Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind

Keep Moving

He noticed her as soon as he entered.  She was looking at him, watching him as he moved through the entrance and into the main lobby.  He couldn’t have been any more uninterested.  He didn’t have time for her, but she didn’t know.  She adjusted her oversized sweater, the kind librarians wear; you know, the ones hanging below their knees.  Those must be given out when they grant you your degree.

He took a seat, placed his laptop on the table, and looked at the busts on either side of the main study room.  He always liked to sit at the table near Mozart.  He knew the idea of something rubbing off was ludicrous, but he didn’t think it could hurt him.  If he sat for hours without any ideas, that certainly wouldn’t be the great composer’s fault, would it?  As his concentration started to lapse, it was doing that more and more quickly as he aged; he noticed her looking back at him.  She was still wearing a mask, as many library employees did long after the mandates and recommendations said it was OK to go without.  Probably due to all the homeless who use the place for sanctuary.  If anyone was going to be carrying something communicable, it was probably one of them, or so goes the story.

After one particularly uninspired paragraph, he noticed her looking about.  She was milling around one of the book displays, not because she was doing anything particular, she probably just wanted a better view of him.  Or so he thought.  And why not?  Where else would a single middle-aged book lover go to meet men other than the local library?  She was one of those whose body clock was letting its intentions be heard.  Of course, he had no idea if this was true; he just thought it probably was.  Lucky for you, I am the type of narrator who resides inside this guy’s mind; now, all you need to do is figure out if I am reliable.  Good luck with that.

500 words; he already had 500 of them.  His 10,000-word days were most likely gone.  It was hard to concentrate for that length of time.  500 wasn’t monumental, but it was a great start considering he hadn’t a clue what to write about when he sat down.  Thankfully a masked woman came to his rescue.

No one would have guessed that his bottle of pop had a generous splash of Jack Daniels.  No one would have cared.  The people who have loud, angry conversations with invisible people don’t get a second look.  Everyone here is putting in time, hoping to get home without being accosted by someone with a large backpack in the parking lot.

Here she comes.  No, no, no…I am wearing headphones; doesn’t that imply I do not want to talk to you?  Dismissive of my wishes, she kept walking toward my table, her mask protecting her from who knows what might be floating through the air.  Past the DVDs and the audiobook cart, swaying as she walked.  What is she doing?  She is coming right toward me.  Oh no, she better not be taking her shot.  Maybe if I keep my head down and keep typing, she will walk on by.  That’s it; I need to pretend I do not see her.

[Author’s Note:  When a narrator borrows speech from a character, it is known as Free Indirect Discourse.  Sure, it can be subtle, and if you aren’t paying careful attention, you might miss it.]

He looked up a little, the brim of my cap blocking my eyes from making contact.  She stood at a cart a few feet from me.  It was one of those carts to which you were supposed to return books if you took them off the shelves.  I have never seen anyone do that, but I have rarely seen anyone in the stacks.  This library is a modern-day DVD store.

He thought about taking his headphones off and whipping them at her.  What better way to tell her she needed to stay away.  Well, you and I know there are much better ways to make such a point.  He took a big breath and decided to simply adjust the headphones.  That will let her know that what is coming through the wires to his ears is more important than anything she could conjure up in the way of conversation.

That’s it, keep moving, just go on.  He clenched his teeth as she pushed the cart to the aisle beside the Mozart bust.  As he glanced in her direction, he caught her looking.  No, no, no.  Stop wasting your time.  I am going to sit here for a bit more, and then I am going to go home alone.  I will go to my writing room and get some more work done.  I don’t need to be wasting time with the likes of you.

He wanted to jump on the table and announce to the world that the woman pushing the cart, and every other woman in the world, was too late.  He formulated the speech in his overactive imagination.  What good, he would say, does meeting a woman do me now?  Even if she is the perfect match, she is 35 years too late.  I don’t need anyone now; I needed her all those decades ago.  What am I supposed to do with her now?  The only thing I can see coming out of a relationship at my age is that I would get far less writing done.  I would be distracted, nothing more.  When I am getting ready to die, I don’t want my obituary to say that I met the love of my life in my 60s, and because of that, all the novels that could have been written are still out in the ether, never written, and never even thought of.  Yes, how’s that?  So, you young woman, keep on pushing that cart.  Put the books back where they are supposed to go, and I will sit here and think about…things.

He took a rather large swig of his doctored drink and let his fingers fly.  Nothing extraordinary resulted, nothing even a little influential.  I doubt it was anything anyone else would bother to read.  But he wrote it and felt a sense of satisfaction as he downed the last few swigs of his drink and powered off the computer.

