Dreams

I awoke this morning in a terrible state. I was confused and alarmed, based on the dream from which I just left.

I was going over an assignment. Wait, it is due today. I had a book that I hadn't read. The assignment, I thought, was to write a short bit about some topic in the book I liked. The book was about...(and now I forget). But I had a good idea in my head on how to bullshit a few pages out of that idea.

Then the horror came, as I looked closer at the assignment, which was several pages long. It was as if I hadn't read it before, as if I just made it up in my head. I needed to write a ten page paper on a topic the instructor had selected (there were ten to choose from). Also required were at least 5 scholarly articles and 5 book sources to support my arguments. Now I was faced with something that would take all of my energy!

I was prepared to sit at my computer for the next 3 hours and write and write, but not think. Now I had to think and choose a topic, go to a database and find some info (which I know how to do, thankfully). But what if the articles I need aren't available immediately? I have no time for ILL! And how am I supposed to get at these books? Read/skim them? Find all of the ideas and then formulate my own?

I only had five hours until class. This was impossible. I didn't panic, though. I went straightaway to depression. Then weaseling. What could I say to buy more time? Could I just call in sick? Have a friend hit me (ever so gently) with his car? Fill the classroom with a chemical smell that would induce vomiting? I needed to either get class canceled for everyone, or just me. But then I still had to do this assignment, somehow, real soon.

And then I woke up, realized I wasn't a college student, and had no such pressing troubles. I need to stop working the reference desk at night.

Damn you, lazy students!

It Was The Best of Times

Last week I went to running camp in Vermont. It was an entirely wonderful experience.

My friend, Jason, said that within one day of attending last year he knew I would love it, and he was right. I almost didn't go, for financial reasons, but a wise colleague of mine encouraged me to enjoy life while I can. It was within reason to do so, therefore I went.

Running camp conjured up strange visions before I went. The only camp I had previously attended was church camp as a wee lad. That did not endear me to the prospect. For me, camp was nothing but an adolescent nightmare, or so I recall. But I was assured that it was completely fun and worth it. Boy was it ever.

We ran, we learned, we met new and terrific people, we were coached and guided into the finer qualities of running performance and training, we ate, drank and were merry. For those of whom running is a natural passion, this place is a great boon to the soul. It completely jump-started my confidence and desire to press on with my running. Not only as a way to drive towards a goal, but also as a way to feel more comfortable with myself. I feel that I am much happier after running; it is something I need to do. Writers write. Readers read. Runners run.

The people were amazing. All of the other campers ranged widely in age and personality. Even though we all share the same sport, we all had different strengths and weaknesses. Everyone welcomed each other and liked conversing with strangers. By the end of the week, I felt that I was with a small class reunion. When it came time to leave, it was like leaving college buddies behind. Although I didn't get to talk with everyone equally, I'm positive that we all would have had a great time for weeks to come.

The coaches made all the difference. They taught me how all of the ingredients for running that I had been around over the years made sense into one big recipe for me. Some things needed tweaking - some more, some less. When I left, I felt I had success within my grasp; all I need to do is execute.

Also, I must say that Vermont is gorgeous. It is the only New England state which I have visited, but it seems like the closest the US has to Switzerland. The mountains aren't as tall, but they are very beautiful. Brilliant shades of green abound. It was quite a contrast from drought-stricken Texas with all it's browns, and also quite a relief.

I feel so enthusiastic and happy to have a running goal. I plan to run the San Antonio Marathon on November 15. We'll see if this unbridled optimism lasts the coming months, when I have to go out running past dark or in the intense heat, and especially when I've worked twelve hours day in and day out. I hope I fight the good fight. Here's to the future.

And to the sea!

The Filthy Two

Last night I was challenged to a workout by a friend of mine called the Filthy Two. Offered really. He had devised a body weight workout of repetition and time, involving push ups and either pull ups or bicep curls. This is an adaptation of another, more intense workout, he says. I say challenge, because it sounded difficult and I love to prove I'm up to the task. A little bit like Marty McFly, part of me never wants to back down from a challenge. I mean, I know what's dangerous or impossible, or at least I think I do, but sometimes I don't know what is prudent. That makes all the difference.

