Category: Misc

Just Another Wednesday

Hump day; go ahead and ask Alexa about it.  My personal version of her stuttered before delivering a message proclaiming her ignorance.  Of course, she has no idea what it is.  Why would she?  She is not self-aware (at least not yet).  She doesn’t know what is going on outside of her wiring.

Unusually warm today.  Is it global warming?  I mean, climate change?  I am educated enough to know that local weather has little to do with international climate tendencies.  Only Republicans bring snowballs to the floor of congress and gloat about how stupid scientists are.  Not much I can do about that; limited intellects exhibit tunnel vision.  They are loyal to the first thing they learned as children, and if that was all about Jesus, then no data would change their minds.  Same with economic systems.  I have seen lots of those people clutch their snowballs while yelling as loud as they can that Jesus was not a socialist (should that be “is?”).  Not sure where they are getting that, either.  I have to admit I don’t care as much as I used to.  I am going to use my remaining time to influence the changeable.

This post is more convoluted than most.  I am all over the place, but I have a good explanation.  I am back at the library, and intrigue is afoot.  Please give me the benefit of the doubt while I explain what is going on here in my section of Hillbilly Land.

I am on the cusp of getting up from my table at the library.  I need to save one of the librarians from a smelly, bald-headed dumpster fire of a guy who is trying his best to chat her up.  The fact that, unlike him, she has her front teeth, a college education, a shower, etc., is not discouraging him.  He is apparently on a mission.  If only she could see beyond his outward appearance and smell, she would realize they were made for each other.  His smooth rap can not be denied, or so he seems to think.

Look at the way he is leaning on the counter.  He is making a fool of himself.  I don’t care about that.  Who would?  He is making her uncomfortable, and she needs rescue.  Or does she?  Aren’t we at the point where women don’t need saving, and heroes are not all white men.  What if I were a woman of color?  Would I approach him, or would I even notice what was happening?  Perhaps the more interesting question is – Would I care if she weren’t young and attractive?

I don’t see any security guards in here tonight.  Earlier, a couple police cars were parked conspicuously out in the lot.  Not near the door but close enough to let the education-starved know that there would be no shenanigans today.  Maybe someone created a diversion in another part of town so that the authorities would be engaged.  If I were a rap master like this guy, that is what I would have planned.  Of course, I might have taken a shower when it was clear the plan was coming into focus.

What possible reason would this guy have to believe that this woman is interested in talking to him?  Did she save him from an opioid overdose?  Those kits are on every wall in this place.  No busts of Mozart here, just opioid overdose rescue kits.  There is one growth industry in this part of the country.

She just moved away from him.  She is carrying a half dozen books that need to be reshelved.  From my perspective, that is what the people do here.  They take a book and put it on the proper shelf so that it can be removed again at the appropriate time.  How does that work with digital books?  Probably just a folder on a server, right?

He didn’t come after her.  I still hear him talking at the counter.  Maybe another woman has drawn his attention.  My vision is partially blocked, so I can’t be sure who he is talking to.  It very well might be himself.  That has been known to happen here in this part of Hillbilly Land.  It is part of the local charm, like waterfalls or sidewalk cafes where you might live.

I am unsure what I am to do.  I still hear him talking over my headphones.  I am still listening to that new CD by Arctic Monkeys.  Yes, I am on my 300^th listen of The Car.  Sigh…it really is craptacular.

As soon as I settle my nerves, I will get up and walk to the front of the library.  I am going to hit a Kung Fu pose about 10 or 15 feet away from this dude.  One Kung Fu Panda yelp later (wwwwaaaahhhhhh!), and it will be over.  This poor soul has never seen the likes of me.

Reprieve!  I don’t have to engage this man.  Some guy just walked in and clocked Romeo in the head with a beer bottle.  He is down.  I don’t see him getting up soon.  Beer-bottle-guy is standing over him, chest puffed out, smiling with accomplishment.  Still no security; they are on the phone with the police.  The station is only a quarter of a mile away, so they should be here soon.  They probably are bringing an ambulance, don’t you think?

I am ready to go home but must sit here until the police take my statement.  I doubt I will mention any Kung Fu; I’ll probably just tell them what I saw, not what I thought.  That is what they would want anyway.  They don’t need any of the other stuff to muddy the waters.

I asked the officer why they couldn’t open the gym at the new high school so that these people would at least have a place to stay on cold nights.  He looked at me crookedly and thanked me for my statement.  I nodded and went back to my table to collect my stuff.  No, I didn’t leave it unattended; I had eyes on it the entire time.