As he got up, he noticed a librarian approach a young man who had been reading a novel alone at a table.  Instead of placing the book on a designated cart, he returned it to the shelves.  In the world of the librarian, that is a provocative gesture.  At this place, you never put a book on a shelf.  It has to go back on the cart so that a professional can put it back in its proper place.

“Excuse me, sir,” was all she got out.  He turned toward her and smacked her in the head with the book.  As she turned, he ripped some pages from the book and tackled her.  He was trying his best to stuff the pages down her throat when security arrived.  They beat the devil out of that guy.  They kept kicking him long after he lost consciousness.  His head looked like a pumpkin when they finally stopped.  Strangely, there was nothing in the local paper about the incident.

After things eventually quieted down, he collected his things, locked his briefcase, and headed toward the restroom.  Oddly enough, there were no blood stains on the carpet.  No indication of what had just happened there a few moments ago.

As he left, a group of homeless people gathered at the power outlets near the exit.  He saw the chargers snaking their way across the tables to the phones.  As he heard several of them cough, he thought that maybe wearing a mask wasn’t a bad idea after all.

 

Quiet Desperation

Thoreau, right?  He was the one who said, “The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.”  How about the women?  I bet the same is true for them, too.  After all, it is the easiest thing to do.  Just lay back and surrender to the circumstances you find yourself in.  There might be an afterlife that will give you your just reward.  No need to fret over all that is going on here.

In my book of lives lived, surrender also means settlement.  At some point, we all have to do that, don’t we?  We all settle, right?  How many people do you know who love their jobs, spouse, neighborhood, tax code, and… You get it.  Contrast that with the people just playing out the string because they are trapped in circumstances they can’t break free from.

Socrates famously said that an unexamined life isn’t worth living.  I have always felt that is true.  He might have meant different things by “unexamined” than I do, but the theme is the same.  I constantly examine my life, and I refuse to settle.  Maybe that is just delusional; perhaps I am mistaken, living in a world that doesn’t correspond with dark and cold reality.  I am not sure, that could be true, but I doubt it.

What has brought this on?  Did something happen to put me in a reflective mood?  No, it is a typical Saturday in Hillbilly Land, and I am sitting at the library.  I watched The French Lieutenants Woman last night, a fascinating film.  It has been on my list for a long time.  I watched because it was brought up in conversation, and that was all the nudge I needed to finally watch it.  I am glad I did.  It…

Oh no.  Another ruckus at the entrance.  Three men, obviously disturbed and angry, are yelling at the women at the front desk.  So much for quiet desperation; these guys are fired up about something.  I am wearing my headphones, so it is hard to make out what exactly is going on.  Yes, I am still listening to The Car.  I still don’t like it, but I am bending to give my favorite band the benefit of more than one doubt.

The disturbance seems to be about the vending machines near the entrance.  The men had apparently rigged the device to give them free coffee whenever they wanted it.  They are objecting to the removal of the machine.  A sign was placed on all the machines yesterday announcing they were being removed.  Imagine that, the vending company is refusing to give the homeless community of Hillbilly Land more free coffee.  If I wanted to get up and talk to these men (which I don’t), I would suggest that this is a battle they can not possibly win.  It is best to admit defeat and move on to the next catastrophe cast upon them by an uncaring universe.

My view is partially blocked by the shelves of CDs near a support beam.  I can still hear them but can’t make out any details.  One of the men is very agitated, flailing his arms back and forth as one of the librarians is talking to him like she is a kindergarten teacher.  It is not working; the leader of this particular homeless tribe is not backing down.  He is on a mission to let their displeasure of eliminating free coffee be known.

This is not getting any better.  An old man with a cane just got up to intervene.  He must have been sick of the noise.  I noticed him earlier; he was reading a thick novel while sitting on one of the soft chairs behind me.  I have seen him before; he is a regular.  This is his library, and he is (apparently) sick of these disturbing shenanigans.

I am glad I stood up to get a better view.  I can’t believe what I just saw.  The old guy walked up to the leader and, without saying a word, bashed him in the head with his cane.  A gangster move for sure, but I am not so sure it was the right one.  Oddly, the other two men backed off after watching the old man pummel their buddy.  I don’t know where this old guy is getting the energy to wield that cane, but he is keeping up a nice pace.  None of the librarians are trying to intervene.  I think they are silently cheering him on.

Finally, a police car arrived.  A tiny female officer rushed in and pulled the old man away from the screaming homeless guy.  She quickly cuffed the old guy and put the three homeless guys against a wall.  Backup in here.  Two more officers, most likely the entire complement of police working in the city on this shift, have cuffed the three men and are walking them outside to their warm patrol cars.

