I'm a news junkie. Have been since I was a nerdy 80s kid watching the nightly news when things got exciting overseas. I remember spending the first part of my summer in '89 watching Tiananmen Square unfold from my sweaty upstairs bedroom on the old Zenith. I really caught the bug in college as I went through j-school (that's journalism school) and even my stint as college newpaper editor, where I was always angling for international news amid local bar scene hoopla.
Through those times, I had a deaf ear for business news. It was incomprehensible, to say nothing of stiff and boring. I still joke about how we journalism majors can't even figure out a tip at lunch, let alone figure out business policy. That was, until I began working at a publicly traded corporation. Even then, it too me years to build an interest, mainly in digital tech.
When I finally took the plunge to get my MBA, it was inevitable. Accounting classes loomed, for crying out loud. If there was a polar opposite to the coursework I took in college, accounting was it. Not far behind was macroeconomics then finance.
I'll be damned if I didn't learn a thing or two, and it kindled my interest, especially in figuring out what the hell all this business news was really about. Until then, I pretty much understood bonds as those pesky certificates grandparents sometimes snuck in my birthday cards.
Looks like those grandparents knew what they were doing. Mom showed me a hand-written ledger the other day. It was all of Grandpa Riggen's bond investments, split between his two surviving daughters. For a coal-miner-turned-farmer who weathered the Great Depression and fixed things more often than buying them, it's pretty understandable why he put that kind of money in federal bonds rather than, say, stock in IBM. Even so, it's an impressive ledger of investments. Hell, I think Mom even showed me because she was a little tickled by it.
So, now, when I hear about China worrying about the U.S. defaulting on its bonds, I actually have some sense what that means, and how it might affect the economy, at least in layman's terms.
Maybe it's one of those ignorance is bliss deals. There was a specific moment about three years ago. I was standing in line for lunch, carelessly staring at the news headlines on TV when I realized that no longer was my job a certainty, that money might not always be there. That things had shifted into a new era. It wasn't the stuff in the news, not some abstraction about mortgages. It was a thing close to home, an aftershock of losing work colleagues to lean times, knowing my long tenure (if I can call it that) is no guarantee. This week that hint of worry came back as I gobbled up more bleak economy news about job reports and debt limits.
Before that moment, I was driven by the "inevitable" boons of getting an advanced degree and a promotion. After that moment -- and ever since -- I'm driven by a harder ethic. Call it perseverance over prosperity. There's no sign it'll pay off soon, and still I'm working harder than ever. The payoff may not be on my paycheck. But, it sure is nice to have Mom confide in me like a grown up.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Stepping away from the work desk
Canada came home today. I sloshed my way to the airport in a four-inch downpour. And, there she was riding down the escalator, looking a little weary and very much happy to see me. We're pitiful old high school sweethearts and wouldn't know what to do without each other. We don't often spend more than a couple days apart.
Then, off on a pleasant post-rain ride to Barrata's for lunch, where we each had a stiff drink (my usual -- Southern Comfort), which made us both a bit bleary eyed and ready for a nap. Which we did!
We both needed the rest. She didn't get much sleep in between marathon sessions of grading 700 test essays. For me, work has been unusually intense these past couple weeks.
When I finally managed to find my phone late in the afternoon, I glanced at work email out of sheer habit. There was big news from management, and I wanted to read the memo. The trick with those pep rallies in email form is reading between the lines. Then it occurred to me. I had managed to enjoy the afternoon without thinking about work at all. Without realizing, my brain unwound. It was that moment of release, as though life had unclenched its white-knuckle grip on my spinal column, that I realized I need to walk away and breathe much more often. It's easy to miss that slowly tightening grip.
And, Canada had her own realization, ironically while working in Kentucky. She just said to me "I take myself way to seriously!" We both do that, love. We work hard, and then wonder why we're worn out on weekends spent mostly at home. Hell, I'm not even sure what I want to do with most of my free time. Work's constantly on my brain, even more so than last years.
Work to live, not live to work.
Then, off on a pleasant post-rain ride to Barrata's for lunch, where we each had a stiff drink (my usual -- Southern Comfort), which made us both a bit bleary eyed and ready for a nap. Which we did!
We both needed the rest. She didn't get much sleep in between marathon sessions of grading 700 test essays. For me, work has been unusually intense these past couple weeks.