If I had my druthers (I had an uncle from Hillbilly Land who pronounced it “drathers”), I would end with a grand statement on the state of humanity.  I can’t even come up with something related to the state of libraries in Hillybilly Land.  I wonder what future archaeologists will say if a graduate student is ever tasked with excavating this mess a few hundred or a few thousand years from now?  I guess I need to know how this place gets abandoned.  Does it go out with a bang, or is it neglected into oblivion?  The scientific analyses performed in the future would depend significantly on which scenario is historically accurate.  That is, if they can even figure it out.  Maybe all that will be left is a thin layer, a hint of something happening in the distant past.  This much I know, they will never be able to reconstruct my experience here on what, by all accounts, was just another Wednesday.

 

 

My Library is my Church

I like spending time at my local library.  I don’t need electricity to charge my electronics, and I don’t need shelter from the weather.  I think that is why most people I see are here.  For me, a library is a special place.  I read somewhere the other day that someone referred to their library as their church.  Why not?  That seems reasonable to me.

My library has lots of empty shelves.  There is room for thousands of more books.  I hope this is simply a function of people migrating to digital libraries.  I certainly borrow lots of books from the digital library.  I prefer ebooks unless I need to take notes while carefully reading an academic or technical text.

One of the reasons I love libraries is that I know how hard it is to write books on the shelves.  It is not easy to write a book, especially fiction.  I am in the camp that argues that nonfiction tends to write itself.  At least, that is usually the case unless someone is doing something extraordinary.  Then the standard rules do not apply.

I have spent lots of time in libraries.  Did you know that Widener Library, the main undergraduate library at Harvard University, has moveable stacks?  Once you identify the aisle you need, you press a button.  The aisle magically appears as an entire series of shelves move away in either direction.  It is probably the coolest feature I have ever seen at any library.

The library I am sitting in is nowhere as cool as Widener, but how many libraries are?  Our local library was expanded a few years ago.  Lots of new space; it is not the tiny brick building I grew up with.  It is clean and modern, with a bank of computers for the public.

It has been my experience that most of the people using this library are homeless or at least in severe distress.  I am often the only person I see who is here to do some work and take in the surroundings.  There are no other laptops on desks; instead, many phones are plugged into the charging stations on each desk.

We have a levy on the ballot for the upcoming election.  I hope it passes; I voted to approve it.  Still, I am unsure how many people want to support a library they never visit or utilize.  I am still shocked that we came up with the money for the new building.

If the levy does not pass, I am told there will be layoffs and reduced hours.  I think all libraries should be open 24/7.  Of course, why they are not is the same answer for every question you can ask in this country.  It is money.  Pick a question, any question, and there is nearly a 100% chance the answer is money.  Disappointing, I know, but I have no idea what to do about it.

A little girl, I would imagine about 8 or 9, just walked in with her father.  She skipped around, choosing books until she couldn’t carry anymore.  That was nice to see.  When I leave, I will probably see used needles in the parking lot; that seems to be expected here.  A couple people will ask me for money before I make it to my old, trusty pickup.

I hope the levy passes; many people need a warm place to hang out in the coming winter.  As for me, where else will I go to write uninspired, pedestrian posts?  You would think such achievements could manifest anywhere, but I am not sure.  Inspiration, no matter the amount, is governed by fickle muses.  They tend to be mercurial and indifferent.  I need to find whatever they are offering wherever I can.  No matter the specifics, this library seems to be a portal for their wares.  The access is limited, but they do speak, even if it is only in whispers.  I have learned that if I listen very closely, I can sometimes hear them.

The Mighty Technician

Scientists don’t repeat themselves. Once they solve a problem, they move on to a new one. Why would a brilliant individual bother with things that have already been solved, things that are well understood? Where’s the percentage in that?

Buford Lister, personal communication.

I found an article about a young woman who got her Ph.D. in physics. She specialized in turbulence and wrote her dissertation on that topic. She loved F1 racing and always wanted to work for one of the teams. She applied for and got a job with one of the major manufacturers. She wrote about how quickly her excitement turned to disappointment as she realized her job could be done by a highly trained chimp. She was using a fraction of a percent of her brain; that was all her employer wanted from her. Unfortunately, her plight is a common one.

This essay concerns scientists like our newly minted Ph.D., engineers, and technicians. The jobs are different, even though the technician more closely aligns with the engineer than the engineer does with the scientist. It is tragic when one person trained in one category finds themselves in another. Such a situation can lead to crises, and it often does.

Do you know any scientists, honest researchers, people who are driven to understand the as-of-yet unknowable? They tend to be the most interesting people. They only sleep because they have to, and they never have to force themselves to work. When a person is driven that hard, when they feel the curiosity in their bones, there is no such thing as work. It is all exploration. Once a problem is solved, there might be a few drinks, but then it is on to the next issue. Life is short, and there are lots of things to discover.

Engineers are cut from a different cloth. Do you know any engineers? They spend all of their time resolving problems that have solutions. Sure, there might be the occasional project that allows them to stretch their intellect, but for the most part, they apply the proper equations and let the math do the work. The job does not require flashes of insight unique to human intellectual history. Not to say that there aren’t a lot of clever engineers out there; there certainly are. It is just that they are wired in such a way that it is acceptable to live on autopilot after they have mastered the area of their specialty.