Despite my routine of push ups at work, it's not really a replacement for a healthy, sweaty workout. Exercise? Yes, technically. Good for me? Better than nothing. Preparation for difficult things? Not hardly. This filthy workout starts out with successive push up intervals of fifteen (I could change the number to suit me - which I will next time) every minute. That means only twenty to thirty seconds of rest between intervals. Same with the pullups/bicep curls. After three intervals, my arms were dead. You see, at work, my intervals are spaced out by an hour, leaving plenty of rest. So now, with more than ninety percent of the workout left, my body was as strong and helpless as an injured baby rabbit. I was unable to even contemplate trying the remainder. But the challenge sat there, unabated.

I squeaked out a few repetitions per interval remaining. The bicep curls fared better. They involved using something like rubber surgical hose. But it sure did burn. I did the final push up repetitions on my knees. So sad. At least I didn't cry. Outwardly. It was a thoroughly humbling experience.

I know I've said this before, and I'm not sure why it bears repeating. I suppose the lesson I learned is that no matter how well I think I'm doing, I can always be shown a better, harder way. I remember when I was a kid, some wise person said, "There's always someone on the planet who is better than the best." It sounds like a paradox. I thought about Olympic Gold Medalists. I mean, they're supposed to be the best in the world. Yet, there could always be someone in the outlying areas who doesn't compete, but who is very capable; someone who could unseat the hero of the sport in front of a shocked populace.

Push up performance, especially at this low level, hardly seems like a worthy topic. But it indicates, at least for me, a pattern of ups and downs, feast and famine. We all go through periods of excitement and encouragement, then boredom and fatigue. I haven't really learned anything, per se, other than the feeling of my body's shame at being weaker than I thought. Aging, such as it is for someone so young, is starting to become more of a hindrance to my freewheeling attitudes toward fitness. Pretty soon, life, as well.

Every moment of this day I've felt the soreness, the pain, and the uncomfortableness of jumping in the deep end without my floaties. Next time I'll try not to wreck my 4x4 into a limo and maybe just do what I can and go on from there. Greatness is a road with a map you make, not busting ass through the untamed forest because you see something shiny on the other side.

Oh! But had I only done but a few push ups! They always said gradual increases, and now it is all but a lake of fire!

Cabin Fever

So, I'm house/pet sitting for a colleague at work.  She and her husband have an old dalmation that is awesome, and four crazy cats.  But when I say crazy, I mean totally bat shit insane.  

It's like they all live in this prison house.  Kind of like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner.  It's comfortable, people are there to take care of you, and there's no escape.  All the cats live in a tense cease fire, like the DMZ between North and South Korea.  They don't get along.

One of the cats, we'll call him Mr. Orange (for obvious reasons), is very friendly with people.  Any people.  This cat is in love with people.  He will try to make out with you if you let your guard down.  It's harassment.  He's very fun and cute and cuddly.  But he's evil to everything else.  Have you ever heard how charming sociopaths are?  You know, the nice guy next door who no one ever suspected.  It couldn't be him, he's so nice!  Yeah, unless you're the cat that he hunts down in the night.

Two of the other cats are some weird kind of black and white, old-ass, bathroom carpets.  They look like hell.  I have no idea how old they are, but they appear to be playmates of Cleopatra's cats.  We'll call them MM. Noir et Blanc.  They are super old dudes who are terrorized by Mr. Orange, everyday, all of time.  

The last cat, Mr. Siamese, if you please, is the aloof, cool guy who doesn't need any hassles from anybody.  He chills by himself and keeps one eye open to monitor his surroundings.  The dalmation, Mrs. Dalmation, acts like the UN peacekeeping force.  No disrespect, but she gets in there at every disturbance with some barking, but doesn't actually do anything.  Her job, apparently, is to make me aware of whatever is going on.  When I look up, the cats have resumed normal cat positions from whatever battle mode they were in.  The look all innocent and boring.  But Mrs. Dalmation knows different.

This morning, I was sitting at the dining table, reading the movies section of the paper, and all of them were hanging about around my feet, loitering as if there was nothing to do in this prison except pretend to act cool.  M. Noir keeps a healthy distance from Mr. Orange, but M. Blanc is more brave.   So, we're sitting there, and it's quiet - a little too quiet.  I look down at the bunch.  Mrs. Dalmation is laying down on my foot, tail furiously wagging, but eyes arched up, spotting the locations of the feline brood.  The others look around at each other, suspicious of everything, every noise, every breeze, every whisker's movement.  