When I finally managed to find my phone late in the afternoon, I glanced at work email out of sheer habit. There was big news from management, and I wanted to read the memo. The trick with those pep rallies in email form is reading between the lines. Then it occurred to me. I had managed to enjoy the afternoon without thinking about work at all. Without realizing, my brain unwound. It was that moment of release, as though life had unclenched its white-knuckle grip on my spinal column, that I realized I need to walk away and breathe much more often. It's easy to miss that slowly tightening grip.
And, Canada had her own realization, ironically while working in Kentucky. She just said to me "I take myself way to seriously!" We both do that, love. We work hard, and then wonder why we're worn out on weekends spent mostly at home. Hell, I'm not even sure what I want to do with most of my free time. Work's constantly on my brain, even more so than last years.
Work to live, not live to work.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The way to Normandy
It's the heroic WWII moment for us Americans, and with good reason. It was a big gamble that changed the war, and lots of Allied soldiers paid the hard way for the action and ensuing campaigns. But, it also tends to shift our attention from other events of the war. We talk a lot about the casualties on Normandy or the Battle of the Bulge, but the numbers of dead on the Eastern Front are staggering by comparison.
The Allies involved around 175,000 men in the invasion, a campaign that lasted from June 6 to June 30. Somewhere around 5,558 Allies died during that time. German casualties were somewhere between 4,000 and 9,000. Neither figures include wounded casualties.
By comparison, the Battle of Stalingrad -- which went on over a longer period from August 1942 to early February 1943 -- was also a major turning point in the war. There, the Soviets fielded well over a million soliders. 478,741 were killed or missing. About 40,000 civilians -- that's about 9 of my home towns -- died. The Germans had killed or wounded numbers around 750,000. Which means well over a million people died at Stalingrad, and easily more than another million were sick or wounded.
As hard a time as I have watching those jarring opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan, and as much as my insides bust up for those poor guys when I imagine what it must have been like -- for all that, I can't even wrap my head around a million people killing each other or shitting or starving themselves to death, literally. For us Americans, it just doesn't have that heroic message, that bravery overcomes. But, without Stalingrad, there is no Normandy. It's an easy thing for us to ignore, but it's there. Spielberg put his camera in another direction, and that's how we tend to think of it. (Who blames him? I don't -- the guy's a genius.)
Real life heroism is never so simple, is it? We want stories, we don't want muck and shit and dying.
So, I'm off to watch the movie that I find a little hard to watch. When I saw it in the theater -- I'll never forget this -- I saw it at the theater in Indianola. I had a box of Runts candy in my hand. Next me me was some loud mouth asshole who was talking all kind of macho bullshit as the film started. I tried to ignore him.
So, the landing craft door opens up, and for about 20 minutes I was paralyzed. When I was over, I realized two things. First, that had that box of candy gripped tight as hell in my hand. I hadn't touched a one, and I was motionless. Awestruck. The other thing I noticed was that asshole next to me finally shut the hell up. It took him about 30 seconds of watching to knock him down a peg.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Genre fiction power!
I'm into genre fiction. You know the place -- that quirky section of the book store lumped along back walls labeled science fiction, fantasy and horror. Nearby, usually, are those kissing cousins-- mystery & thrillers, graphic novels, and even a faint trace of young adult.
Right now I'm reading Purity of Blood, the second in Arturo Perez-Reverte's Captain Alatriste books. It's a book of pure entertainment, which probably means it hits all my buttons more so than it actually is a universally entertaining novel. It's the kind of book my father would love. He's old school, a real paperback cowboy who loves direct, well plotted books. Adventure books. Westerns. Thrillers. Naval fiction. He's big into mysteries, especially detective stories. He doesn't read much speculative fiction, but has a crazy knowledge of authors and lots of hours beating feet in the used book store.
And, something just struck me about all those books -- the books my father loves, and the ones I enjoy as refreshing breather among more complicated or literary works. So much of those old tropes are guy stuff. I'm talking about the private detectives, the heroic naval scoundrels, the spies, the pirates, the superheroes, the vikings, barbarians, thieves, space farers, and on and on. We're attracted to them because they're powerful. Westerns aren't popular because they happen to be part of American history. The Shakers are part of American history, but they're not getting their own genre shelf at the book store. Westerns are popular because the edge the line of violence and power in America (and beyond, sometimes).