What about technicians? We all know lots of those. They might work at a repair shop or wire cable for your local internet utility. The repetition here is apparent. They fix things, and they solve straightforward problems. They are not worried about design or epistemological issues relating to the ultimate nature of their work. In this scheme, the problems they solve are simple, and the tasks are straightforward. Nothing to see here, at least from the perspective of a working scientist.

I am writing this essay to tell most of you reading about a tragedy. This silent epidemic afflicts a quiet group of people who routinely suffer. You may know some of them, but you probably don’t. If you do know them, I doubt you know what they are struggling with. As a group, there is power in resolute silence.

Do you remember the story of Albert Einstein working at a patent office? Imagine if he never published his ideas and spent his life stamping papers. How about the Einstein-level geniuses living average lives in Africa or China. I am sure such people are out there; there is simply no way to find them or an outlet for them. They suffer silently, unidentified and unappreciated, their intelligence more of a detriment than a blessing.

The big secret is that many college graduates, especially those with advanced degrees, spend their time doing the work of a technician. That is the way of the world. They are hired, and their employer expects them to do a couple of things well and maybe one thing really well. That’s it. The young woman I started the essay with left her dream job because she was not being challenged. She was bored, very bored. And there it is, one of the big revelations I have had about life – Scientists suffer when required to spend their lives doing the work of a technician. It is tragic, the worst possible thing for a curious, highly trained individual to do repetitive daily tasks until they fade away. There are lots of people like that out there. It is not ennui; it is something more fundamental.

It is as difficult for those with the mentality of a scientist to work on engineering problems their entire lives. Engineering math is well known, and its application has been proven effective again and again and again… Flashes of insight are not required, expected, or welcome. Here is another problem with a simple solution, have fun solving it. And trust me, those problems are soul-crushing for the people born with the curiosity and drive of a scientist. What if Wonder Woman was tasked with ticketing jaywalkers every day for the rest of her life? She would find that unsatisfying, as would the rest of us.

Stephen Jay Gould, the evolutionary biologist (among other things), once wrote that the job of an elementary school teacher is the most critical job society has to offer. Suppose he was correct, and he might be. In that case, we should round up all the troubled scientists working as technicians and pay them large sums of money to get them in the classroom with impressionable youngsters. Their curiosity and innate sense of wonder are the needed cure. Of course, I am talking about the scientists, not the kids.

Imagine if all youngsters could interact with brilliant people curious about the world and its workings. We would all be better off. The sense of wonder in the children would mix nicely with their teachers’ more mature understanding of the intricacies of possibility. If I were in charge, I would work on a plan to implement this as soon as possible.

I nearly forgot that I live in a place that does not value education. All it does is indoctrinate the students into a liberal agenda, right? How many times have I heard that? I can only speak to my area of Hillbilly Land, where education is viewed with suspicion. Most people I know think universities should be job training centers, like some sort of hyped-up vocational school. A degree in philosophy? What are you going to do with that? Anthropology? That is even worse. At least you can get a job if you learn a trade. What are you thinking?

If I were to propose that PhDs take over as grade school teachers, the reaction would be swift and awkward. At least here in Hillbilly Land. Why pay more money for something as useless as a teacher for a child? The reaction would be different if you lived on a coast. There is a different mentality toward lots of topics. For instance, are the people at Harvard distinct from those here in Hillbilly Land? Absolutely. In my experience, the only thing everyone has in common is DNA. Everything else finds its place on other ends of the scale.

Am I proposing that all the children be taught by technicians? I want them to be educated by the people who, through circumstance, find themselves working as technicians. My guess is they would benefit as much as the kids. Perhaps seeing the world through those young, impressionable eyes might rekindle a light dimmed by the daily grind of an uneventful, unchallenging, and uninteresting life.

I am not delusional; I know the odds of something like this happening are hovering around zero percent. School teachers are not valued, not even a little. Raising the status of the profession requires one thing, money. As a society, we determined long ago that we would prefer to channel resources in other directions. Children, especially those born to poor parents, aren’t even an afterthought. The same with scientists working as technicians. One day there might exist a society that values both. It won’t be in my lifetime, and the odds are long that it will appear in the near future. As always, hope springs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Car

I downloaded The Car a few days ago.  I am listening right now through my best headphones as I sit at my regular table at the library.  I hope no one is near me when I throw my laptop across the room.  I think it might come to that; I am a little unhappy.  There is a very good chance that I do not like this collection of tunes.  Sigh.

Instead of live streaming my reaction, I will write as I listen.  I am on my second time through and am disappointed so far.  Many reviewers stated that the band has doubled down on the sound from Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino.  I am not surprised they are correct; the energetic young men I used to know have morphed into pseudo-lounge singers.