They act all calm and boring, but their eyes show better.  They are entrenched in a life-long game of cat and cat.  It's like a sub crew.  Five months of trolling the north seas, waiting, listening, maneuvering for signs of an enemy sub, with only thirty seconds of intense action, causing the whole thing to start again.  More waiting, more watching.  

They must have made their peace with this situation a long time ago.  Otherwise they would be dead of stress.  All except Mr. Orange.  He is in control.  He has nothing to fear, because he is the nightmare shared by everyone else.  He is the baddest cat in town.  I wonder, though, if someday this week I'll get off work and see him on top of the book case and the others surrounding it, looking up with much interest.  Mrs. Dalmation will drag me over and bark, "See what's going on!"

WoZ musings

"You're not in Kansas, anymore!  Eh?"

This is the response to my answer of where are you from?  I heroically put on a grin and say, "Nope, I guess not.  What!"  But deep inside, I'm thinking, how original, you schmuck.  That's not fair, because they actually think they are being original.  And funny.  So what's the harm in that?

Kansas seems to suffer from The Wizard of Oz syndrome.  That's what I call it.  It's where one famous thing follows you around and defines your entire existence.  This happens to actors all of the time, like George Reeves (the TV Superman) or Bob Saget.  I think some people deal with it better than others.  When I think of Kansas, I don't think of that totally kick-ass movie, but of my favorite childhood memories:  riding in a combine, fields of sunflowers, hot summers, snowy winters, church potlucks, and lots of dirt roads in mile grids.  

However, according to the first chapter of the The Wizard of Oz, Kansas blows.  Disregarding the terrible pun, Baum talks about how much life in Kansas is like a soulless, colorless hell.  Everything, including the mud, grass and house paint had been turned grey by the omnipresent sun.  Aunt Em, once a pretty girl with a sparkle in her eye, is now old, gaunt, without a smile, and all of her features are grey.  She doesn't even know how to react to a child's innocent laughter, except by clutching at her heart and being horrified at that alien sound.  L. Frank Baum on Kansas:  it's where hopes and dreams go to die.

Admittedly, after all of her adventures, Dorothy realizes "there's no place like home."  So, I guess that makes it all okay, or something.  I can't fault Baum, he wrote a captivating kids story that spawned many book sequels and several movies, including that one in 1939 which is nothing short of amazing.  But one that many people don't know about was directed by Baum, himself (at least, in the credits).  It's called His Majesty, The Scarecrow of Oz (1914).  And it's frightening.  The makeup from the silent era, being very overused to compensate for the poor camera quality, was way too much, and the general clunkiness of the other costumes made it look like halloweens gone by.

Over the years, many academics have written literary criticism over this delightful story.  Some say the silver slippers were a dig at the gold standard.  There is also some mention that Baum's populist beliefs litter the story.  When I was a kid, I thought that was a load of bulljive.  How could a kid's story say one thing, but be about another?  Also, politics and economics were really boring, and I would never, ever be concerned about those.  Never.  Now I find myself following such matters with a tiny interest, but nonetheless interest just the same.  It seems possible to me that Baum, despite his protestations to the contrary in the introduction, did write in some allegory and such.  I don't want to wade too far into the river of literary criticism on this one, lest I get too big for my britches.  Wait, that metaphor doesn't even make sense.

One time in college, I took a class on the history of the book.  In it we had to use an old printing press to print a bunch of pamphlets, just like printers did before the industrial revolution.  Our instructor split us up into groups and let us decide what text our group would print.  What would be appropriate?  Well, I thought, a passage from The Wizard of Oz would be fitting.  I can't remember what it was now, but it was on the money, I promise you.  And so did everyone else in my group, except for Walt R_____.  This older gentleman complained that L. Frank Baum was a racist who advocated the extermination of the American Indian, and we shouldn't use that passage because of that.  Thus, all my support in the group dwindled and we went with something from The Little Prince, instead.  That was a cool book, too, so I didn't feel so bad.  But Walt, you damn rascal, made me look like a fool!

Anyway, this was all just a meandering afternoon's thought on the strange and exciting effect one man's creativity has wrought upon my life.  I hope that after reading it you feel like sitting down with some popcorn and watch the movie.  Or maybe buy some poor little orphan a copy of the books.  Give him some popcorn, too.  He's probably hungry.