We read these kinds of tough guy things because their romantic, powerful figures. They pull more interest because they're easily plotted, active and victorious ideals. We go in knowing this is exciting stuff. These tropes become assumptions, short hand for escape and suspension of disbelief. We just know Vikings are rough around the edges and mock those silly, girly Christian men. We just know spies just get into sexual tension. It's not just part of the job, it's part of the genre. And, to a genre, these things are populated foremost by narratively compelling, powerful guys.
Then sometimes a funny thing happens. Someone comes along and subverts those assumptions. It's a sexually powerful spy, but she's a woman. The gunsligner is a wronged woman.
And, still other times something comes along and tempts that allure and power in a new way. I can't really unpack the subgenre of Steampunk, but it's a fascinating case where things once silly and genteel and colonial get a grunged out glint, a hint of sex, and a lot of power and excitement. By jove, a new bookshelf category arrives.
All of which isn't me saying much insightful. I'm certainly not critiquing those genre twists and turns. It helps me recognize why I'm drawn to the spectacular Captain Alatriste and not at all to, oh, Miss Marple.
Right now I'm reading Purity of Blood, the second in Arturo Perez-Reverte's Captain Alatriste books. It's a book of pure entertainment, which probably means it hits all my buttons more so than it actually is a universally entertaining novel. It's the kind of book my father would love. He's old school, a real paperback cowboy who loves direct, well plotted books. Adventure books. Westerns. Thrillers. Naval fiction. He's big into mysteries, especially detective stories. He doesn't read much speculative fiction, but has a crazy knowledge of authors and lots of hours beating feet in the used book store.
And, something just struck me about all those books -- the books my father loves, and the ones I enjoy as refreshing breather among more complicated or literary works. So much of those old tropes are guy stuff. I'm talking about the private detectives, the heroic naval scoundrels, the spies, the pirates, the superheroes, the vikings, barbarians, thieves, space farers, and on and on. We're attracted to them because they're powerful. Westerns aren't popular because they happen to be part of American history. The Shakers are part of American history, but they're not getting their own genre shelf at the book store. Westerns are popular because the edge the line of violence and power in America (and beyond, sometimes).
We read these kinds of tough guy things because their romantic, powerful figures. They pull more interest because they're easily plotted, active and victorious ideals. We go in knowing this is exciting stuff. These tropes become assumptions, short hand for escape and suspension of disbelief. We just know Vikings are rough around the edges and mock those silly, girly Christian men. We just know spies just get into sexual tension. It's not just part of the job, it's part of the genre. And, to a genre, these things are populated foremost by narratively compelling, powerful guys.
Then sometimes a funny thing happens. Someone comes along and subverts those assumptions. It's a sexually powerful spy, but she's a woman. The gunsligner is a wronged woman.
And, still other times something comes along and tempts that allure and power in a new way. I can't really unpack the subgenre of Steampunk, but it's a fascinating case where things once silly and genteel and colonial get a grunged out glint, a hint of sex, and a lot of power and excitement. By jove, a new bookshelf category arrives.
All of which isn't me saying much insightful. I'm certainly not critiquing those genre twists and turns. It helps me recognize why I'm drawn to the spectacular Captain Alatriste and not at all to, oh, Miss Marple.
Monday, June 6, 2011
George R. R. Martin on the two types of writers
I caught bits and pieces of BBC interview George R.R. Martin did about his work and the new show. I'm a fan of his books, so it was fun to sneak in a few minutes of the interview to see what he thought about the show and how he writes organically. Martin explained to the enthusiastic interviewer that there are two kinds of writers - architects and gardeners.
An architect, he explained, is a writer who crafts in excruciating detail the skeleton of his narrative and the identities of his character. An architect outlines and revises before even putting prose on page.
Contrarily, a gardener is a writer who begins with a seed, an idea planted from their swirling subconscious on to the page, and then tends that idea as it courses on to completion. Martin identified himself, smiling from behind that bushy beard of his, as a gardener. And, my observation of many writers who discuss such things or pen instructional texts on fiction, are these seed planters. They seem to generally regard architect writers as oddities.
Martin's dichotomy seems apt to me. I suspect there's a tendency for writers to identify as gardeners, but I certainly don't. When I try it, I suffer my greatest setbacks as a writer, meandering with decorative, but ultimately aimless prose. I paint myself into corners, and have no idea what I'm after. If I'm a gardener writer, I have a black thumb.
I think to myself, therefore, I must be an architect! A ha! Glorious! All I needed to do was prepare copiously, and then the writing will simply be laying the flesh on the bones I've so meticulously crafted. And, that may be so. But, there the tendency is to daydream, to outline or imagine elaborate settings that lack any actual narrative.