The old man with the cane seems happy as he stands there, probably cuffed for the first time in his life.  I am glad I packed up my stuff and moved to the front of the library to get a better view.  He is saying that those guys come in all the time, causing trouble and that he is sick of it.

“I come here for some peace and quiet.  I was trying to read my novel when those hillbillies came in and started a ruckus.”

“I understand, but you shouldn’t have hit that man with your cane.  I am going to have to take you in.”

“I don’t care.  These homeless hillbillies are causing problems every time I come in here.  I am sick of it.”

With that, I walked into the restroom to be greeted by the yelping man.  He was standing at a urinal, his pants down at his ankles.  I decided to leave; I have an office near here.  I can go there to use the restroom.

All of these people have their own backstories.  They are the center of their own universe, as are we all.  Unfortunately, these folks are going to lose their free coffee.  I am sure that is a very big deal to them; their one way of getting over on the man.  Going forward, they will have to work harder to game the system.  Due to circumstances, they must be a resourceful group.  With a bit of charm, imagination, and good fortune, they might get it done.  We all know they need all the luck they can get.

 

 

The Snowstorm

I live in the snow belt, an unhappy place where lake effect snow pummels those unfortunate to live there.  The latest forecast is not good, up to two feet starting in a few hours.  I am not too happy about that.  I have noticed that the older I get, the less I enjoy the cold, snowy weather.

My hip is killing me, another side effect of the cold.  Luckily, acetaminophen usually helps.  Some days, I eat those things like M&Ms.  And even though I don’t drink much beer anymore, I make sure not to drink on the days I swallow pills.  They don’t work well together.

I am sitting at the library.  I had a doctor’s appointment this morning.  Everything looks good; I am doing my best to ensure that.  I told my doctor how much I love beer and how little I am consuming.  He readily agreed that is tough and that he felt my pain.  Such is life here in this section of Hillbilly Land.

The snow is already starting to fall.  I believe it wasn’t supposed to appear for a few hours.  A small collection of the local homeless is at the front of the building.  I thought there would be more people here.  As I pulled in, I saw the yelping man walking down the middle of the road.  He was walking toward the post office, another temporary place of refuge.  They had to start closing the lobby at night because the homeless were using the entrance for a warm place to sleep.  Of course, one corner was picked as the communal bathroom…hence the closure.

I am not sure what all these folks will do tonight when the storm hits.  I guess they just disappear into the landscape, doing their best to stay warm.  There are a couple churches within easy walking distance.  Maybe one or two of them remain open during inclement weather.  Wouldn’t that be nice if they did?

I will be home in a few hours, where it will be nice and warm.  I will put on my zebra snuggly, situate my lap desk, and get to work.  Perhaps I will edit this post.  If inspiration strikes, I will write more.  If things really line up, I might even write something worth reading.

Am I far enough along?  Is the lede sufficiently buried?  Can I finally get to the point if I indeed have one?  I think so.  I got a text the other day.  The rumor is that a kid I went to kindergarten with is dead.  Was it cancer?  From what I can piece together, that seems to be the case.  It appears to have been a long battle.  Scott didn’t lose the fight, as people often exclaim when someone dies from cancer.  The outcome was a tie.  The tumors in his body died along with him, so he didn’t lose.  The result was a despicable draw.

The snowfall is intensifying.  Oddly, people are clearing out of the library.  I find that a little confusing.  Sure, some people are trying to get home before the weather worsens.  But what about those with no home?  What are they in a hurry for?  They must know something I do not.

I have struggled to get more information about my kindergarten friend, Scott Miggo.  I have learned that if you are not Facebook friends with someone, then you might not get to see all their posts.  I do not have a Facebook account, but one of my pen names does.  I have been using his (or her) account to do some reconnaissance.  I can’t find much, but the friend who sent me the message assures me that Scott’s cousin announced his death on her Facebook page.

I have been searching for obituaries about Scott.  I haven’t found anything yet.  Perhaps he won’t have one.  I don’t believe I will.  It is a personal choice, isn’t it?  I have trouble seeing how a few lines in a newspaper can adequately sum up a life.  For some, it is more than enough; for others, not so much.

Hearing about Scott’s death has shifted my troubles into sharper focus.  I have written extensively about my worries concerning aging and the struggle to complete all my projects.  I don’t want to drop dead until my stuff is done.  I don’t know if Scott had ticked off his bucket list or not.  I certainly hope he did.  And that goes for all of us.