I have a long history with this band; I have followed them from the beginning.  Reckless Serenade became my favorite song the first time I heard it over ten years ago.  It is still my favorite.  It is a beautiful song with lyrics I consider brilliant.  The stuff I am listening to now is simply confusing.  Is it pretentious, or am I not understanding the concept?  Can it be both?  I find myself thinking about the band’s early music.  Apparently, this new CD was created by the same musical group, but…

Am I at the point where I can proclaim that I dislike this new CD?  I am leaning that way, but I need to give it another hundred or so listens.  After all, this is my favorite band, and maybe I am missing something.

I suspect I have listened to the CD 50 times so far.  I have listened to the songs in order on repeat.  I am back at the library and see that I just missed a phone call.  The number leads me to believe that something has gone wrong.  If everything was smooth, they would never call me.  I hear from them only when there is a problem.  I find it interesting that I am listening to The Car when the message came through.

The last few months have been very dark in this neck of Hillbilly Land.  Things, important things, are going wrong every day, all day.  The struggle to live a productive life is real and annoying.  It shouldn’t be this hard.  If I could stay in bed, I would.  I really needed to like this new CD.  Another disappointment is not what I need.  Once again, sigh.

I realize that if a person just keeps breathing, then there is a good probability that things might eventually get better.  Of course, there is also a chance they will get worse.  I don’t subscribe to the view that things can only get better.  I would have thought that months ago, but here I am, still anticipating that I will soon reach the peak and break free from whatever this is.  I could have used a transcendent CD from Arctic Monkeys now.  I didn’t get it.

After dozens of front-to-back sessions, I still find myself ambivalent.  I am simply not a big fan of this sound.  I view it as a tragedy when your favorite band moves from a post-punk sound because they are called to morph into a lounge act.  I doubt even one song will make it on a workout mix.  Decades ago, I didn’t have to make concessions; their entire CDs pulsed through my headphones while I ran.

I am bending over to give these guys the benefit of all my doubts.  I want to like this; I just wish the music was different.  Did you just read what I wrote?  These are my guys, and I try to remain loyal when I become interested in an artist.  They don’t owe me anything; they need to create the music they are compelled to make.  The fact that there is a 60-year-old guy in Hillybilly Land that is disappointed shouldn’t matter one bit.  There is an easy solution; I can play the old music and pretend the new stuff was never released.  Maybe I’ll just do that.

After many more sessions, I have come to a conclusion.  Arctic Monkeys’ new CD, The Car, is CRAPTACULAR!  It is time to move on (i.e., back) to Mozart as the background soundtrack of my life.  Maybe in another four years or so the boys will redeem themselves in my eyes.  I won’t be holding my breath.  The next CD might be acapella barbershop.

 

 

The Car (A Critical Review of an Album I Haven’t Yet Heard)

I have listened to a few songs and read several reviews of Arctic Monkey’s new CD, The Car.  My most significant worries have been realized.  They are doubling down on the lounge sound from the last release.  I listened to Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino at least 300 times, and I still can’t decide if I like it.  All I know is that it is different.  I can’t tell you if that difference is good or bad or just change for the sake of change.  I will admit that I am disappointed.

I remember the first time I heard them.  The first CD had just been released, and I found them on the internet.  I immediately went to Amazon, where I could sample all the songs.  It took me about 10 seconds to buy and download the CD.  I instantly loved it; the raw energy reminded me of my younger days.  You know, My Sharona screaming from my Karmann Ghia as I struggle down the highway.  Or maybe Ramones yelling about sweaty kids in a tight wind.  You get the idea.  The stars misaligned as we all grew up and settled into the daily struggle for a hopefully meaningful existence.

I was fortunate to see Arctic Monkeys in a small venue long before they blew up.  There were maybe a few hundred in the crowd that night.  I was shocked by the predominantly male crowd.  Very few females bothered to show up, but I remember the two young women standing right in front of me who insisted on making out during the show.  That would be the entire show, including the opening act, a group I can’t begin to remember.

The venue was far enough away from me that I had to get a hotel room.  My buddy Scott met me there, and we prepared for the show like many concertgoers.  We drank some beer and ate some Mexican food.  He hadn’t heard much of their music, but it was a good excuse to get away from the daily grind.

Our cab ride to the show was eventful.  We were picked up by an amiable and substantial black man named Michael.  We learned that Michael had a degree in mathematics but soon learned he preferred driving a cab to wrangling unruly youngsters.  Many of you can guess my reply.  I told him how important it was for him to use his degree.  The world needed him to set an example for all children, especially the minorities he would see in his classroom.  Role models of the mathematical variety are hard to come by, and I strongly suggested to him that we needed him.  By we, of course, I meant all of humanity.  I meant it, too.  He listened politely and was engaged in the conversation.  He gave us his card so he could pick us up after the concert.  If I had to guess, he is not earning his living teaching mathematics.  Too bad…for all of us.