The dichotomy, like so many things, is easy to take too far, settling into prescriptive ideas about the process. Obviously, gardeners need to address plotting and planning at some point. And, architects have to inject some spontaneity along the way else they'll craft wooden tales.
At the very least, it was helpful for me to hear someone like Martin acknowledge that his organic approach wasn't the only path there is.
An architect, he explained, is a writer who crafts in excruciating detail the skeleton of his narrative and the identities of his character. An architect outlines and revises before even putting prose on page.
Contrarily, a gardener is a writer who begins with a seed, an idea planted from their swirling subconscious on to the page, and then tends that idea as it courses on to completion. Martin identified himself, smiling from behind that bushy beard of his, as a gardener. And, my observation of many writers who discuss such things or pen instructional texts on fiction, are these seed planters. They seem to generally regard architect writers as oddities.
Martin's dichotomy seems apt to me. I suspect there's a tendency for writers to identify as gardeners, but I certainly don't. When I try it, I suffer my greatest setbacks as a writer, meandering with decorative, but ultimately aimless prose. I paint myself into corners, and have no idea what I'm after. If I'm a gardener writer, I have a black thumb.
I think to myself, therefore, I must be an architect! A ha! Glorious! All I needed to do was prepare copiously, and then the writing will simply be laying the flesh on the bones I've so meticulously crafted. And, that may be so. But, there the tendency is to daydream, to outline or imagine elaborate settings that lack any actual narrative.
The dichotomy, like so many things, is easy to take too far, settling into prescriptive ideas about the process. Obviously, gardeners need to address plotting and planning at some point. And, architects have to inject some spontaneity along the way else they'll craft wooden tales.
At the very least, it was helpful for me to hear someone like Martin acknowledge that his organic approach wasn't the only path there is.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
End of the seasons
The kids soccer season is also finally here, which is cause for celebration all around. The kids now have a free and clear summer vacation on their hands. That's nothing compared to Canada's and my relief from soccer shuttle duties. With four dollar gas, we'd have to tap into college funds to keep this going much longer!
I don't know what it is about the kids' on-field performances when their mother's out of town, but they were tearing up the pitch today. Riggen scored two goals, which lead to a couple cute comments, grins and a thumbs up at dad. Before that, Kate was up to her usual self as defender. Her ball handling skills really have improved, and she's much more into the games.
Canada says it's hot and humid in Kentucky, where she's managed to run every day when not grading those essays. Apparently, the food's also terrible, so she's excited about losing a couple pounds. Women.
With Kate at an overnighter, that leaves me and Riggen for a rare guys' night. Riggen's all excited to play video games, maybe tinker with some Lego, and watch a movie. He asked me earlier, "Dad, does this mean we get our own man cave?" Yes, son. Yes it does.
Counldn't come at a better time. I'm about shot from single parenthood after only a couple days. Worse, I have another longer stint as Mr. Mom in late June, when I'll be starting up the new MBA class to boot. All I have to do is make it to August 1, right? Then some real R&R.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
My Mr. Hyde side
You want to know something about me? I have a vicious temper. This isn't some quaint character flaw. You know, like Hemingway is a romantic drunk or how your grandpa tells racist jokes sometimes, but you love him anyway. No. This is relationship crashing stuff I'm talking about. It nearly wrecked everything I had and ever wanted.
It makes me ashamed, honestly. I don't talk about it. I try my best to prevent stress. I talk through things with my wife that I used to just swallow. It's there, and never leaves me. But, it doesn't have to ruin me. It won't.
I can't say I'm happy I went through such angry periods in my life. My life is damn good. But, there were times where, despite how good I had it, Mr. Hyde took over. I wanted to break things and scream, and I did. I scared my family. Hell, I scared myself. If anything good comes of out that, it's understanding.
I understand how badly stress affects my life, and how frustrated anyone can become with the right pressures. I understand that real cowardice is denial, not being a tough guy. I know literally what it feels like in my muscles and bones when I'm tense, and what kinds of things start the blood a boiling. And, I understand -- as much as one can -- how to control it.
I had to chuckle a couple years ago when someone at work said they admired how much of a cool customer I was when it came to conflict at work. At the time, I was as starved for a compliment about my composure as I could be -- it had been only a few months since working things out with my wife. The idea that someone looked to me with admiration of any kind for dealing with stress just left me speechless. I had to shrug, not knowing what else to say. Maybe a little afraid of what else to say.