Shhh!  I'm trying to scare children!  Because that's all I'm good for.

Bonjour

I just read an article in which linguistic scientists are trying to work out a time-traveler's phrase book. That sounds incredibly cool! Hardly anyone thinks about time travel and not being able to communicate. Sure, they probably have different accent or something, but you could still understand them, right? Well, this article says, sure, some words would work out. But that's like maybe five or six.

Time travel is a fun topic to plumb, because we'll probably never come close to knowing. I hope in writing that I'm jinxing the whole thing and someone travels back in time tomorrow. So, what's in store for him? Let's pretend he goes to the 6th century A.D. in North America. Except, it's not called that.

It's called New China. But the natives speak perfect French. Our astounded traveler is baffled. Not only was he hoping to parlez in English, but he's been thrown this impossible curve. How could this have happened? How could inhabitants who immigrated across a land bridge from Asia be speaking courtly French, who haven't even established their language yet from across the pond?

Well, I'll tell you why: because it's time travel. Since it is an impossible (at this time) development of which we know nothing, then anything could happen, really. Who's to say that our guy is the first one who went back. It could have been H.G. Wells. Or Amelia Earhart. Or Antoine de Saint-Exupery. He spoke French. And who knows when and where he went back. Or for what purpose.

Also, what about the universe this time traveler visits? Is it ours? Or as Back to the Future hypothesizes, one of many infinite alternate 1985's? Perhaps he goes back and it's too crazy to explain away. Like Hunter S. Thompson at your mom's New Year's party. So what is the goal there? Living with the tribal Native Americans who speak French and hunt abominable snowmen during the invisible ice age with internal-combustion engine-powered hovercraft and binoculars could be fun.

If I was this traveler, my goals would be thus: try to survive and not die (priority), befriend everyone and become the cool guy at the party, find my way back to my original reality, and if all else fails, then try to leave my archeological mark in such a way as to make no mistake what happened to me, or failing that, scare the shit out of future generations.

UPDATE: http://www.qwantz.com/archive/001430.html

I Die Alone: or The Shite Knife

Last fall, with all of the politics floating around in the air, you could find stories in the paper that made you fear the world as we know it was ending.  This was the argument of those people wanting to get elected, because they were the ones who would stop it with their particular brand of American know-how.  

Philosophically, one could make the argument that the world is always ending, as we know it, because we don't know the future; we can only make guesses based on our previous knowledge and experience.  Some people act as if they do the same things like they always have, then everything won't change and it will all be okay.  In many cases this is true, but we can't stem the tide of our global society, and we can't forestall all that we do not know, which is a lot.

However, I remain positive about humans and our ability to survive, if only we would take advantage of it.  How we survive, alone or as a society is totally up to us.  I think we are a resourceful lot.  Global warming?  No problem.  Economic troubles?  Ain't no thing.  Zombies? We already train for that via video games and movies.  This is a wonderful world to live in and try to stay living in.  Our opportunities are endless, even if it doesn't seem like it sometimes.

Last fall I also read a blog post describing a story by an anthropologist studying various disappearing cultures in the world.  He recounted the story of the shit knife.  Basically, an elderly Inuit wouldn't go along with his relatives into the modern world.  They took all of his tools to force him to be dependent upon them and join the exodus.  He stole off in the night after making a knife out of his own feces, fashioning a sled out of a dog he killed, and used another dog to pull him to freedom.  This is a crude, but beautiful story of determination.  That guy wasn't going to live in a city.

But when it comes to our problems, even mine, it is easy to feel like we have no control or that sometimes they are too hard to try and solve.  After reading that, I refuse to think that solutions aren't out there when we need them.  We may not realize them at the time, but we need to keep looking.  

This is a great time for information.  Maybe the greatest ever.  Every second.  The sharing of information, the prevalence on the Internet, the publication rate is all growing at an exponential rate.  So many people are researching, trying, and finding out new things; they are indexing found knowledge and putting it out there like never before.  This is one advantage to having six billion people on the planet.  Not every knowable thing is available.  But don't give up.  You might find the story of a shit knife, and that might inspire you to not give up and butcher your problem with a pointy pile of your own crap.  

Ew.