The show was fantastic; sure, I was a bit distracted, but I managed to hear the setlist.  They missed a couple of songs I would have liked to have heard, but that is always part of the bargain, isn’t it?

After the concert ended, they shuffled everyone quickly out the doors.  For whatever reason, they did not want anyone milling around.  Consequently, there were dozens of people peeing in the streets.  They wouldn’t let me back in, so I had to join the chorus.  Eh, what are you going to do?

I will download the new CD in the next day or two.  I will listen to it many, many times.  I will eventually decide if I like it or not.  Or maybe I won’t.  Perhaps it will join the last CD in my mental file of ambiguity.  I hope not; I want to be surprised.  I want to hear something the other reviewers have missed.  If I do, I will not keep it to myself.  I don’t recommend that you hold your breath waiting for that positive review.  My money is on the flip side of that equation.

There you have it, a review of an album I have not listened to by my all-time favorite band.  Stranger things have happened, but I have learned that trajectories, especially those of the creative variety, can be blinding.  There is the thinnest of lines between too clever by half and brilliance.  I have no idea where that line is; it is subtle and elusive.  I hope the boys in the band and I can get back on the same page, but that is doubtful.  They have grown up, and I have grown old.

 

Sitting at the Library

I have an excellent writing room.  I also have an anti-library in my big, old house in the middle of Hillbilly Land.  I decided to return to the library tonight instead of sitting at home.  Why?  I guess my writing spaces aren’t that compelling to make me stay.  Besides, the weather is amiable, and I want to get out before the feet of snow arrive.  Such is life for those trying to survive in the snow belt.  On top of that, I live in one of the few areas that have to deal with lake-effect snow.  The older I get, the more I dislike it.

So, I sit at the library, holding court in the fiction section.  I see no other patrons.  There are three or four employees and me.  Even the homeless are not seeking shelter today; the weather is too nice.

I thought today might be the day something compelling makes its way from my fingertips to the computer screen.  No such luck.  I am tired, way too tired to flint with inspiration.  I am not writing today; I am typing.  I think it was Capote who said that Kerouac was not a writer; he was simply a typist.  Excuse me if I am mistaken; my fact-checker team is on hiatus.  No idea when or if to expect them back.  All for the better; it was time for them to fly, spread their wings, and get their own fact-checkers.

Inspiration has been in short supply in these parts; it has been replaced by involuntary, undramatic grinding.  The kind where every sentence is a struggle, and in the end, it appears not to matter if the effort was worth it or not.  I fear this is becoming a trend.  If my assistants were still here, I would have them look into it.

Is it even possible?  Can an inspired work, maybe a novel, spring from a grind?  I don’t see how that is possible if the struggle is not to achieve greatness but to remain upright.  Is walking the earth out of morbid curiosity a concoction for excelling?

I have long argued that to understand humans, you must learn all you can about hope.  Hope is what politicians and the clergy peddle.  It gets people out of bed when it is clear they are better off staying.  Things can (and will) get better, right?  You and I hope so.

I am 60.  I do not know how that happened.  I remember being disappointed that my great novel, my life’s work, was not completed when I turned 30.  Sure, I had multiple graduate degrees from Harvard University at that point, but those parchments were only an indication of promise.  A hint of possibilities.

I am reminded of a professor I once knew.  He was granted tenure at a top university at a very young age.  The expectations for this man were very high.  It was just a matter of time until he made a significant contribution to his chosen field and the world.  It never happened.  He grew old and then older.  Ultimately, people stopped expecting anything from him, and he met their expectations.  His death did not resonate throughout his professional community.

The implied question is a good one.  Is it imperative that each of us strive to make a significant contribution to our chosen fields?  If we don’t, have our lives been failures?  I have often written that each individual is the arbiter of their success.  No one else’s opinion matters, not even a little.  Such a question can only be asked and answered on an individual basis.  I know what I think, and no one could convince me otherwise.  I have never been one to settle or make concessions.

I see three library employees; that makes four of us in the building.  The doors close in an hour, and I notice stealthy glances.  Who will approach with the compulsory “Sir, we are closing in five minutes.”  They have nothing to worry about.  I am too tired to stay much longer.  I would push it if the link between my brain and my fingers was more fiber optic than analog.

A good night’s sleep, right?  That is all I need.  Perhaps a dream foreshadowing an onslaught of inspiration.  A Mozart level of insight into the unimagined.  I hope so; I really do.