The terrible thing is that from time to time, I see that anger in other people. It's usually men. And, you know, I pity them because I know what that tiny, white-hot part of their mind feels like. But, while I sometimes see this, they usually don't. I see it exactly because I see it repeated, and I know they barely realize they're stuck. My pity doesn't linger. They're responsible for what they do, just like I am. Man up. Get help, I think. All that thrashing about doesn't scare me, and it sure as hell doesn't get them anywhere they think it does. People are worth more to us than we think.
The sad truth is they're powerless. Helpless. Utter helplessness is the cause of all that fury. What worked for me is another person, which turned out to be a counselor and my wife, hearing me out, and then showing they actually understood what I was thinking. That got me off the edge of that angry routine, and I walked down bit by bit from there.
A couple days ago I wrote that not a lot of people really know me -- that fewer people really know me than I have fingers. Not even all of them know all this about me. I guess I just got weary of feeling ashamed about it. Maybe some poor bastard out there can get off that edge, too.
It makes me ashamed, honestly. I don't talk about it. I try my best to prevent stress. I talk through things with my wife that I used to just swallow. It's there, and never leaves me. But, it doesn't have to ruin me. It won't.
I can't say I'm happy I went through such angry periods in my life. My life is damn good. But, there were times where, despite how good I had it, Mr. Hyde took over. I wanted to break things and scream, and I did. I scared my family. Hell, I scared myself. If anything good comes of out that, it's understanding.
I understand how badly stress affects my life, and how frustrated anyone can become with the right pressures. I understand that real cowardice is denial, not being a tough guy. I know literally what it feels like in my muscles and bones when I'm tense, and what kinds of things start the blood a boiling. And, I understand -- as much as one can -- how to control it.
I had to chuckle a couple years ago when someone at work said they admired how much of a cool customer I was when it came to conflict at work. At the time, I was as starved for a compliment about my composure as I could be -- it had been only a few months since working things out with my wife. The idea that someone looked to me with admiration of any kind for dealing with stress just left me speechless. I had to shrug, not knowing what else to say. Maybe a little afraid of what else to say.
The terrible thing is that from time to time, I see that anger in other people. It's usually men. And, you know, I pity them because I know what that tiny, white-hot part of their mind feels like. But, while I sometimes see this, they usually don't. I see it exactly because I see it repeated, and I know they barely realize they're stuck. My pity doesn't linger. They're responsible for what they do, just like I am. Man up. Get help, I think. All that thrashing about doesn't scare me, and it sure as hell doesn't get them anywhere they think it does. People are worth more to us than we think.
The sad truth is they're powerless. Helpless. Utter helplessness is the cause of all that fury. What worked for me is another person, which turned out to be a counselor and my wife, hearing me out, and then showing they actually understood what I was thinking. That got me off the edge of that angry routine, and I walked down bit by bit from there.
A couple days ago I wrote that not a lot of people really know me -- that fewer people really know me than I have fingers. Not even all of them know all this about me. I guess I just got weary of feeling ashamed about it. Maybe some poor bastard out there can get off that edge, too.
Friday, June 3, 2011
The art of solitude
"People are crazy and times are strange
I'm locked in tight, I'm out of range
I used to care, but things have changed"
- Bob Dylan, Things Have Changed
I spent a good part of the afternoon meeting with my old boss, John. We still work together after I transferred to another department about 5 years ago. We still manage to have a rap session now and then, too. He and I share a lot of the same taste in music, which usually comes up as we connive to conquer the online media world in between lunches at the local Vietnamese restaurant. Unpack that irony, if you can.
John's an old hippie. My favorite story, among many, from him is the time he was working in Colorado in his younger days. He heard some music from his outdoor job site, so he wandered over to a concert. They had to break through a fence to get in. On stage was Jimi Hendrix. Now that is far out, and I've got nothing that cool in my repertoire to impress young co-workers someday.
But, truth is, I'm not so young anymore, and John and I don't often have time to chat on all things digital and aural. He's well read -- I don't have anywhere near the patience he does -- and he explained an article from the New York Magazine about how Internet services are packing us in a bubble by making choices for us. Pandora spits out variations streams of music to people as they tweak their stations. Google delivers search results based on our history or our Gmail contacts. Amazon recommends products. And on and on.
