The General

Posted on February 7, 2012 by sputterpub

I ambled in the park the other day,
beneath the overcast and through the clumps
of eucalyptus, picked a level way
that dodged the poison oak and gnarly stumps
and brought me when I paused before the tree.
It was a eucalypt but very strange.
Its shape suggested oak – it twisted free
of straight constraint and made its branches range
more outwardly than up. In strips its bark
like packing tape depended from its Vs
and its true skin was whiter than a stark
birch. It seemed the general of trees.
Amid the ordinary it stood out
and lured me louder than the kids could shout.

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TED Talk

Posted on February 6, 2012 by sputterpub

I had lunch a few months ago with a friend, and she told me how exciting it had been for her to attend a TED talk, live.

I can’t remember whom she saw, but she glowed with the recent experience. She reported that the speaker began by referring to a classic philosophical question. It wasn’t the prisoner’s dilemma but it was nearly as familiar, and of course it evoked thought and provided perspective.

She said the speaker asked the audience to indicate how many had an opinion about the philosophical question, and almost no hands went up. He asked how many had opinions about their cellphone features and contracts. The auditorium sprouted a field of raised hands.

My interlocutor then looked at me, meaningfully. I sputtered. “That’s a form of manipulation!” I choked out around my wine. “Really. It’s not fair.”

“What do you mean? I thought the point he made was brilliant.”

“Look: it would be lovely if we were all thoughtful and had philosophical opinions and a yen for wisdom. Of course. But do such attributes contribute to one’s survival success? I don’t think so. Whereas it might be important – what kind of gear you have – in an emergency.

“Viewed that way,” I continued (I was on a roll), “it’s not at all surprising that everyone would be plugged into gear and commodities, and not so much into truth and wisdom. I’m not accusing that audience. But I may be indicting God.”

She had no recourse but to drink her own wine.

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Boredom

Posted on February 3, 2012 by sputterpub

“What should I do?” the child asks again,
and mother says amid her busyness,
“Go hit your head against a wall” and then
“Don’t bother me – this kitchen is a mess.”
That’s how suburban childhood plays out
among advantages the folks afford,
but children everywhere, I have no doubt,
are often noteworthy for being bored.

So boredom seems a graver ill than grief,
and hardship’s more inviting than ennui.
The shroud of nothing good to do’s a thief
of time and prisoned deep in memory,
for even now, my plate too full to clear,
an hour of boredom is my biggest fear.

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How to Tell Them They’re Wrong

Posted on February 2, 2012 by sputterpub


Most of the time, if you say “You’re wrong” to someone, you just get his back up. Even if you make it funny (“R-O-N-G: wrong!” my dad used to declare), the accused gets accused, gets defensive, argues or pouts and probably shouts.

But if you can find a way that’s fresh, aim a light that illuminates differently, then you have a chance that the wrongdoer will perceive himself in the act. Then there’s a shot at correction.

I’ll tell you an extreme example. Once upon a time, every tax-qualified retirement plan was sent to the IRS for an approval letter. It was part of my accidental career to submit plans for those letters, and there came a day (17 years ago) when I received about 45 approval letters in one delivery.

As my eyes scanned the mail I started to notice mistakes. Some letters referenced the wrong effective date, most contained inappropriate caveats, a few had both and some had other problems.

I was supposed to write to the IRS about each flawed letter, respectfully requesting a corrected version. But that’s tiresome, even with editing tools. I thought it would be more satisfying to present them all together.

It turned out to be more effective, too. I know from experience that the individual letter request almost always succeeds eventually, but never produces any result except the individual correction.

I sent the IRS a short courteous missive, in which I described the mail-opening experience. I observed that the letter flaws fell into a few categories, and I included a spreadsheet. My enclosure listed all the bad letters by name and case number, and then had several “flaw” columns where I put an X if applicable. The visual impact was strong.

Yes I received corrected letters. In a batch. But I was also asked to help the IRS perfect the letter-screening routine they then instituted. Like I said: satisfying.

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Synthetic Plastics

Posted on February 1, 2012 by sputterpub

9.8.08
I know, I know. I’ve even said it myself: complaining about language change is as boring as nostalgia and as useless as confessing you’re insecure; it should be taken to the privacy of your room.

Even so, now and then, I can’t resist the urge to pick up the lance and brandish it in threatening manner at an operating windmill.

So yes, there’s evidence even in this very blog that I have defended the double negative. I have tried in my quiet way to allow prejudice and discrimination the full flavor of their definitions. Today I put two other words on this screen.

We all know that synthetic now means not genuine, made of unnatural materials, somehow false. I think we’ll agree that in common parlance plastic has a similar feel.