 

Grammarly

I am a big fan of Grammarly. I mean this when I say it; if I had this program back when I started at Harvard, my life would have turned out much differently. There is a possibility I never would have left. The program is that good, and it has helped me immensely.
I often wonder how much Grammarly is influencing my writing style. I constantly clash with the program when it comes to specific sentence structures. I have a distinct style, and the software isn’t as hyped at the word order as I am. Consequently, I rarely see emptiness on the left side of my screen in the Grammarly panel. Usually, it identifies a dozen or so issues after a second draft. You don’t want to know how many issues there are after my first pass. I often state that my first drafts look like they were written by a junior high student whose first language is not English.
Some readers already know that I am The King of the Comma Splice. I think in comma splices, I really do. The lateral connections my brain makes are in comma splice form. Luckily, the software is excellent at spotting them and reminding me that there is such a thing as a semicolon and that it is OK to use them. Kurt Vonnegut thought that only a showoff would use a semicolon, but I find them very useful. And yes, I do have a basket full of degrees.
Should we be worried about programs like Grammarly? Is their influence going to grow much faster than their usefulness? I know people who are concerned about this. A built-in editor included with Microsoft Word has the power to influence generations of writers. Should a piece of software be that influential and powerful? I don’t know the answer to that, but I am all for anything that helps people write more clearly (especially if I am the one reading).
The main concern is that software is creating many writers who type similarly. Will individual style be stifled if everyone opts to follow Grammarly’s advice? Will every school paper or published essay be cookie-cutter in form? Questions like those are above my pay grade. I’ll leave it to the English professors to sort it all out.
I am glad about one thing, Grammarly does not care that I do not indent my paragraphs. I have always felt that is an unnecessary, and sort of strange, convention. I am not a Gertrude Stein wannabe (she thought question marks were redundant and unnecessary); I think that paragraphs are fine with no indentation. My brain is open if someone wishes to change my mind. I am not too concerned; I can’t believe that anyone out there cares enough to take issue with how I start my paragraphs.
And there it is, a short essay on Grammarly. The program says I am clean and ready to go. It told me to pat myself on the back because I must have been practicing. My only wish is that the next incarnation of the software can remind me to be compelling, engaging, and maybe even brilliant.

 

The Briefcase

I have a problem, not a monumental one; it is merely an aggravating issue.  Simply put, my briefcase smells like an old goat.  Sure, I have a story.

Many years ago, I started searching for a briefcase.  Not that I desperately need one.  I don’t require one; I just wanted one.  I spent some time looking around on Amazon; after all, I wouldn’t know of a place around here that even sells them.  There is not a significant demand for briefcases where I come from.

I did my due diligence, looked at many designs, and read positive and negative reviews.  I  finally settled on the one that I wanted.

{Excuse me for a few minutes.  I am sitting at the library while trying to write this post.  The yelping guy just walked in.  He is heading right for me.  This time he is hurling obscenities at an unknown interlocutor.  I may have to engage him.}

Many reviews noted that my briefcase was made of Morrocan leather, a fancy way of saying goat.  Consequently, the reviewers mentioned that the product smells strongly of an old goat.  The smell, many noted, is overpowering.

{He is back.  Roaming from aisle to aisle, still fighting with his unseen enemy.  He is circling me.  I wish he would go away.}

I researched the issue of goat leather and the problem of the smell that comes about from the curing process.  Most people claimed that the smell would disappear after a few weeks if you exposed the briefcase to sunlight.  Others argued that all you had to do was let it air out, and the smell would dissipate in no time.  No one stated that the briefcase would still reek six months after purchase.  Maybe I will write that review.

{He somehow grabbed a cup of coffee.  He is walking toward me.  He is grinning like a man who knows something I do not.  I am not overly concerned, but I am a little on edge.  The library is mostly empty.  There was a police car outside when I came in, but I do not see any security inside now.}

My briefcase still smells after six months of sunlight and air.  I do not know what an old goat smells like, but I do know what my briefcase smells like.  The odor is of a robust chemical variety.  I do not think it is going away.  I am the owner of a stinky briefcase.  I really like it, I use it, but it sure does stink.

{A woman, an older woman, probably in her 50s, just approached the yelper.  Is she in league with him?  What is her story?  Is she a social worker sent out to get this man some help?  Is she an undercover police officer?  I am not sure.  He is walking away from her, and she is following.  He is calling her every profane name he can think of.  He is not being clever with his insults, but he is loud.}

Some anonymous person, a helpful one, suggested that I dunk my briefcase in baking soda.  That will do the trick, they said.  I tried it and failed.  If I look closely, I can still see a few particles on the leather.  Another suggested I shoot it with Febreeze.  That’s the ticket, they said.  Sigh.  I can smell the case from my seat as I sit here typing.

{Two women just walked past me.  They are weathered.  My guess is they are here to charge their phones.  It is a gorgeous day, so they are not seeking refuge from a storm.  At least not one that is apparent.  The yelper has disappeared into the stacks.  He is unseen and unheard.  That is a happy combination.}

Is the stench from my briefcase overpowering?  It is pretty bad, but I can live with it.  Do I want to get rid of the smell?  Absolutely, but that appears to be a wistful dream.