The machines are making choices for us, and it's supposed to make things easier and more relevant. The trade-off is a shrinking, not expanding, avenue of information. It may make things easier, but is it more interesting? I think that's a fair summation of John's point.
It reminded me of something I'd been chewing on for a while. We don't share music like we used to. It's another of those trade-offs. My best pal and music comrade Hastie and I used to hang out just listening to albums and music. It wasn't as deliberate as the vinyl days, which John waxed nostalgic about today. Now, people shuffle around, in more ways than one, with white cords growing out of their ears. Digital music shattered the experience of albums, which I've always lamented (but not enough to avoid an iPod and those white ear buds). Music is often a solitary experience, or background noise. It's become more passive.
And, hey, it's not all bad. Trade-offs, like I said. But, I'm with the old hippie in thinking it's kind of a shame. Worse, I think it's also true of other art we enjoy. A fragmented, uprooted modern life means a lot of solitary consumption and interpretation of things we enjoy.
So, isn't crazy that when we actually get to know someone in our life well enough to find out they enjoy art we enjoy, that it's a thrill? How bizarre that people would have to get excited that someone out in the wide universe actually knows and enjoys a musician or a show or a book? I mean, of course there are people out there doing that. It shouldn't be much of a surprise, especially when it's good stuff -- great albums or books or films. Whatever.
The other day, I found out that Heather, the woman who sits across from my cube at work, loves Scrivener, which is some pretty specialized software for writers. Which means she does writing at home. I also later found out that her husband writes a beer blog and wants to taste every IPA in the world. It only took us, oh, eight or nine months to realize this wonderful stuff.
I don't blame her one bit, to be clear. She and I have a lot of work to do, not enough resources to get it done, and families to love and enjoy after the bell rings. Ok, there's not actually a bell. We mostly sit at our desks through lunch, eating alone, and still reeling every so slightly from the last round of "be happy we still have jobs."
I wonder what books she reads at night? Does she ever wonder what other people read, too?
What a world.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Kickin' it at Pancheros
Polk City is tucked up north and well out of the way for us. That meant a pit stop at Hell on Earth, the lobotomizing experience we all know and love as "Wal Mart." Now, I assumed, foolishly, that the Ankeny Wal-Mart could not muster the kind of IQ-lowering enhanced interrogation techniques that the south side store does so spectacularly. I managed to swear in front of the kids only a couple times as the Amazon checking us out remarked on poor quality of our fruity snacks.
Kate's penultimate soccer game for the season proved to be worth the ordeal. Her team struggles, despite their improvement and determination. They've lost every game so far, and they have gone scoreless in about half their matches. Today, they put up a hell of a fight, went into the half leading 1-0 and ended up in a tie after a bizarre penalty kick that shot over the poor 10-year-old keeper's head.
Trish, mom to Kate' s best pal, and I did more yelling and fretting than any grown up should do for a bunch of fifth and sixth graders. "I think I'm going to have a heart attack," she mentioned to me at the half. "You and me both," I replied with a smirk.
I grew up on little league, slow pitch, baseball, basketball and football. You know, meat and potato sports of the good ol' Midwest. I'm a die hard NFL fan, and love my Hawkeyes, too. So, it's a little strange for me to holler at the top of my lungs to the left defender to cover the goal on a corner kick. I'll be damned if I'm not on the edge of my fold up nylon chair for each girl out there as they dribble the ball up the field. Now if they could only pass a bit better ...
The secret is the tortilla, which they press from dough as you order. It is divine, and I never want to know the ingredients or nutritional values of that glob of delicious stuff. Shuddup and eat it, I say. It makes all that soccer dad mania almost palatable.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Working things out, day 1
I worked out at the gym in my small town today. Most people I talk to say they prefer exercising outdoors. I'd rather run and lift weights inside. It's because I use that time to wind down my thoughts. Running outside tears the hell out of my knees, too, but it keeps me distracted. What I need is focus and time to process thoughts while I'm huffing and puffing on the treadmill or on whatever the hell they call that barbell on tracks machine I do leg squats on.
Today's June 1st. It's a Wednesday, and my wife just left town for nine days to grade 1.2 million essays with about 1,200 other teachers. How nuts is that, anyway? Teacher let the monkeys out, and now she's grading strangers' standardized tests in some kind of sweatshop in Louisville. It gives me still more time to process thoughts. We've been so busy lately I can hardly keep up.