In fact, I describe my mind as synthetic. And having recently acquired information about neuroplasticity, I respect plastic.

I’m sure I’m not alone in remembering the classic sequence: thesis, antithesis, synthesis. We were taught to come up with a theory, entertain the opposing views, and finally, if successful, combine all the data into wisdom. Synthesis is the putting together of correct thesis/theses, to arrive at the answer if you’re lucky. At the least, you acquire the response that is useful and not contradicted by anything we know. Thesis is from the Greek verb for place and means position in a discussion. Anti-position is obvious and syn-position is the “withing” of positions. Synthetic means put together.

As for plastic, when I grew up there was agreement among the experts that we didn’t grow new brain cells. Once dead, they were gone forever. We had standing unfunny jokes when we drank too much or otherwise indulged, saying goodbye forever to the cells we were killing.

That was incorrect, but I stopped paying attention between college years and about age 55. I missed string theory and I also missed the news that our brains are plastic (or have plasticity); when we lose one path we can grow a new one. The word comes from the Greek verb that means to form, and it’s all about being moldable and impressionable.

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Style

Posted on January 31, 2012 by sputterpub

I knit myself a sweater out of steel
in knotty mesh of chain link irony.
Entwining my protection had appeal,
but that apparel had no room for me
to stretch an arm or add a bit of length,
and it took heavy blocking to fit right.

So I, more bound than sheltered by its strength,
forsook that garb and looked for something light
enough to let me move my limbs with ease,
and pliable enough to fit new form.
For I will move my muscles where they please
me most to go, and that’ll keep me warm.

Unblocked my new apparel has to be,
and made without the crimps of irony.

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May(o)hem

Posted on January 30, 2012 by sputterpub

I dislike mayonnaise, but I succumb to it. I can’t come up with a better lube for tuna or egg salad. I used to make my own, when I had a full house and a food processor, but the homemade emulsion never lasted more than half a week in the refrigerator, so that’s not an option for solitary one-room me. I buy a small jar of Best Foods and it lasts forever (scary as a Twinkie).

Mayo was on my shopping list a month ago, when I walked to the Red Apple market in my Eugene neighborhood, and I selected the smallest jar there and paid for it and I thought I packed it in the green cloth bag I was carrying.

But when I got back to my cottage and put my purchases away and opened the can of tuna, drained it, and forked it onto the plate, when I was ready for the dollop of mayo, I couldn’t find the jar. I looked in the proper kitchen cabinet: no. I pulled the green bag back out of my closet: no. I was fielding grandson questions at the time about why I wouldn’t give them snacks, and also barring the 4-month old puppy from entering my place to steal my bath puff (again), and I began to feel harassed. I dashed to the front house and Sean informed me that theirs is a Miracle Whip kitchen: no.

It was with exasperation that I put my boots and jacket back on, and headed down the street again, to purchase mayo again, to complete my lunch.

My luck turned. I was thinking I’d have to go to Red Barn at least, and maybe all the way back to the supermarket, but I could see the train that was going to slow me down, so I decided to try the Quick Stop on our side of the tracks. Glory be: the owner had Best Foods mayo! The jar was a little bigger than I wanted, and the price a little higher at $4.59, but lunch awaited and that train was a long one. I bought it and headed home.

Which is when I had a deja vu moment. I experienced a strong recollection of returning home, recently, with mayo in my possession, and putting the unopened jar in the refrigerator.

Yep. That’s where the small jar was. I castigated myself while I laughed. I mashed up the tuna with mayo while I wondered: was I too flustered by kids and dog to think clearly? Was the episode a symptom of coming dementia?

And then I laughed louder. I realized my error was due to geographical confusion. See, when I’m in Berkeley I have so few kitchen shelves that I store even unopened jars in the fridge. In Eugene I have a full kitchen; I can use cupboards and refrigerator as designers intended. In my distraction, unpacking while talking to kids, I’d placed that unopened mayo where it belongs in my other house.

It worked out okay. I decided I’m not crazy yet. And I learned that Katie doesn’t like Miracle Whip either. Now she has a mayo source in the cottage behind her house.

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The Third Charm

Posted on January 27, 2012 by sputterpub

Prometheus put fire at our feet.
He taught us to control its smoke and blaze.
Then we could warm the night, and cook the meat,
and fire pots, and so evolve a ways.

And someone sometime stumbled on the wheel,
a shape we use to help us stumble less.
Like fire it took off with huge appeal
and blazed us ways we couldn’t then express.

Inventions and discoveries were they
that formed the base for most our growth since then,
but I suggest they’ve had their brightest day
and we don’t need to look that way again.
To take us further than we’ve come before
we need to matter less, and venture more.