{The yelper just approached the two women charging their phones.  I would say he seems troubled, but that goes without saying.  The women ignore him.  He mulls around for a bit and then walks away.  He is not walking toward my table, and that lets me let out a sigh.  He is in desperate need of help.}

The list of things I need to get done today is long.  I don’t need these distractions.  There was a time decades ago when I would seek out loud and angry places to test my powers of concentration.  Those days are long gone; my mind has a mind of its own.  It generally wanders where it wants, not where I tell it to go.  Then I smell it, the strong chemical odor coming from my briefcase.  Only the smell keeps grounding me, bringing me back to the reality of the library and the characters surrounding me.  I suppose it is time to go home.  At least for today, there is nothing for me here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Ask

“Don’t ask,” she forcefully said as she stared him down.

He sheepishly scratched his forehead as he twirled his pen between his fingers. He was skilled, a pen twirler from way back. She wasn’t impressed.

She let out a deep breath and looked around the library. Typical day, more workers than patrons. The only people there were looking through the DVDs. By her calculations, over 90% of the library’s business was DVDs. Few people bothered to approach the counter with a single book. No big surprise.

Two men walked through the door. She immediately guessed where they were going. Most people who came through the door were looking for the bathroom. That is all they wanted. Another set of people needed to use the computers for a bit. The rest were homeless, trying to get out of the weather. Along with the warmth, they needed to charge their phones if they were lucky enough to have one.

A young mother with two kids, the oldest might be four, walked in next. They headed straight for the children’s section. The older one ran for the toy train with his little sister close behind. Mom breathed a sigh of relief; for a few minutes, she could relax, if only for a little.

The librarian at the Information Desk was watching cat videos supplied by her computer. Her headphones looked official, letting the library customers think she was researching some problem posed by one of the literate people from the community. Most people realized the chances of that were low; anyone literate in this community would know better than to ask a local librarian for help with anything.

She leaned back and looked slightly to her left. Was she there? Was she on the schedule for today? She was young and pretty with the body of a college cheerleader. Just her type. Sure, the odds they could go out and do anything were low, but hope was all she had. No matter how outlandish or impossible, hope got her up in the morning, or afternoon, or whenever she decided to get out of bed.

“If you would just…”

“Don’t talk to me. Why don’t you move to another table? You’re bothering me.”

The young man picked up his large backpack and made his way to the exit. He knew the drill; if she called out for help, he would have to spend hours dealing with the police. His attitude would have been different if he thought they might bring him in and feed him. He might have gotten aggressive and made sure that security called the police.

As he walked through the doors, another man entered. Loudly mumbling to himself, he made his way straight to the restroom. She imagined that if she were any closer, she would smell him before she saw him. He yelped as he turned the corner to the restroom. She shook her head.

She checked her phone, 80%. The charge might get her through the night if she could stay a little longer. It wasn’t raining; there was none in the forecast, even though it was going to get close to freezing. She would probably need to find someplace to stay. Never one to depend on the kindness of strangers, she thought of the possibilities.

Decades ago, this would have been easy. She had more attention than she wanted. Never had a problem staying where she wanted for as long as she wished. Youthful complexions and athletic bodies are treated that way. No one told her that the party would be over one day and that her looks would fade to a point where people would instead look away than be forced to make eye contact.

She looked down at the book she had grabbed randomly from a shelf. It made it easier for people to ignore her if they thought she was busy reading. As she turned a page, the yelping man came out of the restroom. He was cursing up a storm. She sighed as she looked down at her book. Don’t do it. Don’t walk my way. You better stop.

A security guard intercepted and guided him toward the exit as he approached her table. Only after the man swung at him did the security guard motion for the desk staff to call the police.

She turned another page as she scanned the room for other threats. Seeing none, she picked up her phone to check the charge. 85%, still not good enough. She needed a little more to be sure she could get through the night.

She felt someone coming up behind her. She quickly turned to find one of the library employees on her shoulder.

“You alright? Do you need anything? Social Services has a van outside. They have a nurse and some food.”

She nodded without looking the woman in the eyes. She was too embarrassed to say that she was desperate and needed more help than people in a van could give. Most of us can’t survive on good intentions. She wanted to tell the woman that all the homeless in the library needed more help. They needed to believe that they were worth something, that they were something more than a burden on society.

She glanced at her phone, still 85%. She wiggled the cable. It appeared to stop charging. She pulled off the electrical tape and then retaped the end of the cable. Still nothing.

As she looked up, another man carrying a large pack walked through the library doors. He was another yelper. Yelp, two steps yelp, two steps. Same today as every other day. Same tomorrow, too. She knew him; the entire community knew each other. She collected her backpack, quickly put the phone and cord into a compartment, and headed toward the disturbed man. She caught him just before he reached the restrooms. She flew into him as fast as she could. After he fell, she jumped on top of him and started beating him as quickly and as hard as possible. The man didn’t fight back; he just kept yelping at the same rate.  A metronome, I am beating a metronome.