I have some very old memories of Scott.  We were awarded a Blue Ribbon for a science fair project we completed in grade school.  I can’t remember exactly when, but I think it was sixth grade.  That was a long, long time ago.

I mention the project because I remember when I went to Scott’s house to work on it.  I have been thinking, and I can’t remember what we did.  I have no recollection at all of the specifics of the project.  I just remember that I threw up at Scott’s house after his mom gave me a burger that disagreed with me.  And there it is, my memory of our Blue Ribbon science project.  The only thing I am sure of is that it wasn’t a volcano.

Sure, we lost touch, something easy to do in a pre-social media world.  The last time I saw him was shortly after high school graduation.  He left for parts unknown as I started down my own path.  I did see his mom 15 or 20 years ago, and she remembered me.  Who could forget, right?  As for Scott, I remember hearing about a divorce 35 or 40 years ago, and that is about it.

My concentration was just broken by the yelping man.  He must have pulled a U-turn on the street.  He is back and letting his presence be known.  If I were in charge of things, someone would help that guy.  Whatever his destiny, it is not looking too good.  Professional intervention seems necessary if this man is to avoid disaster.  I am sure such a thing requires money, so he is left alone while those who bother to consider his circumstance hope for the best.

I see that the snow has temporarily let up.  This might be my chance to make good my escape.  I have so much work to do, and I am better off doing serious things at home.  The library isn’t conducive to the manufacture of the great American novel.  I am not sure my library at home is either, but…

The news about Scott was not welcome or expected.  I still don’t know where all the time went.  All we get is a blip of deep time to do all the things we want or are compelled to.  The unfairness of it all makes little sense.  Viewing this in the context of the indifference of nature towards its occupants makes perfect sense.

In the middle of the last sentence, many library employees sprung into action.  The yelping man has accelerated the tempo and magnitude of his yelping.  The employees are meeting and hopefully forming a plan.  And finally, another man from the computer section joined them.  Now I am forced to sit here out of morbid curiosity to see what happens.  Is there someone they can call to get this man some help?  Perhaps not.  Maybe they need to put their heads together to figure out the best plan of action.  They can’t kick him out, can they?  Can they send him into the cold, into a severe snowstorm?  I am in no position to give advice or offer an informed opinion.  I’ll just keep typing until I see some activity.

The employee caucus has broken up, and the yelping man casually walks around as if nothing unusual has happened.  The brain trust failed him again.

The yelping man has taken off his jacket and is walking toward me.  I would prefer not to engage with him.  Perhaps if I look at my keyboard, he will veer off into the Mystery section.  He turned 180 degrees and headed toward the Teen section.  Luckily, no one is over there.  He can pace all he wants and won’t disturb anyone.  I am sure he will be back this way soon enough.  The library is not that big.

I have spent the last few moments looking around and do not spy a single muse.  They must be busy; I hear we now have 8,000,000,000 people roaming around this planet.  That is a lot of folks.  How many muses are there, anyway?  I wouldn’t think there would be enough to go around.  Maybe I reached my lifetime quota with The Athena Chapters and all the nonsense involved with that fiasco.  The muses were paying me lots of attention back then.  Others must need them now.

I just searched for more information about Scott, and I once again came up empty.  No obituaries or death notices are popping up anywhere.  I am just sitting here deciding what to do about this brewing storm; it seems to be trying its best to conjure up something for us.

I am, perhaps, procrastinating.  I don’t want to get up and go out in the cold.  Imagine those people here who will stay out in it all night.  I can’t find any web pages about Scott, and I am concerned about the coming storm.  The analogy is a little too on point, but I am a victim of circumstance.

{Author’s Note: I just took a small break from my typing.  I picked up my phone and tapped on the Wordle icon, solving the puzzle on the fifth try.  The word was muses.  That is a true story.}

I will end this post about my old friend Scott with a Harvard story.  I remember having long talks with my adviser in his office at The Peabody Museum.  I miss our conversations as much as I miss that museum and that campus.  One day we were arguing over ethnographic analogy, a technique archaeologists often employ to get insight into lesser-known cultures.  As I voiced my displeasure over the method’s shortcomings, Bob (my adviser) told me that if I didn’t like using analogy I could use something else.  Slightly confused, I remember asking him what that could be.  He smiled and replied, “metaphor.” We had that conversation about 35 years ago, and I still shake my head when I think of the difference between analogy and metaphor.

I leave it to you to decide if any appropriate analogies, or even metaphors, are utilized in this post about Scott and his death.  After all, I am a distracted and uninspired writer trying his best to stay warm and dry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.