So, June 1, a fine time to start a little personal challenge for myself. This post is round one. More to come. While I was dripping sweat into my eyeballs doing leg squats, I realized a few things about this little challenge I had cooked up for myself.
First thing is this: The hardest part about setting a big goal for myself isn't setting the goal. It's putting aside all the other things I have cooked up inside my carousel of a brain. I've been reading a couple things recently about how to go about accomplishing a big goal or accomplish something significant and difficult. The advice is grand. Set a goal, see? Then, just break things down into the steps I need to achieve that goal. I'm over simplifying, but it truly is sound advice. The problem is that I can't settle on one goal.
Second thing is: I beat myself up about this kind of stuff, especially when I don't get anywhere. The reason is pretty damn good, though. I'm already past half way in a big goal, and keep forgetting it. I'm in getting my MBA, while working and having a family. Day by day, it's hard to remember that I've learned a lot, sharpened my critical thinking, and really transformed my role at work over four years. Here's to hoping there's a big payoff down the road for all this effort. But, it comes at a cost, which leads me to ...
The third thing: Creativity atrophies. I can't figure out if it's actually the case that all my focus on job and graduate school actually deadens creative thought, but I'm beginning to wonder. Maybe it's just that I have less time overall. I sure as hell hope that's it. The idea that I've driven off my creative energy and skills terrifies me, to be honest.
And, all of that is why I'm still sitting up with about 70 minutes to spare on day one of my challenge. It's why I'm sitting in the dark typing before I go to bed, and why I'm not already asleep, having rationalized away why this challenge was a silly whim.
So, this is for me. This is a reminder that I don't give half a damn about being able to run a marathon some day, but I'm scared to death I won't have the chops to create, to write something worth reading some day.
I think I decided somewhere in these last few days that I've stopped worrying about what people might think of a guy who has opinions and ideas like mine. What I write here and anywhere else is who I am. The number of people who really have any real sense of that are fewer than I have fingers. But, what's the use of all that? It mostly just makes life a little more lonely. It sure as shit isn't going to make my creative life any better.
Today's June 1st. It's a Wednesday, and my wife just left town for nine days to grade 1.2 million essays with about 1,200 other teachers. How nuts is that, anyway? Teacher let the monkeys out, and now she's grading strangers' standardized tests in some kind of sweatshop in Louisville. It gives me still more time to process thoughts. We've been so busy lately I can hardly keep up.
So, June 1, a fine time to start a little personal challenge for myself. This post is round one. More to come. While I was dripping sweat into my eyeballs doing leg squats, I realized a few things about this little challenge I had cooked up for myself.
First thing is this: The hardest part about setting a big goal for myself isn't setting the goal. It's putting aside all the other things I have cooked up inside my carousel of a brain. I've been reading a couple things recently about how to go about accomplishing a big goal or accomplish something significant and difficult. The advice is grand. Set a goal, see? Then, just break things down into the steps I need to achieve that goal. I'm over simplifying, but it truly is sound advice. The problem is that I can't settle on one goal.
Second thing is: I beat myself up about this kind of stuff, especially when I don't get anywhere. The reason is pretty damn good, though. I'm already past half way in a big goal, and keep forgetting it. I'm in getting my MBA, while working and having a family. Day by day, it's hard to remember that I've learned a lot, sharpened my critical thinking, and really transformed my role at work over four years. Here's to hoping there's a big payoff down the road for all this effort. But, it comes at a cost, which leads me to ...
The third thing: Creativity atrophies. I can't figure out if it's actually the case that all my focus on job and graduate school actually deadens creative thought, but I'm beginning to wonder. Maybe it's just that I have less time overall. I sure as hell hope that's it. The idea that I've driven off my creative energy and skills terrifies me, to be honest.
And, all of that is why I'm still sitting up with about 70 minutes to spare on day one of my challenge. It's why I'm sitting in the dark typing before I go to bed, and why I'm not already asleep, having rationalized away why this challenge was a silly whim.
So, this is for me. This is a reminder that I don't give half a damn about being able to run a marathon some day, but I'm scared to death I won't have the chops to create, to write something worth reading some day.
I think I decided somewhere in these last few days that I've stopped worrying about what people might think of a guy who has opinions and ideas like mine. What I write here and anywhere else is who I am. The number of people who really have any real sense of that are fewer than I have fingers. But, what's the use of all that? It mostly just makes life a little more lonely. It sure as shit isn't going to make my creative life any better.
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