The security guard seemed to take his time getting to her. He and the police were still dealing with the first man. When the police caught a glimpse of the altercation, they rushed toward them. One of the officers grabbed her by the backpack and quickly pulled her off the yelping man. They dragged her toward a wall and cuffed her. Only then did they turn their attention to the man on the ground.

A librarian, shaking her head in disgust, walked toward her and sighed.

“You and I know he is harmless. Why on earth did you do that?”

She looked up and tried her best to catch her breath. All she could think to say was, “Don’t ask.”

We’re Going Back to State!

My niece, Haley, did it again.  She qualified for the state tennis tournament for the second consecutive year.  Big news in these parts.

When she qualified as a freshman, I posted some thoughts.  I put her accomplishment in a historical perspective.  This essay will frame her latest exploits on the tennis court from a different point of view.

I mention Harvard University in many of my essays.  Why?  Is that just a flex?  I am wearing a Harvard hoodie right now; do I walk around with that to show off?  Not at all.  I have no interest in impressing anyone.  For as long as I can remember, I have been out only to impress myself.  No other opinions have ever mattered much to me.

I arrived on campus in 1986 and received my second degree in 1993.  I left in 1992 and wrote my thesis back in Ohio.  While in Cambridge, I told anyone who would listen that we were living in what we would eventually refer to as “the good old days.” I knew that was true for me, and I spent every day taking in my surroundings.  I really did appreciate how special every moment was.  I miss that campus every day.

A month ago, I was talking to Haley.  I told her about a question I heard come up quite often at Harvard.  In my experience, it is a question specific to that campus.  I am sure other people discuss it, but it was always in the air at Harvard.  If not expressed explicitly, it was always implied.  I asked Haley if she could guess the topic of the mysterious query.  Her initial guess was the meaning of life.  Good guess but wrong.  I am sure many people think along those lines and ask the appropriate questions.  This question, the one on the minds of many people in Cambridge on that campus, is different.

In other posts, I have mentioned that Haley’s grandfather, PaPops, was the first high school graduate on her dad’s side of the family.  Not only that, he was the first to even attend high school.  Trust me that is a lot of inertia to overcome.  I recently read Tara Westover’s Educated and am happy for her.  She managed to escape the cycle of ignorance.  That is not the easiest thing to do.  An unseen tug pulls people back to the past; that is just how it is.

I remember my mom calling down to West Virginia to tell her relatives that I was studying at Harvard.  None of them had ever heard of Harvard University.  One asked if the school had a good football team.  And on and on it goes…

That inertia caused by family history will not impact Haley at all.  She has good role models.  Unlike me, she does not have a bunch of uneducated uncles on missions to drink themselves to death in their 40s.  Trust me that makes a difference.  She is in a great private school surrounded by high achievers.  Listen when I say that also makes a difference.  Back in the day, my cohorts exhibited no such potential.

So, finally, we get to the question.  What is that question that I asked Haley to guess?  It is something that she and she alone will decide on.  Is it relevant to her?  She is the only arbiter of that decision, no one else.  She will determine if it is her responsibility to make a contribution to humanity or not.  Only she will decide if she is required, due to her abilities, to leave the world a better place than she found it.

It plays out in the following manner.  “All right, Bubba, what equation will be carved on your gravestone?” I heard that question in varying forms throughout my Cambridge years.  “What contribution to humanity are you going to make?” Indeed, that was another form of the same question.  “Will The New York Times even care that you passed?  Will you get an obituary, or will you die anonymously?” The people at Harvard, in general, arrived on campus asking themselves those questions which are, in essence, the same question.  And if they weren’t asking it when they arrived, they were asking it when they left.

It comes down to apparent responsibility.  Does a talented individual have an obligation to substantially contribute to humanity?  I don’t know.  Harvard University made it explicit that any graduate was tasked with conjuring up a contribution to society.  That part of the implied mission statement was made clear.  For others, the answer to that question is left to every individual; outside opinions do not matter.  I know profound impacts can be made with ballet slippers, computer keyboards, guitars, and (of course) tennis racquets.  I think everything will be fine if we maximize our abilities, whatever they may be.  The specifics seem to me to be irrelevant.

If you think such a question is designed to put undue pressure on people, you approach the issue incorrectly.  The question is more of a guiding principle, a way to clarify motivations.  If you can ask if your actions are making the world a better place, then you are taking a well-considered, thoughtful path, not the route of selfishness or greed.

There it is, the question Haley may or may not ask herself.  It is up to her to decide.  For now, she just needs to work hard, learn as much as possible, and enjoy those “sprinkles on the cupcake” at the state tennis tournament.  For the rest of her life, there will be no tugs of inertia.  That I can guarantee.  All she will feel is the wind beneath her wings.  She has lots of people in her corner making sure of that.