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Chronos (End)

Posted on January 26, 2012 by sputterpub

Pete was starting his meal with the white corn soup and she was trying the heirloom tomato gazpacho when Lily told him she thought the most powerful god was Morpheus. “Yeah. God of Sleep,” she confirmed, leaning over her bowl. “Everybody seems to want to nap, to sleep in, to sleepwalk through life on drugs or on autopilot. Yeah. Sleep is very seductive… but I don’t get it. Why aren’t people resisting? They can sleep when they’re dead.”

Lily realizes as she recalls this that she is often like that with him, coming at him out of nowhere with one of her ideas. He fields well, though. That is one of the things she likes about him. They seem to think at the same rate. Pete had looked up at her, smiled, and tipped his wristwatch at her. “I don’t know,” he said. “It may be time instead of sleep. I mean,” and he leaned back against his chair, straining his white shirt across his medium-sized middle-aged paunch, “I always look forward to the weekend thinking I’m going to sleep in, relax, take it totally easy, and 45 minutes into that I’m bored and looking for something to do. No, I don’t think it’s really sleep we want. I think it’s time away from this taskmaster,” and he rolled his wrist again.

“But you’re self-employed! You’re the boss; you have a lot of control over your schedule.”

“Yeah, but I can’t ask others to be in the office at 9 and then not be there myself. Maybe it’s the old army habits, but I feel very controlled by work time.”

Lily stops pacing and lets her body drop into a chair. It’s getting to where she can’t take the silence. She wishes her father would come home, no matter what he has to say. She’s about to try Pete again on the phone. As she reaches for the headset it rings.

“Hel-” she begins and she hears the beloved voice: “Mom?”

“Zachary?! Are you okay?”

“We’re fine. We got lost.”

“Lost?”

“We forgot to hang the packs and I guess a bear got into them last night. We lost our compass. We got turned around hiking out.”

“Oh Zack. Is Eli all right?”

“We’re both fine. Just a little hungry. You know what saved us? My watch. Remember how you taught me to use it as a compass?”

“Ahh. When will you be home?”

“We’re on the way now. We’ll stop for a quick bite. See you in about four hours.”

“Good.”

Her father walks in seconds after she hangs up the phone. “Where are Zack and Eli?”

“On their way. They got delayed a little. Hey, Dad: want to wear your old watch?”

Lily’s father smiles at the timepiece as she hands it to him. Lifts his face and smiles wider at her. “It’s a nice watch,” he says and he sets it carefully on the table between them as he sits across from her. “You keep it.”

(Her father taught her: Any daytime but noon, aim the end of the hour hand at the sun. Find the spot halfway between the hour hand and the 12, and that’s south. Really.)

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Chronos (Middle)

Posted on January 25, 2012 by sputterpub

If Lily’s father comes in he’ll ask after Zack, so maybe she should distract him with the watch. She doesn’t want to talk about her son. Zack went camping with his girlfriend Eli, and Lily’s father doesn’t approve of premarital camping. He’s much more gentle on the subject than he was when Lily was young, but even so he can be tiresome. She doesn’t want to defend Zack’s sex life to her father. She doesn’t want the conversation to then proceed, as she suspects it will, to her affair with Pete, and what her father thinks of that. Most of all she doesn’t want to share her growing worry. Zack and Eli are late reporting in, and Lily is beginning to freak out. She thinks her father will agitate rather than soothe her.

Thinking about Pete, Lily phones him. Gets his voicemail. Leaves no message. She wants someone to talk her down from her mounting anxiety. Zack and Eli are only a few hours later than she expected. But she has crossed some worry threshold and is now completely distracted.

She looks around her study and notes her old broken clock/radio. It’s a battery-powered machine and the clock doesn’t work, but she keeps it around because the radio is good and the clock amuses her.

She likes to have an analog timepiece near her bed. She doesn’t want a lighted display; she can see the hands of a clock face even in the dim of middle night. She needs battery power because she’s short on outlets and her neighborhood often loses electricity. Her old clock/radio was perfect until she dropped it: the black blade-like minute hand somehow fouled with the red wand-like second hand and now both sweep around the face together, once a minute. Lily likes to say her clock is absolutely correct every minute of the day and it is: for exactly one second out of that minute.

She wasn’t able to find another battery-powered analog clock/radio. She wakes now to the beep of a battery digital. So she keeps the old clock/radio around, tuned to an all-news AM station, for those quick reports after earthquakes. And it entertains her to watch the clock hands sweep around the face. She appreciates the metaphor and keeps replacing the battery.

Lily begins pacing, desperate to hear from Zack. Her Luddite son refused to pack a cell phone. She tries distracting herself with erotic thoughts about Pete, but all she can recall is their last lunch. She paces some more.

(to be concluded tomorrow)

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