”  That is a bit of an understatement.  How hard can hard be?  Unsolvable, maybe.  I will be watching closely to see if a clever person can tackle this problem in a novel way.  I guess we will need to create consciousness before we can fully understand it.  An accidental creation of consciousness, while not probable, is possible.  I’ve seen Ex Machina and the clever reverse Turing Test central to the movie.  The point is Alicia Vikander, in whatever form, would be easy to fall in love with if you were a young man out and about in the world.

Will someone offer up an in-depth explanation of consciousness before my own expires?  I hope so, but I doubt it.  Perhaps this is the greatest mystery facing humanity.  Many other questions about human nature will be framed quite differently if we can get a handle on consciousness.  Unfortunately, I do not see that happening anytime soon.  Don’t be surprised if, when an answer is offered, it is entirely unsatisfying.  Consciousness might simply be an epiphenomenon of the evolutionary process that created the universe.  If so, we are all left to bask in the mystery of life.  I am resigned to such a possibility.